CHAPTER 1-THE CHAOS THEY PRAYED AGAINST IS ME

They said…

“Forever hold your peace”

But, my demons heard “raise hell!!!”

Let’s rewind.

I work well and hard as a creative director in a media and advertising company that sees itself on being the heartbeat of innovation. More like the graveyard of mental health. My boss, Mr. Adisa, is the kind of man who thinks deadlines are flexible only when he’s late, and teamwork means everyone else does the work while he takes the credit.

Last Monday, he told me to smile more as he dumped a 34 slide campaign brief on my desk and said it was due the next day. That was it. The final straw. No fireworks, no drama. I just stood up, picked my bag, shut down my system, turned off my work phone, and walked out. No explanation, no guilt. Just vibes and audacity. I wouldn't allow anybody to come and kill me for my parents.

I got home, packed two dresses, a silk robe I never wear, my skincare bag, a swimsuit that still had tags, and moved into a luxury hotel I’d been paying for monthly just to feel something.

For the first day, I slept like I was in a coma. Woke up around 3pm, ordered small chops and a bottle of wine, and watched terrible Nollywood horror movies where the ghosts speak Queen’s English. The following day, I got a massage that made me cry, lounged by the pool, flirted with the bartender for fun, called my dad to say, "I’m alive, not in jail, not pregnant. Just needed air."

I listened to Asa’s Bibanke, ignored 53 missed calls from my boss and colleagues, called my elder brother who sent me money and told me to “burn that office down,” then spent two hours researching jobs in Ghana and South Africa.

I didn’t talk to anyone else. Not HR. Not my team. Not even Bami, my best friend who had just relocated to Canada and now texts me at 3am because of time zones and loneliness. That week, I decided to head home. Hotel life was cute, but my bank account was starting to look lifeless.

I went down to the reception with my sunglasses on, chewing gum like I hated peace. But the lobby was buzzing, heels clicking, perfumes clashing, voices everywhere.

"What’s going on here?" I asked the receptionist. She grinned. “There’s a wedding today, ma. Very big one. Influential families.”

My first instinct was to roll my eyes. Weddings? Ugh. I had never attended one. Not because I wasn't invited because life had never allowed me. Work had swallowed me whole. I didn’t even think about weddings, didn’t dream of dresses or cakes. There was always something more urgent than joy. Still, I asked, “Can I see it?”

She pointed to the event wing. I walked slowly, casually. No expectations. Just curiosity wrapped in boredom.

The hall looked like something out of an oil money fairytale. Gold chairs, chandeliers, flowers everywhere. People in asoebi styled like they came to intimidate the poor. The bride and groom were seated like royalty. I found a seat in the back. Sat. Watched. Got bored. Plugged in my earphones, listening to music. My life, feeling like it's in shambles. I stood to leave, still lost in thought.

Then chaos entered the stage.

Apparently, that was the exact moment the pastor asked the infamous question, “If anyone here objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

And like the villain I didn’t know I was, I stood up. You know, African events. One person stands, and the drama quota overflows. Gasps flew like bullets. A woman shouted, “Eewo!” Another screamed, “Jesu!”

Before I could say, "Wait, no", the bride marched toward me like I owed her money. Her palm flew right to my cheeks.

My face turned, my brain paused, and then she hissed, "Husband snatcher." First of all, what?

I looked at her like she was mad. I blinked. She stared at me like we had unfinished business. Maybe I knew her. Maybe I didn’t. I couldn’t tell. But what I did know was that nobody slapped me without receiving back. My brain scrambled. But my hand didn’t.

I removed my earphones. Looked her in the eye. And slapped her back. The microphone caught it. The echo thundered through the speakers. A whole pastor’s mic. That was when God packed up and left the building.

Guests screamed. The bride’s mother started wailing. The groom’s father shouted, “Who is this girl?!” Ushers tried to grab me. One woman was shouting Bible verses. Someone else fainted. Phones were out. Cameras were rolling.

I stood in the center like a misunderstood messiah. “Who invited her?” “Why is she here?” “This girl is possessed!”

Through the noise, I locked eyes with the groom. And that’s when the story twisted.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t shocked. He was smirking. Smirking! Like he knew. Like he wanted this. Like he’d been waiting for a storm to come and I was the perfect thunder.

I blinked.

What kind of man smiles while his bride is being publicly slapped? Sociopath, maybe. Or maybe I was the sociopath.

Because when the bride called me a husband snatcher, I took it personal. Not because it was true, but because what if I wanted to? She should’ve just sat down and focus on her wedding rice.

They should dare me.

I didn’t come here to steal anybody’s husband. But if they want war, I can take him and send her a thank you card.

Somehow, in that insane, twisted moment, I wanted to know him. And I was ready to see how far this madness would go. I was just getting started.