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Nothing more.
Just simple human company in a house that had become too silent.

***

By the time I got to my street, night had settled properly over the neighbourhood. The usual sounds filled the air—generators humming from different compounds, distant laughter from roadside bars, and the voices of children still stubbornly playing outside despite the lateness.
I parked briefly in front of my gate and stepped down from the car.
As I unlocked the gate, I heard quick footsteps approaching.
“Good evening, sir!”
I turned. t was Ire.
She hurried toward me with her usual modest composure. Then she bent slightly in greeting, almost kneeling in the traditional way Yoruba girls often greeted older men.
“Good evening, Uncle,” she said respectfully.
“Ah-ah, don’t kneel completely o,” I replied with a smile. “You’ll make me feel too old.”
She laughed softly.
“You are not old, sir.”
“Hmmm. Thank you for that lie.”
“It’s not a lie.”
I shook my head amusedly and pushed the gate wider.
“You came early today.”
“Yes, sir. Mummy closed small earlier.”
“Well, that’s good timing. Help me carry those things before my back breaks.”
She immediately reached for my briefcase and the shopping bag.
“This one is heavy,” she said.
“I hope you’re not complaining already.”
“No, sir.”
We entered the compound together.
Under the yellow security light, I noticed again how calm her presence usually was. No loudness. No unnecessary drama. Just quiet helpfulness.
Inside the sitting room, she carefully placed my briefcase beside the sofa and handed me the shopping bag.
“What did you buy, sir?” she asked innocently.
“Nothing much. Chicken and small enjoyment.”
She smiled politely.
I brought out the items one by one.
“Please put the groceries inside the fridge,” I said. “And the frozen chicken inside the freezer before it melts.”
“Yes, sir.”
She carried everything into the kitchen immediately.
I loosened my tie and sat down heavily on the sofa, listening to the soft sounds coming from the kitchen—the refrigerator opening, plates shifting slightly, running tap water.
For some reason, the simple domestic sounds relaxed me deeply.
It felt strangely comforting having another human being moving around the house again.
After a few minutes, Ire emerged with a bowl and cleaning cloth.
“I’ll quickly clean the kitchen floor too,” she said.
“You’ve not even rested.”
“It’s okay.”
Once again, I found myself impressed.
The girl worked thoroughly without supervision.
No corner-cutting.
No laziness.
At some point, I walked into the kitchen doorway quietly and watched her mopping carefully.
She noticed me immediately and stood upright.
“Sir?”
“You’re very hardworking.”
She smiled shyly.
“My mummy doesn’t tolerate laziness.”
“I can see that.”
For a brief second, our eyes met awkwardly before she lowered hers respectfully again.
I returned to the sitting room.
A few minutes later she finished and washed her hands.
“I’m done, sir.”
I stood up.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Then I suddenly remembered the wine.
“Oh, wait.”
I walked to the dining table, picked up the bottle, and handed it to her.
“Take this to your mother.”
Her eyes widened.
“Sir?”
“It’s just wine. Let her enjoy herself.”
“She’ll be happy.”
“Tell her it’s appreciation for borrowing me her daughter.”
She laughed softly again.
I reached for my wallet afterward.
“At least take something for transport.”
Immediately, she stepped back slightly.
“No, sir.”
“Why?”
“You already gave me money the other day.”
“That was another day.”
“It’s okay.”
“Ire—”
“No, sir,” she insisted politely. “You’ve done enough.”
I stared at her briefly.
In a society where many people constantly calculated what they could gain from others, her refusal felt unusually sincere.
“What a good girl,” I said unconsciously.
She lowered her head modestly.
“Thank you, sir.”

But I was not the club type.

Never had been.

Noise exhausted me.

Besides, at my age, many places designed for enjoyment only reminded me how old I was becoming.

So instead, I drove toward home through the usual evening traffic.

Just before my street was a large supermarket I occasionally used.

On impulse, I pulled in.

The cold air-conditioning hit me immediately as I entered.

Rows of imported goods lined the shelves while soft foreign music played overhead. Young couples pushed trolleys together. Children begged their parents for snacks.
I suddenly missed Bimpe intensely.
She loved supermarkets.

Especially when we had unexpected money.

“Let’s spoil ourselves small,” she would always say.

I smiled faintly at the memory.

Without thinking too deeply, I picked up a bottle of wine.

Then frozen chicken.

If nothing else, at least I could prepare a decent dinner that night.

