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.
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.
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.
🔥💖 OGA, I WAN KNACK 💖 – EPISODE ONE: THE DAY TEMPTATION KNOCKED 💖🔥
