The Senator's Driver

The Burnt Offering

The next morning, sunlight poured like golden syrup through the wide windows of Araire's room, bathing everything in a warm, honeyed glow. Dust particles floated lazily through the golden beams, performing a quiet ballet in the stillness. The scent of lavender from her electric diffuser lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of last night’s citrus lotion and a forgotten perfume sample.

Araire sat cross-legged on her bed, still wrapped in the luxury of sleep. Her silk pajamas—midnight blue with faint silver stars—clung loosely to her limbs, and her thick hair was piled into a messy bun that crowned her like a lopsided halo. She looked like a sleepy goddess reluctantly summoned back to the world of mortals.

But her expression soured the moment her eyes landed on the crumpled blue silk dress lying beside her—the same one she'd excitedly picked out for her date with Tunde. The same one she had tried on three times in front of her full-length mirror, twisting and turning until her reflection smiled back with approval. Now it looked like an afterthought. Her lips curled in frustration.

Then, with the commanding force of a military general barking orders on the battlefield, she let out a shout that could wake the dead: “Ayobami!”

Her voice sliced through the tranquil morning air like a machete through dry plantain stalks. Somewhere down the hall, something clattered. Then came the hurried shuffle of slippered feet.

A polite knock followed.

“Madam, I don come!” Ayobami’s voice chirped from behind the door, cheerful and carrying the usual mischief laced into his every sentence.

“Come in!” Araire snapped, her voice firm but laced with a certain teasing tension—the kind of tone that hinted at either chaos or comedy, depending on the listener’s courage.

The door creaked open and Ayobami stepped in, tall, lean, and unbothered. He wore a crisp white shirt tucked into black trousers, his sleeves rolled halfway up to reveal toned forearms. His signature smirk—infuriatingly cocky and charming—was already in place.

He stopped short at the sight of Araire’s room.

“Jesu!” he exclaimed, clutching his chest dramatically. “Madam, you don start again? This place na war zone! Abi you fight with your wardrobe overnight?”

Araire shot him a look of pure deadpan. “Very funny.”

The room was, indeed, a disaster. Clothes lay in scattered piles like casualties of a failed fashion experiment. Her vanity table looked like it had exploded—makeup brushes everywhere, lipstick tubes rolled into corners, and one fake eyelash hanging pitifully from a mirror edge.

“Morning, madam,” Ayobami said with exaggerated politeness, his eyes twinkling. “I hope say I no be the one wey go clean this battlefield. Abi na indomie and fried egg duty you wan dash me this early morning?”

Araire raised an eyebrow. “Are you mad? You walk into my room and immediately start vomiting nonsense.”

Ayobami grinned. “Na so person dey survive for this mansion. If man no wise, una go use stress kill am.”

But Araire didn’t join in his laughter. She sat up straighter, her tone growing unexpectedly serious. “Actually, I need your help.”

That sobered him. Ayobami adjusted his shirt, his brows furrowing slightly. “Okay, madam. Wetin I go do for you? You wan make I write resignation letter? Or maybe you dey report somebody to HR again?”

“I need you…” She paused dramatically, her lips curling into a slow, wicked smile. “To iron my dress.”

Ayobami blinked. “Iron… which dress?”

“My blue silk one,” she said, pointing to the crumpled fabric beside her. “I have a date tonight… with Tunde.”

The name fell like a stone into the still air.

Ayobami’s face dropped like a hen that lost its chicken. “Tunde again?” he muttered under his breath. But of course, she heard.

“Yes. Tunde,” she said pointedly. “The same one you’ve never liked for reasons best known to only you and your ancestors.”

“Madam, you dey waste fine dress on a he-goat,” he mumbled.

“Ayobami!”

“Okay, okay!” he raised his hands in surrender. “No wahala. I go iron am. But if I burn that cloth, make I no hear say I cause disaster o because e no far from your mouth!”

“If you burn that dress,” Araire said icily, “you better follow am burn too, because your entire salary for the next month cannot afford even the sleeve!”

Ayobami grumbled as he left the room like a soldier heading toward battle. In the laundry room, he plugged in the iron, watching the red light blink like a threat. Then, with dramatic caution, he picked up the delicate silk dress—the kind of fabric that whispered seduction and danger.

“See wetin person dey suffer for woman wey no go even send you later,” he muttered bitterly, laying the dress flat on the ironing board. “Tunde. Tunde. Everything na Tunde.”

