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A Knock in the Night









The journey of life for Funmi is a tough one. She has to do all sorts of odd things to survive, including commercial sex hawking.
The biggest challenges are that at the peak of her happiness, there are knocks at the door in the night that shatter everything.






Saturday evenings had a regular sound of their own in the city—rushed, chaotic, and a little desperate. By six o’clock, the streets around Unity Road, along Ago Palace Way, were already humming with life: street vendors yelling over each other, music spilling from loudspeakers of nearby shops, and the clamor of weekend freedom slowly building to a crescendo. But I wasn’t part of that world. Not really.

I had claimed my usual corner seat in Galaxy Bar, a dimly lit but stylish place that balanced between being lively and discreet. I always chose that particular spot—close enough to the door for visibility, far enough from the spotlight to be ignored by the uninterested. The scent of beer, sweat, and old leather furniture filled the air. A live football match boomed from the massive wall-mounted television screen, complete with wild cheers and o groans from a mostly male crowd.

I barely noticed the game. My eyes skimmed the room occasionally, but I remained mostly still, sipping from a green bottle of 7 Up. I didn’t drink alcohol. I couldn’t afford to do so—not when I needed my senses sharp.

I was there for business, after all. Yes, the real hustle business. The kind of business that required smiles that weren’t real, names that weren’t yours, and charm that was more calculated than felt.

My name tonight? It would be Ella.

It always worked—soft, feminine, non-threatening. It rolled off the tongue easily and left a lingering sweetness in the minds of men. In truth, I had retired my real name a long time ago. What use was it when the world only saw what I chose to present?

I crossed my legs slowly, subtly adjusting the slit in my black skirt. My skirt was not too short, but it was short enough to reveal my thighs, which men often commended. The top too was not too revealing. It was quite transparent enough to show the outline of my wellpadded bra, but nothing beyond that. Oh, well, it also showed the cleavage. I must say I was used to men staring at my busts.

So, my dressing was nothing too flashy—just enough to catch wandering eyes. I glanced at the entrance. The door creaked open and in walked a man I had noticed before.

Gab. That wasn’t his real name either, I suspected at first.

Men like him wore layers of pretense like cologne. He was tall, with a confident stride and the casual arrogance of someone who never had to work too hard for anything. The last few times I’d seen him here, he was flanked by ladies who hung off his every move like ornaments. But tonight, he was alone.

He scanned the room—and then his eyes landed on me. And stayed there. He smiled. Not the sleazy grin of drunk desperation, but the calculated smile of someone used to getting what they wanted.

He approached smoothly, pulled out the chair opposite mine without waiting for an invitation, and sat.

“Hello, pretty lady,” he said. His voice was deep, oiled with charm.

I looked up, offering the faintest of polite smiles. “Good evening.”

“I’m Gab,” he said, leaning forward with the ease of a practiced flirt. “Can I meet you, please?”

“You may,” I replied softly. “Call me Ella.”

He chuckled. “Ella. Now that’s a name that fits. Sweet and mysterious.” He paused. “Your parents chose well.”

I almost laughed. The irony was too much. If only he knew. Ella was as real as the diamonds in my earrings—which were, by the way, cubic zirconia.

“Thank you,” I said.

He gestured toward my drink. “Mineral? On a day like this?”

Before I could respond, he snapped his fingers at a bar attendant, who came rushing over like a trained pup. Gab didn’t look at the man, only muttered, “One Gulder for me, and give the lady whatever she wants. Fast.”

The attendant turned expectantly to me.

“Another bottle of 7 Up, please.”

Gab raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He shrugged, amused.

The drinks came quickly. He downed a gulp of his beer and turned his full attention to me. The small talk began: the usual banter, laced with subtle assessments. He asked what I did, where I was from, what I liked. I dodged and redirected like a seasoned tennis player, giving just enough to seem open, but never enough to reveal anything real.

Eventually, the veil dropped.

“How much for it?” he asked, bluntly.

I leaned back, nonchalant. “Depends on what you want.”

I then went on to mention the packages and their prices

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Interesting piece. Please keep it coming.

