In Lagos, everyone’s hiding something. Some are small secrets. Some are landmines waiting to explode. This one? It was a full-blown disaster wrapped in lace and lies. It started like most Lagos marriages do — with promise.
Sandra and Tunji had been married for five years. Civil wedding. Big white gown. Reception in one of those expensive halls at Admiralty Way. People sprayed cash like rain that day. They looked perfect.
Tunji was a banker — structured, always serious. Sandra? A boutique owner, with beauty that made people stare twice. But there was something else about her: a magnetic charm that men and women noticed. At first, Tunji didn’t mind. He trusted her. Until trust started feeling like foolishness.
It was the little things.
Sandra suddenly had “late-night deliveries.” “Private girls’ spa sessions.” “Bible study at a friend’s place in Ago Palace.”
But Tunji knew his wife didn’t like the Bible like that.
One night, her phone lit up while she was in the bathroom. Tunji glanced, expecting some regular Instagram notification. Instead, he saw a message flash across the screen:
> “I miss your scent. I can still taste you. Friday can’t come fast enough. Love you.
The sender’s name? Nkem — one of her supposed “girls.” Tunji felt his chest tighten. Not out of anger, but confusion.
He didn’t know if it was an affair or something worse — something he had no language for.
So he plotted. Not recklessly. Smartly.
He told Sandra he had to travel to Abuja for work — three days. She smiled and waved him off like always. That same night, she wore silk and sprayed perfume like she was expecting royalty.
Tunji didn’t travel.
He doubled back and hid in his friend’s flat on the floor above. His guy handled the security man. Tunji set up a small surveillance camera from the balcony. One that pointed directly into their living room. He waited.
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9:42 PM.
A bolt slid. Door opened.
Nkem walked in, barefoot, confident, holding a wine bottle. Sandra was already in one of those robes that left little to imagination.
No tension. No hesitation. Just soft touches, inside jokes, stolen kisses. Then they disappeared into the bedroom.
And just like that… The Catch was confirmed. Tunji watched the footage in silence.
He didn’t storm in. No shouting match. No broken glass. He just saved the clip. Packed a small bag. Left a handwritten note on the dining table that read:
> “You made your choice. I’m making mine.”
He left before sunrise. The fallout was quiet but brutal.
Sandra tried to call. Tunji didn’t pick. She sent long messages. He didn’t reply. She sent Nkem to beg — that only made things worse.
Before the week was over, Tunji had filed for divorce.
He told nobody the full story — not even his own mother. But within the estate, gist flies faster than NEPA can cut light. One of the cleaners had seen Nkem leaving in tears. That was all it took. Now?
Sandra runs her boutique alone. Business is slower. People stare longer. Nkem moved to Port Harcourt. Nobody’s heard from her since.
And Tunji?
He changed his number. Moved to a smaller apartment on the mainland. Focused on work. When asked why the marriage ended, all he ever says is:
> “I saw what I wasn’t supposed to see. But I thank God I did.” Lagos is a theatre of secrets.
Sometimes, the betrayal isn’t loud. It doesn’t come with lipstick-stained shirts or strange hotel receipts. Sometimes, The Catch happens in silence… and it changes everything.
The Catch – A Lagos Story You Won’t Forget