Title: How I Snatch my OGA from my MADAM 💦🍆💦😜😜
Episode 1: From Village Dust to City Light
My name is Lovina. This story begins many years earlier. If you see me on the street now, you will understand why people say God took extra time when He created me. My skin is smooth and always looks fresh. My figure is the kind that makes heads turn: full chest, full hips, tiny waist. Even women look at me twice. Men sometimes forget where they are going. But beauty does not pay school fees, and it does not put food on the table.
I was born in a small village not far from Owerri in Imo State. It was the kind of village where everyone knows everyone else. You could leave your door open all day and nobody would touch anything. Our house was built with mud bricks and had a zinc roof that made a lot of noise whenever it rained. Electricity was rare, so we used lanterns and torches at night.
My father, Ezekiel, was a farmer. He had a small piece of land where he planted yam, cassava, and vegetables. My mother, Comfort, sold tomatoes, pepper, okra, and bitter-leaf in the local market. Sometimes she travelled to Aba to sell in the bigger market. We were not rich, but we were happy. Every evening we sat together in front of the house. My father told us old folktales about the clever tortoise. My mother laughed and added her own parts to the story. Those evenings were sweet.
I was their only child, so they loved me very much. Whatever little they had, they gave to me. I started primary school when I was five. The school was close to our house, so I walked there every morning with my small slate and piece of chalk. My uniform was a blue pinafore and white shirt. Sometimes the shirt had turned yellowish because we did not have enough soap, but I did not mind. I loved school. I loved reading and writing. My class teacher, Madam Ngozi, always said I was very clever. She told me that if I continued like this, I would go to university one day and become a big woman. At that time, I believed her.
Secondary school was harder. Money became tight. One year the rain was too much and flood destroyed most of my father’s crops. Then my mother fell sick with high blood pressure. The money for medicine finished everything we had. Still, we managed. I entered Junior Secondary School with a second-hand uniform that was too big for me. I held the skirt together with safety pins. But I kept doing well in class. Teachers liked me. Classmates liked me. I usually came first or second in exams.
By the time I was in SS2, everything fell apart. One Saturday my parents went to the market to buy goods. They entered an old danfo bus. The driver had been drinking. On the way home, the bus had a terrible accident with a trailer carrying cement. The bus turned over several times. My father and mother died that day, along with everyone else in the bus.
For three days I cried until there were no more tears. People from the village came to the house with small money, food, and clothes. But after one week, life went back to normal for them. For me, everything had ended. The house became too quiet. No more stories from my father. No more singing from my mother while she cooked. Only silence.
My mother’s younger sister, Aunty Blessing, came and took me to Lagos. She was a nurse in a small clinic in Ajegunle. She had two children and her husband drove a commercial bus. Their home was a single room in a face-me-I-face-you compound. When I arrived, they spread a mat on the parlour floor for me. That mat became my bed for many years.
Life in Lagos was much harder than the village. Aunty Blessing left for work at 5 a.m. and returned after 9 p.m., completely tired. Uncle Emma also drove from morning till night. Their children attended a public school. I managed to finish SS3. My WAEC results were very good: five credits including English and Mathematics. But university was impossible. There was no money. Aunty Blessing said she could not afford it. Uncle Emma said house rent alone was killing them. So I started looking for any small job.
I sold pure water in traffic. The sun nearly roasted me. I sold oranges in Balogun market. The basket was too heavy. I helped a woman fry akara at a bus stop. Every evening I came home with body pain and maybe 800 or 1,000 naira. It was never enough. Slowly, my dream of university died.
One evening, after washing plates, I sat outside the compound looking at the road. Many thoughts filled my head. “Lovina, what will you become in this life? You are beautiful, yes, but beauty cannot pay school fees. Beauty cannot give you a better tomorrow.” Tears fell without stopping.
That same week, a woman who was a friend of my aunty came to visit. Her name was Sister Chioma. She was married to a man who owned a big shop in Idumota. They had three children and a beautiful house in Ikeja GRA. Sister Chioma told my aunty that her friend was looking for a house-help who would live in and assist the madam with housework. The girl had to know how to cook a little, wash clothes, and be respectful.
My aunty did not think twice. She turned to me and said, “Lovina, this is your chance. You will go and stay in their house. The work is not too hard. You will eat good food, sleep in a good place, and they will pay you every month. At least you can save money and maybe later learn a trade or continue your education.”
I did not want to go. I still had a little pride. I did not want to become a house-help. But when I looked at the single room where five of us slept like sardines, when I remembered that I had no parents and no money, I kept quiet. I just nodded.
