₦airaland Forum

9


THE PRESENT


When Martha opened her eyes and found she was sitting in a hospital, she panicked. She struggled to grasp the detail of her situation as if she was dead, and this was the end. She closed and opened her eyes and winced at the ray of light, sliding in through the window. She sat up slowly, hearing her bones cracking and feeling relieved as she stretched.
She peeked around her. She was limited to the inside of a room’s white walls, sitting on a white bed, bombarded with the smell of drugs, iodine, and a peppery perfume like that of antiseptic soap. Why was she here? What was this place? Would she be able to ever come out of here? Many questions ran through her mind, and she placed her left hand on her forehead. She tried to talk and cleared her throat. ‘Please, who is around?’
She looked at the brown panel door, but there was no sign of movement. It had seemed as if her questions bounced at the walls, so maybe she would not come out of these white walls again. Perhaps, she was embalmed, and all she was seeing might just be a dream. She wished to be free, be outside of the walls, and be back in Rendezvous or with her old family in Abeokuta. It wasn’t preferable to be bonded to a bed with this smell or this sheet or this wall. The length of her worries increased when she received her first visitor, the same police officer who came some hours ago.
The woman smiled, and Martha wished she could knock the smile off her face.
‘Hi, Martha, I’m Ngozi Wilson. Thank God you are awake,’ she said, ‘how is your body now.’
Martha nodded. Her head felt heavier, and her arms felt bigger, her legs were covered in a piece of clothing, and she would need a few steps as a practice to get back to walking properly. But that was not the most important thing to her at the moment. Where is she?
‘Please, be comfortable,’ the lady officer said. ‘And don’t mind telling me what you will like to eat or anything.’
Martha remembered the woman. She was in Abeokuta at the Ajasin’s house when this woman brought the bad news, and everything became awry and sad. She cleared her throat, and she tried talking. Her voice was a bit croaky, and it seemed the little change in her voice wanted to stay longer. ‘Where is my mum?’ She was calling, Mama Ayo Mum. Was it not funny she could call Mama Ayo her mum after disappearing for three years?
‘She is fine,’ the lady officer said. ‘The important thing, for now, is that you get better and return to Lagos.’
Whatever bad news the woman wanted to hide, Martha caught a glimpse of it from how her pupils dilated, and her facial expression changed.
‘What happened to me?’ Martha asked.
The woman sighed as if doubting if she should tell her. She walked closer and sat on the bed. ‘You were in shock, so we have to bring you to the hospital.
The image of the events flashed in Martha’s head – Abeokuta, her foster father, the news about Ayo’s murder. She had planned to spend a week or two in Abeokuta. But she would want to return to Lagos to find out if Ayo was really dead or not, to know what kind of epic dream all this was.
‘Ayo, please, what happened to him?’ she asked as if she wanted different news, a kind of assurance: ‘we have good news; Ayo has responded to treatment, he isn't dead as we have said earlier.’ She looked at the woman with her eyes filled with optimism.
‘We will talk about that when you are fine,’ Officer Ngozi said. Then she walked out without looking back.
‘By the way, we have your things here with us. Your bags and clothes. We thought you would need it here.’
‘When are we going to Lagos?’ Martha asked. She desperately wanted to find out the truth about Ayo.
‘You are coming with us.’
***
Their next discussion happened in Lagos at the police station inside Officer Ngozi’s office. Martha had followed the police vehicle and she had arrived in Lagos to their office. The officer had made her seat and listened. From the briefing, the police had found a text on Ayo’s phone, which read:
At least talk to mum. This is her number 08133344455. Then they found a note on his table, which read ‘Bye-bye, Ayo. I have decided, and maybe we will talk when we get to meet there. And please pick your calls. Martha wrote it.
Officer Ngozi was a bit different on this day. This time, Martha didn’t see her as someone strange or someone whose smile was annoying. The sleeves of the lady officer's white shirt were rolled up to the elbow; the shirt was tucked properly into her trousers. Her eyes observed Martha’s body, scanning her shoulder, her eyes, her fingers, randomly and quickly, that Martha noticed and looked away.
Officer Ngozi brought a folder out of her desk and dipped her hand inside. She spread some pictures on the desk. They were pictures of Ayo, the dead Ayo, the bearded Ayo, Martha’s stepbrother. Martha stared at the pictures one after another, afraid to touch them. In a picture, he was soaked in blood. In another, it seemed he had widened his eyes so wide as if he had been frightened. There was a gash on his back, and a lot of fresh blood on the floor and his jacket. His clothes were torn, and there were bruises. The police had circled red marks on some areas like the turned parts of his clothes and the bruises.
Martha touched the pictures. Her fingers were shaking. As much as she tried to imagine what happened, she couldn't, and she quivered so badly like someone who had caught a cold. Her lips jiggled, and the flesh of her face vibrated so much like it would fall off. The flood gates opened, and she could not hold the tears anymore. She had thought she could hold the wailing, but it poured out. She began to weep slowly, and her cries gained momentum. She held the pictures. Her hands shook. Then she put them down, and her crying subsidized. She pushed her backs against her chair and wept silently, her shoulders vibrating slowly; hardly could a person next door hear her now except her face was in view, tears dripping down slowly out of her eyes like a faulty faucet. Her stepbrother was displayed before her like a chunk of meat, lifeless like a log. He must have been in great pains for doing nothing wrong. She picked one picture again, one where the gash appeared more evident.
‘What did he do wrong?’ she said, not looking away from the picture. Her fingers were shaking as if they would let the images go, but she held on to them and cried. If she could turn the hands of time, she would be there when it happened, and maybe they would be dancing in a club instead, or he would be backing her like a baby, throwing her weight upon his back to carry her better. She sniffed, and the tears kept pouring.
Suppressing her tears, she tried to keep a calm face, but soon her lips vibrated. And the tears, again. She allowed it. It was becoming stronger than she could control.

'I'm sorry you have to go through this,' Officer Ngozi said. 'We would like to bring this criminal to justice with your support if you will cooperate with us. You need to tell us all you know.'

Martha remembered all and told it plainly, cutting out the parts she considered unnecessary. 'I saw him about a month ago. I have left home for three years, and he was excited to see me. We went celebrating the reunion, and since then, we have been meeting and talking.'

'Where? And what do you talk about more often.'

What do they talk about? She could answer the question in three words 'nothing' and 'home' and 'future.' They talked about what two people could talk about when they have been separated for many years. They talked about life, the stupid things they did in childhood, the silly actions, and the childish act. They talked about dating briefly, and she had waved it away, but indeed that was what she wanted from him if possible. For three days, they never ceased talking about it, how great it would be, how mannered and beautiful their kids would be. He did the talking, and Martha listened, letting her wish flexed excitedly in her head. It wasn't appropriate; she had thought that she married her foster brother.

Then there was someone else. The night she discovered there was another girl in his life, it seemed it would be the end of the world, but he had calmed her in his arms, patting her back and her hair. This girl would have to give way for us, he had said, she’s nobody when we both exist; we are more than what she could stop, we are made from heaven, fate wanted us together and brought us closer since childhood.

Fresh tears fell from Martha’s face as Officer Ngozi was looking at her closely. All that promise, all the sweet words and life and moments had been wiped away, stabbed to death by one criminal. She wished she could say, 'we talked about love and our future together.' She would say the exact words and sentences and gestures as he had given them so that officer Ngozi would know how painful it was to lose him, to imagine what pains he had been through before death seized him. But she wouldn't invite more trouble. She wouldn't run her mouth like a tap giving officer Ngozi ideas that she was his lover, ideas that Martha could be stupid enough to have wanted to date her stepbrother.

Officer Ngozi clicked her finger in front of her nose to snap her out of her reverie. Martha exhaled. ‘He talked about going back home. He wanted me to go back to our parents,’ she said and folded her hands over her black vest, a black scarf decorating her head.

'Did you have a quarrel or a fight about this topic?'

'Never.'

Officer Ngozi stared at her for a minute before she proceeded. 'I heard you ran away from home. Why? Telling us could help, you know.'

That was it. She would have to leave. She shifted on the chair and folded her hands on her chest like a mother looking at a disrespectful kid in public. She would not come out with her reasons just like that. It could land her in more trouble. It would get to that stage where she would have to answer some stupid questions. How did you come to Lagos? What have you been doing all this while?

'I ran away because I wanted to live alone,' she said, looking at the corner of the office. There was a shelf of centuries of files, dusty and full of white-turned-brown papers.

'Why?'

She ignored the question, thoughts of her foster father running through her mind. Bishop would be in Abeokuta at the moment.

'Well,' officer Ngozi cut her thoughts, clasping her fingers, 'Your mum told us. Your foster mother, I mean.'

Martha's eyes widened. She wouldn't have thought Mama Ayo would say such things to a stranger. That woman had always been a secretive woman for her family's sake. She would sometimes challenge her husband about how it was wrong to punish a child with horsewhip that could scare a donkey. But she would not say his to anyone outside the family and she used to warn her kids about it too.

‘What did she tell you?’ Martha asked.

‘Your father's atrocities. She said she wasn't sure until now. They have been bedroom issues for some time now ---’ she stopped, perhaps spotting the curious look on Martha's face. 'Back to our discussion. Do you know any suspect? Anyone who he fought with? Anyone he argued with or had an awkward encounter?'