As the cashier scanned my items, my phone buzzed again.

Bimpe.

I answered immediately.

“Madam Doha.”

She laughed warmly from the other end.

“Barrister Ikorodu.”

“How was work today?”

“Tiring. My legs are finished.”

“But you sound happy.”

“I am trying to be.”

I hesitated briefly, then decided to share my own good news.

“I closed a major property deal today.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“How much commission?”

I mentioned the figure.

There was silence.

Then she screamed loudly enough that I had to pull the phone slightly away from my ear.

“Femi!”

I laughed.

“Calm down.”

“Ha! God is good!”

“Amen.”

“You see why I said things will improve for us?”

I could hear the excitement in her voice clearly now.

“We need to save wisely,” she continued immediately. “Don’t spend anyhow.”

“Woman, can you celebrate first before budgeting?”

She laughed.

“That’s how responsible wives behave.”

I paid for my items and stepped outside with the shopping bag.

The evening air smelled faintly of roasted corn and exhaust fumes.

“I bought wine,” I told her.

“Wine?”

“And chicken.”

“Who will cook it?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Don’t poison yourself.”

“Very funny.”

Then, unexpectedly, she asked:
“How is the house help arrangement?”
I froze briefly.

So she remembered.

Actually, I had casually mentioned earlier in the week that Mommy Ire suggested someone could help around occasionally. I simply hadn’t given details.

“It’s fine,” I answered carefully.

“The girl is behaving herself?”

“Yes.”

“She’s helping properly?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name again?”

“Ire, the girl that assists in her mother:"s shop in the neighborhood.”

“Hmmm.”

Something in my wife’s tone shifted slightly.
Not suspicion exactly.

Just curiosity.

“You know these neighbourhood girls sometimes become too familiar,” she said.
I immediately replied firmly.

“No. She’s respectful.”

“Good.”

“She only comes every other day.”

“That’s better.”

I could almost picture Bimpe nodding thoughtfully over there in Doha.

Then her voice softened.

“Take care of yourself, Femi.”

“You too.”

“And don’t stay lonely.”

I smiled faintly at the irony of the statement after my earlier conversation with Eniola.

“I’ll be fine.”

After ending the call, I remained standing beside the car for a moment.

The sky above Ikorodu had darkened fully now.

Streetlights flickered weakly.

People moved hurriedly along the roadside.
Life continued.

I entered the car and drove toward home.
Somewhere in my mind, I imagined a quiet evening ahead.

Wine. Chicken. Television.
Perhaps small conversation with Ire before she left. Nothing more.

Just simple human company in a house that had become too silent.

Something subtle. Difficult to define. Yet impossible to ignore.

“How are you coping?” she asked.

“I’m alive.”

“Just alive?”

“That’s already a big achievement in Nigeria.”

She laughed loudly.

“True.”

“And work?”

“Stressful as usual.”

“Hmmm. Have you eaten lunch?”

I glanced at the untouched pack of rice on my table.

“Not yet.”

“You men can’t take care of yourselves.”

“We try.”

“No, you don’t.”

Again, that familiar tone.

Warm. Almost domestic. I adjusted slightly in my chair. Truthfully, I knew I had to be careful with Eniola.

At forty-five, she was still unmarried and visibly searching for stability, even if she pretended otherwise. She was attractive in a mature way—light-skinned, fashionable, confident, and very aware of herself.

Too aware sometimes.

I had noticed over the years how she lingered during visits to our house. The way she laughed a little too long at my jokes. The compliments that sounded innocent but carried undertones.

Nothing outright disrespectful.

Just enough to make a married man stay alert.

And now that Bimpe was abroad, her constant calls suddenly felt... dangerous.

Perhaps dangerous was too strong a word.

But temptation rarely announced itself loudly at first.

Sometimes it arrived disguised as concern.

“You know,” she said casually, “I was telling Bimpe before she travelled that she’s lucky.”

“Lucky how?”

“To have a responsible husband.”

I smiled politely though she couldn’t see it.

“Thank you.”

“No seriously,” she continued. “Most men would misbehave immediately their wives travel.”

I laughed lightly.

“You people think too badly about us.”

“Should we not?”

“Maybe not all of us deserve suspicion.”

“Hmmm.”

There was a brief silence.

Then she spoke again, softer this time.

“Loneliness can be difficult sha.”

Something about the way she said it made me suddenly uncomfortable.

