I don’t know what NEPA has against young men in this country.

Because some temptations don’t start with alcohol.

Some don’t start in a hotel.

Some don’t even start with “come over.”

Sometimes, it starts with:

“Please, can I charge my phone?”

That was how my problem almost started.

There was this babe in our compound.

Her name was Amaka.

Fine girl.

Quiet type.

Not quiet like innocent o.

Quiet like somebody who knows that silence can also be a weapon.

She didn’t talk too much.

But when she greeted you, she would smile small.

Not full smile.

Just that small smile that will make you start asking yourself unnecessary questions like:

“Was that ordinary good morning or was there meaning inside?”

And me, I was trying to be a responsible young man.

I had just moved into the compound.

One room self-contained.

Small space.

Small kitchen.

Small bathroom.

Big dreams.

Generator outside.

Extension socket inside.

And because my generator was usually on in the evening, people in the compound had started knowing me as the “light guy.”

That is how problems start.

At first, Amaka would just greet me.

“Brother Chinedu, good evening.”

I’d say, “Good evening.”

Then one day:

“Brother Chinedu, please can I charge my phone small?”

I said no problem.

She came in, plugged it, and left.

Normal.

Another day again:

“Brother Chinedu, please my power bank is dead.”

I said no problem.

She came in, plugged it, and sat down small.

Not long.

Just five minutes.

Then ten minutes.

Then one day, she sat down till her battery entered 54%.

That was when I started noticing pattern.

When NEPA takes light, Amaka appears.

When my generator starts, Amaka appears.

When rain falls, Amaka appears.

When I cook noodles and egg, somehow Amaka will pass in front of my window and say:

“This thing smells nice o.”

I would laugh.

“Na ordinary noodles.”

She would smile.

“Some people don’t know ordinary things can still tempt somebody.”

I heard that line.

I didn’t answer.

Because sometimes, the safest reply is silence.

One Wednesday evening, rain started falling heavily.

Not small rain.

That kind of Lagos rain that will make gutter water start behaving like river Niger.

NEPA took light.

My generator was on.

I was inside my room, wearing singlet and shorts, pressing phone and enjoying the rare peace that comes when nobody is asking you for urgent 2k.

Then I heard a knock.

Soft knock.

Not the kind of knock landlord gives you.

This one had manners.

I opened the door.

Amaka.

She was standing there with her phone charger in one hand and her phone in the other.

Her hair was slightly wet from rain.

Her slippers had small mud.

Her perfume entered before she did.

“Brother Chinedu, please can I charge my phone? My power bank is dead.”

I looked at her.

Looked at the rain.

Looked at the phone.

Looked at the situation God was trying to use to test my home training.

“No problem,” I said.

I shifted.

She entered.

That was mistake number one.

She plugged the phone beside my bed.

Then instead of leaving, she sat down.

On the bed.

Mistake number two.

I sat on the plastic chair.

Far from her.

Because as a man, you must know when your village people are trying to use furniture arrangement against you.

She looked at me and smiled.

“Why are you sitting there?”

I said, “Where should I sit?”

She looked at the empty space beside her.

“Your bed is big enough.”

I laughed.

“Chair is comfortable.”

She crossed her legs.

“Are you scared of me?”

I said, “No.”

“Then why are you sitting like I came to collect rent?”

I laughed again.

But this time, my laugh had fear inside.

Outside, the rain was falling.

Generator was making noise.

Fan was blowing slowly.

The room was dim.

And Amaka was sitting on my bed like someone who had forgotten that phone can charge without human supervision.

She looked around my room.

“Your room is always cold sha.”

I said, “Na because I no like heat.”

She looked at me.

“No wonder you don’t come outside.”
“Outside no get peace,” I said.

She leaned back a little.

“And inside get peace?”

Omo.

That question entered the room and removed its slippers.

I didn’t answer immediately.

Because some questions are not questions.

Some questions are trap with perfume.

She removed her slippers and folded her legs on the bed.

Very casual.

Too casual.

Then she picked her phone and started scrolling.

I tried not to look at her legs.

But my eyes are not born again.

I looked small.

Just small.

She caught me.

“You’re not as innocent as you pretend.”

I said, “And you’re not as innocent as you entered.”

She laughed.

That laugh changed the temperature of the room.

Then she said:

“I only came to charge phone o.”

I said, “I didn’t say anything.”

“But your face is saying something.”

“My face is innocent.”

She looked at me from head to toe.

“Your face, maybe. Your mind, never.”

I stood up and pretended to adjust the curtain.

Not because curtain needed adjustment.

I just needed movement.

Because sitting still was becoming dangerous.

She said:

“Chinedu.”

I turned.

“What?”

“Come and see something.”

I walked closer.

She turned her phone toward me.

It was a meme.

A stupid meme.

Nothing serious.

But she didn’t need me to see the meme.

She needed me to come closer.

Now I was standing beside the bed.

She was sitting.

Her shoulder brushed my hand.

Small contact.

Tiny contact.

But inside my body, it sounded like drum.

She looked up at me.

“You smell nice.”

I said, “Thank you.”

“What perfume is that?”

I told her.

