I find Joy in Chaos, I delight in Evil.

Listen. I’m not proud. In fact, I might be the reason Nigeria is still like this. I know people say things like, “I hate drama,” or “I don’t like violence.” Me? I wake up and whisper to the sky, “Father, if there’s chaos today, let it locate me in full.”

See, when drama starts, some people run away. Me? I run toward it. I want to know who started it, what they said, who slapped who, and if there’s audio. I want names, tears, confessionals, and if possible — multiple camera angles. I want to feel like I was there, even if it’s somebody else’s disgrace. No, especially if it’s somebody else’s disgrace.

So when I say that I witnessed premium, first-grade, imported madness in my estate the other week, know that I did not stumble upon it by mistake. No. I was already on my house gate, eyes sharp, soul alert, stomach empty so nothing distracts me from full participation.

It began slowly, as all dignified scandals do. I was lying on my bed, scrolling aimlessly, when I heard the kind of shout that carries weight. Not regular “drop that phone!” shout. This one had pain, betrayal, and Yoruba intonation wrapped together like efo riro and pain.

“JAMES!!!”(I will be using James, cause what if my neighbors finds out I’m doing Amebo of their lives to my Substack readers) the woman screamed.

Now, you don’t shout a name like that unless the person you’re shouting at has done something life-altering. That’s not “you forgot to boil rice” shouting. That’s “you have wrecked my soul and I shall now ruin your entire destiny” type of wailing.

I stood up with speed. Pulled curtain. Looked out.

And just like that, the stage was set. Mr James my neighbor, was standing outside in a white singlet, his mouth open, his eyes darting between his wife, who had just returned unannounced from a trip and the young woman in wrapper standing barefoot beside their front door.

Reader, I could not breathe. I pressed my lips together to stop myself from screaming “Yeeeee!” like a market woman. But my soul was rejoicing. This was not ordinary drama. This is a full blown Netflix original. And I won’t be there ke?

Madam James was not crying. No. She was vibrating. The type of anger where your voice goes calm but your hand is already removing earrings. “So this is it, James? This is what you’ve turned my house into?” she said.

James said nothing.

He looked like someone waiting for rapture.

Unfortunately for him, only hellfire was arriving.

As for the girl, let’s call her Veronica, she stood there as if she was auditioning for a Nollywood “housemaid seduces oga” role. She didn’t even bother to look ashamed. Just stood there, wrapper tied tightly like she was ready to scrub floor or scrub someone’s marriage. I watched her clutch her belongings  two toothbrushes, a pink bonnet, her undies and shoes. She knew the game was up. But the level of disrespect was elite.

I could hear the muttering starting already neighbours opening windows, house helps whispering into phones, small children being pulled away from cartoons to watch the show.

Madam turned to Veronica and asked, calmly, “Who are you and what are you doing in my home?”

Veronica blinked. She said and may I never lie on top this matter she said, “We were having devotion.”

I had to hold my house gate firmly to stop myself from falling, cause this is too hilarious, at this point I already left my house gate to join my other neighbors at the James’ residence.

Devotion? On the matrimonial bed? With toothbrush and condoms?

Madam laughed. You know that high-pitched laugh that women release when the devil himself is afraid to enter the scene? That’s what came out of her. “Devotion?” she said. “James, is it devotion you’ve been doing for the past two weeks while I was in Lagos? Laying hands and laying pipe?”

By now, half the estate was outside. Nobody said anything. Even the gate man was there, standing like UN observer. I saw two children sitting on pavement eating mango and watching like it was cartoon.

The drama escalated.

Madam picked up a bucket of water and chased Veronica with it. James, in a panic, blocked her. She poured the water on him instead. Then she pushed past him, ran upstairs, and came back out with Veronica’s entire bag of clothes and flung it into the street.

Pants. Bras. Nightgown. One suspicious lace underwear with “blessed” written in rhinestones.

It was a visual sermon.

Veronica tried to run, but people were standing by the gate like bouncers at Quilox. Somebody even locked the estate gate “for security reasons.” The chairman’s wife was recording everything. I know because I saw her zooming in and out like a professional cinematographer.

James, still dripping from the water, tried to speak. He raised his hand and said, “Let me explain—”

Madam hissed so loud, the palm trees shook.

“Explain what? That you are a disgrace to the cross?”

And I shameless, thrilled, spiritually invested found myself clapping softly. Not for madam. Not for Veronica. For the moment. The pure chaos of it all. The poetry. The scriptwriting. The Oscar-level commitment to madness.

I love this country. I love our wahala. It’s in our DNA. Even the most righteous among us will shock you.

Eventually, Veronica escaped through the back gate in a bolt ride someone (maybe James?) quietly ordered. She didn’t take the bag madam flung outside, She forgot her bonnets. But she left with her life, and in a story like this, that’s a good ending.

Madam? She threw James’s Bible out of the balcony and screamed, “Let Jesus be your only wife now!”

James didn’t even bend to pick it.

He just sat on the pavement, wet, silent, and humiliated. The same man that always sends us morning devotion on our Estate WhatsApp group, and once sent a video of a pastor preaching about “guarding your heart from lustful temptations” was now wet like a groundnut seller caught in rain.

As for me, I returned inside, made amala, and smiled like a fulfilled man. Not because I enjoy people’s pain no, never that but because if something is happening in this estate, I must witness it.

I don’t want to hear about it secondhand. I don’t want “you missed it o” energy. No.

I want front-row viewing. I want to see the disgrace as it unfolds, unfiltered and hot. I want to tell the story later with chest.

And I also think this is God’s way of compensating me for not hearing the full gist of the two women in the Keke on my other post(for those who have read it)

Because in this life?

If I hear that something is happening and I don’t show face, am I really living?

Let others run from chaos. As for me,

I open window. I wear slippers. I adjust boxers. I step out.

Let the disgrace be full.