THE LEKKI WIFE

THE CORE PREMISE THAT SELLS

We didn’t sleep.

Lekki penthouses are supposed to be quiet. But that night, every car horn on Admiralty Way sounded like EFCC banging on our door. Every time the fridge hummed, I thought it was handcuffs.

David was still. Too still. Back-to-back with me, but I could feel him thinking. Calculating. Like me.

“Zee,” he whispered around 2am. “If we run, where we go?”

“Benin Republic,” I said automatically. Kemi and I had a plan since SS3. “My cousin dey Cotonou. She dey do hair.”

He huffed. A laugh, maybe. “CEO of Ayo-Dele Properties braiding hair in Cotonou. Headline go sweet.”

“Better than Billionaire Fraud Arrested In Boxers,” I said. “Which is what they’ll write if we stay.”

He rolled over. Now we were face-to-face. In the dark, I could only see the white of his eyes. And the billboard ocean glow making his skin look blue.

“We can’t run,” he said. “My mum… she’ll kill herself if headline say I japa. She already thinks I killed my father.”

I went cold. “You… what?”

“Not literally.” His voice cracked. “But she blames me. I was 18. I told my dad Chief Balogun was clean. I begged him to sign the partnership. Two weeks later, EFCC raided us. Dad had stroke in cell. Died before trial.”

So that was it. That was the real revenge. Not just business. Blood.

“David—”

“Don’t.” He rolled back. Back-to-back again. Wall up. “Rule 1. No emotional attachment. You don’t need my trauma. You need ₦5M.”

I stared at the ceiling. No chandelier. Just wire hanging where it used to be. Like us.

“Fine,” I said. “No attachment. But if we’re going to jail together, I need to know one thing.”

“What?”

“Why me? Chief Balogun has enemies. Why marry his daughter?”

Silence. Then: “Because you were the only one not at the funeral.”

“What?”

“My dad’s funeral. 10 years ago. Your father sent condolence wreath. To the family of the thief. You didn’t come. I checked. I hated you for 10 years because you didn’t come.”

I sat up. “David, I was 13! I was in Mushin sharing one rice with my mum! I didn’t even know your dad died!”

“I know,” he said to the dark. “I figured it out after I proposed. But by then… I’d already seen you.”

“Seen me where?”

“i********:. You posted gala you were hawking. Caption: ‘No gree for anybody, but gree for customer.’ You looked… not like Chief’s daughter. You looked like me.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I lay back down.

4:17am.

Kemi texted: “EFCC don post una kiss on their page. Caption: ‘Love or fraud? We go find out 9am.’ Una don blow.”

I showed David.

He read it. Then he started laughing. Quiet at first. Then hard. Helpless.

“We’re trending for fraud,” he said. “My mum’s pastor is going to use this as sermon.”

“Your mum hates me already,” I said. “What’s one more sin?”

He was quiet. Then: “She doesn’t hate you. She hates that you make me look… human. Last time I looked human, my dad died.”

That shut me up.

6:03am. Sunrise.

No AC. No bedsheet. Just us, Lagos sun coming through empty glass, and the billboard ocean turning from black to blue to fake.

David sat up. Shirt off. He slept in trousers because “billionaires no dey wear pyjamas.” His back had scars. Three. Straight lines.

“Cane,” he said, catching me looking. Didn’t turn. “Boarding school. For when I said I no want be ‘Ayo-Dele.’”

I had scars too. From pot burn when I was 8, cooking for my mum. I didn’t show him. Rule 1.

“I’m going to shower,” he said. “With cold water. Because we no pay gas.”

“There’s no towel,” I said. “Rental guys took them.”

He looked at me. Really looked. For the first time, not like enemy. Not like contract. Like… Zee.

“Then we go to EFCC stinking,” he said. “Authentic poor people. Maybe they go pity us.”

He walked to the bathroom. I heard the water hit. He hissed. Cold.

I picked up my phone. 4.3M views now. Comments:

“Ayo-Dele Properties, I have ₦200k to invest, where I go pay?”

“Zee, teach me how to catch billionaire!”

“EFCC leave them! Na love!”

An idea hit me. Stupid. Suicidal. Very Lekki.

I knocked on the bathroom door. “David!”

“What!”

“What if we don’t defend? What if we… pitch?”

