Jimoh told me she was his close friend.
She had been in town for a while and had complained of boredom.
“Boredom? That’s an alien phrase in Lagos,” I said.
“But Jimoh, is that why we drove to Ikeja?
“You won’t understand, this babe is like a sister to me. I want to make her stay more delightful,” he replied as he swung into the slip lane towards Maryland.
Well, I didn’t have much to do on a Thursday night. At best, I would have been scrolling through Netflix for the latest horror movie. At worst, I would be listening to Jibola’s nagging about bone-straight hair, even when she knows I’m broke. So a night out with my homie was my best option.
The night loomed overhead, a velvet tapestry sprinkled with stars that seemed to whisper secrets to each other. Soon the off-peak traffic along Bank Anthony way meandered slowly but freely ahead until the sprawling Sheraton Hotel and Towers appeared on the right.
Nostalgia hit me like a ton of bricks and memories flooded my subconscious.
It was in this opulent refuge wrapped in whispers of intrigue and desire that Rose tried to seduce me.
Rose! Oh, Rose!! Uncle Bob’s elegant mistress who would eventually teach me all about sex. All that transpired on that day remains vivid.
Uncle Bob had walked into the hotel to pay for a room and realised he didn’t have his wallet.
It was in the analogue 90s.
There were no ATMs, POS or mobile transfers. It was either a cheque or raw cash.
Bob was in a dilemma.
Driving home to leave again will most certainly arouse suspicion from his wife.
So he decided to take a taxi. That way, he could lie that he had a breakdown.
Rose and I had to wait in the car. As the sun dipped below the horizon, her voice pierced the silence like a hooting train.
“Isn’t it a bit awkward in here?
“Huh?” was all I could mutter.
“Isn’t it a bit awkward in here?” she asked again, slowly this time without really expecting an answer.
Her voice was sultry and inviting.
I wanted to say something, but at the same time, I wanted her to say something else.
She leaned closer, her scent intoxicating — a blend of jasmine and something sweetly mysterious. “You’re much younger than your uncle,” she teased, a playful lilt in her tone. “What did they tell you about older women?”
The question hung between us, heavy with implication, daring me to respond.
I couldn’t.
My heart thumped against my ribcage, as confusion swirled within me.
I was drawn to her magnetic energy, but the mingy cricket in my mind whispered of consequences, of lines that should not be crossed.
This was my uncle’s mistress for heaven’s sake.
I had known Rose for the two years she had been a fixture in Uncle Bob’s life. But now, somehow, she looked uncanny.
I’m no stranger to older women having been deflowered at 13 by our housemaid. You know, the usual quickie in the dark, lonely corners.
Yet even at 16, I often felt the weight of childhood, still lingering in the corners of my existence, echoing the innocence I had lost in those shadowy nights.
Suddenly headlights stabbed through the deserted parking lot. The fragile cocoon she had woven around us shattered by the approaching intrusion.
Her smile faltered for just a breath before she leaned back, her eyes led mine to her bulging nipples, leaving me conflicted in desire.
“Baba!
Jimoh’s voice shook me from my reverie.
“Don’t tell me you are dozing?”, he queried.
I hissed, “You just interrupted my sweet dream”, I replied.
“Which yeye dream? We are here, put on your best smile and let’s make the night fun”.
The hotel lobby was a vibrant canvas of life, swarming with guests of diverse nomenclature.
A decade had passed, yet its essence remained unchanged.
The immaculate white interior sparkled beneath the dimmed light.
The crystal chandeliers cast golden light upon the room and the polished marble floor reflected fleeting images of splendour.
Dressed to the nines, ladies adorned in mostly revealing evening gowns cascaded through the lobby, their eyes aglow with mischief and allure.
The air was rich with anticipation as men, dapper in tailored suits, escorted their companions to and fro the reception.
The ushers scrambled to attend to the guests, nodding at every sentence and grinning from ear to ear.
A solo pianist occupied one corner, his fingers dancing over the keys as Cardinal Rex Jim Lawson’s classic Adaure filled the air with an enchanting melody which reignited my nostalgia.
Life is for living and Lagos is indeed full of life.
As we made our way to the reception to ask about her, Jimoh’s phone suddenly buzzed and soon enough, we were in the elevator, rising to suite 403.
At the door, a waiter stood guard like a sentinel.
