He Threw His Blind Wife Off the Stairs Because of His Pregnant Mistress… Now He Faces the Revenge
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Eyes of Justice
Chapter 1: The Fall
To Johnny’s voice thundered through the marble-floored hallway of their Leki duplex, shaking the crystal chandelier above. His wife, Adenola, stood frozen at the top of the grand staircase, her delicate fingers gripping the polished mahogany rail. She couldn’t see his face—she hadn’t seen anything in three years—but she could feel the heat of his fury radiating across the space between them.
“To Johnny, please,” Adenola whispered, her voice trembling. “Let me explain.”
“Explain what?” he roared, his footsteps pounding closer. “That you’ve been hiding money from me? That you conspired with your sister to drain my account? Is that what you want to explain, you wicked woman?”
Behind him, perched halfway up the stairs like a serpent coiled to strike, stood Bisola, his mistress—seven months pregnant, glowing with malicious satisfaction. Her voice slithered into the chaos, sweet and venomous.
“To Johnny, my love, don’t stress yourself. A blind woman will always play victim. They use their disability as a shield for their wickedness.”
Adenola’s breath caught. She turned her head toward the sound of Bisola’s voice, her clouded eyes searching the darkness that had become her permanent reality. “Bisola, you’re in my house.”
“Our house,” Bisola corrected, rubbing her swollen belly. “The house To Johnny built with his sweat while you sat around pretending to suffer.”
“Shut up, you—” Adenola’s voice cracked, her composure shattering. “To Johnny, who is this woman? Why is she speaking to me like this in my own home?”
To Johnny laughed, a cold, bitter sound that made Adenola’s skin crawl. “Your home? You’ve contributed nothing to this marriage but tears and excuses. Ever since you lost your sight, you’ve been a burden, a weight around my neck.”
The housemaid, Yetunde, pressed herself against the kitchen doorway, her eyes wide with horror. She wanted to intervene, to pull Madame Adenola away from the edge of the staircase, but fear paralyzed her. The neighbors in the adjoining compound had already begun to gather at their windows, drawn by the shouting.
“To Johnny,” Adenola said, her voice steadying despite the tremor in her hands, “I don’t know what lies this woman has told you, but I have never stolen from you. I have been faithful. I have been patient. I have loved you even when—”
“Love?” To Johnny cut her off, now standing just two steps below her. “You call sitting in this house like a ghost love? You call refusing to give me peace love? Bisola is carrying my child. A child that will see, that will be whole, that will make me proud.”
Adenola’s knees buckled slightly. The words struck her like physical blows. “Your child?”
Bisola’s laughter tinkled through the air. “Yes, darling. A real child. Not the empty promises you’ve been feeding him for years.”
“Get out of my way,” To Johnny growled, his patience evaporated. “I’m moving Bisola in tonight. You can stay in the boys’ quarters if you want, or your precious sister can come collect you. I don’t care anymore.”
“No.” The word came out small but firm. Adenola straightened her spine, her fingers tightening on the rail. “This is my home. I will not be thrown out like garbage. You will move.”
To Johnny lunged forward, his hand reaching for her arm.
“Don’t touch me!” Adenola shrieked, jerking backward. But To Johnny’s anger had consumed reason. His palm connected with her shoulder—not a gentle push, but a forceful shove, fueled by months of resentment and Bisola’s poisonous whispers.
Adenola’s fingers slipped from the rail. Time seemed to slow. Yetunde screamed from the kitchen. The neighbors gasped from their windows. Bisola’s eyes widened, not with horror, but with dark satisfaction.
And Adenola fell.
Her body tumbled down the grand staircase, each impact against the marble steps echoing through the house like thunder. Her head struck the newel post at the bottom with a sickening crack, and she lay motionless on the cold floor, her wrapper twisted around her legs, her headscarf halfway across the room. Blood began to pool beneath her head.
The house fell deathly silent.
To Johnny stood at the top of the stairs, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with dawning horror. “Adenola…” His voice came out strangled.
Bisola remained frozen on the middle step, her hand pressed against her belly, her face pale.
