Say it’s a lie. Say you are not the father of my child. Heavily pregnant, Amanda cried, her voice breaking, clutching her belly. The man she spoke to was tall, tired, and wearing a tattered brown coat. His beard was rough. His old bag hung from one shoulder like a burden. He didn’t blink. He didn’t bow.
He only gave a small, sharp smile. “My name is Jonathan,” he said calmly. “And you already know the truth.” The cameras outside the gate caught the moment. A drone hummed overhead. The guards shifted, unsure. Amanda’s breath hitched. Her lips trembled. She took one shaky step back. Then she whispered words that would travel across Lagos by evening. He can’t be the father of my baby
