I vividly remember the day my husband died. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—tribute posts, old photos of Adekunle smiling, captions like “He cherished her till the end.” But beneath those loving words, a darker conversation brewed. Comments questioned the gas explosion that took his life. Some hinted I wasn’t just a widow—I was a suspect.
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The fire service called it a domestic accident, but rumour gave it teeth. “How come she survived?” “Why was the cylinder valve open?” “Did they quarrel that night?”
By the time the police arrived, the story had already been written online. I stood barefoot outside our charred kitchen, smoke still curling from the windows, watching my neighbours whisper.
When Officer Bello approached, notebook in hand, he gave me a slow, unreadable smile before saying, “Madam Ifeoma, we just need to ask a few questions.”
The world had turned on me, and I hadn’t even buried my husband yet.
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Adekunle and I met three years ago in Lagos during a friend’s wedding rehearsal. He was the best man—confident, funny, slightly disorganised in that charming way that made women giggle and men roll their eyes. I was the maid of honour, still nursing the quiet disappointment of a relationship that ended just before the pandemic.
We didn’t plan on falling in love. But the universe had its mischievous way.
Our courtship was steady, if not fast. He worked as an IT officer for a logistics company. I was a junior schoolteacher. We saved, prayed, and built dreams out of cheap tiles and late-night noodles.
Our first apartment was small—a one-bedroom flat in Surulere with thin walls and a constant hum of generator noise. When the landlord raised the rent, we couldn’t move, so we adjusted. We learned to share space, laughter, and sometimes anger.
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Adekunle had a temper—not violent, but fiery. He would shout when frustrated. I would retreat into silence. Later, we’d reconcile over cold malt and a movie.
Neighbours sometimes heard the arguments, but they also saw the reconciliations—the hand-holding, the laughter in the courtyard, the small acts of care that made us, us.
After our first anniversary, he began talking about starting a business—selling refurbished gadgets. Money was tight, but he was ambitious. I stood by him, even when it meant skipping outings or borrowing small amounts to keep the house running.
Then came the power cuts, the generator fumes, and the gas cylinder we bought second-hand from a neighbour. It was cheaper, and he insisted it worked fine.
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Once, we woke up at midnight to the faint smell of gas, and Adekunle laughed it off, saying it was probably from the neighbours’ flat. Another time, the lighter clicked twice before catching a flame, and I remember teasing him that one day he’d burn the stew before it even started. We were young, careless, and convinced that love made us untouchable.
I remember how he loved to cook on weekends, apron tied too tight, humming old Yoruba songs. He would chase me out of the kitchen, saying, “Madam teacher, go and rest.” I would sit in the living room pretending to mark scripts while secretly watching him. The way he wiped sweat from his brow, the way he smiled when he caught me staring—it all felt like forever.
In hindsight, that was our first mistake.
When I think back now, I see two young people in love, trying too hard to prove they could survive Lagos together.
We had no idea how fragile that survival was.
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Then came the explosion. It didn’t begin with a bang. It started with silence—the kind that makes you pause mid-sentence.
I remember walking into the kitchen, hearing the faint hiss, the smell of gas wrapping around me like invisible smoke. Adekunle stood by the stove, frowning at the lighter that refused to spark. I shouted his name, but the world answered first.
A burst of orange swallowed the air, glass shattering like rain. I was thrown backwards, my head hitting the wall, flames licking the curtains, the ceiling cracking open with a roar. Everything after that was colourless, distant, and silent.
The morning after the explosion, I woke up in the hospital, my arm bandaged, the air thick with disinfectant. My ears rang, and when I turned, I saw Officer Bello and a nurse standing near the door.
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“Mrs Ifeoma,” he said gently, “your husband didn’t make it.”
The words didn’t land. They hovered, cold and unreal.
He continued, “We’ll need a statement. It looks like a gas leak, but we have to confirm.”
I nodded weakly, tears sliding down without sound.
Two days later, I was discharged. But when I got home, something felt wrong. My phone was flooded—not with condolences, but suspicion.
Someone had posted a thread on X (Twitter): “Sources say the gas valve was turned intentionally. Wife escaped before blast.” It had over 5,000 shares.
My heart dropped.
I tried to breathe, but every inhale burned. The curtains still carried the scent of smoke. The neighbours avoided my gaze, whispering behind drawn blinds.
The street children who once called me “Aunty Ify” ran when they saw me. It was as if grief had a smell, and I wore it. My hands trembled as I scrolled through my phone, each notification another stone sinking me deeper into disbelief.
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By afternoon, reporters hovered outside our compound. My friend Nneka called in tears. “Ifeoma, don’t open your door to anyone. They’re saying you killed him.”
Killed him?
I sat on the floor of our empty living room, staring at the soot-stained walls. My wedding photo, half-burnt at the edge, smiled mockingly back.
When Officer Bello returned for more questions, I was shaking.
“Did you and your husband quarrel before the incident?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “But not like that. He was frustrated about the generator. He said I forgot to close the gas valve. I told him I didn’t.”
He nodded slowly, pen scratching.