I stood and walked toward the office window overlooking the busy street below.

Vehicles crawled through traffic outside. Life moving normally.

Yet inside that small silence on the phone, I sensed a boundary quietly approaching.

“I’m coping fine,” I said carefully.

“That’s good.”

Another pause followed. Then her voice brightened again suddenly, almost deliberately.

“Anyway, I just called to check on you. Don’t forget we’re still friends even if Bimpe is abroad.”

“Of course.”

“And if you need anything—food, company, conversation—you can call me.”

Company.

That word landed heavily. I smiled faintly to myself.

Yes.

I definitely needed to be careful with Eniola.

Very careful. I closed for the day around 5:00 p.m.

For once, I left the office smiling genuinely.
The transaction had gone through smoothly, my commission had landed safely, and after weeks of tension over the deal, I finally felt mentally free.

I leaned back briefly in my office chair before standing up.

“Thank you, Lord,” I murmured quietly.
There were many things money could not solve, but financial relief still had a way of calming the human spirit.

As I packed my files into my leather bag, I thought about celebrating.

Then the reality struck me again.

Celebrate with who?

My two children, Ayo and Tunde, were both on campus. Bimpe, my darling wife, was thousands of kilometres away in Doha trying to build a better future for all of us.

The office suddenly felt emptier.

I picked up my phone and smiled.

At least the children could enjoy part of the blessing.

I transferred generous amounts into both their accounts almost immediately.

A few seconds later, Tunde called first.

“Daddy! Are you serious?”

I laughed.

“What happened?”

“You just sent me money like politician.”

“Manage it well.”

“Daddy God bless you!”

“Read your books too.”

“Ah, Daddy…”

I smiled as the boy complained playfully.

Ayo, the older one, sent a calmer message.

Thank you, Dad. Really appreciate this.

That one had always behaved older than his age.
After leaving the office, I considered going somewhere lively for a drink.
But I was not the club type.
Never had been.

Nice one

“That your Daddy Ayo is a fine old man o!”

I rolled my eyes immediately.

“Please leave me alone.”

She laughed mischievously.

“I’m serious. Plenty women like responsible men now.”

“He’s married.”

“His wife is abroad.”

I turned sharply toward the sitting room entrance.

“And so?”

She raised both hands dramatically.

“Ah-ah, why are you angry? I’m only talking.”

But irritation rose inside me.

People like Deola always joked carelessly about serious matters.

“That man respects himself,” I said firmly.

“Okay o.”

“And mummy trusts me there.”

“Fine now.”

I shook my head and returned to preparing the food.

Yet even after the conversation ended, her words lingered unpleasantly in my ears.

His wife is abroad. The statement sounded harmless.

But somehow, in the quiet heat of the kitchen, it suddenly felt dangerous.


***

Femi


It was already a week since Bimpe travelled to Doha, Qatar.

To my surprise, she seemed to be adjusting faster than I expected. Every evening, we spoke on video calls. She told me about the hospital, the long shifts, the other Nigerian nurses she had met, and the strange mixture of loneliness and excitement that came with starting life in a foreign country.

“So far, so good,” she kept saying.

And each time she smiled from that tiny room thousands of kilometres away, I felt relieved.

At least the sacrifice was beginning to make sense.

As for me, I threw myself deeper into work.

Anything to avoid overthinking.

Anything to avoid returning too early to an empty house.

My office in Ikeja had become my refuge. Land matters in Lagos never rested, and clients always seemed desperate. Boundary disputes, family property fights, tenancy agreements, compensation claims—human beings could quarrel over anything connected to land.

I had also settled into a routine with Ire.

I told her she could come every other day instead of daily. The arrangement felt more reasonable that way. Besides, I did not want neighbours monitoring movements too closely.

The girl had honestly been helpful.

Very respectful too.

No trouble.

No unnecessary familiarity.

She simply came, cleaned quietly, exchanged polite conversation, and left.

Still, I knew I would eventually have to tell Bimpe about her.

Not because anything inappropriate was happening.

But because marriages survived better on openness than secrecy.

Unfortunately, each time Bimpe called, the moment never felt right.

Either she sounded exhausted from work or excited about some new experience in Doha. I kept postponing the conversation unconsciously.

One week became another.

That Thursday afternoon had been particularly good for me financially.

Very good.

I was still in the office reviewing documents when the payment alert entered my account.

I leaned back slowly in my chair and exhaled.

Finally.

