The days that followed nearly drove me insane. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I looked at Adaeze, I saw her with Chike. Every time Chike walked past me, I felt the urge to grab a cutlass and end him right there. But something inside me—fear, confusion, weakness—kept me silent. I thought about telling my mother, but how could I? What kind of man tells the world that his wife is sharing herself with her own twin brother? I thought about calling the pastor, but then I imagined him looking at me with pity and disgust. I carried the burden alone, and it ate me alive.

One evening, when the sun had gone down and the compound was quiet, I decided enough was enough. I would confront both of them properly, and this time I would not let Adaeze twist my mind with her calm words. I walked into the parlor, and they were both there—Adaeze sitting on the chair, Chike leaning lazily against the wall as if he owned the house. I stood before them, my fists clenched, my voice trembling with rage. “This ends today,” I said. “Whatever sick bond you think you have, it dies now. I am her husband, not you. Do you hear me?!”

Chike laughed. Actually laughed. His laughter was slow, mocking, the kind that makes your skin crawl. “Obinna,” he said, “you think because you paid bride price, you own her? You don’t even know her half as much as I do. She was mine before you even thought of her. She will always be mine.”

I nearly lost control. I rushed forward, but Adaeze jumped between us, pressing her hands against my chest, her eyes wide but steady. “Stop this madness,” she whispered. “You can never separate us. What we share is older than your marriage certificate. You came into our story late—you cannot rewrite it.”

Her words cut through me like a blade. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. I shoved her aside and pointed at Chike. “Leave my house this night or I swear—”

Before I could finish, Adaeze screamed. A scream so loud it shook me to the core. She grabbed my hand, her nails digging into my skin, and shouted, “If Chike leaves, I leave too! If you push him out, you will never see me again!”

The room fell silent. My body went cold. I stared at her, at the woman I loved, and realized I had already lost her. Not to another man, but to something I could never fight—blood. Twin blood. A bond that had been twisted and poisoned long before I came into the picture.

That night, I packed a small bag and left the house. I couldn’t bear it anymore. I walked the streets aimlessly, the night air burning my lungs. I thought of drinking rat poison, of ending my life just to escape the madness. But then I thought of my mother, my siblings, of the shame my death would bring, and I kept walking. By morning, I found myself in my friend Emeka’s house. When he opened the door and saw my face, he knew something was wrong. I broke down in his sitting room, crying like a child, but even then, I couldn’t tell him the full truth. How could I?

Weeks passed. Adaeze sent me messages, begging me to come home, telling me I was overreacting, telling me that love means acceptance. Chike, bold as ever, even sent me one single message: “You cannot fight what is natural.”

That was the moment I knew I could never return. Not to her. Not to them.

So I ended the marriage quietly. No court drama, no pastor announcements, nothing. I just disappeared. To the world, it looked like I abandoned her. Let them believe it. I would rather be called a wicked husband than expose the abomination I witnessed.

But sometimes, late at night when I lie awake, I still hear Adaeze’s voice in my head, calm and haunting: “It’s not a big deal.”

And that is what chills me the most—that to her, to them, it was never wrong. That somewhere, even now, they are still together, continuing what they began in childhood.

And me? I am left with the scars of knowing a truth so dark, no one would ever believe me if I told it.