Martha shook her head. If there was an awkward encounter, it was meeting her again after many years. They had spent a fair amount of the past weeks together, catching up on the past and building what Martha thought was the future.

Officer Ngozi closed the ledger in her front. She had written nothing in there for long, and she waited some minutes as if she wanted to say something and did not know how to put it. She stood up from the table and walked to Martha's side. Placing a hand on her shoulders and looking into her eyes. 'Your father,' she said and waited, ‘has been paralyzed with shock. The doctor said it’s complicated. But a miracle can happen.’

How could one take this news? Martha’s mouth curved to a little opening, and her face wore a frown. Even the story of Ayo lying in the morgue sometimes came to her mind as if Ayo was lying there to receive treatment and that somehow he would wake up from the coma. She closed her mouth and wiped her face. She should not be sad, and she wasn't. But this was not the way she would want Bishop to spend the rest of his life. It was all wrong for him to die that way when the last thing he heard was that his son was dead, and one of the questioned people was the daughter she picked from a refuse bin. She wished to go back to him and say she didn't mean all she said. Bishop shouldn't die for Mama Ayo and Florence's sake. It would be hard on the innocent woman if her husband died after her son died. The news of her husband’s bad deeds to Martha would have broken Mama Ayo, Martha thought, bad things were happening in the family already.

Oh, he's not dead yet. He's in a coma. But Martha waved the thought away like a fly over a bottle of beer. People rise from coma as often as buried dogs rise from the dead.

‘The doctors are doing their best,’ Ngozi said, ‘let's hope for the best… And by the way, what's your relationship with the DPO of Ikoyi branch.'

Uchenna! Martha almost smiled and said, he's my ex-boyfriend. ‘A friend,’ she said.

Ngozi snorted and scribbled on the paper and said, not looking at her face, ‘he is looking into the case because of you…’

‘Wow!’

‘You can go now. We will call you again when we need your attention.’ Officer Ngozi said and Martha went home, hoping that the officer would call her the next time to say that Ayo’s murderer had been caught.

So that night Martha lay on her bed, thinking about what Uchenna could have told officer Ngozi and what exactly he was doing about the case. She wasn't a major suspect as she had thought, but she should pray about it. She knelt and prayed for her freedom again, and to her surprise, she asked God to save Bishop and that it was better if he didn't die. She thought of going to her family in Abeokuta in these trying times, but she wasn't sure if she would be welcomed or they would hurl stones on her face like a witch. She prayed anyway for God to reveal her innocence like the opening of curtains in a stage play.

Before she slept, she reached inside the drawer of her nightstand and brought out a photograph. It was a picture of herself and Ayo. They had taken the picture two weeks ago at a studio in Yaba. Coming that evening, it rained severely, and their shoes were wet. When the rain subsided, they shared an umbrella which he newly bought at twice the price. I could walk in this rain, he had told her, but for you, we would instead buy an expensive umbrella. She fetched his picture from under the pillow. She stared at it for a while before she placed it on her chest, her back on the mattress.

Three nights passed before two important news pieces arrived together from the police station like a loud bang and a parcel of gifts. Ngozi called to come to the police station.

When Martha arrived, Ngozi said, ‘we have found the killer.’

Martha sighed. She didn't know what to do or if she should be happy. Ayo was still dead. She had questions in her mind. Why did the murderer kill Ayo? It was fast, too fast. Did Uchenna help in nabbing whoever it was?

‘And,’ Ngozi continued, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ajasin died last night. The doctors lost him. '

Martha froze. She stared at Ngozi as if she had been hypnotized. Her father --- foster father --- was dead.

Ammishaddai:
How do I reach you ? I would really like you to teach me one or two things .

Check above

Zhunnurayn:
Hello op. Thanks for this post. How can I connect with you and remain in touch. I really need to as I am setting out on the journey of a freelancer

There's little you can learn from me. Most of the tips are already on the internet or on this forum.

Ammishaddai:
I have a question: does copying an article help you become a better writer? Of yes, what's your experience with it.

Do what works for you.

I realize that when I pay attention to certain authors, I can pick what makes their work great.

Sometimes I understand it better by writing that paragraph and paying attention to length, structure, or asking weird questions. Lol

Then I’ll try my observation.

You see...
It is about asking questions about a style you love. You don't just love it. You have concrete reasons, and you need to find them.

Ammishaddai:
Lovely writeup .

Thank you

Spiff20:
This story resonates with me to the tee. Got my hands on the keys in 2015 and began a back and forth movement on Upwork. 2021 and I'm looking at all the lessons and smiling. It's indeed a great sojourn after these years. Hopefully I'd write my own story one day. Thanks Hadeh for this, I'd like us to connect if you don't mind. And the community too.

That's the beauty of it. Looking back and seeing things you've learned.

Please write about your experience. We will read it.

I will be in your dm shortly.

I can recommend communities to some of you, but it might be considered advertising if I share links here.

You can tell me what you do, and I will give you recommendations.

As a freelance writer, your time is flexible to a great extent. But, sadly, one of the problems you will face is time management.

In this article, I cover some of the lessons I have learned along the way.

As a beginner, you might ask, is freelance writing a career?

Of course, yes, it is a viable way to make money while you can have time for other things like building a side business or passive income.

It is a great feeling, but I could have done some things differently.



My Story as a Freelance writer

I have been on this journey since 2016 when I wrote an article at the rate of 0.8kobo per word.

I was an amateur when I started, of course. I didn’t know what I was doing. I aimed to make money, and though I achieved that, I was breaking my fingers, yet I was not earning enough.

I don’t want to continue that way.

And if you are reading this and asking, “where to start as a freelance writer?” you might find helpful tips in the article.

I once read a quote that says, “aim for the moon. Even though you might not get it, you are not going to come with a handful of mud either.”

You don’t have to settle for less. You can earn more, or you can be more than a freelance writer. You can be a millionaire.

I could have started freelance writing in 2013, but I didn’t overcome my fears till 2016. I started working with friends until I got the courage to ask for more.

Then I waited too long till 2021 before I started taking paid online writing jobs, by signing up on Upwork.

Here are the 7 things I wished I knew back then as freelance writer:

“Good enough” might sound average.

#1. Seek Growth

You are going to make money if you are growing as a freelance writer. One day, when you look back at pieces you wrote years ago, you feel proud, yet you know you can write something even better.

While you think your writing is good enough, you want to write better content that “good enough” sounds like average writing.

This should be your mission: Growth.

It is a personal thing, and you use your own yardsticks.

If you ask how I can grow in the freelance writing business, many ideas might come to your mind, and they could be personal.

For example, what are you good at? What do you want to improve?

When I started, my grammar wasn’t that good. So Grammarly came in handy. But before I could afford the software, I was searching online on how to improve. So I read books like Elements of Style, and I studied websites like Purdue.

The growth I am seeking is how to be consistent and disciplined when posting on this blog and with my creative writing career.

You see, it’s personal. My goal is to have a platform of my own.

Now, think for yourself. What are your weaknesses? What do you want to improve?

You will find ideas on the internet to improve or grow.

#2. Join a community

I can’t emphasize this enough. A community will help you improve or give insider tips to navigate a job search. Some will even bring you opportunities.

I received many rejections on Upwork until I started checking forums and social media to get accepted. This year when I was accepted, it seems my journey is just beginning.

Join a community early in your freelance writing career. You will avoid a or of mistakes that way.

The good thing about following a community at this age is that your options are online, and you can belong to a group from anywhere in the world. Check Facebook, Reddit, Whatsapp, or Telegram. Ask around; you might be surprised what group you will find.

#3. Prepare for the unexpected.

You can be hired faster than a regular 9 – 5 worker. So in a few minutes of an interview, you have a job. But it would be stupid of you to think you will be working for that person for five or ten years. I am not saying it’s impossible. I’m saying it is unlikely.

Maybe I am exaggerating, but I have been in situations where everything is fine, and the clients stop communicating. That’s it; my source of income is gone.

You might not experience this, but it will be advisable to prepare for the unexpected while improving the reality. If your client stop reaching out to you, your source of income stops.

#4. Learn how to manage money

Sometimes, you don’t have jobs. Sometimes, you have more than you can handle.

My bad, I thought I need to work every week as a freelance writer. I remember having weeks of no work, and I was afraid of what would happen if things persist.

Another month, I realized I had earned well, but I have spent it all on — you guess — nothing.

If you are not working with a high-paying client, you will panic when there is no offer.

What to do?

Improve and work with clients who would pay well.

Most importantly, understand how money works. I wish I had learned how to manage money. But I hope you won’t look at your earnings one day and say, “what! So I earn this much, and I don’t have money. What did I buy?”

As freelance writers, we believe we have enough time and will always get jobs if we have the skills. But that’s not a great mentality. Do you want to keep banging your nails on the keyboard? Don’t you want to have financial freedom?

Here are money management resources you can check:

#5. Invest in your skill

I know you are barely earning to feed yourself. But consider yourself a student in this journey. Learn, learn, and learn some more.

There are two ways to do this (1) Externally (2)Internally.

The two might look the same at some point.

Learn the Intrinsic Stuff

Internally, are things you learn on your own and are hard or impossible to teach others.

I remember those days when I copy Chimamanda’s Americanah by hand. I remember the time I was imitating Gary Harbert.

I know this affects how I attend to certain topics or tasks. When I was doing those exercises, it seemed pointless. But you can tell that things will get better when you persist. You will absorb and improve.

