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Momsie's Boyfriend


Tony Sunkan


Yomi is an adventurous young man who allows himself to be lured by a charming woman old enough to be his mother. The consequences have far reaching effects he never imagines.







It was a rented two-bedroom apartment in Ota.

The compound was quiet most of the time, except for the noise of generators in the evening and the cries of hawkers passing through the street every morning.

At the front of the compound stood a well-painted duplex occupied by Madam Bimpe Alaya.

She was close to sixty years old, yet she still carried herself with the confidence of a much younger woman. Her skin remained smooth and glowing, and though she was heavily built, her curvy figure and full bosom made her difficult to ignore. She loved expensive perfumes, bright-colored wrappers, and gold jewelry that glittered whenever she stepped outside.

People in the neighborhood respected her because she was wealthy and outspoken.
Her husband rarely visited. I later heard he lived in Ikeja with a younger second wife, leaving Madam Bimpe alone in the duplex most of the time.

I had moved into the compound barely two months earlier. As a new tenant, I mostly kept to myself. I greeted everyone politely, went to work during the day, and spent my evenings quietly inside my apartment.

Then one afternoon, a little girl knocked on my door.

“Madam Bimpe said you should come and see her,” she announced.

I was surprised.

I adjusted my shirt and walked toward the duplex, wondering what she wanted from me.

The moment I entered her spacious sitting room, I noticed the strong scent of air freshener mixed with perfume. The television was on, but muted. Madam Bimpe sat comfortably on a large sofa, dressed in a loose gown that revealed parts of her soft chest whenever she shifted slightly.

“Ah, Yomi,” she said with a warm smile. “You hardly visit me.”

I smiled politely. “Good afternoon, ma.”

“Come and sit down now. Why are you standing like a stranger?”

I sat carefully across from her.

She began asking questions about my work, my family, and whether I had a girlfriend. But as the conversation continued, I noticed something unusual.

The way she looked at me lingered longer than normal.

The way she smiled carried hidden meaning.

(To be continued)

The way she looked at me lingered longer than normal.

The way she smiled carried hidden meaning.
Several times, she touched my arm casually while laughing.

Then she leaned back and said softly, “A young man like you should not always stay alone. This compound can be very lonely at night.”

At that moment, I realized Madam Bimpe was not merely trying to welcome a new tenant.

She was showing interest in me.

I was thirty years old then, full of energy and curiosity about life.

My girlfriend, Dorcas, had promised to spend the weekend with me that Saturday, and I had looked forward to it all week.

But after her cancellation earlier that morning, the excitement I had carried around disappeared completely, leaving me restless and unusually bored.

The truth was, I had always been an adventurous person.

And to be honest with myself, there was something about Madam Bimpe that had secretly occupied my thoughts since the first week I moved into the compound.

Maybe it was her confidence.

Maybe it was the way she smiled whenever she saw me.

Or the way her expensive perfume lingered in the air long after she walked past.

Sometimes in the evenings, I would sit outside my apartment pretending to press my phone while watching her supervise workers or water flowers in front of the duplex.

Despite her age, she carried herself with elegance and a strange kind of attraction that was difficult to explain.

I had imagined many things in my private moments. I had stole glances at her body, especially her hips, backside and busts.

But they were only fantasies. Nothing more.

At least, that was what I believed until that afternoon.

As I sat in her spacious living room listening to her laugh softly at my jokes, I began to notice details I had ignored before — the deliberate warmth in her voice, the way her eyes rested on me confidently, the playful questions she asked about my relationship status.

“Young men of nowadays,” she teased. “You people break girls’ hearts too much.”

I laughed. “Not me, ma.”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t believe you.”

I laughed. “Not me, ma.”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t believe you.”
There was silence for a few seconds.
Then she crossed her legs gently and looked straight at me.

“You know,” she said quietly, “since you moved into this compound, I have been observing you.”

My heartbeat increased slightly.
At that moment, I realized something dangerous was beginning to happen.
And deep inside me, another voice whispered the uncomfortable truth:
I finally had the opportunity to turn fantasy into reality.