“Welcome, sirs,” he said with a slight bow and opened the door.
She sat on the immaculate milk-coloured sofa full-bosomed and composed — a kind of modern Cleopatra brooding under her dark, hanging locks with an edge of beckoning aloofness.
There was a potent mix of strength, beauty, and a hint of danger about her.
When she stood to greet us, I observed further details, as I always do.
Light-skinned, average height, curvy and bulging in all the right places she had captivating brown eyes and was draped in a red knee-length satin evening gown with a sizeable slit that revealed part of her silky spotless inner thigh. Likely in her mid-twenties, a gold ring adorned her nose, while the air around her was filled with rich chypre fragrance, a delightful blend of cinnamon and citrus that lingered. There could be little doubt that this was a lady naturally and materially endowed.
“Jimoh, it’s such a pleasure to see you, Mon ami,” she purred enthusiastically and wrapped his slender frame in a warm hug.
“Yep, it’s been ages,” he replied with a smile.
“Meet my friend Babajide,” said Jimoh with a gesture.
“You are most welcome, my dear,” she said warmly with an outstretched arm, her full, pink lips spreading into a smile that revealed a gold-capped left canine.
“Thanks,” I replied feeling her soft palms. “And what a dashing beauty you are” I added, unable to hold back my admiration.
I felt my loins tingle as her delicate fingers, tapered to perfectly polished burgundy nails, gently caressed my slightly damp palm. From the Ovene beads tattoo on her forearm, I guessed she might be of Ebira descent.
“Thank you, Jimoh had nothing but praise for you,” she replied cheerfully.
“And your fragrance is mesmerizing.” I said with a gingerly smile.
“Now I’m blushing! It’s Mistouko by Guerlain. We’re bougie but still appreciate the classics for a unique twist,” she said, giving me a coy wink.
Bougie? The phrase rang a bell, although I hadn’t given it much thought. I’ll surely look it up later.
“Now, please make yourselves comfortable,” she invited.
The room was spacious but dimly lit. Furnished in a contemporary pattern, it had a cream leather sofa and a chest of drawers with a mid-sized dressing mirror. Beside a sprawling wooden bed at the centre was a bedside drawer with a hefty pile of jewellery on top of it.
Suddenly, Jimoh’s phone buzzed.
He stared at it for a moment as if unsure whether or not to answer.
He excused himself and stepped into the restroom.
A fiddly silence followed.
Turning toward our host, our eyes met in a compelling glance.
Our eyes had already locked thrice. I started feeling that this gorgeous lady could be interested in me. It was a delightful but uncomfortable sensation; after all, Jimoh should be tonight’s Prince Charming.
“So, tell me, how can one feel bored in the luxury of a 5-star hotel?” I asked, seeking to spark a conversation.
“Hahaha, come on, life’s more about genuine friendships than fancy stuff,” she replied with enthusiasm.
“This generation might disagree; they’d sooner shed tears in a Ferrari,” I countered.
Her laughter echoed again. “Well, I did manage to swim for about half an hour yesterday, and it was refreshing; but honestly, I’d prefer to spend thirty sweaty minutes with you,” she remarked with a flirtatious wink.
I took a mental note, this kitten doesn’t mess around — she shoots from the hip.
“Okay, enough of the chitchat, what would you like to drink?” she asked.
Just then, Jimoh emerged from the restroom.
“Nafy, I need to step out but I’ll return shortly, I promise,” he informed the startled Nafy.
“Is everything okay?” she asked with concern.
“Yeah, I just…” he began but was interrupted by his phone buzzing again.
Cursing under his breath, he silenced the call.
“Baba, can you…” His phone rang once more, but he chose to ignore it this time and pressed on.
“Baba, can you wait while I handle something quickly? I’ll be right back,” he said as he moved towards the exit.
“Come on, bro, we just got here,” I protested, following him.
Nafy could only watch, equally bewildered as I was.
I trailed Jimoh outside.
“I’ll be back, trust me,” he kept reassuring me and headed for the elevator.
I wanted to join him, but he gently held my shoulders and said, “You really don’t want to leave her alone; that’s just not fair. I’ll return before you know it.”
The elevator dinged, and he stepped inside.
I lingered momentarily, puzzled by my friend’s sudden urgency.