Evidence of Expertise As A Freelance Writer

Externally, this is evidence that says you are a professional in your niche. They include everything you can show others, such as certificates from a course, blogs you have built, badges you have earned, etc.

One more thing, when you engage in an activity like blogging, you have both internal and external rewards. You have the venture as proof, and the process of building that platform is teaching you lessons that are difficult to replicate or show others.

So what should I suggest to you? It depends on the kind of field or niche.

I can tell you to take just one paragraph of your favorite author and rewrite that by hand. Dissect it. Look at how each sentence forms a section. Ask yourself what makes the paragraph great? In three weeks, if you do it daily, you will wish you had started earlier.

Will that work for other freelance writers?
Well, I can’t say. But it worked for me when I was trying to improve how to transfer my ideas into written words.

Check online or forums by searching “how to become a better ‘input your skill.’”

Generally, there are three common ways:

Exercises (Deliberate practice)
Courses/videos
Books


#6. Take care of yourself.

Eat well, exercise, and clean up your home. Drink water. Not coke, not juice, not alcohol. Water!


Take your health seriously.

#7. Build a passive source of income

It is up to you how you are going to do this. Trust me; when you take point 4 seriously, you will come to this point. You want to build a source of income that earns while you are sleeping. Apply point 5 and point 1 and start funding methods that can make you earn while you sleep.

On the internet, your options are limitless. Here are a few I know:

Create courses
Blogging
Create YouTube content
Social Media management
Coding
Affiliate Marketing
Domain flipping
Kindle Publishing
Other digital products


Give your online business the right push

Check �

https://hadehwrites.com/blog/

NO CATS

The weather over the city had just drawn dark outside the bungalow. Mary was sitting on the couch inside the house, reading the newspaper, wearing a pair of recommended glasses. Having returned from the busy city a few minutes ago, she wanted to read the news before going to sleep. From a shelf behind the dining room, a small radio played John Lennon’s song, Oh My Love. That was one of her favourite songs her previous marriage gave her, and now at sixty, she still smiled while listening to the music alone. It was like time traveling to when her ex-husband was alive, and they used to play childishly and listen and sing together. She had tried to get married again, and her second marriage was half a loaf better than none.

Her house was sitting among a load-some of pines. During the day, when the winter heat got too much, she would sit outside with a jug of juice, listening to songs, watching her grandchildren’s photos, or reading literature. The house was a bungalow with three rooms for Mary and her second husband. But now it was dark outside. From inside, she couldn’t tell if those were pines or just trees.

The song had changed. It had begun playing another of her favorites from the past, Imagine by John Lennon. This one got her to turn around and walk to the dining room, holding the dining chair to steady herself. Her old legs could not support the best of her when it comes to standing and dancing. But at the moment, she couldn’t help it. She was filled with so much nostalgia from her past relationship that she wanted to dance, maybe hold her former husband’s hands too. She smiled and smirked her lips simultaneously.

While she was thinking of her deceased husband, a cat crawled past her window. It was her cat, Maverick. She had no idea how the thing got out of the house, except, of course, it had climbed the ceiling. Hey, damn it, Maverick, whata do outside, she said. She walked towards the window and saw a boy followed the cat. He was more like a toddler than a boy because he wobbled after the cat; he walked like he would fall — yet to get a good grip of his walking abilities. He wasn’t fast enough as an adult, and the cat stepped away slowly, meowing at the inconvenience the toddler was making her pass through.

Mary called on the boy, hey, boy, stopped chasing after my cat. But the boy wouldn’t listen, or he seemed to have one thing on his mind, and that was the cat. Mary went to the window and pressed her nose to it, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Whose son are you, and where do you think you are going? She asked, but her voice was limited to the room. She was alarmed to see the little boy running after a cat in the dark. Mary had children and grandchildren, and seeing one of those troublesome and cute little things in danger was never an inviting thing to see. She slammed her hands on the radio to stop the song, and she went to her bedroom.

It was a large bedroom with a large bed. The floor was made of tiles, and a portion had a rug. When she turned the light on, the room walls were plain, the color of wine and butter. On a small nightstand were two framed photos, one with her two children and their partners, and the other was with her grandkids. She picked her coat, an umbrella, a torch and hobbled out of the bedroom. She turned off the lights and locked windows before she walked into the dark front yard of pines.

She listened to the nights as if she was waiting to hear a call, and then she turned on the torch. She couldn’t hear the meow of the cats again, but the boy’s cry cut through the standing pines like lightning. There was something dangerously fearful with a crying toddler in the darkness that touched Mary, and she began to run into the dark as fast as her legs could carry her. Her feet felt too big in her flip-flop, but she bounced ahead even if it were hard to lift her feet off the hard ground. Her torch flashed through the stems of pines and flowers. Some animals scurried around. They must be raccoons, but there was something more urgent, the cry of a toddler all by himself, in the dark that bothered her than raccoons. When she was still in the job of nursing a baby, she would not let her kids out of the house when the time was 7 pm. What kinds of parents were called millennials? Even her own children didn’t know what was good for kids.

She was close. She could hear the cry louder. Her torch flashed at two eyeballs in the distance, and they were looking so afraid of the light. She stopped running. Boy, come on here. What are you doing alone there?

He wouldn’t bulge. He held on to something, and Mary pointed her torch, adjusted her glasses, and took one step closer.

It was the smell that got to her first: blood and heat. The body was fresh of death; you could tell from the twitching hands that just collapsed. The bushes had been disturbed as if there was a fight. Now they were two bodies apart. A man and woman had been badly beaten in the head that she could hardly make up one side of the faces. They lay one after another, more like on top of each other, the ladies heard partially resting on the man’s boots.

Mary staggered back. Her leg failed, and she collapsed on the floor. The evil had come to a peaceful place, she muttered. She tried to get up, hearing the toddler’s steady cry as he held onto his mother’s corpse.

Mary pulled herself up eventually, laying the torch on the floor and picking it up when she got to her feet. She staggered toward the boy. Her feet were off the hard floor and on the greens, then her next step landed on something soft that frightened her. She yelped and pulled her feet off quickly. She pointed her touch to the ground. Oh, goodness, Maverick. It was her cat, Maverick. It was dead, head smashed off completely that you thought it didn’t have one.

Mary saved the tears and extended her trembling hands to the toddler.

Come on, boy, let’s get out of here, she said.

She heaved the boy up into her arms and turned around.

Following the route Mary had come through, a figure in a hoodie was hurrying away.

Fear guided Mary’s hands to point the torch at the figure. On the back of his hoodie was the image of a cat, two red signs crossing it off. No cats.



The End

Thanks for reading

You can check my Facebook page. https://www.facebook.com/Hadehsblog-113251860812182?_rdc=1&_rdr

.https://hadehsblog./2021/02/28/what-your-writing-process-7-things-you-can-take-from-mine/

What Is Your Writing Process [7 Things You Can Take From Mine][b]

I am a fan of using the writing process that works.

I used to read interviews of my favourites authors, and when they talk about how they write, I become more attentive.

I want to know, and I want to be more practical and productive. (I know you want the same).

By listening and reading about their approach, I have learned to write more, better and even faster. It has saved me from losing a gig on Fiverr.

I use the approach I will share here for writing fiction.

You can use it for any kind of writing, but I use it solely for writing fiction.

Now that we are clear, let’s proceed.


[/b]Your Writing Process Is Yours.

Everyone has their approach. Let’s be honest, you have been writing, and you have been following a process.

It might be difficult, and it might be similar to your favourite author’s method. The only rule is that it should make writing less stressful.

I read that Ernest Hemingway would type while standing, which is kind of weird and helpful. (I guess you can’t be thinking of the self-loathing demons yelling at you that you are not good enough). But, no, I am not a fan of typing on my feet.

If you use what I will be sharing in this post, then good luck to you, but know these things.

I don’t follow the same process for every type of writing. I am likely to use this writing process 8 out of 10 times.
It might change tomorrow. So, by the end of the year, you might ask me, and I will tell you something entirely different. I keep improving the process to my needs.
This is specifically for my fiction writing process. And do not forget, I use it 8 out of 10 times.
Mine is more than the 5 steps of writing process. I use 7, 6 or 8 at times.

I feel relieved after letting that out. Sigh!

You might want to hear how I come about the process.

Come on.

[/b]The Day I Had to Create a Writing Process That works.[/b]

If I haven’t told you, I think I should make it clear; I am a ghostwriter. I now work on Fiverr and Upwork. (I will delete one of them soon).

Some busy authors or authors suffering from writer’s block would reach out to me. I will take their ideas, develop them into proposals and deliver on an agreed time.

I used to write using whatever writing process that works. I might start with the story, come back to the plot and then edit the character. Other times, I might start from the last to the first.

Then one day, I have an urgent deadline, and I wasn’t making progress at all.

The time is ticking on the app. My heart is beating badly. The story characters were protesting against the plot, and it seemed I would fail the deadline and asking for an extension was out of the question.

TLDR: I submitted, and it was accepted, and I even got 5-star reviews.

But I don’t want to be in that situation again.

So, I created a process and adjusted it for months.
I can assure you now.

I have a process that works FOR ME.
It makes my work easier and saves time.
I write up to 7k words per day and spend an hour interval playing or reading.
Let me explain.

[/b]The Writing Process[/b]

You are about to read how I start writing more and better. Feel free to use, adjust and tell me how it works.

