The Allure of Madam Bimpe

I moved into a rented two-bedroom apartment in Ota. The compound was mostly silent, apart from evening generators and morning hawker cries. At the front stood a well-painted duplex owned by Madam Bimpe. Nearly sixty, she still carried herself with youthful confidence. Her smooth skin, curvy figure, and love of gold jewelry made her impossible to ignore. One afternoon, her little daughter knocked on my door. “Madam Bimpe wants to see you,” she said. Curious, I straightened my shirt and walked over. In her spacious sitting room, the air was thick with perfume and freshener. She greeted me warmly, asked about my work and family, and then fixed me with a look that held more than mere friendliness.

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