Two days later, Sister Chioma came back for me. She bought a new travelling bag. I packed my few clothes: three skirts, four tops, one pair of bathroom slippers, and the small Bible my mother gave me before she died. That Bible was the only thing I had left from my parents.
When we reached the house in Ikeja GRA, my mouth fell open. There was a big gate with a security man. Flowers everywhere. The compound was bigger than my whole village primary school. The house had an upstairs and downstairs. The tiles shone like mirrors. The television was bigger than anything I had ever seen. The madam, Mrs. Grace Akachi, welcomed me with a warm smile. She was a beautiful light-skinned woman who wore plenty of gold jewellery. She had three children: two boys and one girl, all in primary school. Her husband, Mr. Emeka Akachi, was tall, dark, and handsome with a neat beard. He wore expensive clothes and shoes that probably cost more than my uncle’s one-month salary.
Madam Grace showed me to my room in the boys’ quarters. It had a bed, a fan, a wardrobe, and even its own toilet and bathroom. I had never slept in such a comfortable place in my life. She gave me two new uniforms: blue skirt, white shirt, and apron. She spoke gently:
“Lovina, welcome to our home. Here you will help me cook, wash clothes, clean the house, bathe the children, and sometimes take them to school when I am busy. We will treat you like family. Just do your work well and be respectful.”
I just kept nodding. My heart was beating fast. I did not know whether to be happy or afraid. But deep inside, I knew this was a new beginning. From a mud house in the village to a mansion in Ikeja. From sleeping on the floor to sleeping on a real bed. From eating garri every day to eating rice and chicken.
That night, I knelt beside my new bed, opened my small Bible, and prayed:
“God, thank you for bringing me here. I know I have nobody left in this world, but You are my Father. Let this place be good for me. Open doors that no one can close. And please, one day, let me go to university. Amen.”
I did not know that prayer would open doors, but doors that would later bring fire, temptation, and many tears.
That is how my journey started. From an orphan in the village to a live-in house-help in the city. From Lovina who had no tomorrow to Lovina that men would soon start chasing.
But that is a story for another day.
This was only the beginning.
Ime ✍️To be continue....🤩🤩
@top fans share guys to get to more people #storytelling #love #episode #africanfolktales #story #fblifestyle #goviral
Episode 1: From Village Dust to City Light
My name is Lovina. This story begins many years earlier. If you see me on the street now, you will understand why people say God took extra time when He created me. My skin is smooth and always looks fresh. My figure is the kind that makes heads turn: full chest, full hips, tiny waist. Even women look at me twice. Men sometimes forget where they are going. But beauty does not pay school fees, and it does not put food on the table.
I was born in a small village not far from Owerri in Imo State. It was the kind of village where everyone knows everyone else. You could leave your door open all day and nobody would touch anything. Our house was built with mud bricks and had a zinc roof that made a lot of noise whenever it rained. Electricity was rare, so we used lanterns and torches at night.
My father, Ezekiel, was a farmer. He had a small piece of land where he planted yam, cassava, and vegetables. My mother, Comfort, sold tomatoes, pepper, okra, and bitter-leaf in the local market. Sometimes she travelled to Aba to sell in the bigger market. We were not rich, but we were happy. Every evening we sat together in front of the house. My father told us old folktales about the clever tortoise. My mother laughed and added her own parts to the story. Those evenings were sweet.
I was their only child, so they loved me very much. Whatever little they had, they gave to me. I started primary school when I was five. The school was close to our house, so I walked there every morning with my small slate and piece of chalk. My uniform was a blue pinafore and white shirt. Sometimes the shirt had turned yellowish because we did not have enough soap, but I did not mind. I loved school. I loved reading and writing. My class teacher, Madam Ngozi, always said I was very clever. She told me that if I continued like this, I would go to university one day and become a big woman. At that time, I believed her.
Secondary school was harder. Money became tight. One year the rain was too much and flood destroyed most of my father’s crops. Then my mother fell sick with high blood pressure. The money for medicine finished everything we had. Still, we managed. I entered Junior Secondary School with a second-hand uniform that was too big for me. I held the skirt together with safety pins. But I kept doing well in class. Teachers liked me. Classmates liked me. I usually came first or second in exams.
By the time I was in SS2, everything fell apart. One Saturday my parents went to the market to buy goods. They entered an old danfo bus. The driver had been drinking. On the way home, the bus had a terrible accident with a trailer carrying cement. The bus turned over several times. My father and mother died that day, along with everyone else in the bus.
