CONFESSIONS OF A YORUBA DEMON

A Yoruba Demon's Note

To Yemi,

​I met your fiancée at Nike Art Gallery on a Saturday.

​I wasn’t there because I cared about art. Half the paintings looked like rubbish to me. I was there for the women.

​She stood before a painting of a woman floating in a lake. She wore a tailored cream trouser suit that hit her curves with devastating elegance.

I didn't rush towards her like a desperate amateur. I walked up, stood beside her, matched her gaze on the canvas, and let three seconds of silence hang between us before I spoke.

“Excuse me,” I said, my voice dropping into a low, smooth pitch.

She didn't look at me right away, but I caught the slight, curious turn of her head. “Yes?”

“Are you part of the exhibit? Because I can't seem to take my eyes off you,” I replied, finally turning my eyes to her side profile.

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. She turned to face me, raised her hand to tuck a stray braid behind her ear, she's pretty.

The gallery light caught the massive solitaire diamond on her ring finger like a neon sign.

“Is this how you flirt with every woman you meet?”

“No.” I said

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I only flirt with the pretty ones.”

She smiled.

“What if I say you're not my type?” she asked

“I'll ask who ruined your taste.”

She laughed. “Well,” her voice dripping with playful composure, “your timing is off by about five months. I’m engaged,” she said, waving her ring at me.

Other men would have backed down at that point, but I didn't flinch. I didn't look down at the ring. In fact, I completely ignored its existence—never validate a wall a woman puts up to test your frame.

“I didn't ask for your marital status,” I said with a slow, amused smile. “I just made an observation. I’m Obafemi.”

“Teni,” she responded.

“So, your man, is he here with you?”

She smiled. “No, his name is Yemi, btw.”

“I don't like him already.”

“You don't even know him.”

“I know enough.”

“Oh?”

“He's somewhere else while another man is making his fiancée laugh.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are so shameless.”

“I've been called worse.”

“Please leave. You won't stop, will you?”

“I'll stop the moment you look bored.”

She smiled and we talked for ten minutes about art, food, work, and music. I had her laughing so hard she had to cover her mouth twice. In passing, she mentioned you were supposed to be there with her, but an urgent work issue came up. Oh Yemi, you were so emotionally absent.

As we walked toward the exit, I asked for her contact. She shut it down with a smile. “I don’t give my handle to strangers at galleries, Obafemi. My heart is taken.” She tapped her ring and walked away. After much pestering, she gave me her Instagram.

Later that night, I sent a DM, and she instantly blocked me. She was trying so hard to be loyal to you, Yemi. God knows she tried. But I’m a demon, I tried harder.

I logged into my secondary account and replied to a story she posted about not being able to sleep: “Insomnia is probably punishment for blocking handsome men at galleries?”

She replied instantly: “You again? 😂 How did you even find me?”

“I promise I come in peace,” I typed back. “I’m not trying to steal you from Yemi. Just want to be a mutual.”

That opened the unlatched door.

In no time, we became dangerously close. I was the constant present when you were swallowed up by your business trips in Abuja. Every night, after your scheduled, mechanical video call with her from 9:00 to 10:30 PM, I would take over. We spoke from then until 3:00 AM. While you slept, she poured her soul into my hands—her childhood, her wildest dreams, her deepest fears.

Yemi, did you know your sweet angel once wanted to join the army and become a soldier? Who would have thought, right? You never asked her. I did, and I listened.

One month later, she mentioned her friend had canceled on a beach date, and she really wanted to go. She didn't tell me it was you who cancelled, but I knew. She casually asked if I’d follow her.

Yemi, why did you cancel on her that weekend?

I responded: “Hope oga Yemi will not beat me for taking his babe to the beach?”

She typed back: “😂😂 Never mind. Forget I asked.”

I didn't rescue the conversation. I let it die. I left her on Read and let the guilt spar with her desires.

A few days later, she mentioned she had an important strategy presentation at work. She was terrified.

“I always feel like I'll forget everything,” she texted.

“You sound so cute when you're terrified”

“Obafemi, stop it. I'm serious”

“You won't forget anything.” I responded.

“You've never seen me present.”

“I don't need to.”

“Confident, aren't you?”

“Yes.” I smiled at my phone screen. “You're one of the smartest people I know. I'm confident in your abilities”

The next morning, before she even arrived at her office, a bouquet was sitting on her desk. White lilies. Her favorite. She’d mentioned it once in passing two weeks prior.

The card had seven words:

Go and remind them why they hired you.

She called before noon, her voice light, and breathless.

“You sent these.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Liar,” she responded laughing

“Did the presentation go well?”

“I was smiling before I even entered the room. My colleagues couldn't stop staring at my desk.”

“I'm glad.”

