Sweetness and Bitterleaf

A wife catfishes her husband online, exposing his betrayal with humor and heartbreak.

My husband thinks he is James Bond online. Every night, once I roll over on the bed and pretend to sleep, he grabs his phone, opens Facebook, and starts smiling like a goat wey see fresh yam peel. (Like a goat that just found fresh yam peels; he looks overly happy and silly.) The screen's glow lights up his face, and I can hear the little snickers he tries to bury in his throat. Sometimes he even shakes the bed, giggling like a schoolboy who just discovered love letters.
I am his wife. I have seen him eat beans and snore until dawn. I have washed his boxers, seen him scratch his belly with careless abandon. I know he is not James Bond. In fact, the only “007” in this house is that he has zero patience, zero savings, and seven different excuses whenever I ask him for money.
But what he doesn’t know is that the “fine babe” (beautiful woman) he has been toasting (flirting with) online for the past three months is me. Yes o, (yes indeed) his own wife. I created a fake account—slay queen (flashy, glamorous woman) profile picture, small waist, heavy makeup, name: Cynthia Sugarplum.
It started as a joke. I was bored one evening, scrolling through his careless Facebook updates. “Another day, another hustle. God no go shame us.” (God will not let us be put to shame.) The usual lines he posts. Then I saw his comment under one girl’s photo: “You are looking so sweet, dear. Hope you had a lovely day.” I almost choked on my zobo (a local hibiscus drink). This is the same man who cannot tell me “you look sweet” when I wear new Ankara? The same man who greets me with “You never cook?” (Haven’t you cooked yet?)
That night, I lay awake thinking. Was he cheating? Or just fooling around, feeding his ego? Either way, he needed a lesson.
So I created the account. I stole a picture from one Instagram babe with twenty thousand followers—red lipstick, a wig like a waterfall, waist the size of a broomstick. I named her Cynthia Sugarplum because it sounded ridiculous enough to catch his attention. Within two days, my husband’s friend request arrived.
From the first “hello, dear, how are you doing this evening,” I knew this man was finished. (Completely gone, beyond saving.) I even showed my best friend, Nkechi. She laughed so hard, she spilled kunu (a millet drink) on my rug.
“Na your husband? Ewoo! This life no balance. Men will disgrace you.” (That’s your husband? My goodness! Life is unfair. Men will embarrass you.)
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “He wants to play James Bond? He will see.”
I started billing him small-small. (Asking him for money gradually.) At first, I thought he would resist. After all, this is the same man who would argue with me over ₦500 transport fare. But no, he was generous with Cynthia.
“Baby, I need ₦5,000 for data.” He sent it.
“Sugar, my gas has finished .” He sent ₦8,000.
“Aww, I wish I could see you, but my landlord is disturbing me .” He sent ₦20,000.
Meanwhile, the real me was in the same house saying, “Honey, give me ₦2,000 to buy maggi and oil.” He would shout, “Money no dey! Things are hard!” (There’s no money! Times are tough!)
Sometimes, after sending Cynthia money, he would turn to me and complain about fuel prices. “This Buhari time don spoil everything.” (This Buhari government has ruined everything.) And I would nod, hiding my laughter. If only he knew he was subsidizing his own kitchen through Cynthia.
But let me not lie (to be honest), it was not only about the money. At first, I laughed. Then as the weeks passed, I began to feel something else. Something heavier. I would read his messages to Cynthia late at night, and a part of me would ache.
“My dear, you are the only one who makes me happy.”
“You understand me in ways my wife never can.”
“I swear, when I see you, I will hold you like I never want to let go.”
I would stare at the words, my laughter dying in my throat. He was talking about me, but not to me. To him, Cynthia was a fantasy worth spending on, worth sweet words. And me, the real woman who cooked, cleaned, and kept the house running, was the one he dismissed with grunts and excuses.
It hurt. It made me question myself. Was this what I had become? The background wife, while the spotlight was reserved for some imaginary slay queen?
Yet I kept the game going. Maybe it was revenge, maybe a test. Maybe I wanted to see just how far he would go.
One night, as I lay beside him pretending to be asleep, his phone dinged. He typed quickly, his thumbs flying. I peeked through half-closed eyes.
Cynthia: Baby, it’s so cold tonight. I wish I were in your arms.
