It was a few minutes to 6 PM, February 13th, 2009. I was completely drained—mentally and physically—and starving too. No surprise there: I’d spent nearly five hours perched on a makeshift wooden scaffold about 14 feet high (roughly three times my height), running trunk lines across the concrete ceiling of the BATV (Bauchi State Television) studio. That had been my life for the past week, and the workload was gradually sucking the strength out of me.
When I finally got back to my hotel, I grabbed my room key and headed straight up. My only plan was to crash early and recharge for the next day—another round of what felt like professional punishment. I was already fantasizing about a warm shower, picturing those gentle droplets hitting my skin and washing away the fatigue. My pace quickened with the thought.
Just as I got to my door, I noticed someone standing outside the room next to mine—a young lady casually dressed and scrolling through her phone. I assumed she either stayed in that room or was visiting someone who did. Out of courtesy, I greeted her. She responded with a voice so smooth and sweet it could've been recorded in B minor. Definitely a soprano.
I got into my room, ready to switch off from the day, but that random thought started knocking: "What if she’s... a working girl?" I shook it off—Nah, she looked too classy for that. Still, the thought lingered, and I found myself mentally rehearsing how to politely say "no" just in case. You know, the cool kind of “thanks but no thanks,” like the classic Kaduna bus bumper sticker: “Sorry baby, no time for love.”
I laughed at myself, took my shower, and chilled for a bit. Then I figured I’d hit a cybercafé to catch up on some emails and news while giving the hotel staff time to spray my room (those mosquitoes had been waging war on me the night before).
Before heading out, I picked up my trumpet. Oh yeah, I play. Didn’t have my Silent Brass mute with me, so I kept it low-key to avoid disturbing the neighbors. I value my solitude, so I was being careful not to be “that guy.”
Then came the knock.
It was the first knock I’d heard all week. I paused. Maybe it’s the staff coming to fumigate the room. Or worse—Maybe someone’s complaining about my horn practice? I quickly hid it out of sight and waited for a second knock. Nothing.
Curious, I opened the door.
No one.
Weird. I shook my head and turned to go back in.
Then I heard it: “Wait!”—a voice I instantly recognized. It was her. The soprano.
And there she was. Standing right in front of my door, blocking the hallway with her... presence. Her blouse couldn’t quite hide the lingerie underneath, and the sheer scarf on her head seemed more like a formality than functional. Her skin glowed, even without the sun, and her smile? Let's just say if it could be converted into electricity, Nigeria would never experience a blackout again.
Then she spoke: “Good evening.” And just like that, she stepped forward, like we were long-lost friends.
My brain kicked into hyperdrive. In a split second, I processed every Sunday school lesson, every sermon, every motivational quote, and every moral compass I’d ever known. I had a clear decision to make.
The little devil on one shoulder
whispered: “Relax, she just wants to talk. What harm could come from that?”
The angel on the other shoulder said: “Bro, think! There’s only one way in and one way out. She steps in, and that’s it—you’re cornered.”
So, with all the calm I could muster, and a voice a few octaves lower than usual (probably from nervous tension), I said, “Sorry, I can’t let you in unless I know what you want to talk about.”
She gave me a look—a mix of rage and disappointment—and simply said, “Okay,” before walking away.
At that moment, I knew I’d passed a serious test. I wasn’t about to be a Samson to this… let’s say, modern-day Delilah.
Later, I started second-guessing myself—Maybe I was too harsh? Maybe I should’ve been more polite? But that doubt evaporated days later when the hotel porter casually confirmed she was exactly what I’d suspected. Apparently, she’d been stationed there for the Valentine’s season—looking for “clients.” My room started getting knocks from strange men, mistaking it for her “office.”
That verse in Proverbs 6:26? Yeah, it made total sense now. “For by means of a harlot, a man is reduced to a crust of bread…” Spot on. I wasn’t about to be somebody’s dinner roll.
Anyway, I’m sure that won’t be the
last time I face a situation like that. But to anyone or anything like that in
the future, my answer is simple: “Odeeshi!”
No chance. Not now. Not ever. There’s too much at stake. The vision is too clear, the future too valuable, and the God I serve too worthy.
Sometimes, the biggest victories are the ones no one else sees—the quiet moments when you choose purpose over pleasure and conviction over convenience.
If this gave you a smile or sparked something in you, feel free to share. Someone out there might need this reminder.
Cheers,
– Bayor Emmanuel Martins
Initial post: The Buxom Tale - Power of thoughts
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