IF ONLY HE KNEW WHAT WAS COMING FOR HIM… 

Yetunde Adams had never believed she was the kind of woman who would give a man everything. She had watched her mother do it, pour herself out like water on dry ground, watching a man soak her up and walk away without looking back. She had made herself a promise at 16, standing over her mother’s hospital bed after the woman collapsed from stress and heartbreak. I will never be that woman.

She broke that promise at 31. His name was Boma Briggs and he arrived in her life on a rainy Tuesday in Lagos when her umbrella turned inside out on Adeola Odeku Street and he stopped his car, a clean black Toyota Camry, rolled down the window and said, “You look like someone who needs rescuing.” She had laughed. She should have kept walking.

Yetunde worked at Diamond Finance Solutions, a mid-size investment firm in Victoria Island. She had been there for 9 years, starting as an entry-level analyst fresh from University of Lagos, working through every promotion by sheer stubbornness. She did not come from money. Her father had been a secondary school principal in Enugu who died when she was 23, leaving behind a modest house, a small piece of land, and a mother who needed constant medical care.

Everything Yetunde had she built herself. The apartment in Lekki Phase 1, the Honda CRV she drove, the small fixed deposit she was quietly growing. She did not throw money around. She did not take unnecessary risks. But Boma Briggs had a way of making you feel that caution was a disease.

 He was 35, tall with the kind of face that smiled even when it wasn’t smiling. He said he ran a logistics company in Apapa, that business was picking up, that he had big plans. He spoke about the future the way architects speak about buildings, like he could already see it standing, like it was only a matter of laying the right stones.

 Their first date was at a rooftop bar in Ikoyi. He paid for everything and made a point of not making a point of it. By the third month, she was in love. By the sixth month, she had stopped asking questions. Her best friend, Tamara, did not trust him from the beginning. “Something about that man is off,” Tamara said one Saturday afternoon, sitting across from Yetunde in her living room, picking at a plate of jollof rice.

 “He’s too smooth, too easy.” “You say that about every man I date.” “Because you always date men I should say it about,” Tamara pointed her fork. “How many times has he taken you to Apapa to see this logistics company?” Yetunde was quiet for a bit too long. “Yetunde.” “He says the area is rough, that he doesn’t want” “Men who actually have businesses are proud of their businesses.” Tamara put the fork down.

“I’m just saying.” Yetunde changed the topic. But the seed had been planted and she watered it in the dark places of her mind at 2:00 a.m. when Boma’s phone would buzz softly and he would turn it face down without looking at it, without explanation, with the practiced ease of someone who had done it many times before. She never asked.

 She was afraid of what asking would do to the version of love she was building in her chest. It started with small things. He mentioned almost casually that his company was going through a rough patch, supply chain issues, port delays, the usual Lagos wahala. Could she lend him 200,000 to cover a driver’s salary? He’d pay back in 2 weeks.

 She gave it without blinking. 3 weeks later, 500,000, a generator for the warehouse had broken down. Then 800,000, a customs clearance fee that couldn’t wait. Each time he paid back, never the full amount, always slightly short, always with a reason that made sense if you didn’t look too closely. She told herself this was how it worked with small businesses.

 She had seen it at the firm. Cash flow problems were normal. But Tamara was watching. “You’re giving him money.” She said one evening, not a question. Yetunde looked out the window. “Small amounts. He pays back.” “How much total?” “Tamara.” “How much?” Yetunde did the math in her head. She had been avoiding the total the way you avoid stepping on a scale when you know you’ve been eating badly.

“About 3 million naira.” She said quietly. Tamara was silent for so long that Yetunde looked at her. “3 million naira?” Tamara repeated. “Over 8 months?” “Yetunde.” Her voice cracked at the edges. “Yetunde, that is not a boyfriend. That is a project.” The conversation that changed everything happened on a Sunday evening in November.

 They were in Yetunde’s apartment after dinner, the kind of comfortable quiet that she had come to love. The fan humming, the distant sound of generators, Boma sitting across from her looking both relaxed and troubled, which was a face he had perfected. “Baby.” He said, “I need to talk to you about something serious.