***

The conversation continued easily, almost too easily, as though we had known each other for years.
Madam Bimpe relaxed deeper into the sofa while soft highlife music played quietly from somewhere inside the house.

She told me about her family.

“All my children are abroad now,” she said proudly. “Two are in Canada, the last one is in the UK. None of them plans to return to Nigeria anytime soon.”

There was a brief sadness behind her smile.

“This big house can be lonely sometimes,” she added softly.

I nodded. “I can imagine.”

“And you?” she asked. “Tell me about yourself.”

I spoke about my work, my struggles after university, and my relationship with Dorcas. Madam Bimpe listened attentively, occasionally laughing at my jokes and asking questions that made the conversation feel unusually personal.

Then she called out toward the kitchen.

“Shade!”

The girl she had sent to call me appeared immediately.

“Serve lunch.”

A few minutes later, the dining table was set beautifully. There was hot pounded yam, rich egusi soup filled with assorted meat and stockfish, and chilled water beside it. The aroma alone could make a hungry man forget his worries.

“Ah, Momsie, this looks serious,” I joked.

She laughed proudly. “You are still young. You need good food.”

We ate together comfortably, talking and laughing like old friends. After the meal, Shade returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

That was when the atmosphere slowly began to change.

Madam Bimpe poured the wine herself and handed me a glass.

“I have observed you, Yomi,” she said, staring at me over the rim of her glass. “You are a very likeable fellow.”

I smiled, feeling unusually bold under the influence of the wine and her attention.

“You are pretty, too, Momsie,” I teased lightly.

She lowered her eyes briefly and smiled in a way that made my chest tighten.

She lowered her eyes briefly and smiled in a way that made my chest tighten.

“Is that so?”

“Yes now,” I replied. “Any man would notice.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head, though it was obvious she enjoyed the compliment.

At that moment, sitting in her elegant living room with wine in our glasses and afternoon sunlight filtering through the curtains, I could hardly ignore the truth any longer.

The fantasies I had secretly entertained for weeks were beginning to feel dangerously real.

Yes, that very day, things began to move far faster than I could ever have imagined.

What started as an ordinary afternoon conversation between a landlady and her tenant slowly transformed into something deeper, warmer, and strangely intimate.

I remained in the duplex long after lunch.

At first, I kept telling myself I would leave after a few minutes. But each time I tried to stand up, Momsie found another topic to discuss, another funny story to tell, another reason for me to stay.

And honestly, I did not want to leave.

The large sitting room was cool and peaceful. The air conditioner hummed softly while old Juju music played quietly from a speaker somewhere near the television stand. The curtains were drawn halfway, allowing golden afternoon sunlight to filter gently into the room.

Momsie sat comfortably beside me on the sofa, one leg folded beneath the other. She had changed from the loose gown she wore earlier into a flowing silk wrapper and blouse that matched perfectly with her gold earrings.

For a woman approaching sixty, she carried herself remarkably well.

Her skin glowed softly under the light. Her face still retained traces of youthful beauty, especially when she smiled. Though she was heavily built and busty, it somehow added to her presence instead of taking away from it. She looked elegant, confident, and mature in a way I found deeply attractive.

Several times while she talked, I caught myself staring at her lips or noticing the scent of her perfume whenever she leaned closer to laugh.

“Young man,” she teased at one point, noticing my silence, “where exactly is your mind?”

I laughed nervously. “Nowhere, Momsie.”

“Liar.”

We both laughed.

The name Momsie seemed to amuse her greatly. Every time I used it, her expression softened. It created a playful closeness between us that neither of us openly questioned.

Outside, evening slowly approached.

The compound became quieter as tenants returned indoors. The sound of generators gradually replaced the noise of children playing in the street. From the kitchen came the smell of fried plantain and stew as the house girl prepared dinner.

Meanwhile, we remained together in the sitting room like two old companions reconnecting after years apart.

We watched television for hours, though neither of us paid much attention to the programs. Sometimes we discussed the movie. Other times we drifted into conversations about marriage, disappointment, loneliness, and life itself.

