I am watching them set up the canopy downstairs. They think I am sleeping in the bedroom.
They don’t know I have seen the program for my own funeral.
My name is Mrs. Williams. I am the CEO of a major logistics company in Apapa. My husband, John, is… well, he is “Mr. Williams.” He manages the home.
For our 10th Anniversary, John insisted on throwing a massive surprise party.
“Honey, you work too hard,” he said, massaging my shoulders yesterday. “Tomorrow is just for us. I have invited all our friends, your business partners, even the Pastor. It will be a night to remember.”
I was happy. I thought, “Finally, this man appreciates me.”
This afternoon, John sent me to the spa. “Go and relax, baby. Don’t come back until 7 PM. Let me handle the preparations.”
I went to the spa, but I realized I forgot my other phone in his car.
I took a taxi back home quietly. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise setup.
The house was busy. Caterers were moving up and down.
I used my spare key to open his Lexus SUV parked in the garage.
I found my phone. But as I was closing the boot, I saw a brown carton pushed to the corner.
It was heavy.
Curiosity got the better of me. I opened it.
My knees buckled.
Inside the carton were hundreds of glossy, freshly printed posters.
My face was on them.
TRANSITION TO GLORY
With gratitude to God, the Williams family announces the sudden, painful death of our beloved Wife, Mother, and CEO…
Mrs. Emily Williams.
1985 – 2025.
DATE OF DEATH: 29th November 2025.
That is tomorrow.
My hands trembled as I picked up another document from the box. It was a “Medical Report” from a private hospital in Lekki.
It stated that I died of “Food Poisoning” resulting in cardiac arrest. The report was already signed and stamped by a doctor.
The time of death on the report? 9:30 PM.
I looked at my watch. It was 4:00 PM.
My husband didn’t organize an Anniversary Party.
He organized my execution.
The food they are cooking downstairs… the special dish he insisted on preparing himself… that is the weapon.
He plans to poison me in front of everyone, rush me to the hospital (where the doctor is already waiting), and declare me dead.
Then he inherits the company. He inherits the properties. He inherits the life I built with my sweat.
I wanted to run. I wanted to scream.
But then I saw him through the window. He was laughing with his Best Man. They were pointing at the master bedroom and high-fiving.
A cold calm washed over me.
If I run, he will just find another way to kill me later. He is my husband. He knows my secrets. He knows my passwords.
No. I won’t run.
I went back to the kitchen quietly.
I saw the “Special Sauce” he prepared for me. It was in a separate small cooler, labeled “Wife’s Portion.”
I didn’t pour it away.
I simply swapped the labels.
I took the sticker labeled “Wife’s Portion” and pasted it on the cooler meant for the “Celebrant’s Husband.”
Then I climbed up here to the roof to wait.
The party starts in two hours.
I will go down. I will smile. I will dance.
And when it is time to eat, I will feed him that sauce with my own hands. I will look into his eyes while he swallows his own plan.
By 9:30 PM, there will definitely be a death in this house.
And those posters? We won’t waste them. We will just use a marker to change the name from “Mrs.” to “Mr.”
Am I a murderer? Or am I just returning the package to the sender?
Tonight is going to be a very interesting night.