After nearly three months of negotiations, a finance company had completed payment for an old commercial building I helped facilitate. My commission alone ran into millions of naira.

Millions. I smiled to myself.

At least one thing in life still worked properly.

I immediately began calculating possibilities in my head.

Part of the money could support Bimpe abroad.

Some could go into savings.

Perhaps I could even finally renovate parts of the house that had been neglected for years.

As I was still thinking, my phone rang.

Eniola.

I stared briefly at the screen before answering.

“Hello.”

“Barrister Femi,” her cheerful voice entered immediately. “Hope you’re not too busy for ordinary people.”

I smiled faintly despite myself.

Eniola always sounded energetic, almost intentionally lively.

“For you? Never.”

“Liar.”

I chuckled softly.

She was one of Bimpe’s closest friends and colleagues at the state teaching hospital. They had worked together for years before Bimpe relocated.

Ever since my wife travelled, Eniola had been calling me almost every day.

At first, I considered it simple concern.

But gradually, I started sensing something beneath the concern.

Something subtle. Difficult to define. Yet impossible to ignore.

Sometimes mummy complained bitterly.

“That girl will marry and suffer,” she would say.

But Deola never cared.

Truthfully, she was not exactly a role model.

Not with the laziness.

And certainly not with the endless parade of boyfriends.

There always seemed to be one man or another calling her phone.

One day it was Kunle.

Another day it was Chinedu.

The following week someone named Jay.

Different voices.

Different promises.

Same nonsense.

I used to wonder how she kept up with all of them.

As I walked toward the kitchen, I heard her suddenly speak.

“So you’ve become house help for Daddy Ayo now?”

I stopped briefly and turned.

“I’m only helping.”

She smirked knowingly while still watching the television.

“Hmmm.”

I frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

But her tone clearly suggested something.

I ignored her and continued into the kitchen.

The kitchen was small but neat. A faint smell of palm oil and pepper lingered in the air. I placed a pot on the gas burner and poured the egusi soup inside to warm it.

Soon, the rich aroma of melon soup mixed with stockfish and iru filled the kitchen warmly.

I fetched water into a kettle for the eba.

As I waited for it to boil, my mind drifted unexpectedly again toward Daddy Ayo.

I pictured him sitting alone in his quiet house.

Perhaps watching television without paying attention.

Perhaps eating bread alone. Perhaps staring at old photographs of his wife.

The image stirred pity inside me again.

At least his children would return during holidays, I thought.

Still, it wasn’t the same.

A wife’s absence created a different kind of emptiness.

I remembered how tired he had looked while opening his gate earlier that evening. Yet despite that exhaustion, he still thanked me politely and even offered me money.

Most men his age would simply order younger people around.

But not him. There was gentleness in him.

A kind of old-fashioned decency that was becoming rare.

The kettle began whistling softly.

I poured the hot water into a bowl and stirred the garri carefully with a wooden spoon until it formed smooth steaming eba.

Behind me, Deola laughed loudly at something from the television.

Then she shouted toward the kitchen.

“Ire!”

“What?”

“That your Daddy Ayo is a fine old man o!”

I rolled my eyes immediately.

Now, as I returned from his house, the streetlights had started glowing weakly across the road. Children still played football farther down the street despite the darkness, using two stones as goalposts.
My mother remained in her provision shop, as expected.

She hardly closed before 8 p.m.
The small shop sat directly in front of our compound with a wooden counter and shelves crowded with beverages, detergents, biscuits, seasoning cubes, bread, and canned food. A rechargeable lamp illuminated the interior because electricity had disappeared again.

As I approached, she looked up immediately.
“You’re back.”

“Yes, mummy.”

“How was it?”

I sat on the wooden bench beside the shop and exhaled.

“It was fine.”

“What did you do?”

I explained everything.

How I cleaned the sitting room.

How I mopped the kitchen.

How careful I was not to enter his bedroom.
And finally, how he gave me money before I left.

At that point, my mother smiled encouragingly.

“You see?”

“He didn’t want me to reject it,” I added.

“That’s good.”

I looked at the folded notes again.

To me, it felt like plenty money for less than one hour’s work.

“He’s really kind,” I said quietly.

My mother nodded.

“That’s why you must behave yourself there.”

“Mummy!”

“I’m serious,” she continued, lowering her voice. “A man whose wife just travelled abroad will now be staying alone. People can talk nonsense easily.”

I frowned slightly.

