He has a name. He has a big family and also a great reputation in the country. A prominent man by every standard. I went to do my national service at a government agency where he was the head. I met him only once before he invited me to his office. He asked my name, the university I attended, and the department I had been posted to. After giving him all the information, he told me to leave the department I had been posted to and become his research assistant.

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He’s the boss, so you don’t ask questions. He gave me an office within his office. Anyone coming to see him had to pass through my office first. I went to work every morning and did almost nothing, especially when he wasn’t around. He said it was a research role, but there was nothing to research until one day he asked me to join him on a trip. On the way, he told me point-blank that he had brought me into his office because he didn’t want the other men there to harass me. He said he had done it because he was interested in me and wanted me to be his girlfriend.

He didn’t ask me. He told me to be his girlfriend. This was a man older than my father, but he had something my father didn’t have—money. So I said yes to his proposal. Right there, he asked me what I needed in life. He said he was going to take care of me so I would never lack anything. Even when I couldn’t name what I needed, he started listing things.

“Don’t you need to rent your own place?”

“Don’t you need a new phone?”

“After your national service, don’t you want to be posted somewhere your salary can make you a successful woman?”

Those were the kinds of things he promised me. I was only twenty-two. I had come from a home where poverty woke up with us, walked with us throughout the day, and retired to bed with us at night. Everything he mentioned sounded like a melody to my ears.

We spent two days on the trip, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. I came back home with a new phone, and a few days later, he handed me a brand-new laptop. That’s how our relationship started. I didn’t need to go to the office when he wasn’t there, and he wasn’t there most of the time. Instead, I would meet him elsewhere. He would tell me what to do, and he would take care of the rest.

A week before I completed my national service, he took me to an apartment and asked, “Would you like to live here?”

Before I could say yes, he opened the door to an almost fully furnished two-bedroom apartment and said, “This is where you’re going to live. I’ve paid two years’ rent, but don’t worry—we’ll renew it when it expires.”

Some nights, he would come over and spend the night with me. He didn’t ask for much. We would be intimate occasionally, and the rest of the time we would just talk while he told me stories. As time went on, I realized that whenever we were intimate, he would last much longer than usual. I knew that wasn’t his natural stamina. Afterwards, he would tease me, “Did I blow your mind? I don’t want those small boys competing with me.”

One night, while we were being intimate, he suddenly stopped. At first, I thought he was taking a break until I realized he had become heavier. I tapped him.

“Are you sleeping?”

Silence.

I tapped him again before rolling him off me. The way he landed on the bed made my heart race. I shook him while calling his name.

Still silence.

“Eii, what’s happening? Is he dead? Oh God, I’m dead. How am I going to explain this? God, I’m only a child.”

I was crying, shaking him, and begging him to wake up. There was no one else to call. The other people living in the apartment didn’t know a man like him came there. He’s famous, and if they found out, it would be trending in no time. So I called his driver and told him what was happening.

He asked me to check his heartbeat.

“It’s beating!” I screamed.

He said, “Keep shaking him. I’m coming.”

By the time the driver got there, he had opened his eyes but still wasn’t talking. The driver gave him some pills, and a few minutes later, he was talking and even laughing about what had happened. I was shocked. I kept asking if it had happened before, and they both said no. He promised to go for a medical check-up to find out what was wrong with him. From that day on, his presence started to scare me.

I started pushing harder to get a job so I could stand on my own feet and decide my next move before he died on me. It took a while, but a year after my national service, he brought me my appointment letter to start work in another government institution. That was the happiest day of my life—to know I was finally starting a job and would earn my own money.

Before my rent expired, he renewed it for another two years. He called me his safe space and came around more often than he used to. Sometimes, he would ask his driver to pick me up after work, then he would join us later and come home with me.

Not long ago, he collapsed again. I was on top of him when he suddenly went limp. I could see his eyes rolling back. At first, I thought it was because of the intensity of the moment, not realizing he was actually passing out. This time was worse. I was certain he was dead.

I called the driver, and he screamed, “Again? This man will die one day, ooo.”

He sounded frustrated. By the time he got to my place, the man was still unconscious. He helped dress him, and together we carried him to the car. He asked me to stay behind while he rushed him to the hospital. I didn’t know what else to do. I went down on my knees and begged God to save him. I even promised God that if he survived, I would give my life to Him and never go back to the man again.

He spent almost a week in the hospital. After he was discharged, he traveled to the UK and spent close to a month undergoing medical assessments. He called me every day, telling me not to be afraid, that he was fine, and that it wouldn’t happen again. I listened to him, but I was also planning my next move.

The sad thing is that I had come to rely so much on him and his generosity. I have a job now. I can survive without him, but I can’t simply walk away as though he had done nothing for me. The best option is to make him leave me, but from the way I see it, this man isn’t ready to go anywhere. He still comes to my place. He still calls me his safe space and begs me not to leave him.

I told him I wouldn’t be intimate with him unless his driver was standing by. He said I was taking things to the extreme, and I told him, “That’s the only way I can relax enough to be in the mood for anything with you.”

I Called My Girlfriend And Another Man Answered The Phone

So far, so good. Since he came back, things have been fine. He even showed me a doctor’s report saying he was very fit, but I still can’t trust it. I’ve seen him collapse twice. I don’t want it to happen a third time. Before we’re intimate, I pull back the curtains to see if his driver is waiting on the pavement. Sometimes he sees me and flashes his headlights. He’s become part of our relationship—a witness to our intimacy and our guardian. I don’t know for how much longer, but one day it will end. Someday soon.

—Bridget

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