” She looked up from her book. “I have an opportunity. A real one. A government contract, Port Harcourt, transporting construction materials from the port to three sites in River State. The contract is signed, Yetunde. I have the papers. This is not speculation.” She sat up straighter. “The advance payment covers 60% of the logistics costs, but I need to front the remaining 40% to mobilize, hire trucks, pay drivers, handle the demurrage fees up front before I can recover them.

He looked at her with those eyes. If I don’t mobilize within 30 days, I lose the contract. How much? She asked. He hesitated just long enough to seem reluctant. 30 million naira. The number sat between them like a wall. Yet in this said nothing for a long time. Boma, that’s I know. He stood up, walked to the window, his back to her.

 I know what I’m asking. I’ve been sitting with this for 2 weeks because I didn’t want to come to you. I called my uncle in Abuja, my old school friend in Port Harcourt, my mother’s cousin who has the printing business. Nobody can move that kind of money on short notice. He turned around.

 You’re the only person I trust with this and the only person who I know can actually do it. Boma, I don’t have 30 million naira sitting in an account. Your fixed deposit, he said softly. She went cold. She had mentioned the fixed deposit exactly once in passing 6 months ago. She had not given him the amount, but he had remembered.

 He had been keeping it, storing it away like a tool he was waiting to use. She should have seen it then. The coldness that moved through her should have been enough. Instead, she said, “Tell me everything about this contract.” He told her everything. He had a document, a printed letter on River State Government letterhead with a contract number and a commissioner’s signature.

 He showed her photos of the three construction sites on his phone. He showed her a WhatsApp conversation with someone called Barrister Okafor discussing mobilization timelines. Yetunde was a finance professional. She had spent 9 years reading numbers and documents. Something in her brain said, “Ask more questions.” Something in her heart said, “This is the man you love.

” Her heart spoke louder. “I want to see the full contract document and the company registration and the bank statement showing the advance payment. He nodded immediately. Too immediately. Of course, I’ll bring everything tomorrow. He brought everything the next day. The documents looked real. The bank statement showed a payment of 68 million naira from River State Ministry of Works into a company account.

 The contract ran to 14 pages. She did not know at that point that all of it was fabricated by a man in Surulere who charged 150,000 naira for document forgeries clean enough to fool bank managers. She broke her fixed deposit. It was a painful process. The early termination penalty alone cost her 400,000 naira. Money she had earned through careful, quiet sacrifice over 5 years.

She added the rest from her savings account, from a mutual fund she cashed out from, a personal loan she took against her salary at the firm. 30 million naira. She transferred it to the company account he provided on a Wednesday morning and Boma Briggs held her face in his hands, looked her in the eyes and said, “I will never forget what you’ve done for me.

 This is the last time I will ever ask you for anything. After this contract, everything changes.” She believed him. The first sign that something was wrong came 11 days later. She had been following up, calling him daily, texting for updates on the mobilization, asking when the trucks were being deployed. For the first week, his responses were regular, warm even.

 “When Port Harcourt sorting final logistics, the first convoy moved today. Baby, relax. Everything is on track.” Then the responses got shorter, then slower. Then a full day passed with nothing but a thumbs up emoji to her message asking for an update. She called Tamara. “Something doesn’t feel right. What’s happening?” “He’s going quiet on me.

 He says he’s busy, but Yetunde.” Tamara’s voice was careful. “How much did you give him?” The silence on the line was its one answer. “Yetunde, how much?” “30 million naira.” The sound Tamara made was not a word. It was the sound of someone watching a car accident they saw coming. It was a fashion blogger named Tiffany that broke everything open.

 Tiffany Ademi had 47,000 followers on Instagram. She posted travel content, lifestyle content, outfit of the day content. She was 24 years old, light-skinned, with the kind of carefully constructed beauty that required 3 hours of preparation to look effortless. On a Thursday morning, 11 days after Yetunde transferred 30 million naira, Tiffany posted a photo on her Instagram story.

 She was standing on a terrace in Santorini, Greece. White buildings cascading down a cliff towards an impossibly blue sea. She was wearing a white dress, holding a glass of wine, glowing like a woman who had never worried about anything in her life. The caption said, “Pampered and accounted for. My man really said, ‘Let’s do Santorini in style.

