I Was The Side Chick To My Boyfriend’s Sugar Daddy

PART 1 The message popped up while I was charging his phone. Uncle E:”baby,send the aza before your babe comes back “. My thumb froze over the screen. David’s iPhone was at 3%. He’d begged me to use my power bank, tossed his phone on my bed like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a bomb. His passcode was still 1402. My birthday. The irony would have been funny if my chest wasn’t caving in. Three years, Serina. Three years of “babe I dey for uncle shop for D-Line,” of Indomie and egg at my lodge because he was “building something.” Three years of me defending him when my girls said, “PH boys and lies na 5&6.” I unlocked it. WhatsApp: Uncle Emeka 💙 Last seen today at 4:12pm. I scrolled up. My stomach dropped with every blue tick. My king. I kept scrolling. Two years of “my king.” Two years of hotel receipts from Le Meridien, of “send me that pic in the singlet I bought you,” of “your babe suspects anything?” Loyal but not smart. I put the phone down on my chest and stared at my ceiling fan. It was wobbling, just like everything I thought was real. Outside my lodge at Aluu, a keke was blasting Davido. Life was going on. Students were shouting about test. And I was here, finding out my boyfriend of three years had a 52-year-old sugar daddy. A sugar daddy he called Uncle Emeka. The same Uncle Emeka who came to our department fundraising last year. The one who shook my hand and said, “David is a good boy. You’re lucky.” He’d winked. I thought he was just a typical big man. I wasn’t lucky. I was the cover story. My phone buzzed. David. Miss me to die. I looked at David’s phone again. A new message from Uncle E. Wife. Uncle Emeka had a wife. I did what any loyal but not smart girl would do. I screenshotted everything. The chats. The alerts. The “my king” texts. The nude Uncle Emeka sent on March 14th with the caption “for my baby boy.” Then I opened my w******p status. I picked one screenshot. The one that would burn everything down. Caption: Tagged: Tagged: I posted it. Then I blocked both of them, switched off my phone, and went to sleep. Let Port Harcourt do the rest. [3 DAYS LATER] My lodge was a crime scene. My roommates had stopped talking to me. The caretaker’s wife kept looking at me like I was a mad person. My phone, when I finally turned it on, had 1,742 w******p messages, 89 missed calls, and 12 voice notes from numbers I didn’t save. The story had entered Nairaland. Title: . Someone had screen-recorded my status before I deleted it. Blogs had it. Instablog had it. @PHCityGist had it. David’s sister was in my DMs: Uncle Emeka’s aide was in my DMs: And my own mother was in my DMs: But the DM that made my blood run cold was from a number with no profile picture. I dropped my phone. They knew my room. That’s when the knock came. Three sharp bangs on my door. “Serina! Open this door! We know you’re in there!” It was a woman’s voice. Old. Angry. Shaking. I didn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. “Open this door before I break it down! I am Mrs. Ufot! Emeka’s WIFE!” My door handle rattled. And that’s when I realized: I wasn’t the only side chick in this story. I was the second one. TO BE CONTINUED... ---