Him: My love, if you were here, I would warm you. I can’t wait for us to meet.
My chest tightened. I bit my lip to stop myself from crying out. Instead, I smiled. Yes, let him dig his own grave.
The next morning, over breakfast, I asked him casually, “Honey, you didn’t sleep well last night. Who were you chatting with?”
He blinked too quickly. “Ah, nobody important. Just some friends on Facebook.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Friends? Male or female?”
He coughed into his tea. “Ah ah, why all these questions this morning? You know I don’t hide anything from you.” (Expression of surprise/defensiveness. He was trying too hard to appear innocent.)
I almost burst out laughing. Hide? This man was hiding a whole sugarplum.
Later that day, I told Nkechi the latest. She shook her head, eyes wide with mischief.
“My sister, don’t stop o. Squeeze him well. If he can’t give you as a wife, at least let Cynthia collect it back.” (Don’t stop. Get everything you can. If he won’t provide for you as his wife, let Cynthia take it from him.)
“But sometimes I feel guilty,” I admitted. “I mean, technically, I am deceiving him.”
“Deceiving who? Abeg, you are teaching him a lesson. If he cannot respect his wife, let him respect his pocket.” (Please, you are teaching him a lesson. If he won’t respect his wife, he’ll respect his wallet.)
Nkechi had a point. But still, in the quiet of the night, when his snores filled the room, I would stare at the ceiling and wonder if this marriage was already finished.
Three months passed like that. Then yesterday, the idiot finally said, “Cynthia, my love, I want to see you face to face. Let’s meet at Mr Biggs.”
When I read the message, my heart skipped. This was it. The grand reveal.
I told Nkechi, and she clapped her hands. “Please, take me along, I must see this drama.”
“No,” I said firmly. “This one is personal.”
I spent the whole night planning. What would I wear? How would I sit? What would I say? I wanted him to see me, not just as Cynthia, but as the woman he had underestimated.
By morning, I chose a simple red dress that hugged my figure, the one he used to love before he stopped noticing. I wore shades, not to hide but to sharpen my mystery. Then I sat inside Mr Biggs with my phone, sipping Fanta, waiting.
The moment he entered and started looking around like a lost chicken, I texted him from Cynthia: I’m here, wearing red.
He turned and saw me.
The way his soul left his body ehn, if you put a microphone near his chest, you’d hear crickets. (Meaning he was so shocked, it was as if his soul escaped his body.) He froze, mouth hanging open, as if he had seen a ghost.
I just smiled, sipped my Fanta, and said, “So baby, is it me you’ve been sponsoring online?”
His lips trembled. His hands shook. He looked like a thief caught inside a church. I almost pitied him—but only almost.
Up till now, the man has not spoken one word. He’s just been washing plates voluntarily in the kitchen, trying to buy back his life.
But as for me, I am not done. Not yet.


When we got home after the Mr Biggs debacle, the silence in the car was heavier than harmattan fog. He drove slowly, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned pale. I didn’t say a word. I wanted him to sit in his guilt like a child forced to kneel on rough beans.
At home, I went straight to the bedroom. He followed, standing at the door like a stranger in his own house. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He swallowed, scratched his head, then finally managed:
“My wife… I can explain.”
I burst out laughing. The kind of laugh that wasn’t joy, but bitterness spilling over. “Explain what? That you’ve been spending on Cynthia Sugarplum while your real wife eats struggle soup?”
He winced, like my words slapped him harder than my palm ever could.
That night, I didn’t sleep beside him. I curled myself on the edge of the bed, facing the wall, my mind racing. Anger burned, but beneath it, hurt pulsed like an open wound. I wanted him to speak, to beg, to cry if necessary. But he just lay stiff, sighing and tossing like someone on trial.
By morning, I woke to the sound of clanging plates. I walked to the kitchen and found him—my proud husband—washing dishes. The man who once declared, “Kitchen work no be my calling” (Kitchen work isn’t for me) was now scrubbing like his life depended on it.
I leaned on the doorframe, arms folded. “So this is how you want to buy back your life? With soap and sponge?”
He turned, soap suds dripping from his elbows. “My wife, abeg forgive me. I don mess up.” (Please forgive me. I’ve really messed up.)
