I lost my job recently. Now my days are long and empty at home. My husband, Deji, works late most nights. Lagos traffic makes it worse. Sometimes he comes home in the middle of the day to surprise me. But most days, I am alone.

My life became boring. Every day, I sweep the sitting room. I boil water for my bread and tea. I look for jobs on my phone. Sometimes I watch old films to pass the time.

Then one Thursday morning, everything changed.

The sun was very hot. I was outside hanging my clothes on the line. My new neighbour, Sodiq, started talking to me. He and his wife moved in a few months ago. We had said “Good evening” before, but we never really spoke.

He is in his early thirties. He has no beard. He has a quiet confidence that some Yoruba men have naturally. We talked for about twenty minutes by the fence. Then he said goodbye and went back to his gate.

Then there was silence.

The moment he disappeared behind his door, the compound felt empty. Very empty. The laundry basket was still half full. The sun was still hot. A neighbour’s child was crying somewhere. But I didn’t hear any of it.

I stood by the clothesline for a full minute. I just stared at his closed gate. Then I picked up my basket and went inside.

The house felt like it swallowed me.

There was no Deji. No children. No house help on Thursdays. Only the ceiling fan spinning slowly. Only the sound of the refrigerator. And my thoughts, growing louder and louder.

I dropped the basket on the dining table. I did not fold the clothes. I did not turn on the TV. I just stood in the middle of the sitting room. I could still feel his handshake on my palm. The quiet was heavy around me. No one would come. No one would knock. No one would know.

That was when the emptiness I had carried for months came to the surface.

It was not just boredom. It was deeper. A hollow feeling in my chest. It had been growing since Deji started coming home after 10 p.m. He was always too tired to talk. When we lay in bed, he turned away from me. He mumbled about morning meetings and fuel queues. I could not remember the last time we made love. Six months? Eight? I stopped counting because counting hurt too much.

I tried. I bought sexy nightwear and lingerie for him just so he notices me. I cooked his favourite soup. I sat beside him on the sofa, hoping he would notice me. But he only looked at his phone. He looked at the news. He looked at anything but me. At night, I lay awake listening to him snore. My body ached for a touch that never came. Once, I reached for him. I put my hand on his chest. He gently moved it away. “Not tonight, dear. I’m tired.”

Those words repeated in my head like a curse. Not tonight. Not tonight. Not tonight.

So I learned to hide my longing. I pushed it down with housework and job applications and long naps. I pretended I did not wake up some mornings already feeling the weight of another lonely day on my chest.

But now, standing in that quiet room after talking to Sodiq, the longing came back strongly.

Because for twenty minutes, a man had looked at me. Truly looked at me. He listened when I spoke. He laughed at my small jokes. He stood close enough that I could smell his cologne – something clean and expensive. For those twenty minutes, the hollow place inside me felt smaller. Almost full.

Now he was gone, and the emptiness was worse than before.

I sat on the sofa. I pressed my palms together. I tried to steady my breathing. He is a neighbour, I told myself. A married neighbour. You are being foolish. You are lonely, but not desperate.

But my body did not care about logic.

I felt heat on my neck. A familiar ache between my thighs. I had learned to ignore it. But today, I could not. My fingers trembled as I tucked my hair behind my ear. I tried to think of Deji. Of our wedding day. Of our vows. I tried to think of Sodiq’s wife – the sweet woman who waved at me from her kitchen window.

Stop it, I commanded myself. Get up. Fold the laundry. Call your sister. Do something.

But I did not move.

My mind screamed no. My body whispered yes. I thought about going to the bedroom to lie down. Just to rest. Just to close my eyes. But I knew what would happen if I did. I could already feel the pull. The ache. The familiar giving in.

I fought it.

I stood up. Walked to the kitchen. Drank a glass of water. Sat back down. Folded one towel. Unfolded it. Folded it again.

But the thoughts would not leave.

What if he held you? What if he pushed you against the wall? What if he said your name the way his voice dropped when he said, “You look well today”?

I squeezed my eyes shut. I pressed my thighs together. I gripped the arm of the sofa until my knuckles turned white.

No. No. No.

But the emptiness was too loud. The months of rejection. The cold sheets. The nights I cried into my pillow while Deji slept beside me. I had started to feel invisible. Not just to the world, but to the one man who promised to see me forever.

Sodiq had seen me. For twenty minutes, I was not invisible. That glimpse of being seen broke something open inside me.

I gave in.

I went to the bedroom. I pulled down my wrapper and lay on the bed. The sheets still smelled like morning. I closed my eyes, and Sodiq was there. His smile. The way he leaned on the fence. The way his voice dipped.

I imagined his hands on me. How he would unhook my bra. How his accent would get thicker when he whispered. I imagined him filling every empty space inside me – the loneliness, the neglect, the hunger that Deji had left starving.