‘” Aeroplane, Greece. At Bomab official. She had tagged him. His account was private, but Yetunde found it through Tiffany’s tagged photo. She sent a follow request, not thinking he would accept it, but he did. Because he didn’t know that Yetunde used a second account she had created years ago to stalk an ex-boyfriend and never deleted.

 His account opened up to her like a wound. Photo after photo. A business class seat on an Emirates flight. Two glasses of champagne. The caption, started from the bottom. The Cliffside Hotel in Oia, a suite with a private infinity pool overlooking the caldera. The caption living right. A dinner table at a restaurant that Yetunde would later find out cost 400 euros per person.

 Tiffany across the table laughing at something. Beautiful in the golden light. A woman who was enjoying every naira of 30 million naira without knowing where it came from. A video of them on a boat. The wind in Tiffany’s hair, Boma behind her with his hands on her waist, both of them laughing. He looked happy in a way he had never looked with Yetunde.

 Yetunde sat on her kitchen floor. She did not cry immediately. The shock was too complete for tears. She just sat there, back against the cabinet, phone in her hand, staring at the ceiling. This was how Tamara found her 40 minutes later when she let herself in with the spare key because Yetunde had sent her a single voice note.

 No words, just the sound of silence and one sharp breath. And Tamara had known. “I’m going to kill him.” Tamara said, pacing the kitchen. “Don’t.” “I’m going to physically” “Tamara.” Yetunde’s voice was flat, empty. “Sit down.” Tamara sat. “Tell me what to do.” Yetunde finally looked at her. Her eyes were dry, which was worse somehow than tears.

“Tell me what I do now.” Tamara took her hands. “First thing, we go to the police.” “And tell them what? I willingly transferred the money. I have no evidence that he forged those documents. I didn’t keep copies of everything.” She shook her head. “He’ll say it was a business loan. He’ll say the contract fell through.

 These things take months in court, years. By the time anything happens, I’ll have lost my mind.” So, we do nothing? Yewande was quiet for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice had changed. Something in it had hardened. Not exactly with anger, but with something colder and more deliberate than anger. “No,” she said.

 “We do something, but we do it right.” She went to work the next morning like nothing had happened. This took a level of self-control that surprised even her. She sat through a morning briefing. She reviewed three client portfolios. She had lunch with a colleague and talked about the real estate market in Ibeju-Lekki. She was so normal that her manager commented that she seemed particularly focused.

Inside, she was assembling a plan. She called her cousin Fred that evening. He worked in cybersecurity, not in any official sense, but in the unofficial sense that mattered more in Lagos. He was the person you called when a company’s account had been hacked or when someone needed to know where a server was being hosted.

 He owed her a favor from years back when she had connected him to a client who became his biggest contract. “I need everything on a man named Momar Briggs,” she told him. “Business registrations, bank accounts, properties, anything else.” Fred asked no questions. “Give me a week.” She also visited a lawyer, a woman named Fumi Adebayo, who worked from a small office in Surulere and had a reputation for being creative.

Fumi listened to everything with her hands folded, asking occasional precise questions. “The documents he showed you, do you have copies?” “Photographs. I took photos with my phone before I transferred the money.” Fumi smiled for the first time. “Good girl.” “What can we do?” “Many things, but tell me first, what do you want?” “You want money back or you want him destroyed?” Yewande thought about Tiffany laughing on that boat.

 She thought about Momar’s hands on her waist. She thought about her fixed deposit. Five years of quiet, disciplined sacrifice evaporated in a wire transfer. “Both.” She said. “But, the money first.” Bomber came back from Santorini on Sunday. He texted how on Monday. “Baby, I’ve been in the field non-stop. Things are moving.

 I’ll call you tonight.” He did not call that night. He called on Tuesday, cheerful, slightly breathless, full of dates about the Port Harcourt contract that did not exist. She listened carefully. She made notes. She asked questions that sounded like the questions of a worried girlfriend, but were actually the questions of someone building a case.

