THE LEKKI WIFE

The First Brick

8:03am. Same Day. EFCC Car Park.

The Camry wouldn’t start.

Not because of engine. Because of people.

12,847 investors found out we were “legal.” Now 200 of them were here. With placards.

“WHERE IS OUR LAND?”

“AYO-DELE, BUILD OR WE BEAT!”

“ZEE, I SOLD MY GOAT FOR YOU!”

David looked at me. “We have ₦2.9M. That’s… one plot of cement.”

“Then we buy one plot of cement,” I said. “And we stream it.”

“Zee, they want houses. Not content.”

“They’ll get content first,” I said. “Lekki rule #1: If you can’t deliver, perform.”

Kemi leaned out the window. “Oya, investors! Groundbreaking is 12pm! Epe! Come with your own shovel! First 50 to dig, get first house!”

The crowd roared.

David stared at me. “You just promised 50 houses.”

“I promised 50 holes,” I said. “Same thing in Nigeria.”

9:47am. Epe. Our Land.

It was bush. Real bush. Snakes. Refuse. One cashew tree.

No gate. No surveyor. No contractor. Just 50 plots of red earth and the ghost of David’s father.

But 300 people came. Because Nigerians will follow anybody with a microphone and madness.

We had:

1 bag of cement — ₦8,500

2 shovels — borrowed from Kemi’s uncle

1 bottle of Fanta — for “libation”

1 iPhone — Kemi’s, for IG Live

1 flash drive — with land docs

David stood on a mound. Shirt torn. Eyes hollow. He looked like Jesus if Jesus did Yahoo.

He took the mic. Kemi started Live.

🔴 LIVE: Ayo-Dele Properties Groundbreaking

Viewers: 83K and climbing

“Investors,” David said. Voice cracking. “Welcome to… Ayo-Dele Estate. Phase 1.”

The crowd cheered. A goat bleated.

“We have 50 plots,” he said. “And today… we lay the first brick.”

He nodded at me. I carried the bag of cement like it was baby Jesus. Set it on ground.

Kemi whispered, “Zee, you’re shaking.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

I wasn’t shaking from crowd. I was shaking because my period was 11 days late. And I bought a test at EFCC junction. And it was burning a hole in my fake Dior bag.

David picked up shovel. “This is for my father. Who died believing in land.”

He dug. Once. Hit stone.

The crowd ooooh’d like it was WWE.

He dug again. Got mud. Held it up. “This is for our investors. Who believe in us.”

He dropped the mud on cement bag.

“This… is the first brick.”

Comments exploded:

“Na mud be that?!”

“God abeg, I paid ₦100k!”

“Zee, blink twice if you need help!”

Then tires screamed.

A black Prado. MOPOL. Chief Balogun.

He stepped out with paper. Smiling. “Stop-work order. From Alausa. Your C of O is under investigation. Forgery.”

The crowd gasped.

David froze. Shovel mid-air. “You…”

“I told you,” Chief said. “Family helps family. You rejected my ₦500M. So I’ll take your land legally.”

He turned to crowd. “Investors! Ayo-Dele Properties is scam! I, Chief Balogun, will refund you! 50%! If you sign against them!”

Chaos.

“Scam!”

“Refund!”

“Where is Zee?!”

I stepped forward. Fanta in hand. “Daddy. You want land? Take it.”

I poured Fanta on the cement bag. On the mud. Red fizz everywhere.

“But you’ll have to explain to 83K people why you’re pouring ₦500M on my grave.”

I pointed at camera. “This is live, Daddy. Tell them why you want your daughter in Kirikiri.”

Chief’s smile died.

Because Nigerians love two things: money and drama. And I just gave them both.

Comments:

“Chief Balogun is villain?!”

“Zee, I Stan!”

“EFCC, arrest this agbada!”

Chief Balogun looked at the crowd. At the phones. At me.

Then another car pulled up.

Small. Toyota Corolla. 2003.

Mrs. Ayo-Dele stepped out. No wrapper this time. Jeans. T-shirt. Shovel in hand.

“Did I miss the groundbreaking?” she said.

The crowd went silent.

She walked past Chief like he was air. Picked up the second shovel.

“My husband bought this land with blood,” she told the camera. “Not paper. Blood. And I’ll be damned if a Balogun takes it.”

She dug. Hard. Threw earth on Chief’s shoes.

“Build,” she told David. “Your father was a fool. Don’t be one too.”

Then she looked at me. Really looked. At my face. My belly. My shaking hands.

“You,” she said. “Are you sick?”

The pregnancy test was screaming in my bag.

“I’m fine, ma,” I said.

“You look like my daughter-in-law looked when she was carrying my grandchild,” she said.

The shovel fell out of David’s hand.

Comments: “WAIT WHAT”

“ZEE IS PREGNANT?!”

“LEKKI WIFE SEASON 2!”