There was a long pause. Then she asked softly, “How did you remember lilies?”

“You told me.”

“I mentioned it once.” she said softly

“Once was enough.” I paused, then delivered the fatal blow:

“I'm sure the flower was nothing compared to what Yemi sent you.”

The silence stretched longer this time—

“I… I should get back to work,” she whispered, and hung up.

You didn't even remember to text her, Yemi. Did you? Not even "Good luck."

That Saturday, I pulled up in my car to pick her up for the beach. We spent the afternoon watching the waves, laughing, completely unbothered by the world. Afterward, I convinced her to come over to check out my apartment. She hesitated initially, but I insisted and she gave in.

My house was dimly lit, warm, lined with wall-to-wall bookshelves, vinyl records, and original sketches. I played a soft, sultry saxophone tune quietly in the background.

“Lovely space,” she said as she stepped in.

“You like it?”

“Yes” she responded as I poured two glasses of red wine, ordered gourmet pizza, and we sat on the plush rug, lost in high-voltage banter.

Somewhere in the middle of a joke, the laughter died down. Teni stopped mid-sentence, her breath hitching as her eyes locked onto mine. There was no hesitation left in her. She leaned forward, closed the remaining space, as she pressed her lips to mine.

​I didn't pull back. I slid my hand to the nape of her neck, my fingers tangling into her braids, and pulled her closer until there was no air left between our chests.

​The kiss was desperate and heavy with weeks of built-up hunger. Her hands gripped the shoulders of my shirt like she was drowning and I was the only thing keeping her afloat. For two solid minutes, the apartment, the jazz playing softly in the background, her engagement—the entire world melted away.

​Then, reality crashed over her like cold water.

“God, no… I shouldn't be doing this,” she sobbed. “I love Yemi… I’m marrying him in two months… What am I doing?”

I didn't panic. I reached out, gently took her wrist, and pulled her right back against my chest, wrapping my arm around her waist to anchor her. “Shh,” I whispered softly against her temple. “You're okay, Teni. Stop fighting what you feel.”

She buried her face in my shoulder, softly into my shirt. Just as she began to settle in my arms, and just as I was about lifting her to my room, her handbag on the couch buzzed loudly.

The screen lit up in bold capital letters: YEMI MY LOVE❤️.

She gasped, staring at the screen as if a ghost had entered the room. The spell shattered. She grabbed her bag, pulled away from me, and ran out into the night without looking back.

Which brings us to yesterday morning.

At 10:00 AM, my doorbell rang. I opened it to find Teni standing on my porch. Her eyes were red, but her posture was set in a dramatic, triumphant resolve. She walked past me into the living room, unclasped the diamond ring, and dropped it onto my glass table with a sharp, heavy clink.

“I did it,” she said, her voice shaking with adrenaline. “I broke up with Yemi this morning. I told him I couldn't go through with the wedding. I chose you, Obafemi.”

She stood there, waiting for a romantic Hollywood scene—waiting for me to sweep her into my arms and validate her grand sacrifice.

I looked down at the diamond ring resting on the glass table. Then I looked at her. I slowly folded my arms across my chest and stepped back. God, what a fool she is.

“Teni,” I said, my voice completely stripped of every drop of warmth, and sweetness I had fed her for weeks. “Are you out of your mind?”

The color instantly drained from her face. “What?”

“You threw away a three-year relationship, a good man, and a whole wedding over a few weeks of lilies and sweet talk from a guy you met at an art gallery?” I asked, my tone cold and unbothered. “Let’s be logical. Even if I wanted a wife, do you think any sensible man would marry a woman who cheats on her fiancé and burns her life down the moment she feels neglected?”

She stared at me, completely paralyzed, her mouth slightly open.

“And secondly,” I added, pulling out my phone and tapping the screen, “meet my family.”

On the screen was a picture of my wife and two kids standing outside our home in Toronto.

“My relocation flight is in two weeks,” I said evenly.

“My wife and children are waiting for me in Canada. I was just passing time in Lagos, Teni. Playing the game.”

She didn't scream. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she stood there looking like a ghost in my living room.

“Pick up your ring,” I said, holding the front door wide open. “Call Yemi, beg for his forgiveness, or don't. But get out of my house.”

She picked up her ring with shaking fingers and walked out without a word.

Ten seconds later, I blocked her on every social media platform.

So why am I addressing this letter to you, Yemi?

Teni is probably going to call you today. She will cry, lie, and beg you to take her back.

Whether you take her back or not is your business. But let this be a lesson to you and every other man who gets comfortable:

​If you don't take care of your woman’s mind and presence every single day, another demon like me will do it for sport.

​Tighten your game, brother. I had fun with your babe while it lasted.

With love,

Obafemi.

IMAGE FROM PINTEREST

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