Yvonne was my cousin, she was also my childhood best friend. Our bond was forged over school holidays spent in each other’s homes—laughing, gossiping, sneaking food from the kitchen. But even as children, Yvonne had an eye for the shiny things in life. She was the first to admire a neighbor’s new car, the first to gush over a celebrity’s outfit. She made no secret of her dream: to live a soft life—one without hard work.
We grew older. I got a degree, found work as a bank marketer, pushed myself through certifications until I became a branch manager. Yvonne… refused to work. She floated through her twenties, somehow sustaining a lifestyle well above her means, always dressed like she had an endless credit in her purse.
When our friends began settling into marriages, Yvonne remained single. She waved off proposals like they were flies. “I’m looking for something in a man,” she’d say, with a mysterious smile. “And I won’t settle until I find it.”
Then came Majid.
An expatriate from Lebanon, working in an oil company, Majid seemed to tick every box on Yvonne’s list. He was generous, attentive and utterly indulgent of her refusal to work. “It’s her choice,” he’d say with a shrug, “and I respect it.”
When my husband died, Yvonne invited me to stay with her. “Just for a change of scene,” she said. “You need rest before going back to work.” Majid was kind, a perfect host. But I noticed something odd—his curiosity about my job, my independence, the fact that I had survived without depending entirely on my late husband.
I warned Yvonne to get busy, invest, do something but she brushed me off.
Her wedding to Majid was the kind of spectacle Lagos bloggers would dine on for months: celebrity guests, imported décor, a feast worthy of royalty. I remember asking why they didn’t follow the traditional ceremony with a court marriage. She laughed it off. “Trad is enough. Don’t worry about it.”
Two kids followed—beautiful, light-skinned, doted on by nannies. Yvonne treated her staff with the same careless superiority she treated her fortune. She fired people on whims, trashed food rather than share and made threats about slashing salaries.
I called her out more than once but she told me to “mind my business” and reminded me how easily she could cut people off.
I decided to borrow myself some sense and truly mind my business.
We kept in touch, though the warmth had thinned.
Then Majid traveled to Lebanon. It wasn’t unusual—he had done it before—but this time the trip stretched from days into weeks, then months. His calls became scarce. Then they stopped. When Yvonne made enquiries, she discovered his oil company contract had ended and he was moving to Oman.
That’s when reality started to sink in.
She realised she knew almost nothing about his family. She had only been to Lebanon once and they’d stayed in a hotel. He had given some excuse about his relatives that she accepted without question.
The domestic staff began to leave as her ability to pay them dried up. An eviction notice arrived: the high-end apartment in Lekki belonged to the oil company and Majid’s replacement needed to move in. The company cars were taken back. The kids were sent home from their expensive school over unpaid fees.
Yvonne clung to one hope—the lands Majid had supposedly bought for the children. But when she went to get the documents, the file was empty. Majid had taken them.
Her celebrity friends? Gone. Only one picked her calls long enough to send her some money, then vanished too.
She moved from Lekki to a modest place in Ajah. She told me she didn’t know how to start a business and besides, “What will people say?” I told her people were already talking. The only thing left to salvage was her dignity.
And then, the twist.
Majid still calls me. He has never explained why he left Yvonne but recently he sent me wedding photos—he had remarried. I feel guilty keeping this from her but he made me promise not to share his new number. I’ve begged him to support his children. He says he’ll “think about it.”
Now I’m the only one Yvonne has. She alienated everyone else. I help as much as I can but without her willingness to change, I know my support won’t last forever.
This morning, she sounded cheerful for the first time in months. She’d cleared some debts, she said. I asked how.
She laughed. “I used what I have to get what I want.”
I hung up and sat in silence.
Because some leopards never change their spots.
