With friends like this who needs enemies

Chapter Four

Ngozi was admitted to Lagos University Teaching Hospital, her face pale, her hands trembling slightly. The doctors moved quickly around her, checking monitors, running tests, and scribbling notes in their charts.

“We don’t understand,” one doctor murmured to another, frowning. “Her body is weakening. Everything—blood pressure, heart rate—it's all dropping. Nothing explains it.”

Chike had barely slept in days. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles painted beneath them, and his hands shook whenever he reached for a glass of water. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Amaka never left his side. From the moment they admitted Ngozi, she had settled into the small chair by his side, holding his hand, brushing his hair back when it fell into his eyes, whispering small words of comfort he didn’t always hear.

“You need to eat,” she told him one morning softly, placing a small plate of food in front of him. Her voice was gentle, almost motherly, but there was something else in her eyes—a quiet intensity that made his heart skip.

“You’re the only strong thing in my life right now,” he said without thinking, his voice breaking.

Amaka froze. Her chest tightened. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Careful,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

But she didn’t move away. She stayed close, her hand brushing his, lingering just a little too long. There was an unspoken electricity between them, a tension neither could deny.

Days passed in a haze of worry and exhaustion. The rain had begun to fall in Lagos, tapping on the hospital roof in steady drumming patterns. One evening, the waiting room was almost empty. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the smell of antiseptic hung heavy in the air. Chike couldn’t hold it in any longer.

He broke down.

“I can’t lose her,” he cried, his shoulders shaking. Tears streamed down his face. He felt utterly helpless, as though the world had shrunk to the small space between the hospital bed and the chair he sat in.

Amaka moved closer, holding him in her arms. She let him cry, let him lean against her, let him be vulnerable.

“You’re not alone,” she whispered, pressing her cheek against his hair.

Their faces were close. Too close.

“This is wrong,” he murmured, his voice heavy with guilt.

“Is it?” she asked softly, tilting her head, her eyes searching his.

The storm outside grew louder, the rain hammering against the windows like a chorus of judgment. The tension in the room became unbearable.

And then—

Chike kissed her.

It was desperate. Guilty. Hungry. Everything he didn’t know he needed all at once. Amaka closed her eyes, letting the world disappear. For a moment, nothing existed outside that kiss. Finally, something in both of them seemed to release—a mixture of longing, fear, and suppressed emotion.

But someone had seen them.

Nurse Funke.

Her eyes narrowed behind her surgical mask, and her fingers curled around her clipboard. She had seen enough. And she would remember everything.

Later that night, Ngozi vomited violently after eating the food Amaka had brought. The sound echoed through the ward, harsh and frightening. Nurse Funke quietly collected a sample, her face impassive but her mind racing.

Funke began observing silently. Every time Amaka brought food to the ward, Ngozi’s condition worsened. Her pulse rose, her skin flushed, her lips trembled. Funke took careful notes—dates, times, reactions—writing everything down in her small notebook. She said nothing, yet her silence felt heavy, deliberate.

Meanwhile, Chike avoided Amaka’s eyes. Whenever she looked at him, he quickly turned away, ashamed.

“What happened shouldn’t have happened,” he said one evening, his voice low and uneven.

Amaka’s expression hardened. “You needed me,” she said.

“I was weak,” he admitted.

“You enjoyed it,” she whispered, and the weight of those words hung between them.

Silence followed, thick and suffocating. The kind of silence that made the hospital walls feel closer, smaller.

“You can’t pretend it meant nothing,” she murmured.

He stepped back, his hands trembling. “I love my wife,” he said firmly, though even he sounded unsure.

Her jaw tightened. “Do you?” she asked, her voice a razor’s edge.

Before he could answer, the test results returned.

Traces of poison. Slow-acting. Intentional. The kind of poison that didn’t kill immediately but weakened the body, step by step.

Nurse Funke approached the doctors with the evidence. “We need to involve the police,” she said calmly, her clipboard tucked under her arm.

That evening, as Amaka arrived with another dish, the corridor seemed unusually quiet. She carried the tray carefully, trying not to make a sound, unaware of the storm about to hit her.

Funke stepped into her path, blocking the way. “Madam, we tested the food,” she said, her voice steady, unwavering.

Amaka’s heart skipped. “What are you implying?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light, though a cold fear crept into her chest.

“We know,” Funke said simply, her eyes boring into Amaka’s.

Silence fell over the corridor. The only sound was the hum of the lights and the faint beeping of a distant heart monitor.

Chike stepped forward, confusion etched on his face. “Know what?”

Funke turned her gaze to him. “Your wife is being poisoned,” she said firmly.

The food container slipped from Amaka’s hand, clattering to the floor. The sound echoed down the empty hall like a gunshot, and everyone froze for a moment, staring.

Ngozi’s heart monitor suddenly began to beep wildly inside the ward. The shrill alarm cut through the tense silence, sending a jolt of panic through everyone nearby. Nurses rushed in, doctors hurried toward the bed, and Chike’s knees nearly gave way.

Amaka stood frozen, her face pale. Fear, guilt, and panic collided in her chest. She wanted to run, to scream, to explain herself, but no words came.

Funke’s eyes remained sharp, calculating. She had anticipated this. Every note, every observation, every careful recording had led to this moment. Justice, in her mind, was finally catching up.

Chike’s hand reached for Ngozi’s wrist, checking her pulse. It was weak, erratic, almost fading. He looked at Amaka, anger and disbelief warring in his eyes.

The storm outside raged harder. Rain pounded against the windows like the beating of a relentless drum, as if the sky itself was echoing the chaos inside the hospital.

Amaka’s stomach churned. Every heartbeat felt like a countdown. The consequences of her actions—whether deliberate or unintended—were finally catching up. And now, there was no turning back.

The night stretched on, tension heavy in every corner. The hospital lights flickered as if sharing in the drama, and outside, the rain refused to let up.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, Amaka knew that tonight would change everything—forever.