“But I’m not doing anything bad.”

“I know. But the world does not always care about truth.”

She adjusted some loaves of bread hanging above the counter.

“You’re still young now. Be careful how you laugh, how you sit, how you behave around married men.”

I felt mildly offended.

“Daddy Ayo is not like that.”

My mother gave me a knowing look.

“I didn’t say he is.”

She leaned closer.

“But loneliness changes people sometimes.”
Her words lingered in my mind longer than I expected.

I glanced toward Daddy Ayo’s compound across the street.

The sitting room light was on.

From where I sat, I could see his shadow moving faintly behind the curtain.

Alone.

For the first time, I truly thought about what his life must suddenly feel like.

Twenty years of marriage.

Then one day, silence.

No wife calling from the kitchen.
No arguments over television volume.
No one asking whether he had eaten.
Just emptiness.

Something inside me softened with sympathy.

“He looked tired today,” I murmured.

“Of course he’ll be tired,” my mother replied. “Life is not easy.”

She studied me carefully again before speaking.

“Just keep helping him respectfully. Don’t let familiarity enter your head.”

“I understand.”

“And don’t stay late there.”

“I won’t.”

A customer arrived then—a bike rider wanting cigarettes and malt.

As my mother attended to him, I sat quietly beside the shop.

The evening breeze moved gently through the street.

Somewhere nearby, music played from a neighbour’s radio.

I thought again about Daddy Ayo’s face when he thanked me.

There had been genuine gratitude in his eyes.

Not because of mopping or washing plates.
But because, perhaps for a short while, the house no longer felt empty.

“Go to the kitchen,” mummy interrupted my thoughts. “Prepare eba and warm the egusi soup.”

I nodded obediently, stood up from the bench, and entered our house just behind the shop.

The building belonged to my late father.

He had built it years ago when things were still good for him financially. It consisted of two flats, each with three bedrooms. We lived in one flat while the other had been rented out to tenants who changed almost every year.

My father died about three years earlier, leaving behind memories that were complicated at best.

Officially, people said he died of heart attack.

Unofficially, everybody in the neighbourhood knew he collapsed while frolicking with one of his numerous lovers in a hotel somewhere in Mile 12.

The scandal had spread quickly then.

Very quickly.

For weeks after his burial, women discussed it in lowered voices outside their compounds while men pretended not to know details they clearly knew.

I had been deeply embarrassed by the circumstances of his death.

Even before then, I disliked his lifestyle.

My father loved women too much.

Different perfumes on his clothes.

Late-night calls. Secretive behaviour. Excuses that fooled nobody.

Sometimes mummy cried quietly at night after they fought. Sometimes she shouted openly. Sometimes she remained silent for days.

Yet, despite everything, I mourned him when he died.

Because flawed people were still people.

And bad fathers could still leave painful absences behind.

As I entered the sitting room, I met my elder sister, Deola, sprawled comfortably on the sofa with one leg folded beneath her. The television volume was loud as a Yoruba movie played dramatically onscreen.

An actress was slapping someone while background music screamed with unnecessary intensity.

Deola barely blinked.

We were only two children, but she was older than me by three years. She studied as a part-time student at Lagos State Polytechnic, though from the way she behaved sometimes, one would think social life was her actual course of study.

I greeted her.

“Good evening.”

“Hmmm,” she muttered absentmindedly without removing her eyes from the television.

Typical.

Deola hated house chores passionately.

Cooking irritated her. Sweeping annoyed her.

Washing plates offended her entire existence.

Whenever there was work to do, she conveniently disappeared or suddenly became tired.

Everything always landed on me.

Sometimes mummy complained bitterly.

“That girl will marry and suffer,” she would say.

But Deola never cared.

Her eyes widened immediately.

“Sir, my mummy said—”

“I know what your mummy said. Take it.”

Reluctantly, she accepted the money.

“Thank you, sir.”

“And buy something for yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

As she moved toward the door, I noticed how young she truly looked under the bright light.

Too young for the complicated realities of life.

At the entrance, she paused.

“Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Ire. Greet your mother for me.”

“I will.”

I watched her leave through the gate.

After locking up, I returned to the sitting room and sat quietly.

The faint scent of detergent lingered in the air.

For the first time since Bimpe’s departure, the loneliness had reduced slightly.

Just slightly.

I switched on the television, though I wasn’t really watching it.

My mind drifted instead.

To Doha.

To my empty bedroom.