Here is the process:

[/b]1. Start with a summary. [/b]
Write a one-line summary of the story.

The last one I remembered using is “On the first day of their meeting, Alex realises she is not her his type, and he politely tells her, but Tina takes it personally.”

It is quite vague. It doesn’t have the details such as who is Alex, where are they meeting? Why is she not his type? What, when, how?

Move to step two.

2. Characterise
I guess you should have a list of things you want to know about the characters. If you meet a stranger today, what will you need to understand them better?

I think your answers should revolve around these eight:

Physical appearance
Childhood
Occupation
Personality
Weakness
regrets/past
Family or lack of it (why)
Age
Again, this is not all you need to create a great character. In fact, if I have leisure, I can write about character development for two to three blog posts. The list above is quick, and I created it for my writing process as a ghostwriter. Depending on the deadline, I will explore other details such as quirks and a diary session, where I try to interview the characters.

Ooops, topic for another day!

Once you nail the answers to the list, they are the bones; the flesh would appear in the next step.

[/b]3. Plot the story[/b]
Hey, wait.

You have to make the previous list for at least two of your lead characters, the antagonist and protagonist. If you have a bigger book, I suggest doing it for about six of the key characters.

Once you do that, write the plot.

My writing process for plotting is quite crazy, and I can’t share it with you.

Check the pictures below and use any one of the two. Note: I found them online and I think they are cool.

[/b]4. Leave everything for an hour.[/b]

This is important. You have to leave the plot and do something else. Allow the ideas to develop in your mind as you play chess or go swimming, or dance ballet.

Whatever — do something different for an hour or more.

[/b]5. Come back to the plot/character sketch[/b]

Reread what you have written, preferably on pen and paper and edit it. If it is in a word document, read on your phone this time instead of your pc.

Read it through another method. Do you find new ideas for certain areas? Add it.

Do you find something to fill the loopholes that exist? You should be able to fill them up now after an hour.

Fill them up.

Next, it is time to start writing.

[/b]6. Sketch your scene before writing[/b]

I learned about this idea from Rachel Aaron, the author of “2k to 10k words”.

Writing your story is like you are searching your brains for treasure. You are trying to figure out what happens in the next paragraph and the next. That’s hard and tiring.

Since you have the plot and you know the character, why not create a clearer scene for chapter one before you sit down and write.

Create a sketch of where the chapter would go. For my writing process and the sample summary I created earlier, I might make a list of things like

Alex and Tina meet at a restaurant.
Alex is nervous. He has arrived first.
Tina arrives and scans the place.
Alex finds her first. She looks different.
Alex flashes back to their chats. She never uses profile pic.
I hope you are getting the pattern here. You can see where you are going in that chapter, and you will arrive there quickly.

And if that’s not where you want to go, you adjust it before you start writing.

[/b]7. Write your story [/b]

Write your story to the end by repeating the last 2 steps. Write it easier and faster.


[/b]So, guys, these are the writing steps I am talking about. What do you think of it, and will you be using them? Let me know in the comments.

You can see a better version of this post, filled with images and graphic representations here:

hadehsblog.wordpress .com/2021/02/28/what-your-writing-process-7-things-you-can-take-from-mine/

TWO

LOST KEYS CAN LEAD TO A BROKEN NOSE


I had lost my keys. They were a bunch of keys of all rooms and drawers in the house. I used to put them in my car, but the vehicle slept at the mechanic. I wasn't sure it was there, though. I had been to a million places after parking the car at the mechanic workshop at 2 pm — my office, my girlfriend place, the restaurant, the bar... I guessed the keys could be anywhere. I stared at my house door and checked the time on my wristwatch: 11:00 pm.

I brought out my phone and dialled my mechanic’s number. It rang and rang and dropped. Then I sat on the terrace and thought of what to do. My joints ached from fatigue. I had stayed back and worked some more with the thought that I would not go to work the next day.

How would I spend the night when the door was locked? How would I find my keys?

I stood, picked my phone and was about to leave the house and sleep in a hotel when I heard someone sliding a louvre above my head. I looked up to see Anna, a gorgeous teenager who lived around.

I remembered how I got to know her name; it was like an assignment. She was the quietest and ghost girl in the apartment. The first time I saw I was mesmerised by her beauty, the way her dimples decorated her face and her thin lips made her smile adorable. I stopped her, introduced myself and asked of her name.

“I won't tell you that cos you ask.”

“Why?”

“You might forget.”

“Trust me; I won't.”

“I will tell you on another day,” she had said.

Then I waited for days until I ran into her one Friday. She glared at my girlfriend who was standing beside me, but I smiled and asked again. She managed to tell me her name. Anna

Anna was looking down at me, and she seemed like she wanted to help.

“Hey, hi, wait,’ she shouted.

I waited for her, my hands in my trouser pocket. She used the elevator down and rushed out of the house.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Well, as it seems, I am going to a hotel for the night. I lost my keys, and I don't know how to break in. I won't — even if I can. And I can't even call a handyman at this time... So, what's up?”

“Sorry,” she said.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Maybe... Maybe I can help.”

I eyed her. “In what way?”

“You can stay over with me. My parents aren't around, and you can use the couch till morning.”

“Goodness gracious, thank you.”

We flew to the fourth floor through the elevator and walked into the apartments, which she claimed she shared with her parents. Her parents hardly showed up; I had never seen them.

I sat on the couch and removed my shoes. Without much time, I was preparing to sleep. She made me comfortable by bringing a pillow and a blanket. I said thanks and lay on the couch. But I didn't sleep. I kept scrolling the internet, listening to the continuous shrrrrrrrrr sound of her frying what smelled like meat in the kitchen.

I looked at her and wished to eat some of those meats. I kept quiet anyway, telling myself she had done great for giving me the chance to sleep.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of something crashing to the ground. I ran towards the kitchen. It was followed by the sound of the central door opening, and Anna screamed like she was shot. Hot oil had poured on her laps, and she was crying, lying on the floor, crying, and waving her fingers.

I shifted her dress upward and held her hands so that she would stop touching the burns.

“Is there ointment in this house?” I asked and she pointed at the cabinet, all. I rushed to get it.

I finished applying it, and when I looked up, Anna was looking behind me. I looked back. A woman with the same kind of small long nose and blonde hair was coming towards us like a drunk driver.

“No, no, no,” Anna shouted.

The woman picked the hot and empty frying pan and smashed me on my face. I fell on the floor with a blood-filled nose.

***

https://www.facebook.com/Hadehsblog-113251860812182?_rdc=1&_rdr

....

ONE

Writers’ Block and A bit of Horror

You stared at the cup of juice on the table, trying to think of what to write.

You had postponed it through the weekend till Sunday evening, and it seemed you have run out of time. The time was 11:30 pm. Your deadline was 8 am. You needed to write, sleep, share the article on a company website, and prepare for work in the morning. God help you! you don’t know what to write yet.

You sipped the juice and remembered what happened during the day. It was what delayed the project till this night. You would have… You could have finished writing instead of drinking juice and thinking you could survive with it. You needed real food, but there was nothing at home for you. So yeah, you would have to manage the juice and hope you would not wake up in the morning with pains in your stomach.

‘And doctor Aproko warned me about eating at night o,’ you muttered.

No, drinking doesn’t count. It doesn’t. Doesn’t it, really, as in, does it? You wondered.

You lay your head on the table. You held the pen and paper you wanted to use yo write your ideas, playing with it between your fingers.

Your mind went to the event that happened that kept you awake till night. You had gone into a club, after church service, as a lively girl that you were. You wanted to have fun, and somehow you had found blood on your way to the restroom. You called the police, of course, and they came and took corpse. They had to question you — kept you waiting and you were tired when you returned home.

What would you write for your company website?

The pencil fell off your hand.

You heard a knock, and you opened the door. You squinted to see who it was. But there was no one.

Not today, please. Who could be playing pranks on you in your own house? You lived alone. Had someone broken in? Or were you hallucinating about the corpse and the panic at the club earlier during the day?

You rubbed your eyes and stared around. You stepped out of the bedroom. The lobby felt cold to your feet, and you looked down.

That was when you saw it. Blood was on the floor like someone was dragged in its own blood. It was almost like painting the floor. You held on tight to your pyjamas and put the fabric in your mouth, stiffening a scream.
Your eyes followed the path of the blood, and it led to your guest room.

That door had been locked for ages. Bloodstains were on the floor. You gawked, shaking, legs buckling severely with fear.

Kakaka! The sound of knock came behind the guest room door like someone hammered it. You couldn’t help it now, so you screamed.

You jumped up. The pencil flew out of your hand. You have been dreaming, and you were so scared. You put your hands on your chest and tried to calm down, but your heart pounded like a giant generator set.

You looked at the wall clock over the top of your nightstand. Gracious God of Nazareth! It’s 6am.

This is bogus!


Tomorrow is not even guaranteed.


And that's the point.


52 short stories before 2022.


Every day is a chance to use the skill/talent/genius/abilities that I have.


Dear reader, Hadeh will be telling 52 short stories before the year runs out. This author is inspired by the number of outstanding talents on this forum, and he wishes to be part of that.


SO, LET’S DO THIS.

NOTE: Every story here will be appearing on https://www.facebook.com/Hadehsblog-113251860812182?_rdc=1&_rdr/ before it will be shared here, precisely three days later.


