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I knack a military wife 😂💦💦❣️ nutty story 😝😝
Episode 1: The Day I Moved Into the Compound
My name is Owoicho Emmanuel, but everybody just calls me Owo or Mr Owo. I was in my early thirties, single like a brand-new one-thousand-naira note: no wife, no girlfriend, no baby-mama, nothing. Just me, my laptop, my small savings, and a mind that was finally ready to settle down and make serious money.
That Saturday afternoon, the Lagos sun was beating the city like it had personal grudge. I drove my old Toyota Corolla (AC had died many years ago) into a quiet crescent in Omole Phase 1 and parked in front of a cream-coloured compound with the number 17B painted boldly on the gate. Simple four-flat face-me-I-face-you, high fence, two big mango trees giving shade, borehole at the corner, and a small courtyard where tenants dried clothes and sometimes held small meetings.
The gateman, Musa, swung the gate open with a wide smile.
“Oga welcome! Na you be the new tenant?”
“Yes, Musa, na me o.”
“Bring your load, Baba Ade dey wait for veranda.”
Baba Ade, the landlord, was a retired customs officer, well into his late seventies. He sat outside in white kaftan and red cap, holding a bottle of cold Stout like it was part of his uniform. When he saw me, he grinned, showing the few teeth he had left.
“Mr Owoicho, welcome my son! I like you already. You paid one full year without story-touch. Many of these small boys go dey pay two-two months, give excuse upon excuse. But you? Correct guy!”
I laughed. “Thank you sir. Na God o.”
He handed me the keys to Flat 2, ground floor.
“Neighbours dey very quiet,” he explained. “Left side na Mama and Papa Tunde, old couple, them no dey make noise. Upstairs na Brother Chike, him wife and two pikin. Right side, Flat 4, na Captain Adebayo and him wife. Soldier man, very fine woman. Just greet them normal, no wahala. Anything happen, call me.”
I thanked him again, carried my Ghana-Must-Go bags and cartons inside.
The flat was small but neat and freshly painted: sitting room, one bedroom, kitchen, toilet with shower wey still dey work well. High ceiling, big windows, clean tiles. I loved it instantly. Within hours I arranged everything: my TV on the wall, my work desk with two monitors, gaming chair, small fridge, gas cylinder, mattress on the floor (bed frame was coming next salary). By evening I was done. Sweat was pouring like rain.
I walked to the canteen down the road, bought cold Coke and fufu with egusi and plenty meat, came back and ate like king. On my way in, one pretty lady spreading clothes smiled at me.
“Good afternoon.”
She turned. “Afternoon bros. You be the new person?”
“Yes, I just moved in today.”
“Welcome. I am Chioma, Flat 3, with my husband and children.”
I nodded, entered my flat, showered, lay on the mattress with fan blowing directly on my chest. I remember thinking:
“Owo, this is peace at last. No crazy landlady, no noisy neighbours, good network for work. Just focus, make money, maybe japa small, come back marry fine girl wey get sense.”
That night NEPA brought light around 9 p.m. I started my small “I-better-pass-my-neighbour” generator to charge phones and laptop. Then I heard a deep voice from Flat 4:
“Folake! Where is my belt? I must be in barracks 5 a.m. tomorrow!”
Then a calm, sweet female voice answered:
“It’s on the chair, honey. Calm down.”
I peeped through my curtain small. First I saw the man: tall pass 6 ft 3, body like bodybuilder, shaved head, wearing only army singlet and camouflage trousers. Muscles full everywhere, eagle tattoo on chest, face that looked like it never smiled in its life smiled. That one na Captain Adebayo.
Then the woman stepped outside to collect something from the line.
My people, my breath stopped.
Skin like fresh caramel, long Brazilian hair reaching her waist, figure that can make pastor forget scripture. She wore a short nightgown; when she bent to pick bucket, the gown climbed small. My heart did gbu-gbu. I quickly closed curtain and warned myself:
“Owo, behave yourself. That is another man’s wife, and the man is a soldier. Touch that woman and they will use you for bayonet practice.”
I switched off the light and slept.
Next morning, Sunday, I ironed my native, went to church, came back around 2 p.m. The Captain’s clean Honda Accord was parked outside. He was washing it shirtless, muscles moving like live pythons. He saw me, gave one small nod.
“Afternoon sir,” I greeted and entered my flat sharpaly.
Evening time I cooked Indomie with plenty egg and sardine, carried the plate outside to eat on the veranda because breeze was sweet. Then Folake came out with a small bowl of pepper soup, sat on their own side.
She saw me and smiled beautifully. “Good evening, new neighbour.”
“Good evening madam.”
“You have eaten?”
“Yes o, just managing Indomie life.”
She laughed softly. “Indomie warrior. Welcome once again.”
That was the first time I heard her voice clearly: soft, sweet, educated, the kind of voice that can calm angry customer care. I just smiled, greeted back, and entered inside.
Later that night while I was working, I heard them through the thin wall. Captain’s voice was booming, Folake was calming him down. I couldn’t hear the words, but the authority in his tone was clear.
I closed my laptop, lay down, looked at the ceiling and told myself:
“Owo, this compound is perfect. Everybody minds their business. Stay in your lane. Do not admire another man’s wife, especially when the man can break bottle on your head without blinking. Focus on your money, save well, travel out small, come back and marry good girl with no complication.”
I slept that night feeling peaceful and hopeful.
I never knew that peace was just passing through.
The real storm had already started gathering quietly, and her name was Folake.
That is how I moved into the compound: innocent, single, happy, and completely blind to the disaster waiting ahead.