“When does the first payment cycle close?” “End of this month. Maybe first week of next month at the latest.” “And what’s the recovery figure after you clear the mobilization costs?” A small pause. “Should be around 22 million clear profit on my end.” “That’s wonderful, Bomber.” Her voice was warm, empty underneath, but warm on the surface.

“I’m proud of you.” “Baby, I told you everything changes after this.” It will, she thought, just not the way you think. Fred delivered his report on a Friday evening. It was more than she had hoped for. Bomber Briggs did not have a logistics company. What he had was a business name registered in 2019, Briggs and Sons Logistics, with no active CAC filings after 2020, no employees on any tax record, no operational address beyond a shared office space in Apapa that he had not renewed since 2021.

What he did have was three bank accounts across two banks. The 30 million naira had passed through the first account and been distributed within 48 hours. 12 million naira to a personal savings account in his own name at a different bank, 8 million naira to a woman named Chinwe Adeyemi, Tiffany’s real name, 4 million naira to a travel agency, the remaining 6 million scattered across various withdrawals in cash.

He also had a property, a two-bedroom flat in Ajah, purchased in 2022, currently in his mother’s name, market value approximately 18 million naira. He had a car, not the Camry he drove when he met Yetunde, which he was still paying installments on, but a Lexus RX 350, registered in a name that Fred traced back to a shell company Boma was a director of.

And there was something else. Boma had done this before. In 2020, a woman named Sola had reported him to the police in Abuja for collecting 6 million naira under the pretense of a real estate investment deal. The case had been settled out of court, meaning Boma or someone on his behalf had paid Sola enough to make it go away.

 The police records still existed. In 2018, a woman named Patience had written a petition to a consumer protection body about a failed business investment, 4 million naira. Nothing had come of it. He was a professional. He had a system. He found capable women, women with savings and salaries and quiet dignity, and he walked into their lives looking like an answer.

Yetunde read the report three times, then she called Barrister Femi. “I have everything,” she said. “Good. Now we begin.” The plan had three parts. The first part was legal. Femi filed a civil claim for 30 million naira plus interest and damages, supported by the bank transfer records, the forged contract documents Fred had traced back to the Surulere forger, and a sworn deposition from Yetunde.

She also filed a criminal complaint for obtaining money under false pretenses, a charge that if it sticks, carries up to 3 years imprisonment. The second part was financial. Fumi applied for a court order to freeze Boma’s identifiable assets while the case was pending. The property in Aja, even though it was in his mother’s name, could be attached if they could show it was bought with proceeds of fraud.

 They had the paper trail. The third part was the one Tamara designed. Tamara worked in PR. She was not above using her skills creatively. She did not go to blogs or gossip pages. That would have been messy and uncontrollable and might have actually hurt Yetunde’s legal case by seeming like character assassination. Instead, she did something more targeted.

 She contacted Sola and Patience, Boma’s victims. It took time. Patience had moved to Canada and initially did not want to be involved, but Sola, when she reached her, was quiet for a long moment and then said, “I have been waiting for someone to call me about that man for 4 years.” The three women, Yetunde, Sola, Patience, via video call, met on a Saturday in Tamara’s apartment in Yaba.

It was a strange meeting. They were different women from different worlds who had all been touched by the same darkness. Sola was a teacher turned businesswoman from Abuja. Patience was a nurse in Calgary. They compared stories. The patterns were chilling in their consistency. The charming entry, the small loans that tested the water, the big ask with impressive documents, the disappearance followed by explanations.

By the time the three of them finished talking, there were tears on the table. “I thought I was stupid,” Sola said. “For 5 years, I thought I was just stupid.” “You weren’t stupid,” Yetunde said. “He was deliberate. That’s different.” They each submitted statements to Fumi’s office. Boma Briggs did not see any of it coming.

 This was the part of him that his confidence had corrupted, the inability to imagine consequences. He had spent years moving from woman to woman, extracting money, suffering nothing worse than an angry phone call and a blocked number. The system worked because the women were ashamed. They were ashamed of being deceived, ashamed of having loved someone who never existed.

 That shame was his insurance policy. He did not know that Yetunde had broken the cycle. He continued calling her through October. The story about Port Harcourt evolved. There were delays, disputes with his subcontractor, a government committee that had to approve the payment release. He was buying time as he always did until he could figure out his next move.

