The Tales Of Breakfast In Nigeria 🇳🇬 || 2023

🇳🇬 | Chapter 006

But it was also Deborah who refused to tell you about the gluttonous cancer gobbling her insides till she had two months to live. She'd eventually told you, in a whisper, at her last meeting with the group.

It was an unusual meeting because it was held publicly at a spa (Deborah's treat for all the women), and no business was discussed.

After she'd told you, she'd smiled and wagged a weak finger at the sudden silent tears in your eyes. "Chin up, dear. I always gave as good as I got in this life." Then she'd pointed to the other white-robed women lounging in beds with sliced cucumbers over their eyes and whispered, "You're the she-wolf now. Act like it."

It irritated you that you and Gbonju were the first to arrive for the meeting, and that Flora, at whose instance the meeting was called, was not there yet.

"Aunty mi, so what's going on with Flora,'' Gbonju asked. You hissed. "Who knows? It's probably nothing, you know she's such an attention seeker, that one. Anyway, we'll find out when she gets here.

Although, you'd think she ought to be here early since it's her problem we are here to solve, no?" Gbonju laughed. You liked how she never commented. Wise girl. You remembered a year into her marriage, she'd showed up at your office, pregnant and scowling, to whisper that she'd found out that Dipo was gay.

She'd never given any details, but you suspected she'd found out about Dipo and Biodun, and that's why she'd come to you. "Give birth to your child. Get your money up. Buy properties abroad in your name," you'd advised. She'd listened.

Now, she had three villas in the Algarve, Monaco, and Santorini, which she fully leased out to vacationers. You knew this because you bought and managed the villas for her through your international real estate agency.

Onome, the flamboyant one, came in. She was the quintessential Lagos Big Girl, gorgeous, fully designer-branded, and beloved of blogs and paparazzi. Her husband was a pastor, and so deeply-closeted, he might as well be buried in a coffin lost at sea. He had no scandals, had never been with a man as far as she was aware, but he'd admitted his sexuality to her.

You didn't care much for Onome's ostentation, but you liked that she was carefree, didn't have wahala, and just loved the good life. Fatima was next. The third wife of a Northern senator, married off by her father to cement a formidable political alliance.

She was easily one of the most beautiful women you'd seen. Yet she tiptoed around, unaware of the power she held in her face. She'd been painfully naïve and a virgin when she married the senator-a man thirty years older with two wives and seven children, and a ravenous sexual appetite.

She found out her husband preferred men during their honeymoon in Dubai. She was surprised when he'd suggested they have a threesome, astounded when he brought in a man, and aghast when they went passionately at it leaving her as the unwelcome third wheel.

Four months after her return to Nigeria, Onome brought her to you (they had been classmates and unlikely friends from their university days abroad). You'd accepted her. Now, she had three children and her husband constantly bought her silence with expensive gifts.

"I'm sorry I'm late! I had an emergency!" Flora breezed in and you had to try not to roll your eyes. She flopped on a couch between Onome and Fatima, and almost immediately, started to cry.

They cooed and fussed over her, and you almost laughed. You watched as she narrated-with dramatic hand gestures and a heaving bosom-that her husband wanted to leave her and move abroad with another man.

Through her narration, you noticed that her makeup was flawless, and her face contoured to perfection. Despite her hysterics, there were no teardrops. The bitch was dead inside.