Yetunde burst from the kitchen, falling to her knees beside her madam’s broken body. “Madam! Madame Adenola! Somebody help! Call ambulance! Call police! She is dying!”
The neighbors began to pour out of their houses, their voices rising in alarm and condemnation. One old woman, Mama Rashida, who had lived on the street for forty years, pointed a gnarled finger at To Johnny and spat on the ground.
“You have done it now,” she hissed, her voice carrying the weight of ancestral knowledge. “You have pushed a blind woman on a Saturday night. The gods do not sleep when injustice cries. Mark my words, what you have sown tonight, you will reap a thousandfold.”
To Johnny’s legs gave out. He sank onto the top step, his hands shaking, his mind racing. What had he done? What had he done?
Bisola’s voice, small now and frightened, whispered behind him. “To Johnny… she’s not moving. Is she… is she dead?”
As the ambulance sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder with each passing second, something strange happened. Adenola’s lips moved. No sound came out, but Yetunde, cradling her madam’s head, leaned closer. The words were barely a breath, almost impossible to hear over the chaos. But Yetunde heard them, and her blood ran cold.
“Your eyes may be closed, but your spirit is waking.”
Chapter 2: Between Worlds
The ambulance screeched to a halt outside the compound gates and two paramedics rushed inside with a stretcher. To Johnny remained at the top of the stairs, paralyzed by shock and mounting dread. Bisola had retreated into one of the bedrooms, suddenly unwilling to be seen.
Yetunde rode with Adenola to the hospital, refusing to leave her madam’s side. As the ambulance wove through Lagos traffic, sirens blaring, she held Adenola’s limp hand and prayed—to every deity she knew, Christian and traditional alike.
At the hospital, doctors rushed Adenola into emergency surgery. The diagnosis was grim: severe head trauma, multiple fractures, possible internal bleeding. The surgeon, Dr. Nnamdi, a stern-faced man in his fifties, pulled Yetunde aside after three hours of surgery.
“She’s stable,” he said quietly, “but she’s in a coma. We don’t know when or if she’ll wake up. And even if she does…” He paused. “The trauma to her brain was extensive. She may not be the same person.”
Yetunde’s tears fell freely. “Please, doctor, save her. She is a good woman. She doesn’t deserve this.”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
Word spread quickly through the neighborhood. By morning, everyone knew what To Johnny had done. The story took on different shapes as it passed from mouth to mouth. Some said he had beaten Adenola unconscious. Others claimed Bisola had pushed her herself. But everyone agreed on one thing: To Johnny Alabode was a wicked man, and his day of reckoning was coming.
Adenola’s sister, Funmileo, received the call at 3:00 a.m. in Houston, Texas, where she worked as a nurse. She was on a plane to Lagos within six hours, her heart breaking with every mile that passed beneath her.
When she arrived at the hospital and saw her baby sister lying motionless in the ICU, tubes and wires snaking from her body, Funmi collapsed into a chair and sobbed until she had no tears left.
“I should have brought you to America sooner,” she whispered, stroking Adenola’s hand. “I should have gotten you away from that monster.”
But even as she spoke, something strange began to happen. Adenola’s fingers twitched. Not much, just a small, almost imperceptible movement. But Funmi noticed. She leaned closer, her breath catching.
“Adenola, can you hear me, my sister? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
Another twitch, stronger this time. Funmi’s heart leaped. She pressed the call button frantically, summoning the nurses.
Within minutes, Dr. Nnamdi was back at Adenola’s bedside, checking her vitals, shining lights into her unseeing eyes.
“This is remarkable,” he murmured. “She’s responding much faster than we anticipated, but…” He frowned, studying the brain activity monitor. “These readings are unusual. Her brain waves are showing patterns I’ve never seen before, especially in a patient with her injuries.”
“What does that mean?” Funmi demanded.
“I don’t know,” Dr. Nnamdi admitted, “but I’ll keep monitoring her closely.”
Over the next three days, Adenola drifted in and out of consciousness. When she was awake, she didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, with the breathing tube still in place. But Funmi noticed something unsettling in her sister’s behavior. Adenola would turn her head toward sounds before they happened—a door opening, a nurse approaching, a phone ringing. Her clouded eyes would track movement she couldn’t possibly see.
