Vera entered like a queen without a crown, but everyone could feel it anyway. Heads turned, conversations paused mid-sentence. Even the live band’s music seemed to mellow for a moment, as if the room itself was taking a breath for her.
But Vera’s eyes were fixed on one target, Al-Haji Mubarak. He stood near the governor’s table, laughing that deep commanding laugh that echoed across the room.
His agbada was pure white, flowing around him like royal robes. His wristwatch alone could buy a house in Banana Island. Vera’s lips parted into a small knowing smile. She didn’t rush. She moved like silk, weaving her way through the crowd, timing her entrance perfectly. She waited until Alhaji glanced up just once, and their eyes met. It was over.
The power mommy had poured into her was alive now, humming in the space between them. His smile faltered, his laughter caught in his throat. And like a moth to flame, Al-Haji Mubarak found himself walking toward her, forgetting the speech he was supposed to give. the dignitaries he was supposed to greet and most importantly forgetting his wife watching from across the hall.
“Good evening, beautiful,” he said, his voice almost rough. Vera smiled shyly, playing her part. “Good evening, Senator. Have we met before?” he asked, already knowing the answer was no, but desperate to find a thread, any thread, to tie himself to her. No, Vera said softly, her perfume wrapping around him like a net.
But I feel like we were supposed to.
It wasn’t long before he abandoned the gala entirely. They sat alone in a private lounge upstairs, champagne flowing like water, Vera laughing softly at his jokes, brushing her fingers against his hand just enough to leave his skin burning. Alhaji Mubarak was a goner. By the end of the night, she gave him her contact.
“This feels different,” he muttered, his voice thick with something between wonder and lust. Vera leaned in, letting her breath tickle his ear. “Because it is,” she whispered. By the time she returned to her car, she already had three missed calls from him. She grinned in the dark, tossing her clutch onto the passenger seat. Another home about to burn.
But deep inside something felt different this time. Their relationship blossomed like a forbidden flower. Wild, reckless, and breathtaking. Al-Haji Mubarak became obsessed.
It wasn’t enough to see Vera once a week or twice. Soon he demanded her presence daily. Morning breakfasts in secret apartments, long afternoons hidden away in luxury hotels, late night calls where he begged just to hear her voice.
He spoiled her in ways that made her past lovers looked like amateurs, a new Range Rover with her name on the papers, a duplex tucked away in the heart of Leki, a steady flow of dollars wrapped in velvet boxes. In public, he remained the perfect senator, dignified, respectable. But in Vera’s arms, he was a man unmade.
He called her his peace, his addiction, his second breath. Vera, for once, found herself caught up, too. He wasn’t just rich. He was powerful. Men stood when he entered rooms. Women bent their heads in respect. Governors whispered to him. Businessmen sought his approval. and all that power, all that untouchable greatness bowed quietly at her feet. Vera knew she had won.
This was bigger than anything she had ever tasted, and she wasn’t planning to let go. Unknown to her that this time age was the one that got caught.
It was a Thursday evening when Alhaji Mubarak called. “My queen,” he said in that deep syrupy voice that always made Vera smirk. “Come to the house. I want to cook dinner for you myself.
Vera nearly dropped her phone from laughter. A whole senator cooking. Your wife Ano? She teased, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. You want me to come and be sliced into pieces by one jealous madam? Alhaji chuckled. Relax, my love. She traveled this morning. Abuja business meeting. It’s just me and you. The idea was tempting, too tempting.
There was a certain thrill in stepping into the lion’s den. So Vera dressed carefully that night, choosing a simple, seductive silk gown that whispered promises with every step as her Uber curved into the senator’s sprawling mansion. Vera’s heart pounded with excitement. The gates opened without hesitation.
EPISODE: 4:
The guards, already briefed, bowed respectfully. See my life, she thought, smiling smugly. From side chick to queen. Inside the house was tastefully quiet, dim lights, expensive art. And there was Alhaji wearing a casual caftan, waiting at the foot of the stairs with a boyish grin. “My queen,” he said, pulling her into a deep hungry kiss.
“Welcome home,” he led her to the dining table where two plates were already served. Grilled fish, jollof rice, freshlysqueezed juice. Ah ah Vera teased, settling into the leather chair. Are you planning to marry me already? Alhaji laughed again, but there was something strained in it. Something Vera was too drunk on pride to notice.
They ate. They drank wine. They flirted. He fed her with his hands. She fed him with hers. The chemistry between them was magnetic, electric, dangerous. Then he stood up and said, “Come upstairs. I want to show you something.” Giggling, Vera followed. The master bedroom was larger than her entire apartment.
Gold fixtures, plush rugs, a king-sized bed that could hold an entire village. Vera slipped out of her heels, sinking into the softness. Wait here, Alhaji said, his voice low. Vera stretched luxuriously across the bed, feeling like a cat who had swallowed all the canaries in the world. And then, click, the sound of the door locking from outside.
Vera frowned, sitting up slowly. “Alhaji,” she called, laughing nervously. No response. Suddenly, the bathroom door creaked open. Standing there, wrapped in a blood red wrapper, her head tied in a fierce scarf, was Hajia Salamatu, Al-Haji Mubarak’s wife. Her face was calm, too calm, her eyes deadly still. Vera’s blood froze. Haja Salamatu stepped into the room, closing the distance slowly like a hunter approaching a trapped animal.
