THE AFFAIR AT NO 12
PART 7
A strange new normal settled over the mansion. It was a life of sharp, thrilling contrasts. By day, Adaora was the picture of Lekki grace—hosting a small committee meeting for a children’s hospital fundraiser, her smile polite, her comments thoughtful. By night, or in stolen afternoon hours, she was Michael’s secret, a creature of whispered instructions and shuddering release.
The secret phone buzzed with a new kind of message one humid Thursday afternoon. Not a location or a time, but a command: “Wear the green wrapper. The one from the party. Be in the garden gazebo at 4.”
The green wrapper was a two-piece iro and buba made of exquisite Italian silk, patterned with gold thread. She had worn it once to a governor’s wedding, and Emeka had said it made her look like a queen. The memory of his comment felt like a betrayal as she carefully tied the gele around her head, the fabric cool and heavy in her hands. She was dressing up for another man.
The gazebo was a white, open-sided structure draped in purple bougainvillea, set away from the main house. At 4 PM, the sun was a golden blanket. Mary was at the market. Chidi was washing the cars by the front gate. The old gateman was dozing. The garden was a private kingdom.
Michael was already there. He wasn’t in his uniform. He wore dark jeans and a simple, clean white t-shirt that made his skin glow like polished teak. He looked less like staff and more like a king of the shadows who had stepped into the light. In his hands was a small, plain paper bag.
“You came,” he said, his voice warm. His eyes drank her in, the elegant traditional wear, the regal gele. “You look… like a goddess they keep in a cage.”
The words stole her breath. Emeka called her a queen. Michael saw the cage.
“What is this?” she asked, nodding to the bag, her heart doing a nervous pirouette.
“A gift,” he said simply. He stepped closer. “He gives you diamonds from a store. I give you things that mean something.”
From the bag, he pulled out two items. The first was a simple bracelet, not of gold or diamonds, but of dark, polished wooden beads interspersed with tiny, rough-hewn amber stones. It was beautiful in its earthy simplicity.
“It’s from my village,” he said, taking her wrist. His fingers were warm and sure as he fastened the clasp. “The wood is iroko. Strong. The amber… it’s for protection.” He looked up, his eyes holding hers. “You need protection from this… from us.”
The weight of the beads on her wrist felt more significant than any platinum. It was a token from his world, a world of strength and spirit, tied to her skin.
“And this?” she whispered, pointing to the second item—a small, vibrant red hibiscus flower, freshly picked.
A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. He stepped so close she could feel the heat from his body through the thin silk of her buba. “This,” he murmured, tucking the flower behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheek, “is for now.”
Then his mouth was on hers. This kiss was different. It was not the hungry, desperate claiming of the library or the midnight mirror. It was deeper, slower, a savoring. It tasted like promise and sweet, slow ruin. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her jawline as he kissed her with a tenderness that unraveled her completely.
He guided her gently to the padded bench inside the gazebo. The bougainvillea created a dappled, private canopy. He didn’t rush. He untied her gele with a reverence that felt like a ritual, letting the fabric slither to the floor. He kissed the exposed column of her neck.
“Michael…” she breathed.
“Shhh,” he whispered against her skin, his hands moving to the knot of her wrapper. “Today is slow. Today is a gift.”
And it was. In the golden afternoon light, with the scent of hibiscus and jasmine thick in the air, he worshipped her. He took his time exploring every curve he already knew, finding new ways to make her gasp. He used his mouth, his hands, the rough velvet of his voice whispering in her ear—a mix of English and Yoruba that was more intoxicating than any champagne.
It was spicy not just in its passion, but in its unbearable intimacy. This was not a frantic coupling born of stolen minutes; it was a deliberate, lavish affair. He laid her back on the bench, the silk of her wrapper rustling beneath her. The wooden beads of her new bracelet clicked softly against the wood as she clutched at his shoulders.
When they finally joined, it was with a slow, devastating intensity that made tears spring to her eyes. It felt less like sin and more like a truth she had been waiting her whole life to learn. He moved with a controlled power that drove her to a peak so high and sharp she had to bite into his shoulder to stifle her cry, the taste of salt and cotton on her tongue.
Afterward, they lay tangled on the narrow bench, her expensive silk crumpled beneath them, his simple white shirt discarded on the floor. She played with the wooden beads on her wrist.
“If anyone sees this…” she started.
“They will think it is a fashion,” he finished, his arm a heavy, possessive weight across her stomach. “Only you and I will know what it means.”