Thanks for coming and for sticking around.


Chairs are in abundance.


Want to read something I have completed


You can find “An Escape To Rendezvous,” through the link below.

https://bambooks.io/book/13888/an-escape-to-rendezvous

8

Ayo and Martha walked into a restaurant and took their seats. They were sitting opposite each other, bottles of vodka sitting on the table. Ayo then surprised Martha when he said, ‘Mum would be happy to see you.’ He must have thought meeting Martha was big news which all the family members in Abeokuta should hear about, but Martha thought differently.

Martha felt a sudden nostalgia. She shook immediately as if cold water was poured down her spine. The smile, which had been on her face when they came in, vanished. She wasn’t going back home soon, she thought, not now. She tried to smile again, but it came as a mere simper.

‘Why did you leave in the first place?’ Ayo asked.

Your dad, Bishop, wasn’t as nice as you think he is. He forced me to have sex with him, and he would have done that for as long as he wished.

She wished she could say that, but she didn’t. It wasn’t the appropriate time to tell the truth of what Bishop did. She was still entangled with a job she wasn’t proud of. The end to that job was imminent, she believed, she was not going back to Rendezvous. It would be better if she moved to a job she could at least tell her family about. But it would be hard to find a good job, or would Aunty Sophia help now?

Ayo put the bottle of vodka to his mouth and gulped twice. ‘I don’t need to ask you if you are doing good… Just look at you,’ he said without waiting for her response to his last question.

She smiled. Coming out of her self-imposed solitude, she might look better to someone who last saw her three years ago, but this wasn’t her best. Her eyes were sore, and her body was frail for lack of proper food. She had only eaten another plate of fish pepper soup and Johnnie Walker. Moreso. Ayo was looking nicer too; he was more handsome and with beards now.

‘So what happened, how did you just disappear?’ he asked.

‘Please, Ayo.’ Maltha said with eyes that were begging. ‘I don’t want them to know you found me. Not yet. I want them to know, but not now, not this way.’

He frowned, waiting for her to explain more.

Martha just nodded as a sign asking if he understood. He hesitated before he nodded. With a warm smile, she extended her fingers to touch his left backhand, which was on the table, and petted it.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

He smiled once more. He turned his palms upward, and she placed hers on the warm inside, feeling the lines touching hers.

He began to talk about things Martha had missed when she was away. He was studying civil engineering at the University of Lagos. He had just resumed for the new academic session, and he was planning to have fun in a bar when he saw her. Bishop had bought a car, Florence was now a fine athlete in her school, and Mama Ayo cried for days when Martha left.

When Martha’s turn to say she was up to, she didn’t start her story from the beginning when she left home. It would interest him to know how she had left, but she wasn’t going to tell him how she stole money and followed the advice of a total stranger. She wasn’t going to open up about it all just like that. She bowed her head, eyes scanning the restaurant as if she could find things to say about her disappearance. Telling Ayo how she climbed the poles at Rendezvous would not make him clap. She couldn’t tell him she had an encounter with two young boys, which landed her in a police cell. It would only make Ayo advise her to visit the nearest church for rigorous deliverances. It was better to keep the truth, hide it completely. Harder and harder, she foraged for lies to tell him. She glanced at the bottle of vodka, and then she looked around the restaurant, at the people talking, but not at his eyes until she found something to say.

Ayo glared at her.

‘I wasn’t happy with my real parents,’ she lied, ‘I wanted to go out on my own and earn some money and become a great woman.’

Ayo was silent as if finding it hard to believe. ‘That’s strange,’ he said finally. ‘You have us. You have a family that loved you.’

Martha smiled at his innocence. If he really knew the things Bishop made her pass through almost every night, he wouldn’t have said that.

‘I think I will beg for forgiveness. I was angry at many things. I want to pay my real parents back.’

‘How?’

‘I have been working at a club. The pay wasn’t bad.’

‘And you think that would sustain you. You once wanted to become a doctor.’

‘No, it’s not forever. I will be going back to school soon. Then I will come to see our parents. But please,’ she traced the lines of his palm with her fingers, ‘give me some time to prepare.’

‘I still can’t believe you left deliberately,’ he said. ‘It seems weird. Just like that.’

‘I was angry.’ She sighed.‘Or maybe, you can say stupid, but I know what I can’t handle anymore. Just keep this meeting a secret till I’m ready to come home, please.’

He was quiet for some seconds as if doubting her, and then he said, ‘OK. You can trust me. I’m your brother.’

Martha remembered how they lived together as siblings. He was his brother after all; he used to say that. They played all sorts of games. She remembered they would act ‘daddy-and-mummy,’ where one behaved like a father figure and the other as the wife. They played the ‘carrier game,’ where one would back the other person. When they were young, he used to carry her on his back, and she would place her head on his sweat-soaked school uniform. Whenever Florence did not follow them to school because of illness, they returned home late. They waited back at school and played. Martha played basketball or danced to entertain her friends, and Ayo always played football with his friends using ‘monkey post.’ Together they returned home to cover up for one another, telling Mama Ayo how they had to wait and perform some extracurricular activities.

‘Look at your cheeks,’ he reached for her left cheek over the table, ‘like puff-puff,’ he said.

Martha smiled, ‘and what is this on your chin, Bin Laden,’ she said, touching his beard.

He cackled.

‘Really, I’m so happy to see you,’ she said.

‘I don’t know how to express myself. I have been waiting for this day to come. I just know I will see you again,’ Ayo said.

Martha felt the affection was mutual between them. It had been here all along, but at their present age, it was stronger. Sitting with him gave her an extra delight than it used to be. She was in a good company of someone she could trust. She could make jokes about herself and laugh hard. She could hit him playfully, mount on his back, or call him pet names — AY. She would not tell him about Bishop’s atrocities, though. Bishop was his father, and he was expected to love him unconditionally as an obedient son. She would not create a situation where he would need to choose between the love he had for her or their father.

They ate and talked. Then they walked out of the restaurant, ice cream in hands. In one swift motion, he bent with his back turned to her. ‘Let me carry you like the good old days,’ he said.

Martha giggled. She helped him hold his ice-cream.

Ayo carried her on his back like when they were in Abeokuta. At first, he staggered. ‘Oh my God,’ he grimaced. ‘You have become a lot bigger.’

Martha laughed.

Ayo lifted her thighs upon his back. ‘You are heavy,’ he said. He carried her on, panting and walking down the road. They laughed, a loud guffaw.

This was the perfect welcome-back Martha could have wished to get after the mess she’d been through in the past three nights. The veins of her neck vibrating with fresh vigour, a tickling excitement washed over her like a child stepping into a warm-water-filled bathtub. She deserved to be this excited all the time, to have this kind of feeling that made her forget what time it was or the type of job she did. It was these kinds of days she prayed for. The time seemed to have stopped, and she was giggling heartily. She wished the moment could last forever. But when she briefly shut her eyes and Ayo wasn’t talking to her, she remembered Bishop and Officer Uchenna and the intimidating walls of Rendezvous. She swallowed saliva.

‘I can’t carry you for long, you are too fat,’ Ayo said.

The brief moment of thought elapsed out of Martha’s mind, fading as quickly as it’d come.

He put her down on the sidewalk by the roadside. He was exaggerating his breathing as if he had just stopped running a sprint.

‘Come on, stop. I’m not that fat. In fact, I’ve not been eating,’ she said.

‘It’s better that way,’ he said. He leaned on his palms which were on his knees. ‘Serious, I’m happy to hear that. It could have been worse if you are eating.’

She punched him playfully on his shoulder.

‘How is my little sister?’ she asked.

‘She has been coping without her big sister,’ he took his ice-cream and licked. ‘She is a big girl now.’

Martha licked her ice cream. She stared at the sky. She remembered Abeokuta when Florence was still a baby. When she became a member of the Ajasin’s, the family members were just three. It included Mr Ajasin (the Good Samaritan and a bishop in his church), his wife, and their first son, Ayo. Things were a bit smooth for everyone. It was six years before there was another addition to the family, a girl; they named her Florence. Martha became a big sister and things got busier for her in the house as she provided some sisterly responsibilities. She had backed Florence sometimes under Mama Ayo’s close watch. She washed Florence’s clothes, babysit her, and taught her how to handle her toys and carry her first walking steps. She did everything with joy. She was almost seven, and being a sister to Florence was the second thing she enjoyed doing at that age if she put dancing aside.

Dancing had been inside Martha. By the eighth year of her arrival in the house, Martha realized she had a strange love for music. Although she had the voice that was useful in the choir, her body wanted to expound this peculiar feeling. She danced. She would dance when Ayo tapped the metal pole on their terrace. Her dancing steps were different among the choir. They would stop and watch. She danced at home to the song on the radio while Ayo would hail her.

‘Where did she learn to dance like that,’ Bishop would ask.

‘Leave her alone,’ Mama Ayo would say, mopping the table with a piece of cloth, ‘I know she would like to dance by the way she wriggled in my hands when she was a baby.’

She remembered those events, and a heavy feeling overcame her.

She sniffed. ‘I wished I had stayed,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, I feel like I have lost my way to Lagos, and I can not… may not find my way back.’

‘Well, many of us don’t admit we made mistakes. But you are admitting. That’s a reminder to always make wiser decisions in the future,’ Ayo said.

‘You don’t understand.’