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He nodded. “I’ll take your number. Maybe another day we do something longer, okay? Today... I’m short on time.” He smirked. “So let’s make it short.”

Short-time it was. He drained his bottle and stood up, slipping a few bills on the table with practiced ease.

“Let’s go to the manager and get a room,” he said.

I followed him, heels clicking softly behind his long strides. The manager barely looked up as Gab dropped money on the counter—he’d done this before. A key was handed over like a secret. Room 7.

Inside the passageway, my mind slowed down. I wasn’t nervous. Not anymore. I had done this too many times. But I was alert. Always. That was the difference between those of us who lasted and those who didn’t.

The room smelled faintly of stale cologne and cheap disinfectant. Faint outlines of old stains remained on the curtains, like shadows of past encounters that didn’t want to be forgotten. The lighting was dim, forgiving.

I walked in behind him and shut the door softly.

This was one of the rooms I had been in before. The bed creaked the same way. The mirror was still cracked at the edge. I had seen men of all kinds here—young, old, married, drunk, aggressive, shy. Some were gentle, others careless. A few were cruel.

My eyes had seen much in this business. My body had endured a lot.

And yet, every time I stepped into one of these rooms, a part of me stood back—detached, watching. Waiting. Wondering when, or if, I would ever walk into a room like this and feel nothing at all.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I was Ella. And Ella had work to do.


***


The air was lusty. You could smell the faint muskiness of sex. The room was dim, with peeling curtains and that all-too-familiar smell of cheap air freshener and maybe smoke. I had been here before. Too many times.

Gab wasted no time. We undressed, it was time to get down to business. It wasn’t the worst I’d had—not by a long shot. But he was not gentle as he rushed things, like a man trying to squeeze every ounce of pleasure out of a ticking clock.

The way he squeezed my breasts was rough. It was if he had never touched breasts before. The sexual act itself was too physical. The condom softened the impact, but I had to pray it would not burst.

I let him take what he wanted. I was used to men like him.

The first time was quick. The second, more demanding. He was sweating by the end of it, panting like a runner. By the third round, I could tell something was off.

His breathing grew heavy—too heavy. Not the tired moans I’d heard a thousand times, but something deeper. Desperate.

He pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his chest. I sat up slowly, watching him.

“Hope nothing?” I said cautiously. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t answer. His skin had gone pale, and his mouth opened, gasping for air. His eyes darted wildly for a moment, and then—just like that—he collapsed backward onto the bed.

“Gab?” I said louder, already feeling the first stabs of panic. I grabbed his arm. Limp.

“Gab!”

Following....

“Gab?” I said louder, already feeling the first stabs of panic. I grabbed his arm. Limp.

“Gab!”

Nothing. Just the sound of his shallow, slowing breath. Then... silence.

Cold silence.

I stared at his chest. It wasn’t moving.

That’s when the dread hit me. Not the sadness of a dead man lying beside me—no, I had no room left for that—but the sheer, bone-deep fear of what this meant.

What a life! There he was, still naked. He was so full of life minutes ago. He was on top of me, trying to prove sexual prowess. He banged like he could do it for ever. Now, an unforseen twist.

He was gone. Dead. In a sex room. With me. What would people say?

They wouldn’t ask about his heart.
They wouldn’t care that I didn’t touch a thing but his body.
To them, I was a sex worker. A predator. A murderer in lipstick and perfume.

They would throw me in jail. I’d rot there.

I stood up, heart racing, legs shaking. I had to get out. I had to disappear.

I dressed quickly. I could hardly hook my bra. I had to yank my dress over my head. I put my tangled underwear in my purse. Then, I quickly looked around to see if I had forgotten anything.

No time. I grabbed my purse, my phone. My mind was racing.

The man had already paid me. It was always pay before service. I didn't touch any of his things.

I cracked the door open. The passageway was silent. No footsteps. No voices.

I walked on.

Not too fast. Not too slow. Just calm. Like I had somewhere to be. Like nothing had happened. As I passed through the bar, thankfully the manager and others paid no attention. The football match was still going. That, thankfully, had their attention.