Momsie became more open as the evening deepened.

“My husband hardly visits anymore,” she admitted quietly at some point. “He has built his life elsewhere.”

There was no bitterness in her voice.

Only loneliness.

I listened carefully.

She spoke about sacrificing her youth for her family, supporting her husband’s business, raising children who now lived overseas and rarely came home.

“This house is too big for one person,” she said softly while swirling wine inside her glass. “Sometimes silence can make somebody feel old.”

I looked at her thoughtfully.

“You don’t look old, Momsie.”

She smiled slowly.

“Hmm. You know the right things to say.”

“I’m serious.”

And I truly meant it.

The wine relaxed both of us further. Our laughter became freer. Our conversations became more personal.

Very good keep it coming

tonysunkan:
She lowered her eyes briefly and smiled in a way that made my chest tighten.

“Is that so?”

“Yes now,” I replied. “Any man would notice.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head, though it was obvious she enjoyed the compliment.

At that moment, sitting in her elegant living room with wine in our glasses and afternoon sunlight filtering through the curtains, I could hardly ignore the truth any longer.

The fantasies I had secretly entertained for weeks were beginning to feel dangerously real.

Yes, that very day, things began to move far faster than I could ever have imagined.

What started as an ordinary afternoon conversation between a landlady and her tenant slowly transformed into something deeper, warmer, and strangely intimate.

I remained in the duplex long after lunch.

At first, I kept telling myself I would leave after a few minutes. But each time I tried to stand up, Momsie found another topic to discuss, another funny story to tell, another reason for me to stay.

And honestly, I did not want to leave.

The large sitting room was cool and peaceful. The air conditioner hummed softly while old Juju music played quietly from a speaker somewhere near the television stand. The curtains were drawn halfway, allowing golden afternoon sunlight to filter gently into the room.

Momsie sat comfortably beside me on the sofa, one leg folded beneath the other. She had changed from the loose gown she wore earlier into a flowing silk wrapper and blouse that matched perfectly with her gold earrings.

For a woman approaching sixty, she carried herself remarkably well.

Her skin glowed softly under the light. Her face still retained traces of youthful beauty, especially when she smiled. Though she was heavily built and busty, it somehow added to her presence instead of taking away from it. She looked elegant, confident, and mature in a way I found deeply attractive.

Several times while she talked, I caught myself staring at her lips or noticing the scent of her perfume whenever she leaned closer to laugh.

“Young man,” she teased at one point, noticing my silence, “where exactly is your mind?”

I laughed nervously. “Nowhere, Momsie.”

“Liar.”

We both laughed.

The name Momsie seemed to amuse her greatly. Every time I used it, her expression softened. It created a playful closeness between us that neither of us openly questioned.

Outside, evening slowly approached.

The compound became quieter as tenants returned indoors. The sound of generators gradually replaced the noise of children playing in the street. From the kitchen came the smell of fried plantain and stew as the house girl prepared dinner.

Meanwhile, we remained together in the sitting room like two old companions reconnecting after years apart.

We watched television for hours, though neither of us paid much attention to the programs. Sometimes we discussed the movie. Other times we drifted into conversations about marriage, disappointment, loneliness, and life itself.

Momsie became more open as the evening deepened.

“My husband hardly visits anymore,” she admitted quietly at some point. “He has built his life elsewhere.”

There was no bitterness in her voice.

Only loneliness.

I listened carefully.

She spoke about sacrificing her youth for her family, supporting her husband’s business, raising children who now lived overseas and rarely came home.

“This house is too big for one person,” she said softly while swirling wine inside her glass. “Sometimes silence can make somebody feel old.”

I looked at her thoughtfully.

“You don’t look old, Momsie.”

She smiled slowly.

“Hmm. You know the right things to say.”

“I’m serious.”

And I truly meant it.

The wine relaxed both of us further. Our laughter became freer. Our conversations became more personal.

The wine relaxed both of us further. Our laughter became freer. Our conversations became more personal.