He was looking at her as if he wanted her to say more. But when she didn’t, he continued. ‘Maybe it’s time to come back home so that you can go to school,’ Ayo said. ‘Your WAEC is good. Or have you been able to find what you are looking for in Lagos? Are you even sure your real parents are here?’

She smiled. That was a blatant lie that she didn’t think about thoroughly. She shook her head. It seemed stupid to say she was looking for her parents, but it would seem ridiculous to tell him how his father violated her. She hadn’t found what she was looking for in Lagos. The real thing she wanted was a degree in medicine at the University of Lagos. She had her WAEC certificate with her in Lagos, and all she needed was enough money. She would wait for as long as it would take. She heard that studying medicine would take six or seven years. She sighed.

Martha looked at the sculptor by the roadside. Although it was dark, she could see through the moving cars’ headlights. The sculptors were made into layers of giant books arranged over one another like a staircase. Flashes of light from moving vehicles illuminated the area again and again. Another statue of a girl reading was sitting on that of the books. At the top was a sculptor of a graduating student raising its hand in the air. She thought about telling Ayo the reason she left home — what Bishop did. Maybe his reaction would be calm, and maybe he would be happy that she left before it got worse.

‘I don’t know when I will be going back,’ she said eventually. ‘I like Lagos now. It will be hard to go back.’ She smirked and tapped her feet on the ground.

‘A lot of beautiful things happen and exist here, just like bad and difficult things. In Lagos, everything, good or bad, is beyond typical,’ he said.

She laughed. He stared at the other side of the road, and Martha’s eyes followed his gaze. A man was opening the house door for a pregnant woman, supporting her by holding her waist.

‘Where do you stay?’ she asked.

‘I stay very near, Akoka.’

He reached for her left hand and held it, and without saying a word, led her back to the club where they left a while ago. They spend the rest of the nights there watching and drinking.

Later that night, Martha’s night was spent awake thinking about flowers, butterflies, a cup of tea in bed, the difference between kissing in public, and kissing under the duvet. She wanted to enjoy every second of her days now with him. The thoughts kept rolling on her mind that she fell asleep late.

They often met after that night. They met at restaurants, the roadside, but many times they met in Ayo’s hostel. It was a small but comfortable room with a kitchenette and a bath.

As the days progressed, they wanted to catch up on many things they used to do in the past. So, they met often. They would start brightly, talking about any topic like their days in secondary school. (Martha loved dancing, and she would squeeze her face when Bishop said her dance was ungodly). They played card games.

One day, when he asked her to go back home, her laugh seized.

‘When will you go home to see mum and dad? I didn’t call them because I want you to do it.’ They were inside his room in the hostel in Akoka, and he just popped the question as usual.

Martha wished she could escape through the ground in such a way that he would look around and find out that she had disappeared. A moment passed, as though her silence could answer him. She wished she could just ignore the question, and Ayo would stop suggesting the same thing she wasn’t ready to do. So, she said, ‘I need to prepare, and I want to surprise them. They should be very, very happy to see me. This place to Abeokuta is not a short distance.’

Ayo was sitting on the bed, and Martha taking comfort on the only couch in the room. He was checking a construction sketch on a paper, but now his eyes were on her. ‘This place to Abeokuta is just two hours.’

Martha looked away at the wallpaper with the image of the famous Hip-Hop legend Micheal Jackson covering the larger part of the wall next to the bed. She thought about how the man in the poster holding his crotch could stand on his toe so easily. She stared at Ayo, and she saw that same seriousness in his eyes, the determination that if she wanted to return home, she could stop making excuses.

‘We could get home in the next three hours if we follow a night bus,’ he continued.

Martha smiled. She had come to Lagos through a bus left early around 5 am, but she was not ready to take that again. She was not afraid of night buses, but she needed an excuse to remain in Lagos and prepared her life for the day she would go back to Abeokuta. She wanted it to be grand; on such a day, her foster father should look up at her and grimace. He should shed a lot of tears and beg her to forgive him. If she returned now, it would be tagged the return of a prodigal daughter who had done worse with her life after departing. This daughter had done many unmentionable things before she turned twenty.

‘I will go home soon,’ she said.

Ayo was silent afterwards. He joined her to play cards and to talk about life as a student. Some of his male friends came later. They all watched movies on his Dell laptop until Martha left at 7:30 pm. It was close to the time when ‘business’ thrived at Rendezvous.

The days passed on gradually, Martha and Ayo proving to be a specimen in any romance. They were siblings and admirers and crushes and lovers at the same time.

One day, while returning from work, an awkward encounter happened. Martha and one of the strippers at Rendezvous were standing by the roadside. It was getting dark, and they’d taken a bus that stopped them where they would board another bus. A figure caught Martha’s attention a few distances away. Of course, it was her Ayo. She could always recognize him in the dark. Martha called him. When he came, they embraced, Ayo, lifting her off the ground.

Martha’s partner, who had never seen her with such adoration in her eyes for a young man, asked her, ‘who is the handsome guy?’

Martha looked at Ayo’s face beside her. Ayo pocketed his hands. He was wearing a teasing smile, with an expression that said, ‘this is your mess, deal with it.’

‘My brother,’ Martha said, and Ayo giggled.

The next day after that, she wore a maroon coloured dress that showed her curves and cleavage when she visited him. Ayo couldn’t keep his eyes off her body. It was Martha’s turn to tease him.

‘Will you keep your eyes off me for some minutes?’ she asked.

‘Let’s go eat something,’ he later suggested, and Martha agreed. He wore a white shirt and an unbuttoned black jacket.


****

https://web.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100083062106601&sk=about_contact_and_basic_info

Chapter Seven

That night, Martha did not sleep at home. Uchenna might come looking for her, and his face was the last thing she wanted to see. She was sure that her rage would make her cry more if she ran into him at the moment. She wanted to avoid him and give herself enough time and the solitude to think. She had some money to lodge in a hotel for three nights, so she picked a few clothes at her house and lodged at a hotel. She paid for three days. Three days were enough to get over him.

She locked the door of the hotel room and ordered alcohol. The waiter brought a bottle of Johnie Walker that she had demanded. She sat on the bed and gulped the drink like a horse, and it burned her throat. She sighed, feeling the annoyance in her head replaced with a drowsy feeling. The alcohol eased her worries; she gave less thought to how his words hurt her and drank.

She gritted her teeth, remembering what he had said. He had said, 'I'm not your customer,' as if she made him look like one.

She crawled on the cold floor like a cat. She wanted to sleep, but sleep would not come even if she waited and waited like a widow waiting for her deceased husband. Her vision was blurry from the effect of alcohol, and she closed and opened, closed and opened, her eyes many times. She was wearing a camisole while an air conditioner was running in the room. She felt cold and quiver. She folded her legs and placed her chest over her knees, yet, she wouldn’t stand from the floor or wear something better.

She laid on her side, her head over her joined palms. Staring at the wall in front of her, she remembered her room in Abeokuta, the room she shared with Florence. On a night like this, she would be asleep in her room; she would have eaten a meal Mama Ayo had prepared. Then she cringed as if a sudden frosty wave jolted through her body. She remembered what Bishop would do in the middle of the night.

She stood lazily, supporting herself with the bed. She slipped out of her gown, lay back on the floor, slid a hand into herself, and touched herself repeatedly. Then she fell asleep.

She woke up early at two 0’clock in the morning. She was hungry, but she couldn’t think of the best meal or when to eat it. Sitting back on the floor, she was still feeling cold, which made her body shake, and her head pounded from a headache. She steadied herself with the bed stand while getting up to get something to eat.

Looking at her gown on the bed, the events of last night come to her rapidly — the flash of how she started dancing for him and how it had gone wrong so soon. ‘I’m not your customer,’ he had said.

She brushed a hand through her hair, which was now messy. Why did Officer Unchenna say that? She had only wanted to satisfy him, to move things further as Sophia had suggested. She thought he would love it. Most men loved it, especially the older and pot-bellied men who were as old as Bishop; these men would grin like a toddler and rub their hairy chest when she gave them a lap dance. But Uchenna didn’t laugh or grin. Although he let out a few moans, he turned her away eventually. I'm not your customer, he had said.

She wiped her face with her palm. Uchenna was different from most men anyway. She was stupid to have treated him like one of those men. She still wanted to go out with him to visit the cinema while his hand rested on her shoulders like a name tag on a suit. She wanted to dine while he sat at the other end of her table. Still, she wanted to share a drink at his house. All that had gone like a sandcastle washed away by a flood.

She thought about it again and again until almost 11 am. Then she ordered some food, sat on the floor, ate some pepper soup fish, and drank more Johnie Walker. Thinking about her life was taking too much space in her head. Her head pounded and felt heavy as if she added more weight to her head. When she tried to walk, her legs felt weak like they belonged to a toddler. She wiped away the tears on her cheeks, sniffed, and sniffed more. She drank more alcohol and cried and drank more.

She sighed with her face and eyes wet. She was definitely a piece of something, she thought, something meant for satisfying men and some women, something to hire for sexual pleasure. It all started in Abeokuta, and the stigma followed her even when she thought she had found a place of rest. Maybe she would always be a miserable girl; at least that was how often her foster father made her feel. It was part of her now, her shadow, and it cannot be undone except to cry her eyes out. She drank alcohol and let out her pains through her tears.