The apology sounded raw, but my heart was not ready to soften. I left him there and went to meet Nkechi later that afternoon.
When she heard the full gist, she almost rolled on the floor. “Chai! See disgrace! Your husband wanted sugarplum, but he got bitterleaf.” (Oh dear! Look at the disgrace! He thought he found sweetness, but got bitterness instead.)
I smiled faintly. “It’s funny, yes. But it also hurts, Nkechi. Do you know how it feels to realize he can spend thousands on a stranger but quarrels over ₦2,000 with me?”
Her laughter died down. She held my hand. “My sister, you are right. But at least now, you’ve seen his true colors. What will you do?”
That was the question. I didn’t know. Part of me wanted to pack his bags and throw them into the street. Another part wanted to punish him slowly, death by guilt. And another, quieter part still wanted him to change, to remember why we married in the first place.
That week, our home turned into a silent battlefield. He kept trying, in his awkward way. He swept the compound. He took out the trash. He even ironed my clothes. At night, he would hover around me like a mosquito, whispering, “Sweetheart, abeg now. No vex.” (Please, don’t be angry.)
I gave him silence in return.
Neighbors noticed, of course. In Nigeria, walls have ears and compounds have gossipers. Mama Esther from next door cornered me at the tap.
“Madam, why your husband dey sweep every morning now? E never reach one week, I never see you touch broom.” (Why is your husband sweeping every morning now? For a week, I haven’t seen you touch a broom.)
I smiled politely. “Change is good, Mama.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly itching to dig deeper. Later that day, her daughter whispered to me, “Aunty, people say your husband offend you, and now he’s paying penance.”
Word was spreading. My humiliation was becoming entertainment. And strangely, that stung more than his betrayal.
At night, he finally broke down. He knelt beside the bed, tears in his eyes. “My wife, abeg. I no mean to hurt you. Na temptation carry me go. I no even know when I fall.” (Please, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Temptation led me astray. I didn’t realize when I fell.)
I looked at him for a long time. This was a man I had built a home with, shared dreams with. The father of my children. And yet, he was also the man who had called another woman “my love” while lying beside me.
“Tell me,” I said coldly. “If Cynthia were real, would you have left me for her?”
He shook his head violently. “No! Never! You are my wife, my everything. I just… I don’t know. I wanted to feel young again. I wanted to feel likea man.”
His words pierced me. So that was it. He wanted validation, adventure, and attention. And instead of seeking it from me, his wife, he sought it from a fake woman on Facebook.
I sighed. “You wanted to feel like a man, but you behaved like a boy.”
He bowed his head, ashamed.
In the days that followed, his penance deepened. He came home early from work. He no longer touched his phone at night, as if it burned his hands. He sat with me in the living room, watching TV shows he normally mocked.
Still, trust is not a tap you switch on. The wound remained. Whenever he laughed at something on his phone, suspicion stabbed me. Whenever he said “sweetheart,” I wondered if the word tasted different when typed to Cynthia.
Then came the Sunday service. In church, our pastor preached about trust and forgiveness in marriage. As if the man had entered my house the night before, he said: “Some of you are smiling with strangers online while your spouse is starving for attention. Repent, before the devil scatters your home.”
I felt my husband’s eyes on me, but I didn’t look his way.
After church, one of the deaconesses approached me. She leaned close and whispered, “Be patient with him. Men are like children sometimes. Discipline them, yes. But don’t throw away your marriage.”
Her words unsettled me. Everyone seemed to have advice, but none of them carried the weight of my pain.
That evening, I found him sitting alone on the veranda, staring into space. For the first time, he looked smaller to me, like a man who had been stripped of his pride.
“Do you even understand what you did to me?” I asked quietly.
He looked up, eyes red. “I do. And I regret it every day. But I swear, my wife, I will never do it again.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to release the bitterness eating me from the inside. But forgiveness felt like handing him a free pass.
And so I stood there, torn between love and pride, between anger and the small, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, this marriage could survive the shadow of Cynthia Sugarplum.


Weeks melted into months, and slowly, the sharp edge of my anger began to dull. My husband had turned into a reformed saint, or at least the best imitation of one I had ever seen.
