Red Panties, Moans, and Pictures—the Marriage Is Over

It was supposed to be a normal bridal weekend. The last cruise before Chioma said, “I do.”

Everything was set: wedding dress, aso-ebi, venue in Lekki, vendors locked in, and the hashtag already trending: #ChiTobi2025.

Chioma booked a luxury short-let in Ikoyi for her bachelorette with her girls—Joy, Uju, Naomi, Teni, and two cousins from PH. They all came ready with white silk nighties, customized wine cups, wigs laid, and plans to scatter social media.

Across town, her husband-to-be, Tobi, was at a Lekki rooftop lounge with his boys. Same idea. Chilling. Popping bottles. Vibes.

Chioma and Tobi were still in touch throughout. Sharing pictures and short videos like,

“Omo see your baby boy chilling with his guys!”

“Ahh see fine babe wey I wan marry!”

It was all love and excitement.

Then around 11:47 p.m., the tone shifted.

They were sipping rosé, eating grilled turkey and peppered snails, when Joy, the one who always stirred things, said:

“Chi baby, you still dey talk to Desmond?”

Chioma sipped slow. “Once in a while. Nothing serious.”

Joy smiled like she knew something. “You still miss am?”

Another silence. Then a nervous laugh. “Low-key sha. Sometimes.”

That’s all Joy needed.

“Call am!” she screamed.

The other girls joined. “Tell am make he show. Last time vibes nau!”

One of the PH cousins added, “Make him bring him guys too o! We need people to spray us money!”

Chioma hesitated, giggled, then—wrong decision—dialled.

“Hey Des… I dey Ikoyi. You fit pull up?”

Desmond was in town. Of course. He didn’t even hesitate.

“Text me address.”

An hour later, the doorbell rang.

Five guys stepped into the apartment like they were entering a club—perfume heavy, gold chains shining, wallets thick. Desmond still looked like heartbreak, fine and dangerous. The girls screamed like fans backstage. It was pure Lagos vibes.

Music got louder. Drinks multiplied. Waistlines moved. Girls were dancing in see-through nighties, bouncing from couch to counter.

Chioma was glowing. Even Joy said,

“Na this red pant dey give you boldness, I swear!”

Amidst the chaos, Chioma handed her phone to Joy.

“Abeg just dey snap me nice. Send to Tobi, but make sure none of these guys show o. I no wan wahala.”

Joy nodded, phone in hand.

Then they started Truth or Dare.

First few were mild. Then someone dared Chioma:

“Kiss Desmond.”

She laughed it off. “Una dey mad.”

But the girls shouted, “One last kiss! Nothing dey happen!”

Desmond just stood there, relaxed, grinning.

She gave in. Quick kiss. Maybe two seconds.

But Joy took the shot. And sent it to Tobi.

Then came the ultimate dare.

“Pair up and go inside. Make love. Live. No shame.”

Girls screamed.

Joy clapped like a ringmaster.

Desmond whispered something in Chioma’s ear.

She paused. Looked around. Laughed nervously. “Una no serious.”

But peer pressure in Lagos? E dey hold body like shrine.

The girls agreed. The guys didn’t mind.

So, they did it.

Not in secret. Not quietly.

Couples. In every room. On the floor. Against the wall. Loud music. Laughter. Moans. Everything.

Chioma’s red lace was glowing under the room light, visible through her white silk nightwear like blood on satin.

And Joy—still holding her phone while her own “partner” handled her—snapped a shot.

Sent it again.

At 3:04 a.m., Tobi was reviewing the photos and videos with his guys. Nobody said a word.

At 3:07 a.m., he texted:

“Wedding is cancelled. Don’t call me again.”

Just that.

No fight. No insults. Just cancellation.

By 4:12 a.m., Chioma had seen the message.

She collapsed.

Joy tried to act confused. “He’s overreacting now…”

But Chioma’s scream echoed through the building.

“You sent him pictures?! Videos?!”

That’s when the real fight started.

Chioma pounced on Joy. Slaps. Hair pulling. Nails scratching. Girls dragging them apart.

A wine glass shattered. One girl bled. Someone called the police.

Drama. Scandal. Madness.

The wedding? Cancelled.

Chioma’s family couldn’t even hold their heads in church the next day. Her mother refused to eat for two days. Her dad called her “a disgrace.”

Tobi blocked her everywhere.

The groomsmen reposted the text thread on Twitter with the caption:

“Men, stay vigilant.”

Desmond? Disappeared. No explanation. No sympathy. Just ghost.

Joy vanished too. Left the girls’ WhatsApp group. Said her own truth:

“I did what I did to save Tobi. She didn’t deserve him.”

Chioma now lives alone in a serviced apartment in Ajah.

Her wedding dress still hangs in a plastic cover behind the door.

And the red underwear?

Tucked in a drawer, folded like regret.

Sometimes, she scrolls through old photos of her and Tobi—smiling at Hard Rock Café, watching Netflix on the couch, eating suya at midnight.

She cries.

Because in Lagos, one reckless night is all it takes to lose everything.