Door opened. He was in a towel. Water dripping. Angry. “Pitch what? Our poverty?”

“Pitch Ayo-Dele Properties. For real. Right now. EFCC office.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m Mushin. Same thing.” I showed him the comments. “People want to invest. In us. In the kiss. In the lie. So we sell the lie.”

“Zee, we have no land. No CAC. No—”

“We have 4.3M people watching. That’s land.” I stepped closer. Water from him hit my leg. “You wanted to ruin my father by marrying me. Fine. But if we go jail, he wins. If we make this real… we both win.”

He stared. Towel. Water. 6:11am. EFCC in 2 hours 49 minutes.

“Rule 1,” he said.

“To hell with rule 1,” I said. “Rule 1 was for when we had furniture. We don’t even have chair.”

He laughed. Once. Sharp. “You’re insane.”

“You proposed to me,” I said. “So you’re insane too.”

He was quiet. Then he nodded. “Fine. We pitch. But if we die, you die first.”

“Romantic,” I said.

“Shut up and find clothes,” he said. “We’re going to EFCC looking like we own Lagos.”

8:42am. EFCC Office, Ikoyi.

We didn’t own Lagos. We didn’t own shoes that fit.

My “Christian Dior” was from Balogun Market. His “Tom Ford” was from Yaba. But we walked in holding hands like we owned the building.

Because 4.3M people said we did.

The EFCC lobby was full. Not just officers. Bloggers. Tiktokers. Even Arise TV. Our kiss was news.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ayo-Dele,” the lead officer said. “Sit. Explain your liquidity.”

David didn’t sit. He walked to the middle of the room. Like this was his boardroom. Like we weren’t 2 hours from Kirikiri.

He pulled out his phone. Played the t****k. 4.3M views.

“Liquidity,” he said. “Is attention. And we have it.”

He pointed at me. “My wife. Zee Ayo-Dele. 10 years experience in grassroots sales. She sold ₦2M of perfume from her bedroom. With no office.”

He pointed at himself. “Me. David Ayo-Dele. I took a ₦0 company and made 4.3M Nigerians believe in it overnight. That’s marketing.”

He turned to EFCC. To the cameras. “You asked for CAC? We don’t have it. Yet. You asked for land? We don’t have it. Yet. But we have 12,000 DMs asking ‘how to invest.’ So here’s the deal.”

My heart stopped. What deal?

“We’re launching Ayo-Dele Properties today,” David said. “Crowd-funded. ₦100k per slot. 12,000 slots. ₦1.2 billion. We’ll buy land in Epe. Build low-cost housing. And we’ll do it live. On i********:. Every naira, every block.”

The room exploded.

“Are you mad?!”

“Is this legal?!”

“Sir, you can’t—”

“It’s legal if EFCC monitors it,” I said, standing. My voice shook but I didn’t stop. “You want to stop fraud? Watch us. Audit us. We’ll post receipts daily. We’ll make property transparent. For the first time in Lekki.”

EFCC lead officer looked at us. At the cameras. At the 4.3M views.

If he arrested us now, he’d look like he was arresting “hope.” Nigeria would eat him alive.

He smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Ayo-Dele. You have 72 hours. Show us CAC. Show us land. Show us 1 plot. Or we show you Kirikiri.”

He turned to cameras. “EFCC supports legitimate youth innovation. We’ll be monitoring Ayo-Dele Properties.”

Monitoring. Not arresting.

We walked out alive.

Outside EFCC, 10:03am.

Bloggers shouting. “Zee! David! Is it true?!”

Investors calling. “How do I pay?!”

Kemi texting: “Una don scammed government legally. I’m proud.”

David looked at me. Sun was high. Real Lagos. No billboard.

“We have 72 hours to find ₦1.2 billion or go to jail,” he said.

“Correction,” I said. “We have 72 hours to become real. Or die lying.”

He took my hand. Not for cameras. No cameras here. Just us.

“Zee,” he said. “Rule 1 is dead. Agreed?”

I looked at our hands. His fake watch. My chipped nail. Wedding ring was back on because EFCC.

“Agreed,” I said. “But new rule: If we go down, we go down together.”

“Deal,” he said.

And in Ikoyi, outside EFCC, with 72 hours to become billionaires or prisoners, David Ayo-Dele kissed me.

Not for EFCC. Not for t****k.

For us.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like fraud.