She wished she could curl up to someone – maybe, Mama Ayo – and cried on her shoulder and listened to soothing words. But she looked around and realized she was alone with her woes. The hotel’s wall stared back — the pillows, the bed, the door of the bathroom, her gown on the floor. She wailed and covered her face with her palm and vibrated all over like the leather of a drum. She had chosen wrongly. She could have waited and withstood the torment at the hands of her foster father; perhaps, she would escape one day when she would be admitted to the university.
Who told you he is planning to sponsor you in school? She shook her head and cried more. She put the bottle of Johnie Walker on the floor and supported herself on her palms. She began to wail loudly till her face was a mess of tears, mucus, and sweat. The veins of her neck were visible, her skin was moistened, and her eyes were wet. She grew tired and fell slowly over the tiles and slept, slowly sobbing as she tried to catch a little sleep. It would be morning again, and dawn would remind her how shitty her life was. Her small Samsung phone was still off.

She lay on that floor for hours until it was noon. Later, she sat up and turned the phone on. It began to ring almost immediately. She checked the caller on the phone and sighed, brushing her eyelid with her backhand. Sophia was calling. She did not want to listen to anyone now; she would rather be alone and let the darkness of pain envelope her. She was born to morons and had fallen into many wrong hands since her first time on earth. When she came to Lagos for an escape, she was even falling into another wrong hand — Sophia.

Her phone kept ringing, and she stared at it. She would answer the call anyway. She had been indoors for a long time, and talking with someone who knew many things about her woes sounded like a good idea. It was better than talking to hotel attendants who would not ask anything more than ‘how can we help you?’ She answered the call.

‘Baby girl?’ Aunty Sophia said.

‘Anti Sophia,’ she said, switching back to the use of ‘aunty,’ just like the old days when she arrived in Lagos from Abeokuta. She felt sudden happiness, realizing there was still someone to talk to, someone who would listen to her. She was getting close to insanity; her life was messy, blurry. She had got to a stage where she wished that one more sleep would take her away to wherever the dead go, where she would be free from pain, disappointment, and a constant reminder of her past. She needed someone to talk to get her peace back.
‘Yeah, darling. I have been calling you. But your phone is dead.’

‘I’m fine, Aunty Sophia.’

‘You don’t sound so. What’s up with you?’

‘Nothing!’ Martha stifled her tears.

‘I checked your house. You weren’t at home.’

‘I left. I didn’t want to see anyone.’

‘I understand, my dear. Uchenna told me everything. He said he has been calling. You didn’t pick. You even switched off.’
‘I don’t want to talk to him.’

‘I know that, and I have told him he acted immaturely. But for you, baby girl, you can’t hurt yourself because of that. You can’t let it hurt you so much,’ she paused.

Martha began to sob.

‘Stop, please. I beg you, please,’ Aunty Sophia said.

‘It’s hard. I’m tired of everything.’

‘Please, don't hurt yourself the more. Where are you so that I can come?’

Martha told her the address of the hotel. Then she spent the next couple of minutes thinking about her life from now onward. She wouldn’t work at Rendezvous anymore or fall in love with a man like Officer Uchenna again. It would take one more man like Uchenna to remind her that her life was wretched before she lost it again and maybe forever. She would still live and work in Lagos. She would instead become a waiter or a house-help and live with the little that comes from it.

What if Uchenna comes and asks for forgiveness and promises to sponsor your education?

She shook her head, placed her hand on her forehead, and drank a little more Johnie Walker. She was still wearing the same camisole from last night, and she hadn't eaten anything more than fish pepper soup. Her stomach rumbled for some minutes, and her throat felt itchy. She yelped and heaved, as her stomach wanted to turn up its content. She vomited on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Someone was knocking, and she tried getting up. Her strength was like that of an aging tortoise, and she struggled to get up. Her body ached and felt cold. She was wearing just her camisole, and she wished the person on the other end wasn’t a man.

‘Come in,’ she muttered.

Aunty Sophia walked in, saw the mess, and shrieked. ‘My God, what have you done to yourself?’ Aunty Sophia said, not as a question, but as a declaration to no one in particular. ‘You have been crying, ’ she added. She walked into the bathroom to fetch a mop and some water. Then she helped Martha to the toilet. ‘Please, clean up,’ she said.

She came back into the bedroom and began to clean the chunder. After that, she stood by the bathroom door, watching as Martha prepared for bath and wearing an expression of ‘you should do it, or you will force me to do it for you.’

Martha sniffed and stepped into the bathtub, immersing her body in the water. She felt different as if she had been awarded a gift. With Aunty Sophia standing at the door, she felt like she could still move on with her life and that all wasn't lost. She still had people she could count on.

After the bath, they sat in the bedroom. Aunty Sophia turned on the TV, which was airing Papa Ajasco. Martha sat still beside Aunty Sophia like an obedient baby in the company of her motherly sister.

The smile on Sophia’s face amused Martha; Sophia seemed ecstatic than the comedy show, and she tapped Martha’s shoulder many times to call her attention to scenes they were watching together. Sophia was older, bigger, and immensely happier on this night. She had added weight in the short time they had spent away from each other. She was still a fine woman — fine for the kind of job. At Sophia’s age, Martha did not want to work at Rendezvous anymore. She looked at Aunty Sophia’s hands and her face, imagining how many men she had spent her life with. Had any man ever asked to marry her?

That night, a strange thing happened when it was time to sleep. Martha was the first to lay on the bed. When Aunty Sophia joined her, she lay on the bed behind Martha and hugged her. It was the first time they slept like that — like sisters. It felt awkward at first when Aunty Sophia extended her hands over Martha’s waist. Martha remained still and wondered what her guardian was trying to do. They stayed that way for some time, Martha frozen, and it only eased when she felt the woman behind her was breathing rhythmically to the tune of sleep. Martha slept with a smile spread across her face. But Sophia had to leave in the morning, promising that she would check on Martha again.

The day continued, and loneliness descended on Martha again like a heavy blanket. She had planned what to do – to sit in the room and have breakfast, to spend all day behind the television, eyes fixed on some Nollywood movies. By night, she would go out to see how busy the city could get even at night. She might sit in a restaurant and eat and see how different it would be to eat alone and drink Uchenna’s choice of wine. Maybe, or maybe not, she started watching the movies that were aired on the TV in the bedroom until evening.

By evening, she had her bath, walked out of the room, and sat by the pool. She watched as people swam and chatted and played. No one treated her like a slut. No one talked to her about spending a night with her if she would accept a certain pay. She laughed at the couples playing with the water in the pool.

Then she strolled around the hotel. When she looked at her image on the window of a car, she realized her neck was lean, and her face seemed like that of someone who just recovered from an illness. Perhaps this was the reason no one out of the men around the pool had come for her. She looked sick. This was the sad truth about her job as a stripper. She must always look good; if she were not looking the best, she would not get any business.

Waiting for the night, she had imagined her life outside the wall of Rendezvous, how life would be if she decided to quit now and become a doctor. It would be hard. It wasn’t easy to earn enough money by working at Rendezvous. She learned later against what the other strippers had made her believe at first; they’d told her she could meet rich men and become rich through them. But she had found the truth. Nothing was certain or as sweet as it was described. But sometimes, Uchenna took her around Lagos traffic, and she saw other girls running at cars and struggling to sell items on the road; she accepted it was preferable to work at Rendezvous. It was better to work under a roof than running under the hot Lagos sun every day, where people ignored the hawkers like they were statues. She took pride in this fact, and momentarily ignored the other demons in her life.
The day grew to night steadily. She had spent her day waiting for the night, and the peace that came when everywhere was dark after most people had closed at their work and gone home. That night, she danced deliberately in her room when a song was played on the TV. No man was asking her to dance. No one was placing a naira note on her chest or rubbing a palm on her butt. She danced because she felt like it. The song was her favourite back then in Abeokuta, P-square – Do me, so she danced effortlessly and for the joy of it. She was joyful, and she decided to have a little fun for the night.

To ease the boredom, she decided to visit a club that night. She wore a black hoodie and a pair of black jean trousers. She pocketed her hands into the hoodie. She walked a reasonable distance before she took a bus heading to a club. She hadn’t been there before, but she had heard the girls at Rendezvous talking about it. She was going to see what it felt like to be a visitor at a strip club just like she had felt the first time she was at Rendezvous – free, innocent, curious, and confused. She knew she wasn’t going to feel exactly like that anymore, but she was going to try anyway. Maybe that would help her decide to quit or not to quit. Maybe that would settle the stupid ideas that disturbed her that she was meant and would always act as an object of entertainment. Maybe after this, she would be able to challenge her foster father, bury her past, this ugly story.
The club was bigger than Rendezvous, sitting gallantly in a street corner where eyes could quickly notice it. Inside, the lights changed intermittently from blue to red and red to blue. A TV was displaying porn, and the disc jockey performed his job at a corner.

Martha tried to feel like a stranger. She couldn’t pick out faces, and she wasn’t looking for one either. She just wanted to enjoy her night, to feel what it was like to be a viewer and not the one dancing on the pole like a slutty monkey. She looked over the crowd and especially at the stage and the strippers. They were her point of interest. What was their life outside this place? Do they have ambitions that meet what their parents would appreciate? How many of them have parents they could call their own? Perhaps many of them were orphans, abandoned, and displaced. She dismissed the thought. She had friends who were strippers and who lied about their lives to their parents. Did they have a lover who knows the kind of job they do? No, of course. No sane man would keep with this kind of work, more reason she should find her escape.

