No wedding sermon covers it.
No pastor prays against it during deliverance night.
But here it was.
Standing in front of me.
Wearing a blue wrappa and an innocent smile.
“Oga, I wan knack.”
At first, I thought my ears were playing host to madness.
I looked up slowly from my laptop — the screen had gone dim from inactivity, and the cursor was blinking at me like it knew something I didn’t. Outside, the generator roared, and inside my room, my one horse power AC hummed gently.
Maybe the noise had distorted her words.
Maybe I was hallucinating from too much coffee and too little sleep.
Because there was absolutely no way — NO WAY — that our house help had just said those four words to me.
In broad daylight.
In my sitting room.
While my wife’s family picture stared at me from the wall like a witness in a courtroom.
But she wasn’t joking.
She wasn’t laughing.
And she definitely wasn’t talking to someone else.
She was looking directly at me.
Not shyly. Not accidentally.
The way a lion looks at a wounded gazelle.
Let me rewind a little.
My name is Emmanuel.
I have been married for four years, two months, and eleven days. Not that I’m counting. Well, maybe I am.
The funny thing is, if you had met me two years ago, you would never have imagined that a day like this would come. Back then, my wife and I lived in a modest two-bedroom flat in Festac — the kind where the water heater worked only when it felt like it, and the neighbor’s rooster crowed at 4 a.m. like it had a personal grudge against sleep.
Life wasn’t easy, but we were happy.
We had no house help. No driver. No generator that could power a TV and a fan at the same time.
Just two people trying to build something.
I worked in a bank — the kind of job where your salary arrives and disappears on the same day. My wife worked as a sales manager for a Chinese company in Lekki, coming home each evening with stories of unreasonable deadlines and unreasonable bosses.
Every evening, we shared the house chores like a tired but loving couple.
Sometimes I cooked — mostly jollof rice…
Sometimes she cooked — her fried rice could make a grown man cry tears of joy.
Sometimes we both complained, looked at each other, and ordered from that small buka down the road.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was ours.
Then everything changed.
Eight months ago, I landed an IT support job that allowed me to work from home. Foreign company. Dollars. The kind of opportunity that makes your village people start dreaming of a new church building.
Almost overnight, my income tripled.
For the first time in years, breathing became easier. I stopped checking my bank balance before buying milk. I stopped pretending I didn’t see the fuel light in the car.
We moved into a spacious duplex in Ajah — closer to my wife’s office, farther from our old struggles. A bigger house. A gate with an intercom. A guest room we never used. A sitting room large enough to host a small wedding reception.
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A fresh start.
Or so I thought.
Three months after we moved, I started noticing something strange.
My wife had unofficially retired from house chores.
Not officially — because if I brought it up, she would look at me like I had just insulted her ancestors. But unofficially? Every plate. Every errand. Every little task somehow found its way to my desk.
I would be in the middle of troubleshooting a server issue, and I would hear:
“Babe, have you seen the remote?”
“Babe, the generator is about to go off.”
“Babe, that delivery man has been at the gate for ten minutes.”
I was working full-time from home AND running the house at the same time.
When I finally complained — gently, because I am not a foolish man — she gave me the same answer every married man knows too well.
“You’re at home now, aren’t you?”
The same way you tell a fish, “You’re in water now, aren’t you?” as if that means the fish should also pay for water bill.
That was how the idea of hiring a house help entered our marriage.
I didn’t want it.
She insisted.
I gave in.
And that decision would become the second biggest regret of my life.
The biggest would come five months later.
Two weeks after we started searching, a nanny agency in Lekki sent us someone.
Her name was Inemesit.
The day she arrived, the sun was unusually hot. The gate man brought her in while I was eating noodles straight from the pot — don’t judge me, my wife wasn’t home.
She walked into the compound carrying a small bag and looking around like someone who had seen bigger houses but never owned one.
“Good afternoon, oga,” she greeted softly with her Akwa Ibom dialect.
I remember standing there for a few seconds longer than necessary. My noodles were getting cold, but I wasn’t looking at my noodles.
She was maybe twenty-two. Dark skin that glowed like she had been drinking pure water since birth. A face that could make a pastor forget the scripture he was about to read. And a wrapper tied firmly around her waist, outlining her almost perfect figure with full rounded backside I could have sworn only BBL could make that possible. She wore a simple T-shirt that somehow looked like it was designed specifically for her full blown breasts always ready to embarrass men.
I caught myself staring and quickly looked away.
Emmanuel, you are a married man na. Your wife works in Lekki. You have a mortgage. Do not be foolish.
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Thankfully, my wife’s car honked at the gate before my brain could disgrace me further.
The interview was completed. The arrangements were made. And Inemesit moved into the guest room downstairs.
For the next five months, everything appeared normal.
She was respectful — always calling me “oga” like I was some traditional ruler.
She was hardworking — the house had never been cleaner.
She was quiet — too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes you forget someone is in the room.
The kind of quiet that allows them to observe. To learn. To wait.
If someone had told me then that this same girl would one day stand in my sitting room and offer herself to me like a plate of hot amala, I would have laughed in their face.
But here we were.
“Oga, I wan knack.”
This time, I knew exactly what I had heard.
I pushed my chair back slowly. The laptop nearly fell, and I caught it with the reflexes of a man whose entire livelihood depends on that device.
I cleared my throat.
“Are you talking to me?”
She nodded.
Then took one step closer.
My heart immediately started beating like a talking drum at a village festival — the kind they beat when the Oba is about to enter, or when someone has done something very wrong.
She was holding a duster in her right hand. The same duster she had been using to wipe the shelves five minutes ago. But she wasn’t dusting anymore. She was standing in the middle of the room, barefoot, looking at me like I was the answer to a prayer she hadn’t told anyone about.
“Oga, no vex,” she said softly. “I just dey pity you.”
I frowned.
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