As he ironed slowly, trying his best not to make a mistake, his mind wandered. He thought about all the things Araire had made him do over the months—fetching bubble tea at midnight, booking spa appointments, even playing photographer for her endless i********: fashion shoots. Was he a house help or her unpaid assistant? The last time he checked he was a driver, then what changed?

And that’s when it happened. The sharp scent of smoke yanked him back to reality.

“Ewoooooriiiwwoooo!!” he screamed, leaping backward like someone under spiritual attack.

Back in her room, Araire froze. She leapt from her bed and dashed barefoot down the hallway.

“Ayobami! What happened?!” she shouted as she stormed into the laundry room.

Then she saw it.

A black cloud hovered over the ironing board like judgment. Her eyes fell on the dress—her expensive, irreplaceable silk dress—now bearing a massive scorched patch like roasted suya.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Tell me that’s not my dress. Tell me you didn’t just kill my dress.”

Ayobami stood paralyzed, the iron still in his hand like a murder weapon.

“Madam, I swear—”

“You burned it?! AYOBAMI!” Her voice was trembling now, halfway between rage and despair. “That was the only dress I had for tonight! Do you think Tunde will look at me if I wear Ankara?!”

“Madam… no vex… na mistake…”

“Mistake?! You’ve destroyed it! My six hundred thousand naira dress!” Her voice cracked. “Your destiny can’t afford it! In fact, if we sell your entire life at Balogun Market, we still won’t recover the money!”

“I dey sorry, madam… I just dey think small—”

“THINK?! You were THINKING while ironing SILK?! Jesus, take control before I commit murder today!”

She stormed out, fists clenched, leaving Ayobami behind like a disgraced soldier on the battlefield.

Moments later, still fuming, Araire sat on the edge of her bed and called her father.

“Daddy… Ayobami has finally pushed me too far,” she sobbed.

Her father’s voice came steady on the line. “What happened?”

“He burnt my dress! My most expensive, most beautiful dress! Daddy, I told you not to keep that boy in this house. Sack him!”

But her father’s voice remained calm. “Araire… is it cloth you’re crying over like this?”

“Cloth?! Daddy, I bought it for six hundred thousand—!”

“And because of that, you want me to sack someone who has served us well? That boy may be mouthy, but he’s loyal. And you yourself—you’re not always easy to live with.”

“Daddy!”

“I’ll send you money to buy two dresses, but Ayobami stays. Don’t call me again about this nonsense.”

He ended the call.

Araire stared at her phone in disbelief. “He ended the call… because of Ayobami?”

As if summoned, Ayobami strolled into her doorway with a wide grin.

“Madam o!” he said, “I hear say you report me to Daddy because of small suya stain!”

“Ayobami, get out—”

He picked up the burnt dress gently. “See this thing na. Just small black. In fact, if na music video, dem go even pay extra for this rugged look!”

“AYOBAMI!”

“Wait, make I finish the funeral. Rest in peace, Madam’s Pink Delight. Your time was short but—”

“Ayobami, I swear…”

“What? You go burn me join? Or call Daddy again? Abeg, next time, wear Ankara. That one dey resist fire.”

Araire grabbed a pillow and flung it at him.

"Thank you! Thank you for this recognition. I want to dedicate this award to my iron, for believing in me and in the heat of the moment. Together, we have achieved greatness!”

“You’re insane!” she hissed, grabbing the second pillow.

“And you,” he said with exaggerated emotion, pointing at the charred dress, “you were more than fabric. You were hope. You were slay. You were the very essence of Madam’s i********: image!”

“Get out!” she yelled.

But despite her rage, the corner of her lips betrayed a twitch of reluctant laughter. She turned her back quickly, not wanting him to see.

Ayobami walked toward the door but paused just before exiting. He leaned casually against the doorframe.

“Madam, you know say if you wear any dress—even the one wey tear for armpit—Tunde go still fall. No be cloth dey make beauty. Na you. Even if I burn all your wardrobe finish, you still go shine well like full moon.”

That took her off guard. Araire blinked, her lips parting slightly. “What… what do you mean?”

Ayobami smiled slyly and shrugged. “Nothing. I just talk am say if you still want me to iron another dress, just be sure say I no dey hungry. Hunger and hot iron no dey mix well.”

With that, he whistled as he walked out, leaving Araire standing there, stunned, slightly flustered, and—against all reason—smiling.