One day I decided to visit my husband at work, a little surprise to spice our already perfect marriage. He was in a meeting and asked me to wait, while I waited I decided to wander a little. My children say I have restless legs syndrome or something like that, those children say the strangest things.
I found the canteen and bought a coke and kemps crackers, my favourite snack and listened in on people's conversation. Soon the conversations turned to the boss, my husband and how he had become a sexual predator. I felt physically ill and ran to the the rest room to regain my balance.
I did my research and discovered it was true, it was even worse than I'd heard. All my years of servitude were all for nothing. He had three mistresses and he was planning on making one of them his second wife.
I'd once heard about a poison which was untraceable in the bloodstream because it is quickly broken down into harmless, endogenous metabolites in the human body. I never forgot its name, and I ordered for it using a fake name and address. Two days later I added a portion to my ogbono soup and served him the soup with fufu.
My husband's life hangs in the balance, he might not make it. Although my in-laws suspect me, hence this torture session. They'll never be able to prove anything, the bumbling idiots will keep hitting their heads on walls.
In a number of crime series I've watched, when the murder is a crime of passion. The murderers usually always said commiting the murders felt good. I never understood how taking a life could feel good, now I understand. I totally understand.