At 35, I was single and without the imminent prospects of marriage. Not that I valued the single life. I just had the ill luck of not being courted by the right guys. With many of my potential suitors, it was all about eat and run with me and getting me pregnant. With that, they believed my financial and professional successes would help me manage a child. But I was not ready for the single parent thing.

In terms of success, I was not too far away. I was a logistics officer at the Fount Agency, a foremost logistics and haulage company in the heartland of the city. I enjoyed my professional engagements and gave in all I had to the job. I found ways to relax through dance and parties. My dress sense was also flashy and classy.

The heartland of the city was the most expensive to live in. Lush and inured in elitist majesty and splendour, this suburb was the very one for the crème de la creme. I was still a young lady finding my feet. So instead of going for broke and renting apartments that would gulp millions from my salary, I decided to find solace in my sister’s palatial abode.

Bimpe was my elder sister by ten solid years. Born within the enclaves of our hometown in the village, she had, fortunately gotten married to a man who had gone on to attain entrepreneurial success in little time. Summarily, her husband, Uncle Segun was a billionaire.

Bimpe was the very summation of one overwhelmed with wealth and splendour. Despite being a billionaire through the sheer benevolence of her husband, she remained brash, rigid, and unfashionable. She always appeared in free-flowing native wears that totally shrouded any tad of beauty she had. Her non-exercising and poor attention to lifestyle morphed her into a busty, round and shapeless woman. With just two kids after a decade of marriage, one would have expected a smart, sentient, suave elite draped in smart fitting wears to titillate her husband’s phallic fantasies. At 45, my sister looked 55, haggard and tired.

“Yinka, you are not getting any younger. When do you intend getting married for crying out loud?”, was her regular refrain

“Soon” was always my response. I was going to surely get married. But I wouldn’t allow marriage to morph me into sister Bimpe.

My brother in law, Uncle Segun, as a successful entrepreneur, was an incurable socialite. Tall, dark and handsome by a mile, he was urbane, cheeky and always effusive in his smiles. His graceful mien contrasted with my sister’s dull look such that I sometimes wondered how their paths met.

Uncle Segun and I had a very professional relationship. He was the very charming and friendly type. He was always around to engage us in banters. He chatted with me frequently and engaged me in household conversations.

Gradually, I began to notice a wish for intimacy. He complimented my looks around the house. When at home, I was always disentangled from my top, which allowed my two oranges to jump around underneath my transparent blue home top. I was always in my bumshorts, salaciously swaying my back in the appreciation of the freedom home offered. From the kitchen down to the penthouse, I was not the type to let my beauty slide without expression.

Uncle Segun never stopped his appreciation of my frame. I noticed his consistent ogles, his perennial fixation with my backside, A few times I moved around the house, I could notice his stares down from the penthouse.
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I knew it was a lie. Some kinds of women can't just be single