She was six months pregnant, and she said she wanted fire in her soul. The first time she said it, I didn’t understand her. The second time she said it, she put a little flesh to it: “It’s been a long time since I had any encounter that shook the woman in me.” The third time she said it, she threw it in the air as if she wanted birds to swallow her words: “So won’t I get any man to shake me small? I’m getting rusty.”

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I had heard her, but I wasn’t sure if she was playing or was serious about it. I asked her, “You’ve been saying this every day. Are you really serious about it?” She answered in a whisper, as if there was someone in the office with us and she didn’t want that person to hear, “I swear! I don’t mind. I will even pay him to scratch this itch for me.”

I smiled, still not taking her seriously. I asked what her husband had been doing and why her husband couldn’t do it for her. She told me, “That man hasn’t touched me since I told him I was pregnant. And at this stage I’m in, he’s too small to scratch this itch I’m talking about.”

Every question I asked peeled a layer off her desire. Our office is fully air-conditioned, but she would be sweating. I asked why, and she said it was the fire in her that was burning her to ashes. Every conversation we had centered around her desires. It was all she talked about. If she made a mistake at work and was queried, she’d run to me and whisper, “Why won’t I make mistakes? I’m too starved. I can’t even see anything.”

One early morning, when she had to put a name to her desire, it was my name she mentioned. “Alberto, aren’t you a man? You’re here listening to me every day. You know what I want. Can’t you put yourself forward, or you don’t like pregnant women? I can show you moves ooo.”

I was in the same office with her when she got married four years ago. She was a sight to behold. I fantasized about dating her, but our office treated office romance so badly I had to keep my thoughts in my head until one day she came to the office with her wedding invitations. I was at the wedding. She married a good one. The guy was handsome and well-spoken. When she came to the office, I teased her, “Why did he choose you of all people?”

Four years later, she was asking me to scratch her itch for her. I answered, “I’m a man, but certain wars are beyond me. I don’t encroach on someone else’s property.” She responded, “Just take me as someone you’ve never met. Like someone you don’t know is married. I will pay you if you want. Please try.”

I went home with her voice ringing in my ears—how she looked at me with flirty eyes, how she was almost begging for things I begged from other women. I shook the thought off. I called it Satan’s trap, but that evening she texted. I said, “Are you not sure it’s pregnancy hormones that are pressing you to do this? You’ll regret it ooo.”

One Friday at work, I showed her where I lived, and she said she would come over. She sent me GHC1,000 that Friday and said I should get ready for her the next day. She came, and it happened. I thought she would regret it, but I was the one regretting it. I was scared throughout the encounter. “What if something happens and she collapses? What if the worst happens while at it? How will I explain this?”

By the third time, the fear was nowhere to be found. We were playing naughty even in the office. No, we didn’t go all the way, but enough to call it naughty. This happened until one day she went home and didn’t come to work again. The next time I heard, she had delivered a baby girl. She didn’t call to tell me. I called to congratulate her, but her response wasn’t as exciting as I expected it to be. I was hoping she would come around and call me someday. She never called me again throughout her maternity leave.

She’s back at work, and she’s treating me like a stranger she hates to see. She gives me straight answers with a stern face. She doesn’t want to have any conversation with me unless it’s about work. And when she does, she doesn’t even look at my face. One day I cornered her and asked what was going on. She answered, “Should something be going on?” When I pressed, she lifted her left hand and said, “Let’s not talk about this. I’m not in the mood.”

She plays with everyone around here. She laughs out loud only when the joke is not coming from me. Her smiles turn to frowns once I appear on the scene. At this point, I can rightly say that she hates me, but what did I do? She was the one who pushed it. She even paid me a couple of times until I stopped her from giving me money, so why is she making it look like I forced her into something?

I’m no longer happy in this office because of her, but unless my role is changed, I’m stuck with her in this office. I don’t intend to look for another job. I’m happy here. I’m beginning to hate her, and that’s not a good thing. I’ve regretted what happened between us. I’ve even fasted about it and asked God to forgive me and not count it against me or my next generation.

I Left Him Because He Didn’t Help In The Kitchen

At this point, I should be making a conscious effort to move on, but I live with her. I see her every day. I talk to her every day, even if it’s a forced conversation. How do I move on when the thing I’m trying to move away from sits right next to me every day? How do I move on when the problem I’m moving from knows me by name? Sometimes I see her coming and my heart skips a beat. To fight off the feeling, I replace it with anger—anger with myself for succumbing to such an ungodly arrangement and anger because I feel trapped in a little cubicle with my problem, a problem I should be running from. God, please help.

—Albert   

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