And sometimes, late at night, when the hospital was quiet, Funmi would wake to find Adenola sitting upright in bed, her lips moving silently as if she were having a conversation with someone invisible.
It terrified Funmi, but she said nothing to the doctors. She knew they would dismiss it as hallucinations or brain damage. Besides, she had her own suspicions—suspicions rooted in the stories their grandmother used to tell them as children.
A blind woman who survives a fall meant to kill her, Grandmother Iya Agba used to say, becomes something more than human. The spirits open doors for her that the sighted can never enter. She sees what others cannot. The past, the future, the truth hidden in men’s hearts.
Funmi had always thought those were just folktales. Now, watching her sister’s strange behavior, she wasn’t so sure.
Chapter 3: The Awakening
On the seventh day, Dr. Nnamdi removed Adenola’s breathing tube. Funmi held her sister’s hand, tears streaming down her face as Adenola drew her first unassisted breath.
“Funmi…” Adenola’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
“I’m here, my sister. I’m here.”
Adenola’s fingers tightened around Funmi’s hand. “I saw something.”
Funmi’s blood chilled. “What did you see?”
“While I was sleeping, I wasn’t sleeping. I was somewhere else. Somewhere dark but full of light. And there were women there. Old women dressed in white. They spoke to me.”
“What did they say?” Funmi whispered, glancing nervously at the door to make sure no nurses were listening.
Adenola’s clouded eyes seemed to focus on something far beyond the hospital room. “They said my eyes were closed so my spirit could open. They said I fell so I could rise. They said…” Her breath caught. “They said To Johnny’s seed is cursed, and the woman carrying it will know no peace.”
Funmi’s hand flew to her mouth.
“And they showed me things, Funmi—things that haven’t happened yet. I saw To Johnny on his knees. I saw his house burning. I saw that woman screaming. I saw…” Adenola’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I saw myself standing again, but not here. Somewhere cold, somewhere far away.”
“You’re coming to America with me,” Funmi said firmly, wiping her tears. “As soon as the doctors clear you, I’m taking you home. You’re never setting foot in that house again.”
Adenola nodded slowly. “Yes. I need to leave, but not to run away.”
“Then why?”
Adenola’s lips curved into a small, mysterious smile—the first smile Funmi had seen on her sister’s face in years. “To prepare.”
Chapter 4: Visions in America
Three weeks after leaving the hospital, the plane touched down at George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston. Funmi had worked tirelessly to secure her sister’s medical visa, coordinating with doctors in both Nigeria and the United States.
As the wheelchair attendant pushed Adenola through the bustling terminal, she felt the cool blast of American air conditioning against her skin. Everything smelled different here—cleaner, but also sterile, lacking the vibrant chaos of Lagos.
“We’re almost at baggage claim,” Funmi said softly, one hand resting on her sister’s shoulder. “Then just a short drive to my apartment. You’ll have your own room. Plenty of space to heal.”
Adenola nodded, but said nothing. Her mind was elsewhere, replaying the visions that had plagued her every night since she’d awakened from the coma. In her dreams, she saw things with a clarity that mocked her physical blindness: To Johnny’s face contorted with fear, Bisola clutching her swollen belly and screaming, a courtroom filled with accusing eyes, and always, always, those women in white standing at the edges of her consciousness, watching, waiting.
The apartment Funmi had prepared was modest but comfortable—a two-bedroom unit in a quiet complex populated mostly by other African immigrants. The walls were painted a warm yellow, and Funmi had arranged the furniture carefully to create clear pathways for Adenola to navigate.
“Let me show you around,” Funmi said, gently guiding her sister through each room, describing the layout in detail.
But Adenola interrupted her. “There’s a window facing east.”
Funmi paused. “Yes, there is. How did you know?”
“I can feel the sun.” Adenola moved toward it unerringly, her hands outstretched. When her fingers found the glass, she pressed her palm against it. “This is where I’ll sit in the mornings.”