Out on the street, the city roared to life around me. Motorcycles zipped past. Horns honked. Music blasted from a nearby shop. I turned the corner and stopped a motorbike popularly called okada, my heart still pounding.

My mind went to my last customer. It was incredible that Gab was dead.

This is going to be a great read.✔️

My mind went to my last customer. It was incredible that Gab was dead.

And I had walked out like a ghost.

Now, every second felt like a countdown. Every voice behind me made me flinch. Had I left something behind? Would the manager find the body and remember my face?

And if he did... how long before the police came knocking?

I didn’t know.

All I knew was I had to vanish before they came looking for Ella.
Because Ella, sweet little Ella, would be charged for murder.


***


I got down from the okada and paid him from the money Gab had given me.

The Polytechnic’s gates looked the same as they always did—dusty, chaotic, full of life. It felt like stepping back into a different world. The contrast was jarring: here, students laughed, vendors called out to passersby, and life carried on like nothing had changed.

But for me, everything had changed.

I moved quickly through the campus, avoiding familiar faces, my mind a swirling fog of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. I reached the off-campus hostel I shared with Amaka and slipped into the room we rented at the back of a compound near Jakande Gate.

Amaka was still in her wrapaper, just lying on the bed. The music of afro softly played on the rechargeable radio. She blinked as I entered.

“Ah-ahn, babe! Where did you go since afternoon?” she asked, smiling. "I thought you said you were not feeling like going out to hustle.”

I stood by the door, my hand still on the knob. My lips trembled before I could speak.

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Keep it up.

I stood by the door, my hand still on the knob. My lips trembled before I could speak.

“Amaka,” I said, voice barely above a whisper, “something happened.”

She sat up straight, instantly alert. “What is it? Talk to me.”

I walked in, shut the door, and collapsed onto the edge of the bed. My hands were shaking.

“I decided to hustle small, so I was at Galaxy Bar… you know, my usual corner,” I began, staring at the floor. “There was this man. Gab. I’ve seen him a few times before, but he came alone this time. We talked, he took me to a room…”

Amaka folded her arms across her chest, her expression unreadable.

I swallowed hard. “He… we did it. Everything seemed normal. Then, after the third round, he started gasping for air. At first I thought it was just fatigue but—Amaka, he collapsed. Right there. On the bed.”

Her eyes widened. “Collapsed? You mean… he—?”

“He died,” I said. “Just like that.”

Silence filled the room like a thunderclap. Amaka stared at me, mouth slightly open. I could see the thoughts racing behind her eyes.

“Oh my God…” she whispered.

“I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I knew if I stayed, they’d arrest me. Who would believe I didn’t kill him?” My voice cracked. “I was careful not to leave a trace. I left the room and walked away like nothing happened.”

I looked up, expecting judgment, maybe even fear.

But Amaka didn’t speak for a moment. She looked at me with something else in her eyes—something deeper than shock.

“You did the only thing you could,” she said finally, voice quiet. “In this country? With your line of work? They wouldn’t even ask questions. They’d throw you into Kirikiri prison and throw away the key.”

“You did the only thing you could,” she said finally, voice quiet. “In this country? With your line of work? They wouldn’t even ask questions. They’d throw you into Kirikiri prison and throw away the key.”

Tears sprang to my eyes. “I’m scared, Amaka.”

She came over and sat beside me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder.

“You should be,” she said. “But you’re not alone.”

I blinked at her.

“I’ll help you,” she continued. “Whatever it takes. But you need to be careful now. Really careful. No phones, no posting, no unnecessary movements. If his body’s found—and I’m sure it has been—there will be investigations. I hope there's no CCTV, but the bar attendants, manager… somebody might remember you.”

I nodded slowly, the weight of it crashing down harder than ever. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I know. But meaning doesn’t matter anymore. Survival does.”

Amaka stood, went to her wardrobe, and pulled out a small black bag.

“What’s that?” I asked.

She smiled wanly. she “This is a new sim card. I always keep some spare things, just in case.”

I could not help but hug her and cry.




