I discovered a stack of my own funeral posters hidden in my husband’s car trunk.
My fingers went numb when I saw a pile of my own funeral posters hidden in my husband’s car trunk. The date printed on them was… tomorrow.
As they set up the marquee in the yard, I watched from the window. They thought I was peacefully asleep in the bedroom.
Little did they know I had already seen the full program… of my own funeral.
My name is Mrs. Adewale, CEO of a major logistics company in Apapa. My husband, Femi, is… let’s just say *Mr. Adewale*. He takes care of the household.
For our tenth wedding anniversary, Femi was determined to throw a huge surprise party.
“You work too hard,” he whispered last night as he massaged my shoulders. “Tomorrow is for us. I’ve invited our friends, your business partners, even the pastor. You’ll remember it for the rest of your life.”
I was thrilled. I thought: Finally, he’s acknowledging my hard work.
This afternoon, he sent me to the spa.
“Relax, baby. Don’t come back before 7 PM. Let me handle the preparations.”
I went… until I realized I had left my second phone in his car.
I took a taxi back discreetly, not wanting to ruin the surprise.
The house was buzzing: caterers, decorators, everyone bustling about.
I unlocked his Lexus SUV with my duplicate keys.
I found my phone… but when I closed the trunk, I noticed a brown box pushed into a corner.
It was heavy.
A bad feeling washed over me.
I opened it.
And my legs went weak. My hands trembled as I pulled out a new document from the box. It was a report… The full story below 👇👇
My hands shook as I pulled out a new document from the box. It was a medical report from a private hospital in Lekki.
It declared that I had died from “food poisoning” that caused cardiac arrest. The document was already signed, stamped, perfectly ready.
The time of death listed? 9:30 PM.
I looked at my watch. It was 4 PM.
Tonight, my husband hadn’t planned a wedding anniversary party.
He had planned my execution.
The food they were preparing downstairs… that “special dish” he insisted on cooking himself… that was the weapon.
The plan was simple: make me eat the poison in front of everyone, rush me to the hospital—where the complicit doctor is already waiting—and announce my death.
Then, he inherits.
The company.
The assets.
The life I built alone, through sheer hard work.
I wanted to run. To scream.
But I saw him through the window. He was laughing with his best man. They were pointing to the bedroom and slapping each other on the back, proud of themselves.
Then, a cold, calm clarity washed over me.
If I run, he will eventually kill me another way. He knows my habits, my codes, my secrets. He is my husband.
No. I will not run.
I silently returned to the kitchen.
I spotted the “Special Sauce,” carefully set aside in a small cooler, labeled: “Wife’s Portion.”
I didn’t throw it away.
I simply swapped the labels.
I stuck “Wife’s Portion” on the cooler reserved for the “Husband of the Celebrant.”
Then I went up to the roof to wait.
The party starts in two hours.
I will come down. I will smile. I will dance.
And when the time comes to eat, I will serve him that sauce myself.
I will look into his eyes as he swallows his own trap.
At 9:30 PM, there will indeed be a death in this house.
As for the posters already printed… we won’t waste them.
We’ll just replace “Mrs.” with “Mr.”
Am I a murderer?
Or am I just returning the package to the sender?
Tonight is going to be very interesting.
