“It’s Inemesit.”
My heart skipped. “What about her?”
“I have noticed some changes in her lately. She is… different. Quieter. She doesn’t sing anymore. She doesn’t smile. She just does her work and disappears into her room.”
My wife paused, studying my face.
“Do you know what is wrong with her?”
I shook my head. “No. I haven’t noticed anything.”
The lie came easily now. Too easily.
“Hmm,” my wife said. “Maybe she is missing her family. Or maybe she is sick. I will talk to her tomorrow.”
She patted my shoulder and walked away.
I stared at my computer screen, but I was not seeing anything.
She has noticed too, I thought. The change is so obvious that even my wife — the woman who notices nothing about this house — has seen it.
I could not bear it any longer.
That night, after my wife had fallen asleep — her back turned to me, her soft snoring filling the room — I lay awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling.
This cannot continue, I told myself. You cannot live like this. She cannot live like this. Something has to break.
I thought about Inemesit. About the woman behind the mask. About the graduate, the mother, the survivor who had been used and discarded and had still found the strength to wake up every morning with a song on her lips.
I thought about the kiss on her forehead. The way she had looked at me — raw, vulnerable, uncertain.
I thought about the question I had asked. The question that had made her run.
And I made a decision.
I would go to her. I would apologize. I would take back the question and bury it where it could never hurt her again.
I would tell her that I was wrong. That I had been selfish. That a married man had no right to ask a single woman to be his girlfriend — because what was that but a promise to mortgage her future?
I waited until I was sure my wife was deep in sleep. Then I slipped out of bed, pulled on a shirt, and walked quietly downstairs.
The house was dark. The only light came from the moon filtering through the curtains, casting long silver shadows on the floor.
I stood outside Inemesit’s door for a long moment. My hand hovered over the wood, trembling.
Knock, I told myself. Just knock.
I knocked.
Softly. Once.
The door opened slowly.
And there she was.
She was wearing a simple nightgown — nothing fancy, nothing provocative. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun. Her face was bare, free of makeup, free of performance.
She looked… beautiful.
Not the dangerous beauty of the woman in the short skirt. Not the smirking beauty of the woman who had whispered “Oga, I wan knack.”
A different kind of beauty. The kind that comes from within. The kind that cannot be bought or worn or performed.
Her eyes met mine, and I felt my chest tighten.
“Sir,” she said softly. “It is late. What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you,” I said. “Please.”
She stepped aside and let me in.
I stood in the middle of her room, not knowing where to look. The room was small but tidy. A bed. A wardrobe. A small table with a photograph on it — a little boy, smiling, missing two front teeth.
Idorenyin.
“Inemesit,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper, “I came to say… I am sorry.”
She said nothing. She simply stood there, watching me, her face unreadable.
“I came to ask you to forgive me. And to pretend I ever asked you to be my girlfriend.”
🔥💖OGA I WAN KNACK💖 – EPISODE ELEVEN – THE WALLS COME DOWN 💖🔥