Please follow my page for the next episode 🌿
Ime
@top fans #storytelling
I knack a military wife 😂💦💦❣️ nutty story 😝😝
Episode 1: The Day I Moved Into the Compound
My name is Owoicho Emmanuel, but everybody just calls me Owo or Mr Owo. I was in my early thirties, single like a brand-new one-thousand-naira note: no wife, no girlfriend, no baby-mama, nothing. Just me, my laptop, my small savings, and a mind that was finally ready to settle down and make serious money.
That Saturday afternoon, the Lagos sun was beating the city like it had personal grudge. I drove my old Toyota Corolla (AC had died many years ago) into a quiet crescent in Omole Phase 1 and parked in front of a cream-coloured compound with the number 17B painted boldly on the gate. Simple four-flat face-me-I-face-you, high fence, two big mango trees giving shade, borehole at the corner, and a small courtyard where tenants dried clothes and sometimes held small meetings.
The gateman, Musa, swung the gate open with a wide smile.
“Oga welcome! Na you be the new tenant?”
“Yes, Musa, na me o.”
“Bring your load, Baba Ade dey wait for veranda.”
Baba Ade, the landlord, was a retired customs officer, well into his late seventies. He sat outside in white kaftan and red cap, holding a bottle of cold Stout like it was part of his uniform. When he saw me, he grinned, showing the few teeth he had left.
“Mr Owoicho, welcome my son! I like you already. You paid one full year without story-touch. Many of these small boys go dey pay two-two months, give excuse upon excuse. But you? Correct guy!”
I laughed. “Thank you sir. Na God o.”
He handed me the keys to Flat 2, ground floor.
“Neighbours dey very quiet,” he explained. “Left side na Mama and Papa Tunde, old couple, them no dey make noise. Upstairs na Brother Chike, him wife and two pikin. Right side, Flat 4, na Captain Adebayo and him wife. Soldier man, very fine woman. Just greet them normal, no wahala. Anything happen, call me.”
I thanked him again, carried my Ghana-Must-Go bags and cartons inside.
The flat was small but neat and freshly painted: sitting room, one bedroom, kitchen, toilet with shower wey still dey work well. High ceiling, big windows, clean tiles. I loved it instantly. Within hours I arranged everything: my TV on the wall, my work desk with two monitors, gaming chair, small fridge, gas cylinder, mattress on the floor (bed frame was coming next salary). By evening I was done. Sweat was pouring like rain.
I walked to the canteen down the road, bought cold Coke and fufu with egusi and plenty meat, came back and ate like king. On my way in, one pretty lady spreading clothes smiled at me.
“Good afternoon.”
She turned. “Afternoon bros. You be the new person?”
“Yes, I just moved in today.”
“Welcome. I am Chioma, Flat 3, with my husband and children.”
I nodded, entered my flat, showered, lay on the mattress with fan blowing directly on my chest. I remember thinking:
“Owo, this is peace at last. No crazy landlady, no noisy neighbours, good network for work. Just focus, make money, maybe japa small, come back marry fine girl wey get sense.”
That night NEPA brought light around 9 p.m. I started my small “I-better-pass-my-neighbour” generator to charge phones and laptop. Then I heard a deep voice from Flat 4:
“Folake! Where is my belt? I must be in barracks 5 a.m. tomorrow!”
Then a calm, sweet female voice answered:
“It’s on the chair, honey. Calm down.”
I peeped through my curtain small. First I saw the man: tall pass 6 ft 3, body like bodybuilder, shaved head, wearing only army singlet and camouflage trousers. Muscles full everywhere, eagle tattoo on chest, face that looked like it never smiled in its life smiled. That one na Captain Adebayo.
Then the woman stepped outside to collect something from the line.
My people, my breath stopped.
Skin like fresh caramel, long Brazilian hair reaching her waist, figure that can make pastor forget scripture. She wore a short nightgown; when she bent to pick bucket, the gown climbed small. My heart did gbu-gbu. I quickly closed curtain and warned myself:
“Owo, behave yourself. That is another man’s wife, and the man is a soldier. Touch that woman and they will use you for bayonet practice.”
I switched off the light and slept.
Next morning, Sunday, I ironed my native, went to church, came back around 2 p.m. The Captain’s clean Honda Accord was parked outside. He was washing it shirtless, muscles moving like live pythons. He saw me, gave one small nod.
“Afternoon sir,” I greeted and entered my flat sharpaly.
Evening time I cooked Indomie with plenty egg and sardine, carried the plate outside to eat on the veranda because breeze was sweet. Then Folake came out with a small bowl of pepper soup, sat on their own side.
She saw me and smiled beautifully. “Good evening, new neighbour.”
“Good evening madam.”
“You have eaten?”
“Yes o, just managing Indomie life.”
She laughed softly. “Indomie warrior. Welcome once again.”
That was the first time I heard her voice clearly: soft, sweet, educated, the kind of voice that can calm angry customer care. I just smiled, greeted back, and entered inside.
Later that night while I was working, I heard them through the thin wall. Captain’s voice was booming, Folake was calming him down. I couldn’t hear the words, but the authority in his tone was clear.
I closed my laptop, lay down, looked at the ceiling and told myself:
“Owo, this compound is perfect. Everybody minds their business. Stay in your lane. Do not admire another man’s wife, especially when the man can break bottle on your head without blinking. Focus on your money, save well, travel out small, come back and marry good girl with no complication.”
I slept that night feeling peaceful and hopeful.
I never knew that peace was just passing through.
The real storm had already started gathering quietly, and her name was Folake.
That is how I moved into the compound: innocent, single, happy, and completely blind to the disaster waiting ahead.
Please follow my page for the next episode 🌿
Ime
@top fans #storytelling