And unexpectedly—

To the shy young girl next door whose quiet presence had briefly brought life back into a silent house.


***


Ire


I was glad to be of assistance to Uncle Femi.
Yes, he was old enough to be my father, but I always referred to him as Daddy Ayo, or sometimes simply Uncle. His second son was actually a bit older than me. Everybody on the street respected him because he carried himself with quiet dignity. He was not one of those loud men that sat outside arguing politics every evening or chasing young girls around the neighbourhood.

Even the way he spoke showed discipline.

Calm. Measured. Responsible.

Truthfully, I was the one who first suggested the idea to my mother after hearing that his wife had travelled abroad.

“Mummy, Daddy Ayo will now be alone in that big house,” I had said earlier that afternoon.

“So?” my mother asked while arranging Peak milk sachets inside her shop.

“So maybe I can help him with chores sometimes.”

She looked up at me immediately.

“You?”

“Yes now.”

“Why?”

I shrugged casually though I had thought about it carefully.

“I just feel sorry for him.”

My mother watched me silently for a few seconds.

Then she nodded slowly.

“Hmm. That man is decent.”

“I know.”

“And his wife is a good woman too.”

“Yes.”

That was how she eventually went to meet him that evening.

Now, as I returned from his house, the streetlights had started glowing weakly across the road. Children still played football farther down the street despite the darkness, using two stones as goalposts.

I turned.

It was Ire.

She stood quietly beside the gate, wearing a simple blue blouse and black skirt. She carried a small nylon bag that probably contained a rag and cleaning supplies.

“So you came to resume work already?” I asked jokingly.

She smiled shyly.

“Yes, sir.”

I locked the gate and looked at her.

“Tell me first, what exactly is your salary going to be?”

She laughed softly and shook her head.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“You don’t know?”

“My mummy said I should just help you.”

“Hmmm.”

“You can give me anything you like.”

I pointed a finger playfully at her.

“That is how labour unions start problems.”

She laughed again, this time more freely.

The sound surprised me.

She had one of those innocent laughs that carried no calculation inside it.

“Well,” I said, “let’s enter before mosquitoes carry both of us.”

Inside the house, she moved around carefully at first, almost as if afraid to touch anything.

I noticed she worked quietly.

No unnecessary questions. No snooping. No wandering around.

She swept and mopped the sitting room thoroughly before moving to the kitchen. Occasionally, I heard plates clinking softly.

Of course, my bedroom remained a complete no-go area.

I stayed mostly in the sitting room, answering emails on my phone while secretly observing her work ethic.

The girl was diligent. Very diligent.

At some point, NEPA restored electricity briefly, and the fluorescent bulb illuminated the house brightly.

For the first time since Bimpe left, the house felt lived in again.

Human movement. Sound. Presence. Oddly comforting.

About forty-five minutes later, she emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands with a small towel.

“I’m done, sir.”

I stood up and inspected the place.

The tiles shone faintly. The kitchen sink was spotless.

Even the arrangement of items looked better than how I usually kept them.

“I’m impressed,” I admitted.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve done well.”

She lowered her head modestly.

I reached into my wallet and brought out some naira notes.

“Take this.”

Her eyes widened immediately.

My office was at Ikeja, where I worked as an estate lawyer. Property documentation, land disputes, tenancy agreements, probate matters—those things had occupied most of my adult life. The job paid decently, though in recent years “decently” in Nigeria had become a very flexible word.

Before leaving the house, I boiled water for tea and toasted bread badly enough that Bimpe would have laughed at me.

“Femi, who taught you this kind of cooking?” she would have teased.

I smiled unconsciously at the thought.

Then the smile faded. By noon, Bimpe called from Doha.

Her voice sounded excited but exhausted.

“They showed us the accommodation today,” she said. “Very neat place. Everything is organized here.”

“That’s good.”

“And the hospital is fine too. My work starts tomorrow.”

“Specialist hospital, abi?”

“Yes o,” she replied proudly. “After all the stress, God finally answered.”

I leaned back in my office chair.

“I’m happy for you.”

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then she asked softly, “How is the house?”

“Quiet,” I admitted.

She laughed lightly. “You’ll survive.”

“I hope so.”

“You must eat properly.”

“Yes, ma.”

“And please don’t turn bachelor overnight.”

I laughed.

“You know me better than that.”

But somehow, as we talked, I decided not to mention Ire yet.

