6 HOURS

THE DECEIVER

Chapter Two

Thursday. Twenty-four hours until Abuja. The office had booked my return ticket with Max Air Limited. My flight was scheduled for 10 a.m., and I was packed and ready to go. But my mind wasn’t on the training or the career opportunity. It was on Muhibba.

I had arranged for her to meet me in Abuja on Saturday. The plan was simple: I would check into the Nicon Hilton, where the training was being held, and she would join me. The training, facilitated by a renowned project management company called Zaf & Company Limited, was just a cover—a convenient excuse for what I was about to do.

“Take a car to Kaduna,” I told her via w******p, “then board the train to Abuja.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” she typed back. “Just send the money kawai. I know what to do, baby.”

“Sure, baby. I trust you,” I replied, my fingers trembling slightly as I typed. “I’m gonna go in now. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Okay, baby. I miss you, and I’m looking forward to finally spending quality time with you,” she responded.

“Me too, baby. Bye,” I typed before switching off the phone. I opened the glove compartment and tossed it inside, then stepped out of the car and shut the door. For a moment, I stood there, staring at the house I shared with Hanan and the twins. A pang of guilt shot through me, but I pushed it aside. This was just a one-time thing. No one would get hurt.

I walked into the house and found Hanan in the kitchen, preparing my favorite meal: Jollof rice with grilled fish. The aroma filled the air, comforting and familiar.

“Sannu da zuwa, My Em,” she greeted me, her voice warm and welcoming.

I walked over and hugged her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder. “How are you? Yaya gida?” I asked, kissing her neck.

“I’m fine. Gida lafiya,” she replied, her tone light and carefree.

“Where are the kids?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Hmmmm… Kaima ka san they are busy watching cartoons,” she said with a chuckle.

Sure enough, Hassan and Hafsah were sitting close to the TV, completely engrossed in their favorite movie, *Frozen 2*.

“This will all make sense when I am older…” I sang, knowing it was their favorite song from the movie. The song, sung by Olaf, Elsa’s snow creation, always made them laugh.

They both chimed in, “Someday I’ll see that this makes sense…” before bursting into giggles.

“Daddy, welcome!” they screamed, rushing over to cling to my legs, one on each side.

“Hey! Guys! Don’t break my legs!” I laughed, scooping them both into my arms. Hassan and Hafsah were my pride and joy, a special gift from God. I had always prayed for twins, and when the ultrasound showed two fetuses five years ago, I was over the moon. A boy and a girl—what more could a man ask for? My plan had always been to have four children, and I was already halfway there. Alhamdulillah.

“How was school today?” I asked, setting them down.

“Daddy! Our uncle flogged Hassan today. They were fighting in class,” Hafsah announced, her tone self-righteous.

“Daddy!” Hassan protested, his voice rising. “The boy looked for my trouble. That’s why I beat him.”

“Hassan!” I snapped, my tone firm. “Don’t ever fight anyone at school. Otherwise, I’ll flog you when I get home, and I won’t buy you any chocolate.”

At the mention of chocolate, Hassan quickly calmed down. That round had been won by me. My two kids were little lawyers, and we had an average of five arguments daily. Sometimes I won, but most of the time, they took me to the cleaners. Babies were born smart these days, I guess.

I left them in the sitting room and headed to the bedroom. I undressed and stepped into the bathroom, letting the warm water from the shower wash away my tiredness. As I stood there, enjoying the soothing flow, I heard my phone ring in the parlor. It rang steadily for about twenty seconds before disconnecting. A moment later, it started ringing again.

“My Em!” Hanan called from the kitchen. “Your phone is ringing!”

“Who is it?” I asked, raising my voice over the sound of the water.

“I don’t know… Lemme check…” she replied.

“Ni dai naga ‘Zainab’ on the screen!” she shouted.

“Answer it and ask her what she wants,” I told her, my heart skipping a beat. Zainab was a colleague, but the timing of the call felt ominous.

As I rinsed the soap from my hair, I smiled to myself. I was among the few men who were comfortable with their wives having access to their phones. Men’s pathological attachment to their mobile phones is legendary. Countless marriages had crumbled because of the almighty mobile phone. Men had died, women had been killed or abused, and lives had been ruined—all because of a tiny device.

There was a saying: “A man’s mobile phone is like an onion bulb. If you don’t want to shed tears, don’t open it.” At one point, I thought maybe manufacturers should include a warning: “Women! Mobile phones can get you killed or make you a killer. Stay away!”

But with the rise of feminism and women’s liberation, people had started asking questions. Why was it okay for a man to check his wife’s phone but not the other way around? Why shouldn’t a woman have access to her partner’s phone? What were men hiding? If there was nothing to hide, why hide anything at all?

Hanan had full access to my phone, and I had nothing to fear. My fearlessness wasn’t because I was a saint. No, it was because I had two phones. The one Hanan answered was my main phone, used for family, friends, and work. The other one—the one I used to chat with Muhibba—was my “Undercover Phone.” It lived in the glove compartment of my car and only came alive when I was alone. What the eyes don’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over. Simple.

Hanan trusted me completely. She answered my calls, played games on my phone, read books, and even watched #Northflix on it. As far as she was concerned, I was an exemplary husband who didn’t have time for other women. She never missed an opportunity to tell her friends that.

“She said to ask whether she should come tomorrow for the interview,” Hanan called out, pulling me back to the present.

“Tell her to come as early as possible, before 9 a.m.,” I replied, toweling myself dry. I heard her relay the message, then drop the phone on the bed before returning to the kitchen. I smiled, but the smile didn’t reach my eyes.

The guilt was starting to creep in, but I pushed it down. This was just a one-time thing. No one would get hurt. Right?