That first week in Houston passed in a blur of medical appointments. Dr. Patricia Williams, a renowned ophthalmologist, examined Adenola’s eyes with a mixture of professional interest and personal compassion.
“The damage to your optic nerves is extensive,” Dr. Williams explained gently after running a battery of tests. “I won’t lie to you, Mrs. Alabode. The chances of restoring your sight through surgery or treatment are extremely slim. However, there are excellent programs here in Houston for adaptive living. We can teach you to navigate your world with confidence.”
“I don’t need to see with my eyes anymore,” Adenola said quietly.
Dr. Williams exchanged a concerned glance with Funmi. “Mrs. Alabode, I understand this is a difficult adjustment, but denial isn’t healthy.”
“I’m not in denial, doctor.” Adenola’s voice was calm, almost serene. “I’m simply stating a fact. My eyes are closed, but I see other things now—better things.”
After the appointment, Funmi drove them home in silence, worry gnawing at her heart. Was her sister experiencing some kind of psychological break? But when she glanced over at Adenola in the passenger seat, she saw her sister’s lips moving silently as if in prayer or conversation.
“Who are you talking to?” Funmi finally asked.
Adenola turned her head toward her sister. “Iya Agba. She comes to me sometimes.”
“Our grandmother, Adenola? Iya Agba died eight years ago.”
“I know when she died, Funmi. That doesn’t mean she’s gone.” Adenola’s tone was matter-of-fact. “She tells me things. Warnings. Wisdom. She says the women in white I saw in the hospital are the mothers of the night, the ones who watch over women who have been wronged.”
Funmi’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Their grandmother had been a powerful woman in their village, known for her spiritual gifts. People had come from neighboring towns to seek her counsel. But Funmi had left all that behind when she moved to America, convinced it was just superstition. Now she wasn’t so sure.
That night, Adenola’s screaming woke Funmi from a deep sleep. She rushed into her sister’s room to find Adenola sitting bolt upright in bed, her unseeing eyes wide open, her body drenched in sweat.
“He’s hurting her,” Adenola gasped. “He’s shouting. The baby is crying. There’s so much anger in that house.”
“Who, Adenola? Who are you seeing?”
“To Johnny and that woman. Bisola. She thought carrying his child would make her a queen, but she’s just another prisoner now. He blames her for everything, for the neighbors’ judgment, for the police investigation, for his business falling apart. He pushed her tonight—not down the stairs, but against a wall. She’s crying, begging him to stop.”
Funmi felt ice in her veins. “How can you possibly know this?”
“I don’t know how I know, Funmi. I just see it, like a movie playing in my head, but it’s happening right now, 6,000 miles away.” Adenola turned her face toward her sister. “Do you think I’m going mad?”
“No,” Funmi whispered, though she wasn’t entirely sure. “No, I don’t think you’re mad.”
Chapter 5: The Circle of Women
The next morning, Funmi made a decision. There was a group of older African women who met every Saturday at a community center in southwest Houston, mostly Nigerians and Ghanaians, women who’d immigrated decades ago but still held fast to their traditions. Funmi had attended a few times but had stopped, feeling like the discussions of herbs and spirits and ancestral wisdom belonged to a world she’d left behind.
Now she needed their guidance.
The community center was a converted church building, its walls decorated with colorful African fabrics and framed photographs of the homeland. When Funmi and Adenola arrived, about twenty women were gathered in a circle, their ages ranging from fifty to eighty-some.
The eldest among them, a tiny Yoruba woman named Mama Ibe, rose from her chair when she saw Adenola enter. Her eyes, sharp despite her advanced years, studied the younger woman intently.
“You’re the one,” Mama Ibe said softly. “The one we’ve been expecting.”
“Expecting?” Funmi blinked in surprise. “How could you—?”
“My daughters, both of you.” Mama Ibe gestured to empty chairs. “We have much to discuss.”
As they settled in, the other women leaned forward with interest. Mama Ibe reached out and took Adenola’s hand, turning it palm up and tracing the lines with one gnarled finger.
“You were thrown away like garbage,” Mama Ibe said, “by a man who should have protected you. But the fall didn’t break you. It opened you.”
“Yes.” Tears streamed down Adenola’s cheeks. “Yes.”