My hands began to move on their own. I touched my thighs first. Slowly. Gently. I imagined it was his hands. I moved my fingers higher. I caressed my stomach. I felt the heat building inside me. My hands found my breasts. I squeezed them softly. I imagined his lips there. His tongue. I moaned quietly.

My body was burning. I moved one hand down. Down to my private parts. I touched myself there. I imagined it was him. I imagined him entering me. Filling me. Completing me.

My hips moved to the fantasy. In that empty house, with no one to hear me, when the waves finally took me, I reached my orgasm. I trembled harder than I had in years.

Afterwards, I lay still and stared at the ceiling. The silence returned. No footsteps. No doorbell. No proof of what I had just done.

But something had changed.

Because even in my own imagination, Sodiq reached a part of me that my own husband had abandoned. For those few seconds of release, the hollow place inside me felt completely, dangerously full.

I was still alone.

But now I knew what I was missing.

And that knowledge terrified me.

The next morning, Deji left for work as usual. He kissed my forehead quickly – the way you kiss a child – and walked out the door without looking back.

I sat at the dining table, staring at my cold tea. The emptiness was already pressing on my chest. Another long day ahead. Another day of silence. Another day of pretending I was fine.

Then the doorbell rang.

My heart jumped. I did not know why. I stood up slowly and walked to the door. I was still in my old Ankara dressing gown – the one with the faded flowers. I had not even brushed my hair.

I opened the door.

There stood Sodiq.

He was wearing a simple polo shirt and jeans. His hair was slightly messy. He looked nervous. He was holding a small bowl.

“Morning, ma,” he said with a shy smile. “Please, can I borrow some sugar?”

I almost laughed. Such a simple excuse. Such an old cliché. But I did not laugh. Instead, I stepped aside.

“Come in,” I said.

He walked past me into the sitting room. I closed the door. The click of the lock sounded very loud in the silence.

“Please, sit,” I said. “I will get the sugar.”

I went to the kitchen. My hands were shaking as I opened the cupboard. I could feel him watching me. I could feel his eyes on my back.

I brought the sugar to him. He was sitting on my sofa, looking around at my home. At the family photos. At the wedding picture of me and Deji. At the small things that made up my life.

“Thank you,” he said. But he did not stand up. He did not take the sugar.

He looked at me instead. His eyes were sad. Heavy.

“I did not really come for sugar,” he admitted softly.

I sat down on the chair across from him. My heart was beating fast. I did not know what to say.

He leaned forward. His hands were clasped together. He looked like a man carrying a heavy load.

“I have been thinking about you,” he said. “Since yesterday. Since we talked by the fence. I could not sleep last night. I kept thinking about your smile. Your laugh. The way you listened to me.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“Sodiq,” I whispered. “We are both married.”

“I know,” he said. “I know. But Abike – I need to tell you something. Something I have never told anyone.”

He paused. He looked down at his hands. When he looked up again, his eyes were wet.

“My wife… she does not see me anymore,” he said. “She is always working. Always on her phone. She leaves early and comes home late. When she is here, her mind is somewhere else.”

I knew those words. I lived those words.

“On weekends, she takes the children to her mother’s house. She says she needs space. She says I am too clingy. So I stay home alone. I cook. I clean. I wait.”

He laughed bitterly.

“I am a married man, but I feel like a house boy. I take care of the children when she is busy. I bathe them. I feed them. I put them to bed.”

Tears fell down his face as he wiped them roughly.

“I should not be telling you this,” he said. “We barely know each other.”

But I knew exactly what he felt. I was living the same nightmare.

“Sodiq,” I said softly. “I understand.”

He looked up, surprised.

“My husband… Deji… he does the same,” I continued. “He comes home late. He is too tired or busy to even notice me.”

Now I was crying too. We sat there, two strangers crying together. Two lonely people who had found each other.

Sodiq reached out. His hand covered mine. His fingers were warm.

“Do you think about me?” he asked softly. “When you are alone? When your husband is not there?”

I looked at our hands. I knew the right answer. But I was tired of pretending.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I think about you.”

His thumb moved across my palm. My whole body trembled.

“I have thought about you every day,” he said. “I watch your house from my window. I know it is wrong. But I cannot stop.”

He stood up. He pulled me to my feet. We were standing face to face. His breath on my cheek. His eyes searching mine.

But I did not say anything.

Instead, I stepped closer. I closed the space between us. I reached up and touched his face. His skin was warm. A tear was still wet on his cheek. I buried my face in his chest. I could hear his heart beating fast. I could feel his hands on my back.

We looked at each other like two people hungry for each other.

And in that moment, I knew there was no going back. I knew I was about to destroy everything I had built. But I did not care.

Because for the first time in years, I felt alive.

And now my greatest temptation and fear was about to happen and I knew there won’t be a going back…

CONTINUE IN NEXT CHAPTER