They almost flung me out. “Everyone called me crazy for marrying a 65-year-old woman,” but on our wedding night I saw a mark on her shoulder, heard “I have to tell you the truth,” and realized my entire life had been a lie.
It wasn’t her dresses. Not her house. Not her money.
I fell in love with the way she listened to me, as if I truly mattered.
When I told my family, they almost threw me out.
“That woman has you bewitched,” my auntie said.
“What you want is a mother, not a wife,” my cousin spat.
“She’s going to use you and then throw you away,” my father declared, hurt.
But I held on. I fought for her. I defended her in front of everyone. And even though the whole village pointed at me, calling me ambitious, crazy, or a kept man, I didn’t back down.
The wedding took place in a former colonial governor’s lodge in the hills of Oyo, lit with candles, white arrangements, and musicians playing as if it were a celebration for powerful people. There were too many men dressed in black, too many radios in their ears, too much security for a simple wedding. I noticed it, yes. But I was so blinded by what I felt that I chose not to ask.
That night, when we were finally alone in a huge bedroom, Ngozi closed the door with trembling hands. Then she placed a thick envelope and a set of keys on the table.
“It’s your wedding gift,” she said. “One million dollars and a truck.”
I smiled nervously and pushed the envelope back.
“I don’t need any of that. Having you is enough.”
Then she looked at me in a strange way. Sad. As if she were about to break.
“My son… I mean, Chidi… before this goes any further, I have to tell you something.”
A chill ran down my spine.
Ngozi slowly took off her shawl. And when my eyes fell on her left shoulder, I froze.
She had a dark, round mole with an uneven edge.
The same one.
In the same place.
The same mark my mother had always had on her collarbone.
I raised my hand, trembling.
“That mark… why do you have it?”
Ngozi closed her eyes and took a step back.
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