Bad Boy, Church Girl.

My dad is fkn G.
To the core.
He can be an asshole—but he’s got charm for days.
His smile is infectious.
It cuts through you—softly.
He smiles, and you can’t help but smile back.
You warm up to him, quick.
That guy will win you over.

He kept in shape.
Body firm.
Neatly dressed.
Clothes tailored sharp.
Hairline lined up like blueprints.
Nails trimmed. Groomed.
He smelled good—always.

Two gold rings.
A gold bracelet.
A leather watch with gold frames.
His hands and wrist gleamed.
Sunnies on.
I get it now.
I get how my mum fell for him.

My mother—the church girl—was the flyest.
You couldn’t miss her.
Gorgeous to the bone.
Best dressed in every room.
That flair shifted her path—from catering to fashion.
Church women either praised her looks
or tried to buy the outfit right off her.

She started making regular trips to the tailor
just to keep up with the orders.
They piled up so fast,
she had no choice but to turn it into a full-time job.

Back then, Ghana didn’t have the booming fabric market it does now.
If you wanted the good stuff,
you had to travel.
So she did her research—and chose Nigeria.

At the airport, on her way to Lagos,
everything changed.

She met my dad.

To be continued.