My nights as a first-year undergraduate were a special kind of hell, and I blame my parents entirely for that nonsense. Their logic was that a proper job would scatter my brain and ruin my grades. So instead of making real money, I was stuck babysitting a bunch of hyperactive little kids, shoving golden morn and cornflakes down their throats while their parents escaped for the night.
But let’s be clear—I wasn’t just some suffering aunty. I handled that business with serious muscle. I don’t mind children; in fact, most of them are fun once you tire them the hell out. And the best part came after I had knocked them out cold. Full permission to raid the fridge! I would feast on jollof rice, plantain, and whatever else they had while finishing my homework. The pay wasn’t bad, and honestly, I was the best.
Those kids loved me so much, they would cry and beg their parents for my return. I built a solid clientele, all within walking distance.
It was late August when this man, Mr Osha, first called. I’d given my number to all my clients, and this one just had to catch me on my one free fucking night. I was naked and deep in a hot bath, trying to soak the week away, when my phone started vibrating like it was possessed.
I answered, water sloshing everywhere. “Hello?”
“My name is Ahmed Osha. I’m looking for Susan Udeze,” the voice on the other end said. And ah! Let me tell you, his voice was something else. It wasn’t a giant’s roar, but it was smooth—like fine wine or perfectly pounded yam. I almost found it calming, but there was a tightness there, a small stress he was trying to hide.
“You’re speaking with her,” I said, my voice all sweet.
“Ah, good evening, Susan. I’m a friend of the Alabis. They said you are the only one who can handle their stubborn children without losing your sanity. I have some late meetings next Thursday, and my regular sitter has vanished into thin air. I was wondering if you could come and watch my boy.”
I shifted in the tub, the water slapping against the sides, and I prayed to God he didn’t hear it. “Well, I usually use Thursday and Friday nights to recover from the week’s madness,” I said, “but it sounds like you need assistance.”
“I really am in a tight corner,” he said, the relief dripping from his voice. “I’m afraid I can’t even offer you extra money or anything…”
“Don’t even worry yourself, sir,” I cut in, my voice sweet as ripe mango. “It is not a problem at all. I would be happy to come and handle your boy.”
“God bless you,” he said, and I could practically hear the weight lifting from his shoulders. “His name is Tope, he’s three, and he’s a strong-headed boy. I will need you from five o’clock until… well, until God knows when. It will be late.”
“By your side, sir,” I said, as if I wasn’t already calculating the Naira in my head. I took down his address. It was on the other side of town, but I was sure I could sweet-talk my mom into being my personal driver.
*
Friday rolled around. After a long day at the university, I went home to change. I had worn a fine, flirty skirt that day, but the thought of chasing a three-year-old demon in it made me change my mind. That one could be running up and down like a goat on fire. Instead, I squeezed into my favourite pair of jeans—the dark blue ones that clung to my backside like a second skin—and a tight blue top that showed just a little something.
Let’s be clear, I wasn’t going there to shake nyash for any married man. But a girl likes to feel fine, even if her only company is a toddler who picks his nose. My social life was a desert because I was always nursing other people’s children, but honestly, it saved me from the foolishness my friends called dating. Most of the guys in my class were as interesting as a plate of cold eba, anyway.
Let me be honest—there was a reason I put in that little extra effort. I would never confess this kind of truth to my friends, but fuck, I found most of the married men I babysat for infinitely more appealing than the boys in my class.
These were men in their late twenties and thirties, who actually had their shit together, not boys who still smelled of teenage foolishness and cheap cologne. Let’s just say, on more than one lonely night, the memory of one of those daddies was the main event while my fingers did the work under the covers.
Now, I didn’t know what to expect from this Mr. Osha. The Alabis who referred me are firmly in their forties, so I figured he might be an older, proper uncle. But still, a girl must be prepared. My t-shirt was hugging my breasts like a second skin, thanks to a push-up bra that was doing the Lord’s work and presenting my chest like a perfect offering.
It’s not like I’m fat, but thank God I skipped the whole “flat stomach” obsession my friends have. All that starving? For what? My stomach is soft, but it’s the goddamn price of admission for these killer hips and this butt that doesn’t quit. I wasn’t about to sacrifice these African curves for anything.