At some point, we were no longer sitting apart.

We sat close enough for our shoulders to touch occasionally.

Close enough to notice each other’s breathing.

Close enough for tension to quietly settle between us.

The atmosphere inside the room changed completely.

It no longer felt like a simple visit.

It felt like something dangerous was unfolding gently, naturally, and irresistibly.

Night finally arrived.

The house girl served dinner and disappeared afterward into her small room at the back of the duplex, leaving the house unusually quiet.

Only the television light flickered softly across the sitting room walls.

Momsie looked at me.

“You can stay till morning if you want,” she said casually, though her eyes revealed she already knew my answer.

I should have refused.

Dorcas was still my girlfriend.

Common sense told me I was crossing a line.

But another part of me — the adventurous, reckless side — was completely overwhelmed by the moment.

I stayed.

***


Later that night, Momsie led me upstairs to her bedroom.

The room was large and beautifully decorated, with dim bedside lamps, heavy curtains, and the faint scent of perfume lingering in the cool air. Family photographs stood on a dresser nearby, reminders of the life she had built over the years.

Yet at that moment, she did not seem like someone’s aging wife or mother of grown children.

She simply looked like a lonely woman craving companionship.

And I was a young man deeply fascinated by her.

We continued talking there for a long time.

About dreams. About regrets. About relationships.

Sometimes silence interrupted our conversation, but strangely, the silence felt comfortable rather than awkward.

By then, reality itself felt unreal to me.

Just that morning, I had been disappointed because Dorcas canceled our weekend plans.

Now I was lying in the bedroom of my wealthy older landlady, listening to the quiet sound of the air conditioner while she rested beside me comfortably as though we had shared that room for years.

Everything had happened so fast.

Everything had happened so fast.

Too fast. Deep down, I knew my life in that compound would never remain the same again. When the kiss came, I felt jolts of excitement running all over my body. It was a soft and gentle kiss. I decided not to rush things but allowed her to set the pace. From the kiss to the cuddles and finally to the love making, everything felt like a dream.


***

Sunday morning felt strange.

For several seconds after opening my eyes, I simply lay on the bed staring at the ceiling fan rotating slowly above me. The events of the previous night replayed repeatedly in my mind like scenes from a movie.

It still felt unreal.

I had entered Madam Bimpe’s duplex the previous afternoon as an ordinary tenant answering his landlady’s invitation for lunch.

Yet somehow, before the day ended, I had become something far more personal to her.

I sat upright on the bed and rubbed my face slowly.

“Momsie,” I whispered to myself with a faint smile.

Even the nickname now carried a different meaning.

Outside my apartment window, I could hear distant church bells and the sound of worship songs from nearby buildings. Sunday mornings in Ota always carried a peaceful atmosphere. Women dressed in colorful Ankara outfits walked along the street holding Bibles, while commercial buses occasionally blasted gospel music loudly from their speakers.

Normally, I would have prepared for church too.

But not that morning.

My mind was far too occupied.

I kept remembering the warmth of her voice, her laughter, the closeness we shared, and the way she looked at me with admiration that made me feel unusually important.

It was intoxicating.

I finally stood up and walked into the bathroom.

The cold water from the shower hit my body sharply, but instead of clearing my thoughts, it only deepened them. I leaned against the tiled wall and laughed softly to myself.

“What exactly is happening to me?”

Even as I bathed, my mind remained fixed on Momsie.

On her confidence. Her elegance. Her loneliness.

And surprisingly, her youthful energy despite her age.

After bathing, I wore a pair of shorts and remained indoors for most of the morning. I ignored a missed call from Dorcas and spent time replaying every detail from the previous day.

Then sometime in the afternoon, there was a knock on my door.

I opened it and saw the house girl standing outside.

“Madam said I should call you,” she announced.

“For what?”

“Lunch is ready.”

Immediately, my heartbeat increased slightly.

I smiled casually to hide my excitement. “Okay. Tell her I’m coming.”

The moment I entered the duplex again, I realized things between Momsie and me had already changed completely.