He appeared flustered. Who could have called? What could have gone wrong? He had spoken quietly in the restroom, but I hadn’t sensed any trouble.
Returning inside, I was still trying to gather my thoughts when the waiter, who had been quiet until now, abruptly came to life. A short, somewhat pudgy guy, impeccably dressed; his crisp white shirt and shiny brown waistcoat gleamed as he asked, “What can I offer you, sir?”
I ignored him and looked at Nafy, she smiled.
“You guys have your ways and we ladies can never fully understand that”, she said. “I for one don’t even try, but please can we not dampen the night because Jimoh is being an ass?” she added, still smiling.
I could have rambled on about how Jimoh left but I didn’t want to ‘dampen’ the night.
“Ok, let’s start with that drink”, I replied in a resigned tone.
The waiter produced a bottle of Cliquot, set a tray with glasses on the table, popped the bubbly and filled 2 glasses.
Nafy waved him away and fixed her gaze on me, a slow smirk crept onto her lips.
“To a beautiful evening,” she announced, lifting her glass.
“Yeah, to a beautiful evening,” I echoed, clinking glasses with her.
I gulped down the drink and refilled my glass immediately. Somehow, I wanted to get tipsy.
“Hey,” she purred, her voice smooth like honey, “why don’t we play a little game to rekindle the spirit of fun?”
“What do you have in mind?” I replied, hoping my tone remained casual despite my rising excitement.
She shifted closer, her movements fluid and intentional. “Let’s see how well we know each other. Tell me your deepest desire.”
I chuckled nervously, “Are we really doing this?”
She tilted her head slightly, a teasing glimmer in her eye. “I dare you. Or are you scared?”
The challenge in her tone ignited my primaeval longings.
I was suddenly consumed by the possibilities of the moment.
“Okay, okay…” I took a breath, words tumbling out before I could second-guess myself. “I want to be happy with someone who understands me, someone who will love me for who I am not what I am”, I said recollecting Akeem’s famous line in Coming To America. At that, her smile softened, revealing a hint of vulnerability that resonated deeply with me.
“And what if that someone is right before you?” she asked, her voice low and inviting.
My throat dried up.
“Tell me,” she continued, leaning even closer. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”
I struggled to remain calm. This was happening too fast.
The world outside blurred, leaving only the warmth of her breath enveloping me. My heart raced; uncertain yet exhilarated. I instinctively reached for her hand, intertwining our fingers, feeling sparks dance between us.
“You are more than beautiful” I confessed.
Then she moved. Her lips brushed against mine in a timeless moment, soft and sweet. It was everything I had imagined and more.
I kissed her back, savouring the forbidden thrill that surged through me — the intoxicating blend of infatuation and a burgeoning connection and every other thing in between…
I woke up with a slight headache, the remnants of a wild night swirling hazily in my mind. Clad only in my boxers, I lay sprawled on the sofa, sunlight filtering through the curtains. It took a moment to register that my clothes were strewn across the floor, and even longer to comprehend the delicious chaos of the previous night.
Then, memories drifted in like fragments of a dream.
The thrill of her body moving rhythmically against mine, pushed me to my limits as I whispered her name in ecstasy.
Twice I made to grab her and take control, but each time she gently pushed me back wagging an index finger with a distinctive message whispering, “Not now baby, not yet”
We rocked gently in a rapturous rhythm until I started moaning loudly.
She joined as we surged to an explosive climax.
A ringtone from the bedroom jolted me.
I slipped into my jeans, my mind racing.
Had she gone to take a call? Was it Jimoh?
I rapped gently on the door.
It creaked open, and she shushed me with a finger to her lips and quietly closed the door.
I checked to see if Jimoh called but Jibola was the only missed call in my log.
Soon Nafy appeared, looking stunning in a light green pantsuit that accentuated her curves. “Hello Baba, you slept like a log,” she teased, “I have to be at a seminar by 9,” she added hurriedly.
I glanced at my watch, it was 7:45 AM.
A seminar? Didn’t Jimoh say she was on vacation?
“Did Jimoh call?” I pressed, trying to mask my anxiety.
“No” she replied, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
Confused, I grabbed my shirt and rushed to the restroom to wash my face, hoping to shake off the lingering fog of sleep. When I emerged, Nafy was already at the door, her urgency palpable.