It meant she was his. More than in the library, more than in the midnight dark, this afternoon gift in the sunlight sealed it. He had given her a piece of his soul, and she had accepted it.
The recklessness of it was the most addictive part yet. Anyone could have walked into the garden. Mary could have returned early. The gardener could have appeared. But they didn’t. The universe, it seemed, was conspiring in their passion.
As they dressed, he helped her retie her wrapper, his hands expert and intimate. He placed the red hibiscus back in her hair. “Keep it,” he said. “Until it wilts.”
She returned to the house floating, the flower behind her ear, the beads heavy on her wrist. She felt marked, branded in the most beautiful way.
That evening, Emeka noticed.
He reached for her wrist during dinner, his fingers brushing the wooden beads. “New piece? It’s… different.”
Every nerve in her body went alert. She smiled, a masterpiece of calm. “Just something I saw at a crafts market. It reminded me of… simpler things.”
Emeka grunted, disinterested. “It’s fine. The green wrapper today was better. You should wear that more. It commands respect.”
Commands respect, she thought later, alone in her bathroom. She looked in the mirror. The hibiscus was wilted now, a crumpled red sigh against her hair. The iroko beads were dark against her skin. Michael’s gifts. She took the flower and pressed it between the pages of her private journal—a secret pressed flat, a memory preserved.
She didn’t command respect. She commanded something wilder, something truer. She commanded a dangerous, charismatic man’s entire attention. And in the quiet of her bathroom, with the ghost of a tropical flower and the weight of village wood on her arm, Adaora knew she would burn down every notion of “respect” she had ever known to keep it.
The affair was no longer an escape. It was her real life. And the beautiful, sterile prison of her marriage was now the dream from which she awoke, desperate and hungry, every single day.
To be continued… #nigeriafolktales #kenyanfolktales #ghanianfolktales #zambianfolktales #ugandanfolktales #gambianfolktales #storytellingtime #viralvideos #explorepage #trendingreel #StorytellingMagic #drambox #storyteller #talesbymoonlight #fypage #fictionalstory #fictionalstorytelling #africanstorytelling #africantales #africanstoryteller #fictionalwritter #fictionalwritter #fypchallengeシ゚viralシfypシ゚viral #africanfolktaleswithmorallessons #storytime #africanfolktales #africastories
PART 7
A strange new normal settled over the mansion. It was a life of sharp, thrilling contrasts. By day, Adaora was the picture of Lekki grace—hosting a small committee meeting for a children’s hospital fundraiser, her smile polite, her comments thoughtful. By night, or in stolen afternoon hours, she was Michael’s secret, a creature of whispered instructions and shuddering release.
The secret phone buzzed with a new kind of message one humid Thursday afternoon. Not a location or a time, but a command: “Wear the green wrapper. The one from the party. Be in the garden gazebo at 4.”
The green wrapper was a two-piece iro and buba made of exquisite Italian silk, patterned with gold thread. She had worn it once to a governor’s wedding, and Emeka had said it made her look like a queen. The memory of his comment felt like a betrayal as she carefully tied the gele around her head, the fabric cool and heavy in her hands. She was dressing up for another man.
The gazebo was a white, open-sided structure draped in purple bougainvillea, set away from the main house. At 4 PM, the sun was a golden blanket. Mary was at the market. Chidi was washing the cars by the front gate. The old gateman was dozing. The garden was a private kingdom.
Michael was already there. He wasn’t in his uniform. He wore dark jeans and a simple, clean white t-shirt that made his skin glow like polished teak. He looked less like staff and more like a king of the shadows who had stepped into the light. In his hands was a small, plain paper bag.
“You came,” he said, his voice warm. His eyes drank her in, the elegant traditional wear, the regal gele. “You look… like a goddess they keep in a cage.”
The words stole her breath. Emeka called her a queen. Michael saw the cage.
“What is this?” she asked, nodding to the bag, her heart doing a nervous pirouette.
“A gift,” he said simply. He stepped closer. “He gives you diamonds from a store. I give you things that mean something.”
From the bag, he pulled out two items. The first was a simple bracelet, not of gold or diamonds, but of dark, polished wooden beads interspersed with tiny, rough-hewn amber stones. It was beautiful in its earthy simplicity.
“It’s from my village,” he said, taking her wrist. His fingers were warm and sure as he fastened the clasp. “The wood is iroko. Strong. The amber… it’s for protection.” He looked up, his eyes holding hers. “You need protection from this… from us.”
