With friends like this who needs enemies

Chapter Three

The wedding in Ikeja was nothing short of grand. The hall shimmered with gold and white decorations, sparkling lights reflected off crystal chandeliers, and the air was alive with music. Drums played rhythms that seemed to echo in the hearts of everyone present. Guests laughed, clinked glasses, and sprayed money in celebration, the notes fluttering through the air like confetti.

Ngozi looked radiant in her white gown, her smile bright and unshakable. She seemed to glow from the inside out, the kind of beauty that drew every eye in the hall. Chike, standing beside her, looked proud and slightly overwhelmed, as if he could not believe his luck. He held her hand tightly, whispering something that made her laugh softly.

Amaka watched them from a distance, her own smile warm, her laughter joining in with the others. But behind her cheerful eyes, there was calculation. She was acting, performing the role of the supportive sister, the friend everyone trusted, while a quiet storm brewed inside her.

After the wedding, the newlyweds moved to their apartment in Surulere. The city streets buzzed with evening traffic, and the apartment building overlooked a small, busy market. It was here that Amaka began her frequent visits. At first, it seemed natural—she was Ngozi’s sister, after all—but her visits became almost daily. Too often.

“You don’t have to come every day,” Ngozi said one evening, smiling as she leaned against the kitchen counter, wiping her hands on a towel.

“I want to,” Amaka replied sweetly, her voice light, gentle, and convincing. “You’re my sister.”

She began helping more. Cooking meals, cleaning the apartment, organizing things that Ngozi had barely noticed before. She became a constant presence, moving in and out of their lives like a breeze that carried warmth. Chike, initially unaware, started to appreciate her presence.

“You’re thoughtful,” he remarked one afternoon, as Amaka brought over a plate of food.

She leaned closer, her perfume brushing lightly against his sleeve. “I care about you both,” she said, her voice soft.

But her eyes told a different story. They held a glimmer of desire, a flicker of longing that she never let anyone see fully. There were nights when she would lie awake, thinking about Chike, imagining moments no one else would ever know.

One evening, while she was in the kitchen preparing dinner, her eyes fell on a small bottle tucked discreetly inside her handbag. Her hand trembled slightly as she picked it up.

“She took him from me,” she whispered under her breath, anger and bitterness mixing with an unspoken hunger.

Amaka opened the bottle, just a little, carefully, deliberately. She stirred the contents into the pot slowly, smiling to herself as if savoring a secret no one else could touch. The act was quiet, methodical, and horrifyingly calm. Inside, she felt powerful, a sense of control that thrilled her in a way nothing else ever had.

Days passed, and Ngozi began to feel unwell. She complained of dizziness and fatigue, brushing it off as stress from married life.

“I think I’m just tired,” she said one afternoon, her hand pressed to her forehead.

Chike frowned, concern etched deep into his features. “You don’t look okay,” he said, his voice low but firm.

Amaka stepped closer, holding Ngozi’s arm gently, her touch warm and soothing. “Maybe married life is stressing you,” she suggested calmly, her smile reassuring. “You need to rest.”

Inside, though, Amaka’s heart raced with satisfaction. Every small falter, every moment of weakness from Ngozi, made her feel stronger. She had become indispensable, a presence that could manipulate situations without anyone realizing.

Chike’s appreciation of Amaka also fed her obsession. He would sometimes glance at her during dinner, thanking her for small things, smiling in ways that made her heart skip. Each interaction, each word of gratitude, made her feel closer to the one she desired most—closer than Ngozi would ever allow her to be.

One quiet night, when the apartment was bathed in the soft glow of the streetlights outside, Ngozi stumbled in the bathroom. She felt a wave of nausea and collapsed to the floor.

Amaka, who had been nearby, was the first to reach her. She rushed forward, her hands steady, her face full of concern. She lifted Ngozi gently, her voice trembling with fake worry. “Ngozi! Are you okay? Talk to me!”

Ngozi groaned, clutching her stomach weakly, unable to stand. Chike, hearing the noise, rushed into the bathroom, panic flooding his eyes. “What happened?!” he shouted, kneeling beside his wife.

Amaka’s eyes flicked between them, calculating, almost triumphant inside. She whispered reassuring words, supporting Ngozi as if she were saving her from an accident. Her touch was careful, her tone soft, but beneath it, she felt a dark satisfaction.

The night felt longer than usual. Every small sound—the dripping faucet, the distant city traffic, the faint hum of the refrigerator—echoed in the apartment. Amaka stayed by Ngozi’s side, whispering instructions, keeping the scene under control, all the while smiling inwardly at the quiet power she now held.

Chike held his wife, stroking her hair, oblivious to the truth. He trusted Amaka completely, and that trust made her feel even more invincible. In the shadows of that small bathroom, Amaka had achieved something she had long desired: influence, access, and the first taste of control over the life she secretly wanted to dominate.

And as Ngozi’s eyes fluttered closed in exhaustion, Amaka remained by her side, calm, composed, and silent, watching the tiny sparks of chaos she had begun to create.

The night was heavy with rain, and the sound of it hitting the windows seemed to echo the tension inside. Ngozi’s small groan turned into a faint gasp. Amaka was already there, reaching for her, smiling gently—but behind that smile was something dark. The first act had been set, and the next move would decide everything.