“Neighbours said they heard shouting,” he added.
My throat tightened. “We argued, but we made up. He was cooking noodles before I went to the bedroom. I smelled gas, shouted his name, and then—”
Boom.
That was all I remembered.
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By the next week, police had sealed the flat for forensic review. Rumours had now gone national—TV panels debating “domestic tension” and “emotional abuse.”
One headline read: “He cherished her, friend says — but did she cherish him back?”
I broke down.
Even my colleagues from school sent polite but cautious messages. Some avoided me altogether.
Officer Bello called me to the station when the investigation stretched into its second week.
“We need to cross-check something,” he said, face neutral.
On his desk were lab reports, residue samples, and swab photos from the gas cylinder.
“The leak originated from the connector,” he said. “But the threads show manual loosening before ignition.”
I blinked. “Meaning?”
He didn’t answer.
“Meaning someone tampered with it,” I said, voice trembling.
His eyes softened. “We’ll know soon. But Mrs Ifeoma… if you remember anything unusual, tell us.”
As I walked out, my phone buzzed again—a message from an unknown number: You’ll pay for what you did to Kunle.
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That night, I locked every window and prayed for morning.
The truth came quietly, not with fanfare, but with relief so deep I collapsed when I heard it.
Three weeks after the incident, forensic results arrived from the state lab. The cylinder, pipe connector, and cooker bore traces of corrosion and gas residue consistent with a pressure leak—not sabotage.
Adekunle had tried to tighten it himself that morning using pliers, unaware he had damaged the rubber seal. The fumes built up during the blackout, and when he struck the lighter—
It ended.
Officer Bello called me into his office, the corners of his lips lifting faintly as he said, “Madam Ifeoma, you are officially cleared. It was an accident.”
I broke down in his office, crying until the uniformed men outside pretended not to hear.
“People said I killed him,” I murmured.
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He sighed. “People say too much when they don’t have evidence. That’s why we do our job.”
He handed me the report. I stared at the black-and-white lines that would never bring Adekunle back, but at least gave me my name again.
When I stepped out of the station, the sun felt new.
That evening, Nneka came over with jollof rice and a long hug. “The police announced it. They’re saying you’re innocent.”
Innocent. What a strange word for something I never did.
The same social media that dragged me began to post apologies.
“Turns out it was a leak. Forgive us, sis.”
“She didn’t deserve that.”
“Rest easy, Kunle. It was nobody’s fault.”
But Adekunle was still gone.
The city moved on, but grief sat with me like a second skin.
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The police escorted me back to the apartment one final time. I wanted to collect what was left—our wedding album, a cracked mug, and a notebook where Adekunle had scribbled ideas for his tech start-up.
Officer Bello stayed at the doorway, letting me move slowly through the ruin of our home.
As I turned to leave, he said quietly, “Madam Ifeoma, I’ve seen many cases. You and your husband loved each other. Don’t let the world rewrite that.”
I nodded, holding back tears. “Thank you, Officer.”
He smiled—small, genuine, the first smile I’d seen in weeks.
Two days later, he called again. “The case is officially closed. I just wanted you to hear it from me.”
That night, I dreamed of Adekunle—standing by the gas stove, smiling as he stirred noodles, humming that off-key song he always sang. I woke up sobbing, whispering into the empty room, “I forgive you for the valve.”
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A month passed, then two. My colleagues visited. My headteacher asked me to resume part-time.
Slowly, life returned in fragments.
One Sunday, Nneka took me to church. During testimony, she squeezed my hand. “You survived. That’s your miracle.”
After the service, strangers approached me—some who had shared those cruel posts. One woman even knelt, crying. “I’m sorry, sister. We believed lies.”
I lifted her gently. “We all did.”
When I finally reopened my social media, the apology messages were overwhelming. They didn’t erase the pain, but they softened it.
One read: “Sometimes love stories end before we understand them. Forgive our ignorance.”
I smiled faintly. The world had condemned me before the evidence spoke. But when it did, truth restored what gossip had taken.
Officer Bello called one last time to confirm the paperwork. Before hanging up, he said, “It’s over now. Take care of yourself.”
“I will,” I said.
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As I ended the call, I looked at Adekunle’s framed photo on my nightstand. He was still smiling, forever thirty-four.
When I think back on those months, what hurts most isn’t the loss—it’s the noise that followed. The way people rushed to fill the silence with suspicion.
In grief, I learned that truth doesn’t shout. It waits. It stands quietly while rumour screams, and then one day, it speaks with evidence.
The forensics didn’t just clear my name; they restored my faith in patience, in justice, in God.
Sometimes I wonder if Adekunle knows how many people learned from his death. How many now check their gas valves carefully? How many couples talk instead of accusing?
I no longer fear the whispers. They have burned out like the fire that started it all.
I light a candle every night for him—not out of guilt, but gratitude. For the love we had, flawed and fierce.
The lesson is simple: evidence heals what gossip harms. But the deeper question remains: why do we believe the noise before we seek the truth?
This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone’s privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you’d like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.
Source: YEN.com.gh
Source: Yen.com.gh
