Sister Deborah Wasn't So Holy At Night

Hey Swēt, I have a confession, and it's the kind that gets a man thrown out of a house. I slept with the daughter of the family that took me in, under their own roof.

When I moved to Ibadan for work, I knew nobody, and my mum, God bless her, called an old friend of hers whose family had a spare room. Proper church people, the father a deacon, the whole house running on prayer and Sunday-best manners. They gave me the small box room off the corridor and asked for almost nothing in return, so me, I kept my head down, said my amens, and made no trouble. A quiet man in a stranger's house learns fast how to be invisible.

The wahala was their only daughter, Deborah.

In front of her parents she was Sister Deborah, wrapper tied high, eyes down, 'praise God' for everything. But the girl had two faces, ehn. The moment her parents' car cleared the gate, the wrapper loosened, the music changed, and she'd look at me across the parlour in a way no deacon's daughter should know how to. For weeks I pretended not to notice.

Then her parents travelled for a convention, gone until the next day. I came home late that night and the house was dark, and I assumed she'd slept. She hadn't. A soft knock came at my box-room door, and when I opened it, Sister Deborah was gone completely. No wrapper, no eyes-down, just her, smiling like she'd been waiting on this longer than I had. She just stepped in, and shut the door behind her.

This girl just wore a big t-shirt and started thanking me for her NYSC placement, we got talking and that's where I noticed this girl was only wearing her panties under. I knew I had entered problem.