No more late-night phone scrolling. No more mysterious smiles under the bedsheet glow. If he picked up his phone, it was only to check bank alerts or football scores. Sometimes, he would deliberately tilt the screen so I could see. It was as if the man had put his whole digital life on probation.
At first, I didn’t trust it. I kept waiting for the old habits to crawl back, for the sneaky grins and secret typing to return. But they didn’t. Instead, he became a kind of… partner again. Helping in the house, laughing at my jokes, buying me shawarma from the junction every Friday like it was a ritual of penance.
The neighbors, of course, had opinions. Mama Esther told me one morning, “Madam, you don win. Any husband wey sweep compound and still buy you shawarma, you no suppose leave am.” (You have won. Any husband who sweeps the compound and still buys you shawarma shouldn’t be left.)
I laughed politely, though inside I thought, Win? Is that what this is? A battle?
Still, there was no denying that something had shifted. Even the children noticed. Our daughter asked one day, “Mummy, why is Daddy always in the kitchen now?”
I answered, “Because he finally discovered where the salt lives.”
The truth, though, was heavier. He was rebuilding his life brick by brick, hoping I wouldn’t knock it down again.
One Saturday evening, we sat outside on the veranda, watching the compound kids chase a plastic ball. The air was cool, the kind that made you think of roasted corn and pear. He turned to me suddenly, his voice low.
“My wife… thank you for not giving up on me.”
I looked at him, searching his face for signs of mockery, but there was none. Only sincerity, raw and trembling.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I said. “Trust is like akara. Once it falls into sand, you can wash it, but you’ll still feel the grit in your teeth.”
He chuckled, though his eyes stayed sad. “I will keep washing. Even if my hands peel.”
For the first time, my heart softened. Maybe this man truly had learned.
But life, in its mischievous way, wasn’t done with us.
One evening, about four months after the Mr Biggs incident, I borrowed his phone to make a quick call because mine was charging. As I unlocked it, a notification popped up: New friend request from Angelica Sweetness.
I froze. My blood pressure shot up like NEPA light during election season. Angelica Sweetness? Really?
I clicked before I could stop myself. The profile picture was another over-filtered face, lips red enough to blind an antelope. The bio read: “Searching for true love and a real man who can spoil me.”
I turned to him, phone raised. “Explain this.”
His eyes widened, genuine panic flashing across his face. “I swear, I don’t know that person! I didn’t even accept!”
“Angelica Sweetness?” I scoffed. “First Cynthia, now Angelica. What’s next, Monica Mango?”
He shook his head violently. “No, my wife, believe me! I didn’t chat her. You can check!”
I stared at him for a long time, then scrolled. He was right, no message, no activity. Just a request sitting there like bait.
My suspicion warred with reason. Could it be a coincidence? Or maybe someone from the same slay-queen academy that birthed Cynthia Sugarplum?
Finally, I sighed and dropped the phone on his lap. “Delete it.”
He obeyed instantly, sweating like someone under police interrogation. “I no get strength for another burial.” (I don’t have the strength for another funeral.)
Despite myself, I laughed. The tension broke, and for the first time, I felt the weight lifting. He wasn’t perfect, but maybe he was trying, really trying.
That night, as we lay in bed, he turned to me, voice trembling. “My wife… can you ever forgive me fully? Not just half forgiveness, but full?”
I thought about it. About the lies, the hurt, the gossip. About Cynthia Sugarplum, about Mr Biggs, about the humiliation that had burned me. And I thought about the months since then; his effort, his shame, his small acts of repair.
“Forgiveness,” I said slowly, “is not amnesia. I will remember. But I will also choose to move forward. If you stay true, then maybe, one day, I will forget the taste of bitterness.”
Tears filled his eyes. “Thank you, my wife.”
And for the first time in a long time, I let him hold me without pushing him away.
The road ahead wasn’t smooth. There were still moments when suspicion pricked me, still nights when I eyed his phone like a jealous detective. But little by little, we found our rhythm again.
Sometimes, when he cracked a joke, I would laugh and say, “James Bond, abi?” and he would groan, “Abeg leave me!” (Please, leave me alone!)
It became our private joke, a scar turned into laughter.
And though trust takes time, though wounds take longer to heal than they do to open, we were walking, step by step, back to something that felt like us again.
Cynthia Sugarplum had died, but in her ashes, our marriage found a stubborn kind of rebirth.