Diary of a pastor’s son episode 1

Diary Of A Pastor’s Son

Episode 1 🔞

Written by: Frank The Writer

❌ Do Not Copy or Repost ❌

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Dear Diary,
It’s me again. It’s time to tell my story and what being a son of a pastor meant to me. Well, I’m not the regular kind of a pastor’s son you are used to. I guess I’m different and my story would tell more about my life some years ago in South West, Nigeria.
Sit back. Relax and with your fingers crossed as I take you down the memories of my life experience.

***
In a family of four siblings, I was the only son of my parents. The rest three followed after I was born. It was such a good treat from my parents being the only boy in the house. I was cherished by my father, a pastor. I wouldn’t say he cherished me more than my sisters but I knew he had a special place for me in his heart. My father wanted to have more boys after I was birthed but it wasn’t God’s plan as he would always say. He was the kind of person who believed every single thing was ordered by God.

Oh! I should introduce myself. Forgive my manners. My name is Dickson Femi. A typical Yoruba boy. Like I said earlier, I’m the only son and also the eldest in a family of four. Shola, Aramide, and Bidemi were my sisters. They were 15, 13, and 10 years respectively. Then, I was 17 and I was done with Secondary School.

This family of four used to be lively and exciting not until we reduced drastically. How? You may ask. Well, one of my aunties who lived in Ibadan was delivered of a baby girl, and it was her first child. She needed someone to assist her with a few house chores and run errands too. So that was how my mom gave out Aramide to stay with my aunty. Bidemi was the last born and her troubles in the neighborhood were getting out of hand, so my father changed her school from day to boarding.
So it was just Shola and I in the house.

Sola was in Ss1. My mother’s replica. She was not thin nor was she fat, but I knew she had always wanted to add flesh by all means. Nobody took after my mom like Shola. The only difference was her height. At 15 she was already taller than my mom and me. My mother was a full-time businesswoman. Always out of the house, hustling for money. She leaves in the morning and when next you’d see her would be evening. My father was also like that, but he could come back home anytime. And most of the time, he comes back to prepare for the church; mostly-weekly services
.
I wouldn’t say my parents were rich but we were doing pretty well. All thanks to my father’s multiple sources of income. Aside from being a pastor in one Pentecostal church, well, my father was many things. So we lived comfortably in a three-bedroom flat in Ondo State.

Shola and I were used to arguing about stuff like brothers and sisters and we were also used to confiding in each other and asking for advice. Shola and I were like twins, doing the house chores together. Since I was always at home while she went to school, I assisted in most house chores. Sometimes, Shola leaves for school without doing anything while I woke up to sweep, wash the dishes, and do other stuff like that. That was the kind of brother I was to her.

Well, unlike everyone in the house, I was less of a religious person. I wasn’t wayward but I hated going to church and behaving like a Saint and all those crap. In my father’s church, they always spent hours preaching the same thing every day. “Repent, Christ is coming soon. Give your life to Christ” and all those long talks. I’m sure you know the rest. Yes, you do. I was literally tired of hearing these preaching every damn time.

Sometimes I faked being sick just to miss service on Sunday but my father would always insist that I still go because he always assured me of getting healing from church, and whenever I return acting strong, he would think I was healed because I followed him to church but little did he know I was never sick.

One of the hardest parts of being a pastor’s son is the way everybody sees and treats you. Growing up, you’re a normal kid until everybody finds out that your father is a pastor and then everything changes. People made me look like a perfect boy but little did they know that I was different from my dad. I was simply naughty, and silly. You can’t even predict what my next action would be.
I think the notion that pastors’ children need to be perfect and spotless is unhealthy and can have many negative effects on us. So many weighty expectations are placed on us and it’s quite annoying.

Everything was going fine in the house until my father returned from work one day with a teenage girl, Agatha. She was an orphan and a member of my father’s church. According to my father, it was agreed in the church meeting that my father accommodates her while the church decides on what to start for her and how to raise the money too. And that was how Agatha got to stay with us, doing most of the house chores like she was a house help. Judging by her look, I’d say she was probably nineteen or twenty years old. Agatha was from Eket in Akwa Ibom state.

