My Choir Master Wanted To Eat Me Up
Read to the end for SugarHey Swēt, I have a confession, I sat on a choir master's face with chocolate, and till today it is the standard.
I'd just moved to London for grad school, one Nigerian friend in the whole city, and I was homesick sha. She dragged me to a young professionals' Bible study on Wednesday nights, ten of us in someone's Islington flat, wine and jollof after. That's where I met him.
The choir master. Married, kids, but the whole room listened when he spoke. He sat next to me the first night, asked me to read a Yoruba verse, laughed at my broken accent, saved my number to send me the translation later.
The translation never came. But he did text, weekly, checking on me. Wholesome stuff, Swēt. Two months in, one Tuesday night, his wife travelled with the kids for a wedding in Manchester. He called me at ten. Asked if I wanted to go out and debate one of our normal topics. I laughed and said give me an hour.
I wore a dress I would not normally wear to Bible study. When I got there he gave me that same polite smile, we did small talk and had fun till it was late, and he invited me to where he was staying that night.
The explicit rest is gated.
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