I had everything a Lagos big girl was supposed to have — a thriving job at a multinational, two cars parked in front of my rented duplex, a wardrobe full of designer bags, and an accent I’d polished with trips to Dubai and London. But no matter how far I traveled or how high I climbed, my mother’s voice never let me forget the one thing I didn’t have. A man to call my husband. Every time I picked up her calls, it came like clockwork: “So when will I come and carry my grandchild, Chinwe? Or is it car I will rock in my old age?” My younger sisters — Ngozi with her twins, and Ifeoma with her doting husband — would exchange those pitying glances behind my back during family gatherings. Aunties whispered. Old classmates giggled whenever I posted vacation pictures without a ring. It stung. God knows it did. So when my mother called me a “male-dressed spinster” at my cousin’s wedding, something inside me snapped like dry broomsticks. Two days later, under the cloak of shame and moonlight, I drove four hours down to my village in Umunnede — alone. I ignored the barking dogs, the curious eyes of night traders at the junction. I went straight to the river behind my late father’s compound — the one my grandmother once called the “mother of the village” — where no girl was allowed to speak certain words after dusk. But I didn’t care for old warnings. I fell to my knees at the mossy bank, my tears mixing with the cold river water that lapped gently at my palms. “Please... whoever listens here... water spirits... ancestors... gods... anybody!” I sobbed, my voice cracking into the darkness. “I’m tired of being laughed at! Give me a husband — a man I can call mine! I don’t want to di!e single... please!” After my words, there was no thunder, no rustle. The water simply gurgled on, swallowing my secrets. By dawn, I dragged my weary body back to the city, clutching a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, something or someone had heard me. I threw myself into work the next day, ignoring my mother’s calls. By midnight, exhausted, I dozed off on the couch, still in my office blouse and skirt. A strange chill brushed my cheek. My eyes fluttered open. At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks — that the silhouette by my window was a trick of shadows. Then the figure moved. Into the light. A tall man, bare-chested, skin glistening as if he’d been bathed in moonlight. Eyes dark, unblinking. Handsome in an unearthly way. My breath caught in my throat. I could not scream. “Who... who are you?” I croaked, pressing my back against the sofa, eyes darting to the door I knew I could never reach in time. The man smiled, slow and haunting, and spoke in a voice that felt like cool river water washing over burning skin: “Your husband... from the waters of Umunnede.” TO BE CONTINUED... STAY TUNED. GIVE ME A HUSBAND Episode 1 To be automatically notified when the next episode drops, f0ll0w Jane James #creativewriting #storytelling #storytime #fictionwriter

He never told me he was getting married to another woman—not until his wedding day, after I slept over at his house. He never once said he didn’t see me as his future wife, not even subtly. Instead, he kept using me, and in the end, he broke my heart and walked away. Charles has been my boyfriend for four months now. He has been sweet, consistent, and never gave me any red flags or reason to doubt his intentions. I visited his house often. We did everything together—cooked, watched movies, talked late into the night. Slept together. Not once did I ever run into the woman he was preparing to say “I do” to. She never visited, maybe because he didn’t want her to. Or maybe he was just that good at hiding his double life. I kept giving my all, thinking we were growing stronger as a couple. I invested my mind, body, and soul. That Saturday morning, I woke up to the sound of movement—his friends, both familiar and unfamiliar, were rushing through the house like they were preparing for something big. They were all dressed in matching blue senator suits, looking sharp and excited. Charles, my Charles, wore a suit that made him look like a model. I was confused. What were they all dressed up for? Then I overheard one of his friends whisper, “Tell her now…” Tell me what? Charles turned to him and said, “I didn’t ask her to come over last night.” What? Not after we spent the whole night together? Not after we made love? He didn't want me here? I was still confused. Then he threw a bundle of money at me and told me to leave before he got back. I was too stunned to speak. My voice failed me. I wanted to scream, but the shock silenced me. “Is that what you think of me now?” I finally managed to speak, broken. “You sleep with me and pay me?” He looked at me—his face almost remorseful—but his words stung worse than a slap. “You’re not wife material. I’m sorry, but I can’t end up with you. That’s why. Just go. Let’s end this in peace.” I didn’t understand. Why didn’t he go to the hotel he was supposed to have his bachelor’s party at last night? Why did he decide to spend it with me the way he wanted? Why didn’t his bride call to ask where he was? It felt like his friends knew everything and had been covering up for him. Until that morning. After he left, I broke down. I cried for an hour straight until the tears dried up, and anger took over. A burning, bitter rage. I dressed up quickly and searched the whole house for any clue about the wedding location. I was desperate. Then, thanks to fate, I found a souvenir with the location on it. I took a commercial bus straight to the cathedral. By the time I arrived, they were exchanging their vows. My heart was pounding. I didn’t take a seat. I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight to the altar, stepped between him and his bride, and grabbed the microphone from the priest. Anger had taken over my sanity. I told everyone the truth—everything that had happened. I dropped the bundle of money at his feet as a proof that he had tried to pay me off. The church erupted in chaos. His bride collapsed right there at the altar. And I walked out. I left them in the mess he created. I left when I was sure I had done enough damage to match the pain he caused me. That Saturday morning changed me. I left town and stayed with my sister for a while to clear my head. The heartbreak was too heavy to carry alone. People said I went too far by crashing the wedding. But what about everything I invested in that relationship? What about the betrayal? He thought he could use me and pay me off like I meant nothing. Why didn’t he just tell me he couldn’t marry me? Why pretend? Why lie? Why let me give so much while he was planning a future with someone else? I heard the wedding was called off, and his bride blocked him completely. His family calls me day and night, hurling insults and blaming me for the disgrace. But now, their hatred sounds like music to my ears. I smile when I remember that I crashed that wedding right—I didn’t make a mistake. I have no regrets. I’ve moved on. Just be sure the person you’re dating isn’t secretly planning a wedding with someone else. These days, men will string you along, take your love for granted, and tell you you’re not "wife material." Then marry someone else. This is from a true life story. #fictionwriter #storywriter #weaverofwords Iwuji Amarachi Judith