One distress I came to grips with during my first year at the Bethesda Clinic in Bamenda was the fact that my wife still had two years of medical school at the Yaoundé Teaching Hospital, far away from me.
Not only did this translate into me, a virile twenty-eight-old fresh medical practitioner, not having sexual gratification when I needed it, but it posed an even bigger problem for my spiritual life. In the eyes of my co-workers, especially some notorious four female nurses, I was this ruddy-cheeked, married-but-living-alone doctor.
My apartment, standing innocently at a stone’s throw opposite the hospital’s gate, became a temptation sanctuary.
Quiet and collected, I am a domestic animal. After my shifts, or during calls, I stayed indoors, listening to the radio or bingeing on Africa Magic as I missed my Dorothy and our little daughter.
Besides coursework and our daughter to cater for after classes, Dorothy had her stroke-recovering mother in a wheelchair. She had resisted me taking a job far away, but it had been the most available door and we needed the money.
During my first month at Bethesda, staff brought me food often. Our people are a fraternal bunch, nothing to worry about such gestures. I was the hospital’s lone doctor, and sometimes the workload could overwhelm. With no time to cook meals, I treasured this hospitality. But I wasn’t dumb not to expect such offers to be wrapped in a garb of desire for carnal adventures with my lonely body.
Soon I had these notorious four nurses, each at her turn, clad in skin-hugging pants and top tanks with low necklines that exposed not only cleavage but sometimes a huge chunk of their boobs, stay longer during such visits. One was audacious enough to migrate into my kitchen in the guise of checking out the place. I knew their desired destination was the bedroom.
They all asked me how I coped with the cold weather in Bamenda coming from Yaoundé. My usual reply was that I didn’t find any differences between the climates.
But I’m not a piece of dry wood. I am a spirit trapped in a carnal body. Their meticulously packaged bodies invited mine to a thirst-quenching banquet, and although I initially dismissed the thoughts, it soon became easier to fantasize about those bodies.
Would God punish the gratification of such great desire when my legalized outlet wasn’t available for no fault of mine? I was a man, weak, prone to falling. A little affair could never harm my relationship with God or my communion with Dorothy. A simple confession of the sin and repentance would do good.
But thank God for Dorothy. Perhaps she suspected I was being barraged by temptation. Or she perceived it. You know women can be more spiritually alert than men. Without warning, she sent me daily scriptures and inspirational marriage quotes, and if time permitted, she rushed to Bamenda for a quickie Sunday romance.
When she was around, the visits ceased. But as soon as she disappeared, my lust-laden callers would reappear.
One evening, a divine impression held me captive and would not let me be. These visits, even if nothing overtly sinful happened, weren’t good for my Christian testimony and the health of my marriage. The probability of gossips—whose investigative eyes you could never see—magnifying the reports back to Dorothy in Yaoundé was high.
Enough of flirting and spit-swallowing moments. But I was shy to tell these loose women off to their faces. To save myself and them from the embarrassment, I made a firm decision. When I bolted the door, no matter who knocked to give me food, it would not open again.
They called me names at the hospital, threw out sarcastic remarks. I heard as though not hearing. I was going to honor my God and love my wife. My body remained Holy Spirit’s Temple. My pursuit of sexual purity had not ended the moment I tied the knot.
Then one evening, something happened that changed my reaction to these enticements.
I was about to leave for my house for a quick break when a nurse colleague who had closed from work hours ago walked into my consultation room, complaining of recurrent pain at the scar of a healed umbilical hernia and a moving lump at the lower abdomen. The nursing assistant who waited on me had gone on break. I was alone in the room with this female nurse.
Tired and hungry, I begged for her to wait till I had gone home for a meal. But she lamented about being in haste to travel out of town that night. Reluctant, I pointed to the examination bed.
She hopped behind the screen even before I had stood from my chair.
A short moment later, I pulled the screen to examine her. What! I quickly shut my eyes, for the scene staring back at me was enough venom to traumatize my spirit man.
Without another thought, I turned around, skipped out of the room, while calling for security. Flee sexual immorality, the Bible said; I went further to put an end to these unprovoked insults to my status as a child of God and a married man. The next morning, I narrated the incident to the staff body, and issued a stern warning to the rest of the unnamed women.
The supportive Matron, God bless her soul, slapped an 8-day suspension on the culprit nurse without delay.
That evening of the temptation, I also began a search for job opportunities closer to my wife.
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