There was no awkwardness.

No formality. No distance.

It felt as though I belonged there already.

The aroma of food filled the house beautifully. Soft music played from the television area while the curtains danced slightly from the air conditioner breeze.

Then Momsie appeared from the inner hallway.

And for a brief moment, I forgot what I wanted to say.

Then Momsie appeared from the inner hallway.

And for a brief moment, I forgot what I wanted to say.

She was dressed casually in a fitted spaghetti top and bum shorts that revealed her smooth legs and soft curves openly. Her hair was loosely wrapped, and without heavy makeup or jewelry, she somehow looked even younger and more attractive than before.

She noticed my reaction immediately and laughed.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

I shook my head slowly with admiration.

“Momsie, honestly… you don’t look your age at all.”

She smiled proudly. “Flatterer.”

“No, I’m serious,” I replied. “Anybody seeing you like this would think you are far younger.”

She walked closer playfully.

“Are you trying to make me blush this afternoon?”

I laughed.

The atmosphere between us had become unbelievably natural.

Comfortable. Dangerously comfortable.

Soon we sat together at the dining table. Lunch was simple but delicious — fried rice, chicken, salad, and chilled juice. Yet somehow, everything tasted better because of the mood surrounding us.

We talked endlessly while eating.

She teased me often. I teased her back.

Several times she laughed so hard that she leaned against my shoulder briefly.

And each small moment thrilled me deeply.

I could hardly explain the excitement I felt.

Everything about the experience seemed refreshing and addictive.

The attention. The secrecy.

The unexpected closeness between a thirty-year-old tenant and his wealthy older landlady.

At some point while she spoke animatedly about one of her children abroad, I simply watched her quietly, amazed at how quickly she had occupied my thoughts and emotions.

At some point while she spoke animatedly about one of her children abroad, I simply watched her quietly, amazed at how quickly she had occupied my thoughts and emotions.

Just days earlier, she had merely been Madam Bimpe Alaya — the attractive older woman living in the duplex.

Now, sitting across from her on a quiet Sunday afternoon while sunlight entered softly through the curtains, she had become something far more complicated.

And I was completely captivated by it all.

That Sunday afternoon stretched lazily into evening.

After lunch, Momsie insisted I remain in the duplex instead of returning immediately to my apartment.

“You young people are always in a hurry,” she complained playfully while carrying her glass of juice back to the sitting room. “Stay small now.”

I laughed and followed her.

Outside, the weather had changed slightly. Dark clouds gathered in the sky, and a cool breeze drifted through the compound. From a distance came the sound of church members returning home after service, their conversations mixing with the noise of motorcycles passing along the street.

Inside the duplex, however, everything felt calm and private.

Momsie curled herself comfortably on the sofa while I sat beside her. This time, the closeness between us no longer felt accidental. Occasionally her thigh brushed against mine, but neither of us moved away.

The television remained on, though again neither of us truly paid attention to it.

“So your girlfriend did not come eventually?” she asked casually.

“No,” I replied. “She said family visitors came around.”

“Hmmm.”

Momsie nodded slowly.

“And you miss her?”

The question caught me slightly off guard.

I thought about Dorcas for a brief second before answering honestly.

“Right now, I’m not even thinking about her.”

Momsie looked at me quietly.

Then she smiled.

There was something victorious about that smile.

“You are trouble, Yomi,” she said softly.

“Me?”

“Yes. Young men like you can confuse a woman.”

I laughed. “I should be the one saying that. Look at you now.”

She shook her head, pretending innocence.

As evening approached, rain finally began to fall lightly outside. The steady sound against the roof made the atmosphere inside the duplex even more intimate.

The house girl had already retired to the back quarters after washing the dishes, leaving only the two of us in the large quiet house.

Momsie stood up and walked toward the balcony doors to watch the rain briefly. I watched her silently from behind.

Even in casual clothes, she carried herself gracefully. There was confidence in the way she moved, in the way she spoke, in the way she occasionally glanced back at me knowing fully that I was admiring her.

Nice Story.. Keep up the good work.