She said, “Hmm. So you’re one of those men that like smelling expensive.”

“I try small.”

She smiled.

“You don’t try small.”

Then she held my wrist.

Just like that.

Not dragging.

Not pulling.

Just held it.

Omo.

My brain immediately opened emergency meeting.

One part of me said:

“Move away.”

Another part said:

“Calm down, nothing is happening.”

The foolish part said:

“Maybe this is your wife.”

I removed my hand gently and went back to my chair.

She laughed.

“Wow. You’re really scared.”

“I respect you,” I said.

“Respect or fear?”

“Both.”

She looked at me for a few seconds.

Then her phone rang.

She looked at the screen and ignored it.

It rang again.

She ignored it again.

I asked, “You no go pick?”

She said, “Later.”

The phone stopped ringing.

Then, from outside, we heard a woman’s voice.

“Amaka!”

My heart paused.

Amaka froze.

Again:

“Amaka! Where you dey?”

I whispered, “Who is that?”

She whispered back:

“My mummy.”

Jesus.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

The room that was feeling romantic two seconds ago suddenly turned to police station.

I said, “Your mummy?”

She put one finger on her lips.

“Shhh.”

I said, “Why is your mummy looking for you?”

She whispered:

“I told her I was going to collect salt.”

Salt?

Salt?

This girl left her house during rain, entered my room, sat on my bed, was holding my wrist, and her official mission statement was salt?

Before I could process the foolishness, her mother knocked.

Not soft knock.

Mother knock.

The type that already knows the answer before asking question.

“Brother Chinedu!”

My soul left my body and stood near the wardrobe.

Amaka jumped up.

“Don’t open!”

“Don’t open ke? She knows my name!”

“She won’t enter.”

“You think Nigerian mothers respect door?”

Before we could decide, her mother knocked again.

“Brother Chinedu, abeg you see Amaka?”

Amaka ran behind my curtain.

Behind curtain.

As if curtain is witness protection.

I looked at the bed.

Her slippers were there.

Her phone was plugged beside my bed.

Her scarf was on my pillow.

Her charger was hanging from my socket like evidence in court.

I opened the door small.

“Good evening, ma.”

Her mother looked at me.

“Good evening. You see Amaka?”

I swallowed.

“Amaka?”

“Yes. My daughter.”

I laughed.

Very useless laugh.

“No ma. I no see her.”

At that exact moment, Amaka’s phone lit up beside my bed.

On the screen:

MUMMY CALLING

The room became quiet.

The generator outside sounded louder.

Her mother looked at the phone.
Looked at me.

Looked at the slippers.

Looked at the scarf.

Looked back at me.

I started sweating.

Inside fan.

Then, behind the curtain, Amaka sneezed.

A very stupid sneeze.

Not small sneeze.

A full betrayal sneeze.

“Ah-choo!”

Her mother slowly turned toward the curtain.

I wanted to faint.

She entered the room without asking.

Pushed the curtain aside.

There was Amaka.

Standing like stolen meat.

Her mother looked at her.

“Is this where you came to collect salt?”

Nobody answered.

She looked at me.

I looked at the wall.

She looked at the phone.

Looked at the bed.

Looked at the charging socket.

Then she said:

“NEPA took light in our house, but apparently current is flowing here.”

Omo.

That sentence slapped all of us.

Amaka said:

“Mummy, it’s not what you think.”

Her mother laughed.

That dangerous mother laugh.

“What am I thinking?”

Amaka kept quiet.

I tried to explain.

“Ma, she only came to charge her phone.”

Her mother looked at me.

“And remove slippers?”

I said nothing.

“She came to charge phone and hide behind curtain?”

I said nothing.

“She came to charge phone and put scarf on pillow?”

I looked at the scarf like I had never seen it before.

Her mother faced Amaka.

“You told me you were going to collect salt.”

Amaka whispered, “I was coming back.”

Her mother said:

“With whose salt? Brother Chinedu’s salt or Brother Chinedu himself?”

I nearly disappeared.

By now, two neighbours had started passing slowly in front of my door.

You know how compound people behave.

They won’t stand.

They will just pass five times.

One man passed with empty bucket.

Another woman passed holding one spoon.

Rain was still falling but suddenly everybody had outdoor activity.

Her mother told her:

“Carry your phone. Carry your slippers. Carry your shame. Let’s go.”

Amaka picked her phone.

Picked her slippers.

Picked her scarf.

Then she looked at me.

I don’t even know what that look meant.

Maybe apology.

Maybe anger.

Maybe “you should have lied better.”

I didn’t care.

I was busy thanking God that nothing had happened.

Because sometimes what will disgrace you is not what happened.

It is what people can reasonably assume happened.

The next morning, as I was stepping out, the compound security man looked at me and smiled.

“Brother Chinedu, phone charging business dey move o.”

I ignored him.

The woman upstairs said:

“Please if NEPA take light, can I also come and collect salt?”

I entered my room back.

Because the compound had already finished me.

So let’s talk.

Have you ever had an “I just came to charge phone” friend?

Reply CURRENT if you know NEPA has caused more temptation than alcohol in this country.