It wasn’t exactly secrecy. At least that was what I told myself.

The arrangement had barely started. Besides, I didn’t want Bimpe worrying unnecessarily in a new environment where she was still trying to settle down.

So I kept it to myself.

After work, Lagos traffic punished me again before finally releasing me into Ikorodu around 6:30 p.m.

The evening sky was dim and cloudy when I opened the gate and drove in.

I stepped out and was about to lock the gate when I heard footsteps behind me.

“Good evening, sir.”

I turned.

It was Ire.

That sentence settled something inside me.
I nodded slowly.

“Alright. She can come occasionally.”

Mommy Ire’s face brightened instantly.
“God bless you!”

“But only during the daytime,” I added quickly. “And she must focus on her admission plans.”

“She will! She will!”

“Also,” I said firmly, “if there’s anything she needs for transport or feeding, please tell me. I don’t want misunderstandings.”

“Ahn ahn, Daddy Ayo, what misunderstanding again? We are neighbours.”

Still, I insisted. Experience had taught me that good intentions sometimes created bad stories.

“Let everything be clear.”

“It is clear,” she replied.

She called toward the shop.

“Ire!”

The girl stood up immediately and walked toward us.

Up close, she looked younger than I remembered. Nineteen perhaps. Maybe twenty.

“Greet him properly,” her mother instructed.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening.”

“You will help him in the house whenever he needs assistance,” Mommy Ire said.

“Yes, mummy.”

I noticed the girl avoided direct eye contact.
“Don’t worry,” I told her gently. “It’s only small help here and there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mommy Ire beamed proudly.

“You see? Very respectful girl.”

I nodded.

But as I looked back toward my darkened sitting room, a strange feeling settled briefly in my chest.

I could not explain it then.

Perhaps it was merely fatigue.

Or perhaps some part of me already sensed that the quiet arrangement beginning that evening would eventually alter far more than household chores in my lonely home on Ijede Road.


***


I was too tired to eat that evening. After taking a bottle of orange juice from the fridge, I sat quietly in the sitting room, listening to the humming of the ceiling fan and the occasional barking of dogs outside.

Several times, I picked up my phone, I felt like calling Bimpe.

But what exactly would I say?

That the house already felt too large for one person?

That I had unconsciously stretched my hand to her side of the bed before remembering she was several countries away?

Instead, I simply showered and lay down.

Sleep came slowly.

Every corner of the room reminded me of her.

The following morning, I woke up early as usual. Years of routine had trained my body well. By 5:30 a.m., I was already ironing my shirt and preparing for work.

Another knock followed, louder this time.
With some irritation, I stood up again. My body felt tired enough to collapse.

“Who’s that?” I shouted as I approached the gate.

“It’s me o! Mommy Ire!”

I opened the gate.

There she stood, wrapped in a faded wrapper and blouse, her ever-present motherly smile resting on her face. The aroma of fried garri and groundnut oil drifted faintly from her provision shop in front of their compound.

“Ah, Daddy Ayo, welcome,” she said warmly.

“Thank you, ma.”

“How was the airport?”

I sighed. “Stressful. Lagos traffic nearly finished me today.”

She laughed knowingly.

“That traffic no dey pity anybody.”

“True.”

“And Mummy Ayo has gone successfully?”

“Yes. Her flight left this afternoon.”

“God will protect her journey.”

“Amen.”

For a moment we both fell silent.

She shook her head sympathetically.

“Hmm. It won’t be easy for you.”

I forced a smile. “We’ll survive.”

“You people have tried. Twenty years of marriage no be beans.”

I nodded quietly.

Truthfully, hearing another person mention the length of our marriage made the emptiness feel heavier.

“She’s a good woman,” Mommy Ire continued. “Very respectful. She will prosper there.”

“Amen,” I said again.

Then her expression changed slightly, as though she was approaching the real reason for her visit.

“I actually came because I want to suggest something.”

I waited.

“You know Ire is still at home. She has not gained admission yet.”

“Yes, I know.”

The girl had finished secondary school this previous year and was waiting for admission. I occasionally saw her helping in her mother’s shop—a slim, quiet girl with large observant eyes.

Mommy Ire smiled carefully.

“Can she come sometimes to help you with house chores?”

I blinked.

“My wife used to tell me you hardly do housework.”

I chuckled faintly. “That one is true.”

“She can sweep, wash plates, cook small food if you want. Just little assistance.”

My natural inclination was to decline immediately.