“Ma, I—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Mrs. Ayo-Dele said. “I buried a husband. I can smell life.”

Chief Balogun’s eyes narrowed. “Zainab. Are you…?”

I couldn’t breathe. 83K people watching. EFCC probably watching. David watching.

And I didn’t know.

I ran.

10:31am. Bush. Behind Cashew Tree.

I ripped open my bag. Pregnancy test. ₦500 from pharmacy.

David found me 2 minutes later. On my knees. Peeing on stick behind tree. Like this was normal.

“Zee.”

“Don’t look,” I hissed. “It’s… private!”

“We’re married,” he said. “On IG Live. Nothing is private.”

I finished. Capped it. Waited.

3 minutes. Longest of my life.

Two lines.

Positive.

I showed him.

He sat down. Hard. In red mud. In front of his father’s land.

“Zee.”

“David.”

“We’re going to have a baby,” he said. Like it was tsunami.

“We’re going to have a baby,” I said. Like it was miracle.

“And we have ₦2.9M,” he said.

“And 12,847 investors,” I said.

“And your father wants us dead,” he said.

“And your mother just gave us land,” I said.

He laughed. Then he cried. Then he pulled me into mud. Into cashew leaves. Into us.

“We can’t tell them,” he said. “Not yet. They’ll use it. EFCC. Chief. The investors. Everyone.”

“I know,” I said. Hand on my belly. Flat. Still mine. Still secret. “So we build first. Then we tell.”

He nodded. Kissed my forehead. Mud and all.

“First brick,” he whispered. “Not cement. Him. Or her.”

11:47am. Back at Groundbreaking.

We walked back. Hand in hand. Covered in mud.

The crowd was still there. Chief was shouting. Mrs. Ayo-Dele was shouting back. Kemi was live. 112K viewers now.

“WHERE IS ZEE?!”

“IS SHE PREGNANT?!”

“DAVID, NA MAN YOU BE!”

We stepped into frame.

David picked up the shovel again. Looked at camera.

“The stop-work order is fake,” he said. “We just verified with Alausa. Chief Balogun forged it.”

He held up his phone. PDF. From real Alausa.

Chief went pale.

“But,” David said, “we’re not building yet. Because Ayo-Dele Properties doesn’t do groundbreaking. We do truth-breaking.”

He looked at me.

“Zee and I started this marriage as fraud,” he told 112K people. “We were both lying. About money. About names. About why.”

The crowd went silent.

“But today,” he said, “on my father’s land, with no money, with enemies here, with EFCC watching… we’re done lying.”

He dropped the shovel. Took my muddy hand.

“We have 50 plots. We have ₦2.9M. We have 12,847 of you. And we have one promise: We will build. One brick at a time. Live. On camera. Every naira. Every block. If we fail, jail us. But if we win… you win.”

He turned to Chief. “Keep your ₦500M. Keep your stop-work. We don’t want it.”

He turned to his mother. “Thank you. For the land. And for the second chance.”

Then he turned to me. And said it again. Not for cameras. But he knew they were there.

“I love you, Zainab Balogun-Ayo-Dele. Even though we’re broke. Even though we’re scared. Even though…” He glanced at my belly. Only I saw it. “Even though everything.”

I couldn’t speak. So I did what Zee from Mushin does.

I picked up the bag of cement. Torn. Leaking.

And I threw it at Chief Balogun’s Prado.

It exploded. White dust everywhere. On his agbada. On his MOPOL. On his ₦500M.

“That’s our first brick, Daddy,” I said. “And it’s on you.”

The crowd erupted.

Comments: “ZEE 2027!”

“DAVID, MARRY ME TOO!”

“EFCC, LEAVE THEM!”

Chief Balogun wiped cement from his eyes. Looked at me. At David. At the 112K people calling him villain.

Then he smiled. Small. Proud. Scary.

“You’re my daughter,” he said. “Finally.”

He got in Prado. Left.

No fight. No stop-work.

Because Nigerians had chosen. And they chose us.

1:03pm. Aftermath.

Investors didn’t leave. They started digging.

With hands. With spoons. With faith.

Mrs. Ayo-Dele brought water. Kemi sold pure water at ₦500 a sachet — “Investor water.”

By sunset, we had 50 holes. Not houses. Holes.

But on IG: “Ayo-Dele Estate Day 1: 50 Foundations Dug By The People.”

₦2.9M became ₦6.4M by midnight. New investors. “We believe in mud.”

David and I sat under cashew tree. Night. Finally alone.

He put his hand on my belly. Still flat. Still secret.

“Hi,” he whispered to it. “I’m your dad. I’m broke. But I’m here.”

I cried. For the first time since my mum died.

“Hey,” I whispered to it. “I’m your mum. I sell perfume. But I’ll kill for you.”

We sat there. In red mud. On 50 plots. With ₦6.4M and 12,847 witnesses.

No longer frauds.

Just… parents.