For three days I cried until there were no more tears. People from the village came to the house with small money, food, and clothes. But after one week, life went back to normal for them. For me, everything had ended. The house became too quiet. No more stories from my father. No more singing from my mother while she cooked. Only silence.
My mother’s younger sister, Aunty Blessing, came and took me to Lagos. She was a nurse in a small clinic in Ajegunle. She had two children and her husband drove a commercial bus. Their home was a single room in a face-me-I-face-you compound. When I arrived, they spread a mat on the parlour floor for me. That mat became my bed for many years.
Life in Lagos was much harder than the village. Aunty Blessing left for work at 5 a.m. and returned after 9 p.m., completely tired. Uncle Emma also drove from morning till night. Their children attended a public school. I managed to finish SS3. My WAEC results were very good: five credits including English and Mathematics. But university was impossible. There was no money. Aunty Blessing said she could not afford it. Uncle Emma said house rent alone was killing them. So I started looking for any small job.
I sold pure water in traffic. The sun nearly roasted me. I sold oranges in Balogun market. The basket was too heavy. I helped a woman fry akara at a bus stop. Every evening I came home with body pain and maybe 800 or 1,000 naira. It was never enough. Slowly, my dream of university died.
One evening, after washing plates, I sat outside the compound looking at the road. Many thoughts filled my head. “Lovina, what will you become in this life? You are beautiful, yes, but beauty cannot pay school fees. Beauty cannot give you a better tomorrow.” Tears fell without stopping.
That same week, a woman who was a friend of my aunty came to visit. Her name was Sister Chioma. She was married to a man who owned a big shop in Idumota. They had three children and a beautiful house in Ikeja GRA. Sister Chioma told my aunty that her friend was looking for a house-help who would live in and assist the madam with housework. The girl had to know how to cook a little, wash clothes, and be respectful.
My aunty did not think twice. She turned to me and said, “Lovina, this is your chance. You will go and stay in their house. The work is not too hard. You will eat good food, sleep in a good place, and they will pay you every month. At least you can save money and maybe later learn a trade or continue your education.”
I did not want to go. I still had a little pride. I did not want to become a house-help. But when I looked at the single room where five of us slept like sardines, when I remembered that I had no parents and no money, I kept quiet. I just nodded.
Two days later, Sister Chioma came back for me. She bought a new travelling bag. I packed my few clothes: three skirts, four tops, one pair of bathroom slippers, and the small Bible my mother gave me before she died. That Bible was the only thing I had left from my parents.
When we reached the house in Ikeja GRA, my mouth fell open. There was a big gate with a security man. Flowers everywhere. The compound was bigger than my whole village primary school. The house had an upstairs and downstairs. The tiles shone like mirrors. The television was bigger than anything I had ever seen. The madam, Mrs. Grace Akachi, welcomed me with a warm smile. She was a beautiful light-skinned woman who wore plenty of gold jewellery. She had three children: two boys and one girl, all in primary school. Her husband, Mr. Emeka Akachi, was tall, dark, and handsome with a neat beard. He wore expensive clothes and shoes that probably cost more than my uncle’s one-month salary.
Madam Grace showed me to my room in the boys’ quarters. It had a bed, a fan, a wardrobe, and even its own toilet and bathroom. I had never slept in such a comfortable place in my life. She gave me two new uniforms: blue skirt, white shirt, and apron. She spoke gently:
“Lovina, welcome to our home. Here you will help me cook, wash clothes, clean the house, bathe the children, and sometimes take them to school when I am busy. We will treat you like family. Just do your work well and be respectful.”
I just kept nodding. My heart was beating fast. I did not know whether to be happy or afraid. But deep inside, I knew this was a new beginning. From a mud house in the village to a mansion in Ikeja. From sleeping on the floor to sleeping on a real bed. From eating garri every day to eating rice and chicken.
That night, I knelt beside my new bed, opened my small Bible, and prayed:
“God, thank you for bringing me here. I know I have nobody left in this world, but You are my Father. Let this place be good for me. Open doors that no one can close. And please, one day, let me go to university. Amen.”
I did not know that prayer would open doors, but doors that would later bring fire, temptation, and many tears.
That is how my journey started. From an orphan in the village to a live-in house-help in the city. From Lovina who had no tomorrow to Lovina that men would soon start chasing.
But that is a story for another day.
This was only the beginning.
Ime ✍️To be continue....🤩🤩
@top fans share guys to get to more people #storytelling #love #episode #africanfolktales #story #fblifestyle #goviral
Topic Live