She listened patiently to every call. She asked the right questions. She kept him comfortable. Tamara listening to a recorded call one evening shook her head in something close to admiration. You sound like you still love him. I’m playing a role, Yetunde said. He taught me that roles matter. The court summons was served to Boma Briggs on a Thursday morning in early November while he was at a barber shop in Lekki.

By all accounts, he went very still when the envelope was placed in his hands. By all accounts, the color left his face. He called Yetunde 20 minutes later. She looked at the phone ringing in her hand. She looked at Tamara. She answered. What is this? His voice was different. The warmth was gone.

 Underneath it was something she had never heard before, the voice of who he actually was. What is what? She said pleasantly. Don’t play games with me. I just got served. Oh, the court summons. She said it the way you’d say, oh, the grocery delivery. I was wondering when you’d call.” Silence. Yetunde, baby, listen. I’m listening.

This is a misunderstanding. We can talk about this. We don’t need lawyers. We don’t need courts. Boma, she kept her voice calm. I know about Santorini. The silence this time was different, longer. The silence of a man watching his infrastructure collapse. I know about Tiffany. I know about Sola in Abuja.

 I know about Patience who is now in Canada and has submitted a statement. I know about the forger in Surulere whose name I will not mention on this call because I’m saving it for court. She paused. I know about the property in Ajah registered in your mother’s name. I know about the Lexus. I know where the 30 million naira went, Boma. Every naira.

She could hear him breathing. The criminal complaint is already filed. She continued. Obtaining money under false pretenses. The documents you showed me were forged. We have proof of that. My lawyer is very good. She is the kind of lawyer who enjoys this type of case. She paused again. How was Santorini, by the way? I heard the sunset in Oia is beautiful.

Boma. I want my money back, Boma. All of it. The options are you settle with me privately and we negotiate the criminal charge or we do this in court where Sola and Patience and I will all be sitting in the same row and every document you ever forged will be entered into evidence. Her voice didn’t waver.

 You have 72 hours to contact my lawyer. She ended the call. Tamara, who had been holding her breath, released it in a long rush. Yetunde, Yetunde Adams, she said quietly. You are a different kind of animal. Yetunde put the phone down. Her hands were shaking, she noticed. Not from fear, from the effort of holding herself completely still while feeling completely destroyed inside.

 She went to the bathroom, ran cold water over her wrists, and cried for exactly 4 minutes. Then she dried her face, came back out, and poured herself a glass of water. “What happens next?” Tamara asked. “He’ll reach out to my lawyer tomorrow,” Yetunde said. “He knows the criminal charge is real.

 He can’t afford to go to trial.” “And if he doesn’t?” “Then we go to trial and he goes to prison.” She sat down. “Either way, I win.” He reached out to Femi the next morning. His own lawyer, a man named Benson, who specialized in making these things disappear, called to open negotiations. The initial offer was 12 million naira. Femi laughed.

 Actually laughed out loud on the phone. Benson called back 2 hours later with 20 million. Femi sent him a copy of the forged contract documents with the forger’s metadata still embedded in the PDF file. The next call, 27 million. Femi went to 32 million, the original amount plus interest plus legal fees, and held there. There were 3 days of back and forth.

Then Boma’s mother called Yetunde directly. This was the scene Yetunde had not prepared for. The older woman’s voice on the phone, she must have been in her late 60s, was not angry. It was tired and sad in a way that went beyond the immediate situation. The voice of someone who had been cleaning up behind a person for a very long time.

“My daughter,” she said. And the word daughter was like a small knife. “I am not calling to beg for my son. What he did to you was wicked. I raised him better and he chose this path.” A pause. “But I’m asking you, woman to woman, please don’t take the house. It is all I have. The house in Ajah.

 Yetunde sat with this for a long time after the call ended. She sat with the image of an old woman in a house she had watched her son buy, not knowing or perhaps not asking where the money came from. She sat with the knowledge that justice was sometimes a clean thing and sometimes complicated by the innocent people standing next to the guilty ones.