You’ve eaten my food, Hajia said softly. You’ve slept in my bed. Now, her smile stretched wide. Let’s welcome you properly. Vera’s mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. Because in that moment, she realized she wasn’t the hunter tonight.
She was the prey.
The silence in the room was thick, pressing against Vera’s skin like a second weight. Hajia Salamatu’s eyes never blinked, never wavered. “Go on,” she said softly, almost sweetly, pointing to the bed. “Show me how you take what is mine.” Vera stood frozen, her mind racing, her heart banging against her ribs like a trapped bird.
This had to be a trick, some cruel setup, a trap to humiliate her. But then from the doorway, Alhaji Mubarak sauntered back into the room, his caftan loose, his grin wide. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t shocked. He was amused. “Come, my queen,” he said, patting the bed with a laugh. “Or have you lost your fire?” Vera’s throat dried up.
She looked from Al-Haji to Hajia, confused, humiliated, scared. But Hajia simply leaned back in the armchair by the window, crossing her legs neatly, watching them like an eager audience waiting for the show to begin. Vera’s pride, that dangerous, stubborn pride, wouldn’t let her back down. She smiled tightly, letting the silk gown slip from her shoulders, and climbed onto the bed.
The moment their bodies touched, Alhaji burst into laughter. A deep, bellyachching laughter that shook the walls. But Vera forced herself to focus. She moved against him the way she had moved against countless others. Slow, sensual, calculated, minutes stretched into eternity. Al-Haji moaned and whispered obscene praises, gripping her tightly like she was the air he needed to breathe.
All the while, Haja Salamatu sat unmoving, watching every thrust, every kiss, every desperate gasp. Her face remained serene, her eyes cold as winter. Vera tried not to look at her, tried to block out the shame burning her skin, but it was impossible. How could she forget that she was performing for the wife of the man she was trying to steal? Over 40 minutes later, it ended.
EPISODE: 5
A mess of sweat, tangled sheets, and awkward breathing. Vera collapsed beside Al-Haji, her heart hammering, her body exhausted. But the worst was yet to come. Hajia Salamatu stood smoothing down her wrapper and spoke again, her voice low and sharp like a blade. “Go and shower,” she said, her lips curled into a thin smile.
“We still have a surprise for you.” Vera’s stomach twisted violently. She glanced at Alhaji for reassurance, but he only chuckled and waved her toward the onsuite bathroom. Like a puppet, she obeyed, her legs trembling as she crossed the room. The bathroom was grand, marble floors, golden taps, a bathtub that could fit three people.
Vera turned on the shower and stepped under the spray, hoping the hot water would wash away the crawling shame under her skin. But even as the water beat down on her, she felt it that something was terribly wrong. The air itself seemed to thicken, to pulse with something dark and unseen. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath.
“Maybe it’s just nerves,” she told herself. “Maybe they just want to scare me.” She finished quickly, wrapping herself in a towel.
When she opened the door to step out, she froze. Al-Haji Mubarak and Hajia Salamatu were waiting for her, but they were no longer smiling. Between them stood a strange figure draped in red, face hidden under layers of white chalk, a priest, a conjurer, and in his hand he held a small rusted chain.
The chains on the dog rattled lightly, not from any movement, but almost as if responding to the chanting. Vera shook her head violently. No, no, you can’t be serious, she cried, stepping further back, panic flooding her body. But none of them flinched. None of them smiled. You will do it, Haja said simply, her eyes boring into Vera like a blade.
Or you will leave this house in a way you cannot imagine. Vera felt the walls closing in on her. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. The room spun.
This wasn’t seduction anymore. This wasn’t power. This wasn’t the glamorous, dangerous life she had bragged about. This was something else entirely. This was evil. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Her lips trembled. She clutched the towel tighter, shaking her head over and over. I can’t, she whispered.
The priest took a step forward, his hand raising the rusted chain he had been holding. the one Vera hadn’t noticed him slip around his wrist. In that moment, she understood. She had no choice. The glamour, the money, the cars, the designer clothes, they had all led her here to this room, to this moment, to this unthinkable horror.
Vera’s blood turned to ice. The surprise was not a car, not money, not another gift. No, this was something else entirely. something she would never walk away from. The room smelled different. It was colder, heavier, as if the air itself was thick with something unseen and cruel.
Vera’s bare feet hesitated at the threshold. She clutched the towel tighter around her body as Alhaji, Hajia, and the priest led her in without a word. At first, she couldn’t see clearly. Then her eyes adjusted, and there, chained to a polished iron post, was a massive Rottweiler.
The dog sat unnaturally still, its black fur gleaming, its eyes glinting with a strange, almost human calmness.
No growling, no barking, just a quiet, eerie stillness that made Vera’s skin crawl. Before she could even find her voice, Hajia pointed a steady hand at the animal and spoke. Her voice low, cold, and absolute. Make love to it. Vera’s heart stopped. For a second, she thought she had heard wrong. She blinked rapidly, her ears buzzing with disbelief.
What? She gasped, stepping back instinctively. Alhaji only chuckled, but it wasn’t the warm teasing laugh he used to give her. This laugh was hollow, full of mockery. “You heard her,” Alhaji said, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ve tasted what belongs to me. Now you must finish what you started.” The priest muttered something under his breath, a string of words Vera couldn’t understand.