“And now you see things. Things that haven’t happened yet. Things happening far away. Dreams that feel more real than waking life.”
“How do you know this?” Adenola whispered.
Mama Ibe smiled. “Because I’ve lived eighty-three years and I’ve seen it before. Not often, perhaps three times in my lifetime. When a woman suffers great injustice, when she’s pushed to the very edge of death by someone who claimed to love her, sometimes the ancestors intervene. They pull back the veil. They give her sight beyond sight.”
Another woman, Mama Ngozi, spoke up. “My grandmother had this gift. She went blind from an illness when she was young, but after that she could predict births, deaths, storms. People said she walked between worlds. It’s not madness.”
A third woman, Mama Zainab, added, “It’s awakening. But it comes with responsibility.”
Adenola leaned forward. “What kind of responsibility?”
Mama Ibe’s expression grew serious. “The visions you’re having, they’re not random. The ancestors are showing you truth. But truth is a weapon. And like all weapons, it must be wielded with wisdom. Tell me, child, what do you see when you think of the man who hurt you?”
Adenola closed her eyes—an unnecessary gesture now, but old habits died hard. “I see him drowning. Not in water, but in consequences. Everything he built crumbling. The woman he chose over me turning into his greatest torment. I see legal papers, court proceedings. I see him losing control of everything—his business, his reputation, his freedom to make choices. And his child…”
Her expression softened. “The child is innocent. I see the baby crying, feeling the tension in that house. The baby doesn’t want to be there.”
Mama Ibe nodded approvingly. “Good. You still have compassion. That means the darkness hasn’t claimed you. Now listen carefully, because what I’m about to tell you is very important.” She gestured to the circle of women. “All of us here, we’ve suffered bad marriages, abuse, betrayal, abandonment. Some of us came to America running from men who wanted to destroy us. Others came seeking opportunity but found loneliness and struggle. But we survived. And we learned that revenge is not about violence or hatred. It’s about balance.”
“I don’t understand,” Adenola said.
“The universe seeks balance,” Mama Ngozi explained. “When injustice occurs, when someone with power harms someone helpless, the scales tip. Your visions, they’re showing you how those scales will balance themselves. But you have a choice in how that happens.”
Mama Zainab leaned in. “You can ignore the visions, fight them, try to move on and forget. Many women do this. They bury their pain and pretend everything is fine. But the visions will continue and the man who hurt you will continue his life unchanged. Or—” she looked at Mama Ibe.
“You can become the instrument through which balance is restored,” Mama Ibe said. “Not through your hands—never through violence or direct revenge—but through truth. Through speaking what the visions show you. Through allowing what’s hidden to come into the light.”
Funmi shifted uncomfortably. “Are you saying Adenola should go back to Nigeria? Confront To Johnny?”
“Not yet,” Mama Ibe said. “First, she must heal—not just her body, but her spirit. She must learn to trust the visions, to understand them, to see the difference between what the ancestors show her and what her own pain might whisper. This takes time.”
Chapter 6: The Return
Over the following weeks, Adenola became a regular presence at the Saturday gatherings. The women taught her their wisdom—how to distinguish between prophetic dreams and ordinary ones, how to ground herself when the visions became overwhelming, how to protect her spirit from darkness while walking through dark truths.
But the visions continued, growing stronger and more detailed each night. She saw To Johnny’s construction company losing a major government contract after a surprise audit revealed financial irregularities. She saw Bisola giving birth to a baby boy, but the joy To Johnny expected to feel never materialized. Instead, she saw him holding the infant with trembling hands, unable to bond, haunted by guilt. She saw their house, her former home, developing cracks in the foundation—literal cracks that the builders couldn’t explain, that kept reappearing no matter how many times they were repaired.
And she saw herself standing in a courtroom, calm and collected, speaking words that would change everything.
Three months after arriving in America, Adenola woke from one of her visions with absolute clarity. She felt Funmi’s presence in the doorway. Her sister often checked on her during the night, worried about the intense dreams.