***

When everyone must have gone out, it was always Agatha and me alone in the house. She loved watching TV after doing house chores. I could stay indoors as long as my phone was fully charged. I was always with my system doing one or two things for my personal development.

So one day, I got bored in the room and decided to ease myself. After using the toilet, I came out and noticed Agatha was seeing a movie in the living. She sat relaxed on the couch in one of her casual wear. I felt like joining her in the living room to cool off a little, but a part of me was like I should get back to my room. I obliged to the voice not until she screamed out of excitement. That really got my attention that I suddenly became interested in seeing what she was watching.

Agatha soon turned and saw me coming from behind. She had long hair almost to her waist. And she smiles a lot. But this time, she didn’t smile. She probably felt embarrassed by her uncontrolled laughter which caught my attention. We didn’t say anything to each other. I could have just gone to my room or something, but the movie didn’t look too bad when I stood there for some seconds. It seemed like an American movie, judging by the first two scenes.

Then the next scene that pooped up turned out a man and his woman were about to say goodnight, and he kissed her, I mean he kissed her so well. I had my eyes glued to the TV while bending gradually to support myself with the couch. It was something I had wished to do with some of the girls back then in school, but I never got the chance. I watched with rapt attention to see what those two people were up to.
Like, does he open his mouth? And aim right for the center of the mouth, or to the side, or what? I was far gone with so many imaginations that when I felt a touch on my shoulder, I jumped out of shock. Agatha started laughing so hard that I thought she’d pee in her pants. When I was calm, she stopped laughing. She teased me about paying so much attention to the TV. I just blushed shyly.
“Femi, don’t tell me you haven’t kissed before?” She said.

I was shy to look her in the face, I just hung my bead down. “Not really,” I broke the awkward silence, still not looking her in the face. “Not really? That’s not a straightforward response,” she said. “Okay, I haven’t,” I answered. She was calm and stared at my face when finally l looked up.
I told her I just didn’t know how to do it. She just giggled and stared at the TV. The scene was gone and this time, some cops were after some suspected criminals. I was watching absentmindedly.

I kinda felt dumb for telling her I don’t know how to kiss and she did realize how I felt, so she came closer and put her arm around me. “Femi,” she said, “do you really want to know how to kiss? What if — well, if you practice on me? I’m not going to tell anyone.”
I was mute for some seconds figuring out what to say. Could it be she’s trying to test me? Then I thought about the chance of getting my first kiss with a house help and how it would be easier to get over, having done something dumb with Agatha than with some girls from school.
“What was I supposed to do?” I asked her. She simply smiled, revealing her cute dimples.

“Oh! Very simple. Put your arms around me,” she said, so I did. Mehnn, her skin felt softer than my sisters. “Now, just kiss me,” she said. I stood there still contemplating and she added, “C’mon, there is no big deal, just kiss my lips. So I put my lips out a little and aimed for her cheek, but she turned her head at the last second so l landed on her mouth. I pecked at it and sat back. She simply closed her eyes and smiled but I had a feeling she was laughing inside. Our eyes got locked in contact when I turned, she started laughing but soon stopped when my look changed.

“You’re making jest of me,” I said. She apologized in seconds.
“You know what, let me give you a few tips first. I’m not an expert or anything but try this. Don’t close your lips so tight. Leave a little opening, go in slowly. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t jump away like you got an electric shock. Take your time!” We tried again and did exactly as she said. It felt better. Her lips pressed right against mine and we hugged each other. She said it was better and had me practice one more time.

“Was there something I was supposed to do with my tongue?” I asked. I thought she’d laugh at my dumbness but she didn’t, she just let out a naughty smile and raised her eyebrows. “How did you know?” she asked. I just smiled and uttered no words. We hugged again and she told me to kiss her like before, so she would show me how to do it.

This time, when we pressed our lips together, she slipped her tongue between my lips and right into my mouth. There was this feeling inside of me that felt like a shock. She said we should try again, and this time I should push against hers, too. So we did that.
While we kissed, I had gotten a hard-on. If I had known it would lead to it, I would have stopped right away because I really didn’t want her to notice I got an erection.

To be continued…
©Frank The Writer

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