The following morning after the unfortunate incident, the air was thick with the usual noise—the calls of vendors, students rushing to lectures, the sounds from vehicles. But for me, everything felt hollow. My mind replayed last night’s nightmare over and over—the way Gab gasped, then collapsed, and the way I fled without looking back.

I was trying to eat breakfast quietly when Amaka barged into our room, her face pale, eyes wide.

“Funmi! Have you seen the news?”

I shook my head, heart pounding.

Good one. It will be interesting to know how Funmi wiggled out of this logjam.

Excellent!!
Nice twist and story plot!! Keep it up ok.

I was trying to eat breakfast quietly when Amaka barged into our room, her face pale, eyes wide.

“Funmi! Have you seen the news?”

I shook my head, heart pounding.

She motioned for me to follow and led me to the common room where a few students were gathered, watching the television. I kept my distance, clutching my plate, trying not to be noticed.

On the screen, the headline flashed in bold:
“Superintendent Gabriel Amakri Found Dead in Hotel Room — Lady Suspect Sought.”

My stomach turned over. The reporter spoke of a high-ranking police officer who had been found lifeless in a guest house roim late laat night. They said a young lady had been seen leaving the scene alone and was now the subject of a police search.

I stared at the screen, feeling as if the walls were closing in.

I was that lady.

But nobody else here knew. Except Amaka.

Amaka’s gaze met mine, her eyes full of worry and warning. She was the only one who knew I had been with Gab, or Gabriel Amakri. The only one who understood the danger I was in.

I forced myself to breathe, to look composed. Around me, the students whispered—speculating, gossiping—but none connected me to the story.

“No one suspects you,” Amaka whispered when we slipped away from the crowd. “But if they do… you have to disappear. You have to be invisible.”

“I’m scared,” I admitted, voice barely audible. “What if they find me?”

“I’m scared,” I admitted, voice barely audible. “What if they find me?”

Amaka pulled me into a hug. “They won’t. Not if we’re smart. We’ll change everything—your look, your routine. No one will recognize you.”

I nodded slowly, tears threatening to spill.

Outside, life on campus went on as usual—laughing, shouting, rushing to classes. But inside, I was drowning in a secret that could destroy me.

The whole city was hunting for me, and only Amaka stood by my side.

I stared at her, overwhelmed. “Why are you helping me?”

She looked back at me, fierce and loyal. “Because I’ve seen how this world treats girls like us. And because if it were me, I know you’d do the same.”

My throat tightened.

We sat in silence for a moment. Outside, the noise of campus life carried on: laughter, music, the shout of a meat-pie seller nearby. It felt like a different planet.

But inside that room, a secret lived between us now. A deadly one.

And it was only a matter of time before it tried to claw its way out.


---


After the news broke about Superintendent Gabriel Amakri’s death, I made a decision that saved my life—I stopped hustling. I became dead to that inglorious profession.

For weeks, then months, I disappeared from the streets, the bars, the hotels. I changed my phone numbers, moved between cheap rooms far from Isolo, and avoided anyone who might recognize me. I stayed off social media, stopped answering calls from unfamiliar numbers. Every day was a careful balancing act, a silent prayer to remain unseen, unheard.

And for a year, I was.

The city moved on, the scandal faded from headlines, and slowly, I began to breathe again—not fully free, but free enough

Good you escaped this. Providence must surely be on your side. Now, go and sin no more.

It's always nice to have a friend like Amaka in difficult times. I hope everyone gets to have such loyal people around them.

The city moved on, the scandal faded from headlines, and slowly, I began to breathe again—not fully free, but free enough.

During that year, Amaka was my anchor. She checked in quietly, helped with small jobs and money when I needed it, and reminded me daily: I wasn’t alone.

But the hunger—the need to survive—never left me. I knew I couldn’t stay hidden forever.

One afternoon, sitting in the small, dimly lit room I now called home, Amaka showed up with a determined look in her eyes.

“Funmi,” she said softly, “it’s time.”

I looked at her, heart pounding. “Time for what?”

