He beats me to entertain his friends and my revenge shocked them. I was 6 months pregnant when James kicked me in the stomach in front of his friends. He laughed as I fell to the floor, holding my belly, gasping for air. His friends burst into wild, laughed like they were watching a comedy movie.

They clapped, slapped each other’s backs, and praised him like a hero. One of them even said, “James, you be real, man. No allow woman climb your head.” That night, I almost lost my baby, but no one cared. Not one person in that room asked if I was okay. James didn’t even look at me. He just poured himself a drink, sat back on the couch, and continued joking with his so-called friends like nothing had happened. My name is Anita.

I am a mother, a woman, and I used to be the wife of a millionaire. A man who believed that the more you break a woman, the more power you have. But this this is not just my story. This is the story of how I became his greatest downfall. And trust me, you haven’t heard anything yet. James was rich, yes, but not always. I met him when he was still working in a dusty office with no air conditioner.

He had only two shirts and both had torn collars, but he was kind, humble. He called me queen. He would send me long messages at midnight just to say, “I love you.” We had dreams, big ones. We would sit on the balcony sipping Gary and Groundnut, talking about how one day we would own a house in the city.

When he finally made money, everything changed. At first, it was the small things. He started correcting my grammar in public. Then, he complained about the way I dressed. Next, he told me to quit my job because a real wife doesn’t hustle like a man. I agreed because I trusted him. I believed him. But I was wrong. Very wrong.

His money made him arrogant, proud, untouchable. He started hosting parties at our house, bringing home loud, empty men who had nothing but insults for women. Every time they visited, James turned into someone I didn’t know. He would shout at me in front of them, call me useless, say things like, “This woman can’t even speak proper English.

” Or, “She’s lucky I picked her from the street.” Sometimes he would grab my hair and drag me to the kitchen just to make them laugh. They laughed. Oh, how they laughed. And I I died slowly inside. One night during a party, I mistakenly dropped a wine glass. The room went silent. James stood up, walked towards me slowly. I held my breath, then slap.

He hit me so hard I fell to the ground. My cheek burned. My pride shattered. He turned to his friends and said, “That’s how to handle nonsense.” and they all cheered. I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight. But I looked at my daughter Nora standing at the stairs. Her small eyes filled with tears. And I knew I couldn’t leave.

Not yet. Because I had no money, no job, no house, no family support. James made sure I had nothing except him. So I stayed. But something inside me began to grow quietly. It wasn’t fear anymore. It was fire. One day while James was away on a business trip, I found an old diary of mine.

It was filled with dreams, plans, goals. My handwriting looked so young and full of life. I cried that night, not because I missed who I used to be, but because I knew she was still inside me, hiding, waiting for a chance to rise again. That was the night I decided to stop surviving. I would start planning. Every insult James threw at me became a brick.

I used each one to build my revenge. And my revenge would not be loud. No, it would be patient, gentle, like water dripping on stone until it breaks. James thought I was weak, but weakness is not the absence of strength. Sometimes it is the training ground for power. I stopped fighting him with words. I became quiet.

I served his friends with a smile. I cleaned his mess without complaints. I stopped arguing. He thought he had one. He didn’t know I was watching, listening, studying. Every account he opened, every deal he made, every weakness he showed, I wrote it all down in a secret notebook I kept behind the water tank outside.

I knew I was in a battle. And in battle, the one who waits wins. The last slap I ever received came on a Sunday. His friends were around. He accused me of forgetting to iron his white shirt. I tried to explain. I even knelt down, but he didn’t care. He kicked me in front of everyone again. I fell hard, but this time I didn’t cry.

I stood up, wiped the blood from my lip, and looked him in the eyes. I smiled. That was the day he should have known something had changed. But like most arrogant men, he was blind to his own end. And that’s why I’m telling you this story because very soon James will go from sleeping on silk sheets to begging for a mattress in a dirty corner of the city.