She called Femi. I want the full 32 million naira, but release the attachment on the Ajah property. Femi was quiet. Yetunde, that property is your leverage. I know. Find him another way. The Lexus RX, he has jewelry, Fred found a significant collection he’s been building, the accounts, whatever’s left in them.

 Whatever it takes, but not the house. Femi found the leverage elsewhere. The settlement was signed on a Friday in December. 32 million naira to be paid in three tranches over 60 days. The first tranche of 15 million arrived in Yetunde’s account the following Tuesday. Not from Bouma’s account, from a family trust that Femi’s team had unearthed, partially funded by Bouma’s father before he passed away.

His family had dipped into everything to close this because the alternative was a son in prison and a family name in the newspapers. The criminal complaint, in exchange for the settlement, was not dropped, it was suspended. One step out of line and it will be reactivated. Bouma Briggs had, for the first time in his life, been caught.

Yetunde went back to work. She rebuilt her savings account. She restored her mutual fund contribution. She started a new fixed deposit. People who didn’t know what she’d gone through saw a composed woman moving through her days. People who did know, Tamara, Femi, her cousin Fred, saw something more complicated.

 The victory was real and the money was coming back, and justice had been served in the imperfect way that justice usually gets served in the real world. But, the grief was also real. Because she had loved him. Or, she had loved the idea that he had worn like a costume, and the difference between those two things was not as comforting as it should have been.

She had opened herself. She had believed. She had broken her careful financial boundaries and transferred 30 million naira because she had let herself want something. She sat with that in the evenings. She didn’t rush past it. Tamara came over one Saturday and found her sitting on the balcony looking out at the Lekki rooftops in the late afternoon light.

 “Are you okay?” Tamara asked. Yetunde thought about it. “Not completely, but I will be. He’s been posting on Instagram again.” Tamara said carefully. “He I don’t want to know. Okay.” They sat in comfortable silence. “I keep thinking about his mother.” Yetunde said after a while. “That phone call. You gave her the house, Yetunde.

” “I know.” She exhaled slowly. “I don’t regret it. I just I wonder what it must be like to love a person like that. To raise them and watch them turn into something you didn’t intend.” Tamara looked at her for a moment. “You know what’s interesting about you? What?” “After everything he did to you, the money, the betrayal, all of it, you still have compassion for his mother.

” She shook her head gently. “He didn’t deserve you.” “No.” She said. “He didn’t.” Six months after the settlement, the second tranche arrived, then the third. 32 million naira. Every kobo accounted for. Yetunde went out to dinner with Tamara and Fumi to celebrate. Not at a rooftop bar in Ikoyi, at a small excellent Igbo restaurant in Surulere that Tamara had been recommending for years and Yetunde had never gotten around to visiting.

The ofe akwu was perfect. The pepper soup cleared Yetunde’s sinuses and made her eyes water in the good way. They ordered wine and talked about everything except Boma Briggs for most of the evening. At one point, Femi raised her glass. “To women who don’t stay on the floor,” she said. They drank.

 Later, walking to the car, Tamara linked her arm through Yetunde’s in the warm night air. “What are you thinking about?” Tamara asked. “My mother,” Yetunde said. Tamara waited. “I made a promise to myself when she was in the hospital that I’d never be like her, never let a man take everything.” She paused. “I broke it. And I got it all back.

 And I think that’s better than never having broken it.” She looked at her friend. “My mother never got anything back. She just lost. But I I went down and I came back up with more than I started with. 32 instead of 30.” Tamara said quietly. “The 2 million is just money.” Yetunde shook her head. “I mean I know who I am now, what I’m capable of, what I won’t accept.” She started walking again.

“That’s worth more than 2 million.” Somewhere across Lagos, in an apartment whose rent his family was quietly covering, Boma Briggs was learning a different kind of lesson, the kind that arrives not in one dramatic moment, but in the slow daily accumulation of consequences. His network of trust had been dismantled.

 His access to family resources had been conditioned on behavior. His name in certain circles had become a warning. He had not gone to prison. He had not lost his mother’s house, but he had lost the thing that made his entire system work, the invisibility, the ability to move through women’s lives undetected, take what he needed, and disappear clean.

Yetunde had made him visible. And visibility for a man like Bomabrick was its own kind of sentence.