✍🏽 Written by Chinonso Maureen Anyanwu
The Hand That Slipped From the Wheel
People say temptation hides in strange places.
Mine came wearing a black suit, sitting in front of a steering wheel, and calling me madam every morning.
His name was Michael — my husband’s driver. Tall, dark, his shoulders broad enough to block the morning sun. Every time he opened the car door for me, his eyes lingered… too long. And every time our hands brushed, my body remembered him even when my mind tried to forget.
It started innocently.
One rainy evening, my husband called to say he wouldn’t be coming home. Work had “held him down” again. Michael drove me back alone. The rain was loud on the windscreen, the city smelled of wet dust, and the car heater filled the silence with warmth.
“Madam, you dey alright?” he asked, his voice deep, almost breaking the air between us.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to keep quiet. But instead, I whispered, “Stop the car.”
He did. Right there under the rain, wipers moving like guilty eyes. I leaned forward from the backseat, and for the first time, our breaths met. His hand, the same one that held the steering in public, slid slowly to my waist. My body trembled… but I didn’t push it away.
By the time his lips brushed my neck, I had forgotten the man I married.
Forgotten the vows I swore.
All I could remember was how dangerously sweet it felt to be called madam in public… and baby in private.
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Hakuna ratiba iliyopangwa kwa sasa.
Maoni
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