The weight of the beads on her wrist felt more significant than any platinum. It was a token from his world, a world of strength and spirit, tied to her skin.
“And this?” she whispered, pointing to the second item—a small, vibrant red hibiscus flower, freshly picked.
A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. He stepped so close she could feel the heat from his body through the thin silk of her buba. “This,” he murmured, tucking the flower behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheek, “is for now.”
Then his mouth was on hers. This kiss was different. It was not the hungry, desperate claiming of the library or the midnight mirror. It was deeper, slower, a savoring. It tasted like promise and sweet, slow ruin. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her jawline as he kissed her with a tenderness that unraveled her completely.
He guided her gently to the padded bench inside the gazebo. The bougainvillea created a dappled, private canopy. He didn’t rush. He untied her gele with a reverence that felt like a ritual, letting the fabric slither to the floor. He kissed the exposed column of her neck.
“Michael…” she breathed.
“Shhh,” he whispered against her skin, his hands moving to the knot of her wrapper. “Today is slow. Today is a gift.”
And it was. In the golden afternoon light, with the scent of hibiscus and jasmine thick in the air, he worshipped her. He took his time exploring every curve he already knew, finding new ways to make her gasp. He used his mouth, his hands, the rough velvet of his voice whispering in her ear—a mix of English and Yoruba that was more intoxicating than any champagne.
It was spicy not just in its passion, but in its unbearable intimacy. This was not a frantic coupling born of stolen minutes; it was a deliberate, lavish affair. He laid her back on the bench, the silk of her wrapper rustling beneath her. The wooden beads of her new bracelet clicked softly against the wood as she clutched at his shoulders.
When they finally joined, it was with a slow, devastating intensity that made tears spring to her eyes. It felt less like sin and more like a truth she had been waiting her whole life to learn. He moved with a controlled power that drove her to a peak so high and sharp she had to bite into his shoulder to stifle her cry, the taste of salt and cotton on her tongue.
Afterward, they lay tangled on the narrow bench, her expensive silk crumpled beneath them, his simple white shirt discarded on the floor. She played with the wooden beads on her wrist.
“If anyone sees this…” she started.
“They will think it is a fashion,” he finished, his arm a heavy, possessive weight across her stomach. “Only you and I will know what it means.”
It meant she was his. More than in the library, more than in the midnight dark, this afternoon gift in the sunlight sealed it. He had given her a piece of his soul, and she had accepted it.
The recklessness of it was the most addictive part yet. Anyone could have walked into the garden. Mary could have returned early. The gardener could have appeared. But they didn’t. The universe, it seemed, was conspiring in their passion.
As they dressed, he helped her retie her wrapper, his hands expert and intimate. He placed the red hibiscus back in her hair. “Keep it,” he said. “Until it wilts.”
She returned to the house floating, the flower behind her ear, the beads heavy on her wrist. She felt marked, branded in the most beautiful way.
That evening, Emeka noticed.
He reached for her wrist during dinner, his fingers brushing the wooden beads. “New piece? It’s… different.”
Every nerve in her body went alert. She smiled, a masterpiece of calm. “Just something I saw at a crafts market. It reminded me of… simpler things.”
Emeka grunted, disinterested. “It’s fine. The green wrapper today was better. You should wear that more. It commands respect.”
Commands respect, she thought later, alone in her bathroom. She looked in the mirror. The hibiscus was wilted now, a crumpled red sigh against her hair. The iroko beads were dark against her skin. Michael’s gifts. She took the flower and pressed it between the pages of her private journal—a secret pressed flat, a memory preserved.
She didn’t command respect. She commanded something wilder, something truer. She commanded a dangerous, charismatic man’s entire attention. And in the quiet of her bathroom, with the ghost of a tropical flower and the weight of village wood on her arm, Adaora knew she would burn down every notion of “respect” she had ever known to keep it.
The affair was no longer an escape. It was her real life. And the beautiful, sterile prison of her marriage was now the dream from which she awoke, desperate and hungry, every single day.
To be continued… #nigeriafolktales #kenyanfolktales #ghanianfolktales #zambianfolktales #ugandanfolktales #gambianfolktales #storytellingtime #viralvideos #explorepage #trendingreel #StorytellingMagic #drambox #storyteller #talesbymoonlight #fypage #fictionalstory #fictionalstorytelling #africanstorytelling #africantales #africanstoryteller #fictionalwritter #fictionalwritter #fypchallengeシ゚viralシfypシ゚viral #africanfolktaleswithmorallessons #storytime #africanfolktales #africastories
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