“Funmi,” Adenola said quietly, “I need to tell you something.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m going back to Nigeria. Not forever, but I’m going back. There’s something I need to do there. Something the ancestors keep showing me—a courtroom, legal documents, people I need to speak with.”
Funmi’s breath caught. “When?”
“Soon. Maybe in another three months, after I’ve grown stronger. After I’ve learned everything these wise women can teach me.” Adenola turned her face toward where she knew her sister stood. “I’m not going back for revenge, Funmi. I’m going back for balance. There’s a difference.”
“What if he hurts you again?”
“He can’t hurt me anymore,” Adenola said with quiet certainty. “I’ve already survived the worst he could do. And now…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Now I have something he doesn’t.”
“What’s that?”
“Truth. And the ancestors walking beside me. He has lies and guilt and fear. I know which is stronger.”
Chapter 7: The Courtroom
The courtroom in Ikeja High Court was packed. News of the case had spread through Lagos like wildfire. The blind woman who’d been pushed downstairs was now fighting for custody of her husband’s child with his mistress. It was the kind of story that stopped traffic, made strangers debate in buses and markets, that had WhatsApp groups buzzing with opinions.
To Johnny sat at the defendant’s table with his lawyer, Barrister Cunnel Adamei, a man known for getting wealthy clients out of trouble through technicalities and intimidation. To Johnny’s face was gray, his expensive suit hanging loose on a frame that had lost weight from stress. Beside him sat Bisola, her hands clenched in her lap, her eyes darting nervously around the room.
On the other side, Adenola sat with Barrister Enka Akoro, her posture straight and calm. She wore a simple blue dress and her white cane rested against her chair. Despite her blindness, she seemed to command the room’s attention more than anyone else present.
Justice Aluano Edwale, a stern woman in her sixties known for her no-nonsense approach to family law, called the court to order.
“This is a petition for modification of parental rights,” Justice Edwale announced, reading from the documents before her. “Mrs. Adenola Alabode is petitioning this court to remove Mr. To Johnny Alabode’s sole decision-making authority over the minor child, Alawwayan Alabode, and to place the child under supervised custody with psychological evaluation and social services oversight. Mrs. Akoro, present your case.”
Barrister Akoro stood, her voice clear and authoritative. “Your honor, this case is fundamentally about child welfare. We will demonstrate that Mr. Alabode’s home is unstable, violent, and psychologically harmful to an infant. We will show a pattern of domestic violence, financial irregularities that create an unstable environment, and witnesses who will testify to the child’s visible distress in that household.”
Objection. Barrister Adamei jumped up. “My client is not on trial for assault or financial crimes. This is a transparent attempt to punish him through his child because his marriage failed.”
“Your honor,” Barrister Akoro responded smoothly, “the petitioner’s injuries and the circumstances that led to her leaving Nigeria are absolutely relevant to establishing Mr. Alabode’s character and his fitness as a parent. We’re not asking for criminal charges. We’re asking this court to protect a child.”
Justice Edwale nodded. “I’ll allow it. Proceed.”
Witnesses were called: Yetunde, the housemaid, described the night of the push, Bisola’s provocations, and the baby’s constant crying. Neighbors testified to the chaos, the fights, the crack in the wall, the police visits. Dr. Nnamdi described the severity of Adenola’s injuries. The social worker presented her assessment: “The environment is chaotic and unstable. The child shows signs of extreme distress that cannot be medically explained, suggesting environmental factors.”
Then came the bombshell: To Johnny’s business partner, forced by subpoena, admitted to bribery, tax evasion, and a company on the brink of collapse.
Finally, Adenola took the stand. She sat in the witness box with quiet dignity, her hands folded in her lap.
“Mrs. Alabode,” Barrister Akoro began gently, “why are you here today?”
“For Alawwayan,” Adenola said simply. “Not for revenge against his father. Not to punish anyone, but because I’ve seen—through visions I cannot explain, but trust completely—what will happen to that child if nothing changes. He’ll grow up watching violence, learning that women are disposable, inheriting trauma that will poison his whole life. Someone has to stop that cycle. Someone has to speak for him.”
“What do you want from this court?”