“To come back,” she said. “But smarter this time. We’re not going back to the old bars and street corners. This time, we operate at a higher level. Exclusive. Private. Wealthy clients. No risks like before.”

I hesitated. The thought terrified me. But the truth was, I didn’t have many options left.

Amaka laid out the plan: new contacts, upscale venues, private bookings where discretion was guaranteed. No more chasing shadows, no more running.

“We’ll build something better,” she promised. “Together.”

And so I stepped back into the game—different, cautious, sharper.

We started slow. One client at a time. Word spread quietly in hushed circles. The stakes were higher, but so was the reward.

For the first time since that terrible night, I felt a flicker of control.

The business had changed—and maybe, just maybe, so had I.


---


The shift to the high-class scene was both a blessing and a battlefield.

Gone were the noisy bars and rough crowds. Now, it was champagne glasses, expensive suits, and whispered deals in plush hotel suites. The clientele was different—rich businessmen, top politicians, men who had power and secrets to protect.

Amaka’s network was the key. She knew people who moved in those circles, people who trusted her enough to bring me in quietly.

At first, I felt out of place.

The men were more demanding. They expected discretion, charm, and a certain kind of elegance I wasn’t born with—I had to learn fast.

Some were kind; others cold and calculating. Some treated me like a princess for a night, others like a commodity to be used and discarded. But every meeting was a lesson. Every smile a weapon. Every touch a calculated move.

I was fighting old fears—of being caught, of being used, of losing myself. But I was stronger now. I had to be.

The money was better. The risks, too. A wrong word, a careless glance, and a whisper could ruin everything. So I learned to watch, to listen, to stay invisible while being seen.

Amaka was always there, managing introductions, smoothing over issues, warning me when danger was near.

“Remember,” she told me one night after a tense dinner with a powerful senator, “this world runs on secrets. Your secret is your armor.”

Wow.......I'm spellbound and addicted. The Oliver Twist in me wants MORE!!!!. Please keep it coming.

Amaka was always there, managing introductions, smoothing over issues, warning me when danger was near.

“Remember,” she told me one night after a tense dinner with a powerful senator, “this world runs on secrets. Your secret is your armor.”

Sometimes I thought about stopping again, about running away from the shadows. But with every deposit in my account, every new client, I felt a little more in control. A little less like a victim.

The business was changing me, for better or worse. But for now, I was making it.

And I wasn’t alone.



When Amaka introduced me to Bashir—“Bashy,” as he liked to be called—I thought it was just another client. But from the moment he walked into the room, everything felt different.

Tall, impeccably dressed in a traditional agbada that shimmered under the hotel’s chandeliers, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man used to having the world at his feet. His skin was the deep bronze of the desert sun, his eyes warm but sharp—like they missed nothing.

“You must be Funmi,” he said, his voice smooth, almost velvety. “Amaka has told me so much about you.”

I nodded, trying to keep my smile polite but neutral.

Bashy wasn’t like the others. From the start, he was generous—not just with money, but with attention. Where most men treated me like a transaction, Bashy treated me like a person.

Gifts began arriving almost immediately—handcrafted leather shoes from Bauchi, elegant silk scarves, bottles of expensive perfume, and once, a delicate gold necklace with a single sapphire pendant.

“I want you to have these,” he said one evening, handing me a small velvet box. “Not because I expect anything in return, but because I mean it when I say... I love you.”

Love. The word echoed in my head, loud and strange. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to believe him, or if I dared.

I told myself it was part of the game—businessmen like him knew how to charm, how to make a woman feel special enough to keep her close, but not so close she could see the cracks.

But Bashy’s gestures went beyond the usual transactions. He asked about my dreams, my family, even my fears. He listened, really listened.

I found myself sharing things I’d never said aloud—the weight of the past, the secret I carried, the nightmare that haunted me.

And he didn’t recoil.

For the first time in a long while, I wondered if maybe this wasn’t just business.

But trust was a luxury I could barely afford.

Was Bashy’s love real—or just another form of control?

Ride on. Let's find out if Bashy's love is real or not.

Nice story.

Sweet