We entered the elevator, her phone rang again. She silenced it, glancing at me with an impish smile. “Wait for me in the lobby; I’ll be right back.” And with that, she slipped out, leaving me stunned.
What the hell was happening? And why are things happening so fast?
My thoughts were in a state of entropy when I approached the reception to ask if the restaurant was open. A strong cup of coffee should clear my head.
The receptionist was occupied with a well-dressed man, a big chief who had a no-nonsense look.
“Here sir, she’s on the line now” said the receptionist, handing over the receiver.
“Why aren’t you picking my calls?”, bellowed the chief impatiently, “You know we can’t be late!”
My thoughts went wild.
Could it be Nafy on the other end of the line?
If so, who is this big Chief?
I sat in the lobby and called Jimoh.
“What happened? Where are you?”, I inquired.
“So you only just remembered me?” he replied sarcastically.
“Where are you?” I echoed, trying to suppress my rising panic.
“Calm down! Are you okay?” Jimoh sounded concerned.
Taking a deep breath, I glanced toward the reception, and my heart stopped. There stood Nafy, wrapped in a tight embrace with the big chief.
Jimoh’s voice continued over the line. “Baba, Baba, are you there?”…
For three long weeks, I was a wreck. It was supposed to be a fleeting encounter. One that would slip into the shadows of memory like so many others. Yet here I was, haunted by the way her eyes sparkled with mischief and warmth. Letting her go felt like a piece of myself drifting away. I wanted to wave the feeling away but couldn’t. I consoled myself that she would be thinking of me too.
Day after day, I waited for her to call. A month came and went. Nothing. She didn’t contact Jimoh either.
I was always home alone as my parents travelled to Offa for the farming season. The echoes of silence and the weight of longing made Lagos boring.
To escape the suffocating stillness, I decided to visit my sister in Abuja.
Within a week, Jimoh called.
“She asked for your number,” he said.
“Are you kidding me Jimoh?”, I replied barely containing my excitement. “Bro, this babe really cast a spell on you”, he said.
“Yes, she did” I chuckled, hope surging through me. “Send me her number!” But disappointment crashed down when he said it was withheld. I swore under my breath in frustration.
Another week passed without any news of her.
Each day felt interminable as thoughts of her consumed me.
Meanwhile, I started working with a real estate firm and an upcoming training in Paris offered great hope for the future.
Nafy needs to hear this, I couldn’t help but think she’d want to celebrate it with me.
Finally, one Sunday morning, my phone lit up, displaying an unsaved number that began with +33. My heart raced — somehow, I knew deep within it was her.
“Hello”, she hummed from the other end.
“Nafy,” I breathed when I heard her voice, the familiarity sending shivers down my spine.
“Baba, my Baba, I don’t even know where to start, but I love you — I’ve missed you, I can’t talk for long now. I’ll chat with you in a bit”.
The line went dead before I could reply.
Love? Did we really go there?
That night her message was concise.
She narrated how the big chief — her Aristo funded her education and trip to Paris. But now she has cut all ties with him because he wants to marry and keep her as a 4th wife there.
She was tired of being a kept girl and that one evening with me magically challenged her to make a fresh start with a peer.
She then ended with a bombshell, “Baba, I’m pregnant”.
My world spun at the words.
Pregnant?
For whom?
Me or the big chief?
I didn’t reply anyway. I wanted to play her game.
Two days later, she called, her voice demanding and assertive. “Do you think I’m bluffing, Babajide?”
“Yes,” I replied, trying to keep my tone nonchalant despite my nervousness.
“Okay, switch to video,” she commanded. When she appeared on my screen, the world stopped. She looked radiant, more beautiful than ever.
“But your tummy looks the same,” I said, attempting to maintain my composure.
She burst into a long laughter.
“Hold on,” she exclaimed, pulling out a document and flashing it at the camera.
I squinted at the French text, Laboratoire du parc Bilancourt.
“This is written in French!”, I piqued.
“Ok ok ok,” she cut in, “I’ll send my Instagram page so you’ll see the video of my visit to the lab”.
Her Instagram page was scanty. The video preceded a couple of her pics at Charles De Gaulle Airport. As I scrolled through her profile, I stopped abruptly at a monochrome picture captioned “Happy birthday to the best mum in the world.”
There she was — Rose, Uncle Bob’s mistress, smiling and cradling a baby….