“I want To Johnny’s sole decision-making rights removed. I want supervised visitation. I want psychological evaluation for both parents. And I want this court to appoint a guardian who will put Alawwayan’s welfare above adult egos and wounded pride.”
Barrister Adamei’s cross-examination was brutal. He attacked her blindness, suggested her visions were delusions, accused her of wanting to steal another woman’s child out of bitterness. But Adenola remained calm throughout, answering each accusation with quiet dignity.
When he finished, Justice Edwale leaned forward. “Mrs. Alabode, I have one question. You’re asking this court to limit a father’s rights to his own child. That’s an extraordinary request. Why should I grant it?”
Adenola turned her face toward the judge. “Because in Yoruba tradition, your honor, a father’s role is to guide, protect, and bless his children. A man who cannot protect his own wife, who pushes her downstairs, who creates a home filled with violence and instability—he has already shown he cannot fulfill a father’s sacred duty. I’m not asking you to punish him. I’m asking you to protect an innocent child until his father proves he’s worthy of that sacred responsibility.”
The courtroom erupted in murmurs.
Justice Edwale banged her gavel for silence, then looked at To Johnny. “Mr. Alabode, do you have anything to say before I make my ruling?”
To Johnny stood slowly, his legs shaking. For months, he’d been telling himself this was all Adenola’s bitterness, that she was crazy, that he’d done nothing wrong. But standing there facing the weight of all the testimony, seeing the condemnation in every eye, something inside him finally cracked.
“I…” His voice broke. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I was angry. Bisola kept saying things, making me think Adenola was stealing from me, plotting against me. I just wanted her out of the way. I never thought…” Tears began streaming down his face. “I never thought pushing her would…”
“Would what?” Justice Edwale’s voice was ice. “Would nearly kill her? Would destroy her life? Would turn your own home into a place of spiritual and emotional torment?”
To Johnny collapsed back into his chair, sobbing.
Justice Edwale’s expression was granite. “I’ve heard enough. This court finds that Mr. To Johnny Alabode has demonstrated a pattern of violence, poor judgment, and instability that makes him unfit for sole parental authority. Effective immediately, his decision-making rights regarding the minor child are suspended pending psychological evaluation. Custody of the child will be placed with social services for thirty days while both parents undergo mandatory counseling and anger management, after which this court will reassess. Furthermore,” she paused, looking directly at To Johnny, “you will have supervised visitation only. You will complete a domestic violence intervention program. And if you ever, ever raise your hand to another woman again, I will personally ensure you never have unsupervised contact with any child. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your honor,” To Johnny whispered.
As the court adjourned, Bisola burst into tears and To Johnny sat motionless, a broken man. Adenola walked out of the courtroom into the Lagos sun, feeling lighter than she had in two years. The revenge had come, not through her hands, but through truth spoken and justice delivered.
Chapter 8: Balance Restored
Six months had passed since the court ruling, and Lagos had moved on to new scandals. But for those involved in the case of Adenola versus To Johnny, life had transformed.
Adenola sat in the garden of a small house in Surulere, a modest place she’d rented with money from a settlement To Johnny had been ordered to pay. The morning sun warmed her face as she listened to the sounds of the neighborhood waking up. Vendors calling out their wares, children laughing on their way to school, the distant hum of Lagos traffic.
She was not alone. Baby Alawwayan, now fourteen months old, sat on a blanket beside her, playing with wooden blocks and babbling happily. The transformation in the child was remarkable. The constant crying had stopped within days of his removal from To Johnny’s house. His pediatrician, amazed by the change, wrote in her report, “Whatever environmental factors were causing this child’s distress have clearly been resolved. He is now a healthy, happy infant, showing normal developmental progress.”
The court’s final ruling had been more severe than anyone anticipated. After completing their mandatory evaluations, both To Johnny and Bisola had been found to require extensive therapy before being granted even supervised visitation. The psychological assessments were damning: To Johnny showed signs of narcissistic personality traits and poor impulse control, while Bisola exhibited severe anxiety and admitted to postpartum depression she’d been hiding. They were not currently equipped to provide stable parenting.
