My name is Ifeoma Adigwe. I’m 31 years old, married, and live in Gwarinpa, Abuja. I’m an architect, a perfectionist, and a firm believer that when you build with love and truth, nothing can shake your home.
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‎At least that’s what I believed — until one cold August morning.
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‎My husband, Femi, and I had been married for five years. Femi is a software engineer — quiet, calculated, and deeply affectionate. We met during NYSC in Ilorin and married two years later. No children yet, but we’d been trying. I even started fertility treatments last year.
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‎It was a Wednesday. Rain had just fallen overnight. The street was quiet, mist floating gently over the earth like a veil. I was up early, doing my morning devotion and waiting for NEPA to bring light when I heard it.
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‎A faint cry.
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‎I paused.
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‎It came again — louder now.
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‎A baby?
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‎I ran to the door, heart pounding.
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‎And there she was.
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‎A baby girl.
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‎Maybe four or five months old, wrapped in a pink Ankara shawl. She was inside a car seat, her tiny fists moving helplessly, her cheeks red from crying.
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‎I screamed.
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‎“Femi! Femi, come!”
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‎He rushed out of the room, barefooted and groggy. His eyes widened when he saw her.
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‎“Jesus! Whose child is that?”
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‎“I don’t know!”
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‎I looked around. No one. Just silence and the soft hiss of the early morning.
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‎We picked her up and took her inside. Her eyes were swollen. There was a rash on her neck. I checked for bruises — none.
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‎Then I saw it — a brown envelope tucked beside her.
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‎I tore it open.
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‎There was a short, handwritten note inside:
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‎> “Her name is Zara. She’s your husband’s daughter. Take care of her.”
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‎My heart stopped.
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‎The note trembled in my hand.
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‎I turned to Femi, eyes burning. “What is this?”
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‎He looked confused. “Ifeoma, I swear—”
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‎But I wasn’t hearing anything again. The walls were spinning. A baby? His baby?
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‎“Where is this coming from, Femi? Answer me!”
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‎He picked up the note, read it, and sat on the couch, breathing heavily.
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‎“I… I don’t know. I swear to you—”
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‎“Don’t lie to me!”
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‎“Ifeoma, believe me. I don’t know anything about this!”
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‎The baby was still crying.
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‎I held her. She smelled like lavender and breastmilk. Her fingers wrapped around mine instinctively.
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‎I didn’t know what to do. Should I call the police? Was this a trap? A sick prank?
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‎But something in me told me it wasn’t a prank.
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‎This was real.
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‎And whoever dropped the baby knew exactly what they were doing.
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‎That entire day was chaos. Femi called his lawyer, and I contacted a social worker I knew. We filed a report. But when the social worker saw the note, she gave me a strange look.
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‎“Ma, are you sure your husband isn’t hiding anything?”
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‎I froze.
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‎Femi was defensive, pacing, muttering, denying.
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‎I was shaking.
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‎My mind kept flashing back. The girl child. The note. The name “Zara.”
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‎Who names a baby and then dumps her?
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‎Unless she’s not just any baby…
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‎Unless she’s family.
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‎By nightfall, something else happened.
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‎My phone buzzed.
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‎A message.
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‎> “Now that you’ve met Zara, I hope you’re ready for the full story.”
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‎No sender ID. No name. No reply possible.
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‎I turned the screen to Femi.
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‎He turned pale.
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‎That night, I couldn’t sleep.
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‎Was my marriage a lie? Who was behind this? And why now?
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‎But the most terrifying thought was this:
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‎What if Zara was his child?
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‎And what if this was only the beginning?
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‎To be Continued in Episode 2…
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