After slapping on just enough makeup to look like I wasn’t trying and brushing my hair, I grabbed my backpack and went to beg my mom for a ride.
*
My mom dropped me off at quarter to four. I marched up the road, sizing up the place. The house was sitting in a proper “big man” neighborhood—fresh paint, well-trimmed hedges, the whole show. I pressed the bell and prepared my professional smile.
The door swung open and… Jesus Christ. This was not the old, stressed-out papa I had pictured. The man standing there was fine—fresh out of the oven, early-thirties fine. He was tall, standing like an iroko tree, with a build that said actually paid his dues in the gym. His deep eyes had a slight, frazzled panic, and his expensive suit looked like it had been through a war with a toddler.
“Mr. Osha?” I asked, my voice a little too sweet.
“Yes! You must be Susan?” he said, flashing a smile that could make a nun forget her prayers.
“The one and only,” I said, grinning back. I turned to wave off my mom, who was still parked at the road like a secret service agent, making sure this fine man wasn’t a kidnapper. Mr. Osha ushered me inside, his hand a gentleman’s brush on my lower back. “Let me take your jacket.”
I handed it over, my eyes doing a quick, judgy scan of the house. The place was nice, I’ll give him that, but it looked like a toy bomb had detonated in the parlour. Little cars and plastic animals were scattered everywhere, and from the next room, I could hear the annoying jingle of some children’s show blaring from the TV.
“Please, just ignore this disaster,” Mr. Osha said, coming back without my jacket. He ran a hand on his head, and God, even that was attractive. “The househelp chose today of all days to travel to the village.”
“Don’t worry yourself, sir,” I said, flashing my best smile. “This is nothing. I’ve seen worse.”
“No, it’s a proper embarrassment,” he insisted, giving me an apologetic grin that made my knees feel a little weak. I grinned back like a fool. This man was fine, sha. Like, “break the internet” fine. I was suddenly very grateful I had squeezed into these jeans and worn my push-up bra. My mind, being the useless traitor it is, instantly flashed an image of what his muscular arms would feel like wrapped around a woman in bed.
My X-rated thoughts were shattered by a small tornado rushing into the hallway. Mr. Osha turned and swept the boy up with a deep, fatherly laugh that did things to my insides.
“This one is Tope,” he announced. Tope peeked at me with those big, liquid-dark eyes—a perfect copy of his father’s. He had a stubborn smudge of chocolate or maybe dirt right on his cheek. His father wiped it away with his thumb, so tenderly my heart did a small flip.
“Hey there, Tope,” I cooed, putting on my baby-voice. “I’m Aunty Susan. We’re going to have so much fun tonight.”
“Tope, greet Aunty Susan now,” Mr Osha nudged, his voice firm but gentle.
“Hi,” the boy mumbled, before wriggling out of his father’s grasp and darting back to his cartoons, leaving me alone with the man who was single-handedly ruining my professional composure.
“Ah, this meeting won’t prepare itself,” he said, straightening his tie. “You won’t mind starting your duty with this small terrorist?”
“Not at all,” I said, my voice sweeter than a ripe mango. “That is why you called me, abi?” I marched into the living room and planted myself on the couch. Tope looked up from where he was trying to crash his toy cars on the floor. I gave him my best ‘fun aunty’ smile, and the small boy stood up, gathered his toys, and waddled over.
“You want to play?” he asked, his voice small.
By the time Mr Fine-Father poked his head in to say he was vanishing, Tope and I were deep in a serious car race. The boy didn’t even shed a single tear when his daddy left. Thank God! These small children can turn into professional wailers when their parents go, but this one was a soldier.
He was a good boy, honestly. And his mouth was never quiet! We played until my stomach started singing hymns, so I declared it was time to attack the kitchen. As he was shovelling rice and stew into his mouth, Tope started giving me the full gist about his mama. I wasn’t shocked to hear the parents had divorced—na today?
But my jaw nearly hit the floor hearing how much detail this small boy knew. He just said, “Mummy, just take her bag and go,” like he was commenting on the weather. These children are like small recorders; they hear and see everything. My heart broke for the poor pickin, so I gave him an extra, generous scoop of ice cream for dessert. The boy has suffered enough.
Buy Oniranu Books on Selar.co from anywhere in the world
This post has already been read 2347 times!