In an unprecedented move, Justice Edwale had granted temporary guardianship to a foster family, a childless couple, Mr. and Mrs. Ogunlade, who lived three houses down from Adenola’s new home. But Adenola had been granted regular visitation rights as To Johnny’s legal wife, and the person who’d advocated for the child’s welfare. The irony was not lost on anyone. The blind woman who’d been thrown away now had more access to To Johnny’s son than To Johnny himself.
But Adenola’s involvement with Alawwayan wasn’t about claiming him or replacing his parents. It was about ensuring he grew up knowing love, stability, and peace—things his biological parents couldn’t currently provide.
Alawwayan had started saying it clearly now, his first real word. Not mama or dada, but a name that seemed to bring him comfort. When he said it, reaching his chubby arms toward her, Adenola would pick him up and hold him close, whispering prayers of protection over his head.
Funmi had returned to Lagos for an extended visit, moving into Adenola’s house to help with the transition. She watched her sister with the baby and marveled at the change in both of them.
“You saved him,” Funmi said one morning as they prepared breakfast together.
“No,” Adenola replied, stirring a pot of yam porridge. “The ancestors saved him. I was just the vessel they used. And he’s not saved yet. He still has a long road ahead. But at least now he has a chance.”
The fate of To Johnny and Bisola had become a cautionary tale whispered throughout Lagos. To Johnny’s construction company had collapsed completely. The EFCC investigation had led to criminal charges—not prison time, as his lawyer had managed to negotiate a plea deal—but hefty fines, asset seizures, and a ban from government contracts for five years. The Leki house with its ever-expanding crack and troubled energy had been seized by creditors and sold at auction for far less than its value. No one wanted to buy the cursed house, as it had become known.
To Johnny now lived in a modest flat in Ikeja, working as a site supervisor for someone else’s company, a humiliating comedown for a man who’d once employed fifty people. His visits with Alawwayan, when finally approved after four months of therapy, were awkward and painful. The boy didn’t recognize him, cried when he came near, and seemed relieved when the supervised hour ended.
“He doesn’t know me,” To Johnny had said to the social worker after one particularly difficult visit, his voice hollow. “My own son doesn’t know me.”
“That’s what happens when you prioritize everything except what matters,” the social worker had replied without sympathy.
Bisola’s fate was perhaps even more tragic. The psychological evaluation had revealed deep-seated issues, a pattern of manipulation and boundary violation that had contributed to the destruction of To Johnny’s marriage. She’d been the one feeding his paranoia about Adenola, poisoning his mind with lies and suspicions, all to secure her position. But now, with To Johnny financially ruined and emotionally broken, she found herself trapped with a man who blamed her for everything. Their relationship, built on betrayal and deception, had no foundation strong enough to withstand adversity.
Three months after the court ruling, Bisola had left. She’d gone back to her family in Onitsha, humiliated and broken, leaving To Johnny to face his consequences alone. Her family, shamed by her role in destroying another woman’s marriage, had received her coldly.
“You made your bed with wickedness,” her mother had told her. “Now you lie in it.”
The last anyone heard, Bisola was undergoing therapy and working in her uncle’s provision store, a far cry from the glamorous life she’d envisioned as Mrs. Alabode.
Chapter 9: The True Revenge
But the most profound change had occurred in To Johnny himself.
One Saturday morning, six months after losing everything, he appeared at Mama Rashida’s compound. The old woman who’d cursed him on the night he pushed Adenola now sat in her usual chair, surrounded by other elderly neighbors taking their morning tea.
“Mama Rashida,” To Johnny said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve come to beg for forgiveness.”
The old woman studied him for a long moment. This man who’d once been so proud, so arrogant, now broken and humbled before her.
“It’s not my forgiveness you need,” she said finally. “What you did was not to me.”
“I know, but I need to start somewhere. I’ve destroyed everything—my marriage, my business, my relationship with my son. The court-appointed therapist says I need to acknowledge what I’ve done, make amends where possible. So I’m starting with you, with the neighbors who witnessed my shame.”
Mama Rashida gestured to an empty stool. “Sit.”
For the next hour, To Johnny confessed everything. The resentment he’d harbored toward Adenola
.