I had never liked inconveniencing people, especially neighbours. Besides, I was a private man. The thought of another person moving around my house daily felt uncomfortable.

But strangely, that evening, I hesitated.
Perhaps it was the exhaustion.
Perhaps it was the emptiness waiting for me inside.

Or perhaps it was the sudden realization that loneliness could become dangerous.

“It’s just to assist in doing few things,” she added quickly. “At no cost.”

“At no cost?” I repeated skeptically.

“Well, you can drop whatever you want. Se’s idle at home. Instead of pressing phone from morning till night, let her be useful.”

I smiled slightly.

Typical Nigerian mother.

“I don’t want her studies affected,” I said.

“She’s preparing for next JAMB already. Don’t worry.”

I looked beyond her toward their compound. I could see Ire sitting near the provision shop under the white glow of a rechargeable lamp. She seemed intentionally uninterested in our discussion, but I noticed she glanced toward us once or twice.

A cool evening breeze passed through the street.

Somewhere nearby, a generator coughed to life.

I suddenly imagined returning every evening to an entirely empty house. No voices. No movement. No human presence.
Just walls.

Perhaps Mommy Ire sensed my weakening resistance.

“She’s like your daughter,” she said softly.

That sentence settled something inside me.
I nodded slowly.

“Alright. She can come occasionally.”

The House Maid

Ire Mide





The House Maid

After Bimpe travels, Ire is supposed to be a domestic assistant. She is that, and she does the work well. Femi's children will rather see her as the house maid. Unforeseen events happen and the so-called maid completely transforms into something else, something beyond ordinary.



I drove my car from the Murtala Muhammed International Airport in Ikeja back to my residence at Ijede Road, off Ikorodu. It was a long trip. The dreaded Lagos traffic had risen to one of its worst moods, stretching endlessly like punishment for anyone unlucky enough to be on the road that evening.

Danfo buses growled beside trailers. Keke riders squeezed into impossible spaces. Hawkers moved from car to car with plantain chips, bottled water, phone chargers, roasted corn, and handkerchiefs. A bus conductor leaned halfway outside his vehicle, yelling destinations with raw energy.

"CMS! Obalende! Ojuelegba!”

I barely took in the scenario. My mind was elsewhere.

Only a few hours earlier, I had stood beside my wife, Bimpe, at the departure terminal. After years of trying, applications, exams, interviews, and disappointments, she had finally secured a nursing job in Doha.

She had joined the “japa” train.
I supported her completely. At forty-eight, after about twenty years of marriage, I had learned that love was not always about holding someone close. Sometimes it was about allowing them to walk into uncertainty for the sake of a better tomorrow.

Still, support did not erase pain.
The image of her waving at me before disappearing into the terminal doors remained stuck in my head like a stubborn song.

“Take care of yourself,” she had said.

“You too,” I replied, trying to sound stronger than I felt.

“And don’t forget your blood pressure drugs.”

I laughed. “Woman, even at the airport you’re still monitoring me?”

“Who else will?” she said with a smile that almost broke me.

Then she hugged me tightly, and for a brief second, I nearly asked her not to go.
But I didn’t.

Because the truth was simple: Nigeria had become exhausting. Salaries vanished before the middle of the month. Prices changed every week. Electricity was more prayer than utility. Our children were already in university, and the future demanded sacrifices.

By the time I got to Ikorodu, darkness had started settling over the town. The headlights of vehicles bounced off puddles left by afternoon rain. Streetlights flickered weakly in some places and failed completely in others.

I finally arrived at the gate of my modest bungalow. The compound looked unusually still.

I parked the Toyota Corolla and stepped out slowly, my joints protesting after hours behind the steering wheel. I unlocked the gate and drove in.

The silence greeted me first.
Not ordinary silence.
The kind that announces absence.
Inside the sitting room, everything remained exactly where Bimpe had left it. The throw pillows were arranged neatly. The flower vase sat at the centre table. Her favourite Ankara scarf still hung over the arm of the sofa.
I stood there for a while.
The house no longer felt like a home.
It felt like a memory.

Our two children were both in their late teens and stayed on campus at the university. For now, I alone would hold forth at home.

I loosened my tie and sank into the sofa heavily. The ceiling fan rotated lazily above me.
Then came a knock at the gate.
I ignored it at first.

Another knock followed, louder this time.
With some irritation, I stood up again. My body felt tired enough to collapse.


To be continued