I carried a meal to work one day, and Josh, a colleague in my office, joined me to eat it. He asked where I had bought the food from. I didn’t answer because I didn’t know why he was asking that question, whether he was enjoying the food or judging the cooking skills of the person who made it.

He asked again, and I asked why he was asking me that question.

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He answered, “I love it. I’ve never eaten jollof this sweet before. The chicken, how did you do it?”

All of a sudden, I felt this surge of pride climbing over my chest like little bubbles. No one had ever said anything like that about my meals. Not my husband. Not my friends, and not even my kids at home. I thanked him for his kind words. He thanked me for the food and asked me to bring food more often.

So I would wake up at dawn and make fresh meals. I took my time. I made them with extra care. I measured everything so they would taste exactly how I wanted them to taste. I would leave some of the food for my husband, and he treated it as business as usual. Sometimes he would ask me why I was wasting my sleeping time just to cook.

“How much is lunch at your workplace that you can’t sleep?”

But Josh would eat and thank me as though I had given him water in the desert. To reciprocate, he came to work with gifts for me, especially on Mondays. Later, he would give me money and tell me what he wanted me to cook and bring to work. Not long afterwards, he requested stews and soups in large quantities that he could eat for at least a week. He was paying me good money for my effort.

I did this for months, but my husband never asked me why, nor did he ask where I was taking all that food to. One evening, I told him myself that I was cooking meals to sell to my colleagues at work. First, he questioned why they would buy food from me. He said it condescendingly, as if to say they didn’t know what to use their money for. Then he told me I shouldn’t use the gas he had bought with his money to run a commercial business.

So I told Josh, “Instead of cooking and bringing it to you here, why don’t you let me come over to your place and do it for you? Or will your wife beat me?”

He laughed. He said if he had a wife and still needed me to cook for him, he would have divorced that wife. He asked if it wouldn’t be a problem at home if my husband found out. Then he said I could come over if I wanted to.

Josh was one level above me at work, but he related to me as though I was at his level. Even before he ate my food, we were very good friends. He would comment on my status, and I would comment on his. He was the only colleague at work that I engaged with outside of work. When he said I could come to his place and do the cooking, I didn’t get the chance until one day when he pleaded with me to come over because he was going to have visitors.

He threw money at me without counting it.

“If it’s not enough, let me know. I’ll add more.”

So on Saturday morning, I went to his place carrying everything I’d bought to prepare the meals. He was all over the place, helping me set up the fire in the coal pot, fanning the fire while I stirred the banku. He washed the dishes and mopped the floor until it was spotless, as if he was going to serve the food on the floor.

That was when a feeling started growing in me. It felt like I belonged in his house. He looked like my husband, and I looked like his wife. When I was finally leaving his place, I told myself it was a bad idea and that I wasn’t going to repeat it. He came to work and made me read all the messages his friends had sent after eating the food, and my head swelled.

Then he asked me to come over again, and I rushed to his place, not knowing I was rushing into danger. That day everything went wrong right from the start. It happened in his kitchen. It was so unexpected but also exhilarating. Instead of picking tomatoes, I ended up picking my panty from the floor after the action. I cooked with guilt and seasoned his food with shame. When I was leaving, I couldn’t look him in the face. Worst of all, I thought about how I was going to face my husband after what had happened.

We met at work. We talked about it extensively, and he promised it wasn’t going to happen again. I told him, “Yes, it’s not going to happen again because that was my last time being there.”

He eventually understood my point and told me to deliver the food the way I used to. I stopped delivering food altogether. Even the food I brought to work for us to eat, I stopped bringing. After almost a year, we are back to being colleagues again, but we hardly smile at each other. What happened destroyed us and also threw explosives into my marriage.

For a very long time, I avoided my husband. I gave him excuses. It became a huge fight between us before I allowed him to touch me, just to keep the peace. Today, I have no joy in intimacy. Whenever we are together, I get flashes of what happened in the kitchen. It scares me so much that I lose focus on what’s happening. I feel that one day he will find out somehow, and our marriage will come to an end.

Who Would You Choose, A Rich Man Or A Man Who’s Good In Bed?

Just yesterday, I thought of confessing my sin and hoping he would forgive me and also set me free from this artificial frigidity I’m living with because of my sin. I needed to tell someone to help release the burden.

Here, I just did.

Hopefully, the weight becomes lighter, and I find myself again.

—Emelia 

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