🔥💖OGA I WAN KNACK💖 – EPISODE THIRTEEN – THE QUESTION THAT BROKE EVERYTHING 💖🔥

OGA I WAN KNACK – EPISODE THIRTEEN – THE QUESTION THAT BROKE EVERYTHING 

The days after my wife’s birthday passed like a slow poison.

I had been wrestling with myself, trying to find the courage to do what needed to be done. But every time I opened my mouth to speak, the words died in my throat like fish gasping for air on dry land.

I am a man. And sometimes, being a man means carrying the weight of decisions you do not want to make.

Even against people who had treated me badly, I found myself hesitating.
I looked at my wife — the woman I had built a life with, brick by brick, year by year — and I felt something I did not expect.

Pity.

Not anger. Not hatred. Pity.

We had come so far together. From the days when she was just an ordinary teller at the bank, counting notes behind a counter, her fingers stained with ink from old naira notes. From the days when we lived in that small flat in Festac, where the water heater worked only once a month, and the neighbor’s rooster crowed at 4 A.M. like it had a personal grudge against other tenants’ sleep.

I remembered those days like they were yesterday.

I remembered how we would sit on the floor of our cramped living room, eating noodles from the same pot, laughing about nothing and everything. I remembered how she would rest her head on my shoulder and say, “One day, we will have everything. Just wait.”

I remembered how close we used to be. How she would hold my hand when we walked down the street, not caring who saw. How she would call me during her lunch break just to hear my voice. How she would wrap her arms around me from behind while I cooked, pressing her cheek against my back, and whisper, “I love you, Emmanuel. Don’t ever forget that.”

What changed?

I asked myself that question a thousand times. A million times.

I had never treated her wrongly. Not once. In over ten years of dating and marriage, I had never cheated on her. Never raised my hand against her. Never disrespected her in front of others. I had always been the one to make sacrifices — to bend, to yield, to forgive, to understand.

So what would have made us grow apart?

Was it the money? Was it the duplex? Was it the comfort that made her comfortable enough to stop trying?

I did not have the answers. But I knew I needed them.

I struggled to come up with a good reason to have that necessary conversation. My mind circled the same questions like a vulture over a dying animal, waiting for something to fall.

The clock on my wall ticked.

2:00 P.M.
3:00 P.M.
4:00 P.M.

Nothing came.

My head was empty. My chest was heavy. My hands were cold.

Something needs to give way, I thought to myself. You cannot continue like this. You cannot live in this limbo forever.

I decided to go back to work. Maybe the distraction would help. Maybe the answers would come when I stopped chasing them.

I opened my laptop. Stared at the screen. Typed a few words. Deleted them. Typed again. Deleted again.

Nothing. But I forged ahead. Clients don’t take silly excuses for an answer. Results speak louder than excuses, and I know better than make my clients look elsewhere. My eyes go peel when bills start pilling up.
So I went back to work.

When it was few minutes past 7:00 P.M., I heard it.

Hooooonk.

The sound of a car horn outside the gate. A horn I would recognize anywhere.

My wife’s car.

And in that moment — like a flash of lightning in a dark sky — something struck my mind.

I had an epiphany!

Yes.

I knew what I had to do.

I needed to ask the necessary question. The one I had been avoiding. The one that would either save everything or end everything.

Because nothing added up until this idea came up. Probably this would solve the problem. Probably this would give me the clarity I had been searching for.

Or probably it would destroy me.

Either way, I had to know.

I shut down my laptop. The screen went dark, reflecting my face back at me — tired, determined, afraid.

I turned my chair enough to be in the middle of the room, positioned so that once my wife walked through that door, my face would be the first place her eyes would rest on.

No distractions. No escape. Just me, the center of the room, and the truth.

I heard her keys jingling in the lock. Heard the door handle turn. Heard the creak of the hinges.

And then the door flung open.

My wife stepped inside, looked up, and saw me sitting there in the middle of the room.

She almost jumped out of her skin.

“Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest. “You scared the B Jesus out of me. What are you doing sitting at the centre of the room like that?”

I did not respond.

I just watched her in silence. My face was washed of every emotion, unreadable as a stone. I had practiced this look in the mirror.

She became uncomfortable.

I watched it happen in real time — the way her smile faded, the way her shoulders tensed, the way her eyes darted around the room as if searching for an escape route. She stood frozen halfway through the door, one hand still on the handle, one foot still outside.

She could not move forward.

She did not know what to do next.

She just stood there, and I saw it — guilt, washing over her face like a wave she could not outrun.

Guilt.

I became emboldened on seeing that.

This was exactly what I was looking for. The confirmation I needed before I even asked the question. Now I had her exactly where I wanted her — trapped in the doorway between coming and going, between lying and telling the truth.

Now it was time to pop the question.

But just then, she probed further, her voice trembling.

“Babe, what’s going on? You are scaring me right now. Please talk to me.”

I looked at her. Really looked at her. At the woman who had once been my best friend. At the woman who had once made me believe in forever.

And then…
“What’s his name?”

Her face changed.

I watched it happen — fear, then shock, then confusion. Each emotion flickered across her features like lightning in a stormy sky.

“Wh — wh — who are you talking about?” she asked, stammering. Her voice was high, unnatural, like the voice of someone who had been caught off guard and was scrambling for footing.