The song soon changed, and she found this new one irresistible; she tried to remain firm but for only a few minutes. Her feet were moving, and her lips pushed apart to sing along with Sound Sultan, Kokose. She opened the head of her hoodie and did a few dance steps before she remembered she was here only to watch. She covered her head again.

Then a feeling of dejavu overcame her. A young man was standing to her right, and she tried not to look up from her hoodie-covered head. But it was apparent now that the man would not stop looking no matter how well she pretended not to have noticed him.
‘Hello,’ the voice said. ‘Martha?’

The voice was the one she remembered. It was different, though, so she turned and tilted her head up forty-five degrees to see the man’s face. No. Wait. No. it can’t be. Although the light was low, she could still recognize him. He now had a beard, and he was taller than her. He was smiling, but it was not much different than the cute smile she used to know. He was that young boy who would back her on their way back from school in Abeokuta. He was the boy who would slide under her blanket when she was sleeping in the parlour, and they would tickle each other; whoever won would leave the blanket for the other. It would lead to one begging to get under the blanket again, and the game would continue. A smile spread across her face; she moved closer to him, slow and short steps at first, then she flung her hands around his neck like she was holding onto a lifeboat.

‘Ayomide?’

‘Martha’

They held onto each other, not releasing the other nor saying more words.

‘Ayo’

‘Math’

It was true that two years could do a lot to someone. If she had thought of going back to Abeokuta when she was in Lagos, somehow it would have to do with this boy and his mother. He looked like Bishop now, especially because of the height and the beard, but Martha understood he was different from the old man. She admired this younger version of Bishop. She liked the beard and the deep and throaty laugh that came out of his mouth just like Bishop. She held to his neck and shut her eyes briefly.

They would start what they didn’t finish under the eyes of their parents. Fate was playing to their tune. Was he studying engineering already? Has he forgotten his promise to buy a big teddy bear on her eighteenth birthday? Her eighteenth birthday was in the past now, but she would take it.
When they detached from the hug, Martha’s eyes were holding a kind of ardour that could melt the walls of any man. With the manner, Ayo was gawking back at her face, her chest and down to her thighs, it seemed his walls were long melted, and the liquid form had gone far away beyond retrieving. He grabbed her hands, saying, ‘we need to do a lot of talking,’ and walked towards the exit.

Yes, Martha thought, I need to remind you some of the things you said when we were young.

****

Thank You for reading today.

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See you on Saturday. We are three more updates to the end.

6 (continue)
6 (continue)


The day arrived. Officer Uchenna came to her house, wearing a striped shirt on a black jean trouser. His cologne filled the room as he tried to sit on a couch. Relaxing his arms on the head of the settee like a king, he smiled at Mattha.

Martha sat on the same settee, watching him. While they talked and laughed, she never shifted her bum, didn’t come closer to him. Officer Uchenna seemed absorbed with the conversation as they talked and played cards. She followed his lead till it was late in the night when he got up and said good night.

She was angry with her own lack of courage to move closer and touch him as she had planned. Crawling on her bed that night, she punched and hugged the pillow, brooding till around 1 am.

She continued to look to another day when she would be able to lure him into her house again. Her heart was seriously yearning for his love and body. Seeing him never ceased to be a blessing. Hearing him on the phone made her feel excited, like she was riding a bicycle down a hill, a gust of breeze splashing on her face. Whenever they ate together, and he cackled, it reminded her of watching ‘Super Stories.’ In his presence, she felt adored like a queen. But it was sad that each night, after their outing, she ended up on the bed again, fantasizing without getting the chance to hold him onto her chest or to kiss him like she would love to do. There were some words she wanted to hear, words of a man professing his love to her in a way cool music feels the soul at an opera. She never ceased to discuss her affection towards Officer Uchenna with Sophia.

‘I can give you a trick if you will listen to me,’ Sophia said.

‘Of course, I will listen,’ Martha replied, ‘you are my mentor.’

Then Sophia gave her a piece of advice. Martha thought it was a plausible idea, and she would act exactly as Sophia had told her.

Martha would remember that cold night in November 2013 for a long time. The city was wet as it had just stopped raining. The day activities had died down, and the shady events of the night were resuming. Barbecue and suya stands were getting erected. Loudspeakers blasted songs from night parties while many people could be seen clustering around the pedestrian side, waiting for transport. Car exhausts mixed with the smell of barbecue filtered into the air, causing a putrid atmosphere.

Martha and Officer Uchenna came out of the ‘Titanic’ restaurant in Victoria Island, giggling at each other like babies. She was in a good mood just as he was. They were going to Uchenna’s house. Martha could feel a strange sensation of pleasure rushing through her spine as she held unto his hands. The noise, the smell, the cold night, and the fact that she was heading to Officer Uchenna’s house for the first time made her feel so excited. Hand-in-hand, they walked towards where his car was parked.

‘My house is located in Ikoyi, you remember?’ he asked as he got the car started.

Martha remembered he had talked about it. He had told her that he rented the place a year ago when he got promoted as the D.P.O. His friends had always wanted him to live in a luxurious house, saying he deserved a classier and bigger flat than the one-room apartment he lived in before.

‘You have told me about it.’ Martha reminded him.

But he continued talking about it nevertheless.

‘Rugged wan put me for trouble with the big, expensive houses. Mad guy! He wan borrow me money to rent the place. Can you imagine? He said he would take it back later when I begin to earn big, big money as the D.P.O. See, I told him, find something cheaper.’ He laughed while Martha smiled.

His flat was on the top floor of a two-story building. The walls were coloured cream, or it could have been ash, but for the night, she couldn’t tell. The main living room had leather settees, black furry cushions, and a rug. The rug had the design of a big shield at its centre, and it was lying under a glass table. There was a 42-inch plasma television hanging on the wall, and below it, there was a shelf. Two stereos stood beside the shelf and on the left was a standing fan. A bit to the right, above the television, was his framed picture in his black uniform with his police cap decorating his head. He wore a handsome smile that could seduce a woman.

It was only a few times Martha had seen him in that uniform, for they usually meet at night after the normal office hours. Many times, when Martha had come to pay a visit, he was always busy or away. She ended up not seeing him on many occasions, so Martha stopped visiting his office.

Martha turned around, taking her time to stare at one thing before moving to the next and the next. The wall behind the television was painted in random and beautiful patterns. On the longest couch was a neatly folded newspaper, The Nation. Hanging on the wall was a giant painting. It was the image of a boy reading with a local lantern. She had those similar memories, and she believed Officer Uchenna had the same too. She used to sit on the dining table in Abeokuta, studying with candlelight.

Officer Uchenna surely lived alone, Martha could tell, as she noticed one gamepad on the stool while the other was sitting on the shelf. The soft smell of air freshener welcomed her properly.

Officer Uchenna beckoned to have her seat while he inquired about what she would like to take.

Martha sat down, and with a shrug, she said, ‘alcohol!’ She needed to be a bit tipsy, lose a few of her senses. It was pretty simple with other men; every step was an ad, every swaying of hips was a trap, and every moan was an attempt to earn a living. Things were different with him. Officer Uchenna had never asked for even a kiss. But this night, she was confident she would hold him by the waist, her other hand would caress his bare chest, and she would kiss him and kiss him.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

She feigned surprise, ‘so you don’t have alcohol?’

He smiled as though she had said he couldn’t spell his name. He brought a bottle of cold whiskey and served in two tumblers. They began to drink alcohol and to watch Telemundo, and to chat.

She was crooked by his side, her head on his shoulder, and she could feel his breath blowing on her forehead. Her eyes were directed at the television, but she looked over her shoulder, admiring his beard, his lips, and the side of his face. Officer Uchenna only glanced at her when he wanted to pass a comment about how the actions being performed on the TV were too slow. She wasn’t interested in the movie either, so she only giggled to his comments and outburst of his disappointment.

Then he kept quiet and drank from his tumbler. Maybe he was thinking about something important, Martha thought.

The questions that have been on her mind came back in full force. She turned to face him. She had thought she would wait until he talked about it, but she couldn’t hold it any longer.

‘Uchenna,’ she called, looking up at him, ‘I have wanted to ask… what this is all about, this relationship between us?’ Although she sounded like someone requesting on another person’s behalf, she hoped he got the message.

He got the message. Staring up at the wall for a few seconds, he gulped his drink. Then he caressed the edge of the cup with his finger. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about it too,’ he said. ‘I have this urge that… I am made to be a part of your life. I want to be your friend for now, and maybe… just maybe, something might come out of it. You don’t need to be scared. And you can walk away anytime. But I like you and want to see you every day.’ He gulped another amount of the drink, then stared into Martha’s eyes.

She was grinning silently. He was smiling. It seemed his face brightened after he had spoken like the glowing of the moon. The hair of his beard was like a polished shoe. His lips were like two slices of cookies, and his eyes were beautiful like that of an animal she couldn’t remember – a rabbit or a red panda. She admired his face, and other things happening went to the background of her thought. The television was just a blur of moving colours and sounds. She was grinning, and she shielded her face with the glass cup, waiting for him to say more. Drinking from his tumbler, he stared at her and smiled.

She touched her face with her left palm, and her cheeks were warm. She felt as though the flesh of her face was turning red and melting off. He must have seen her struggle, so he smiled more and shifted closer.

‘I want to be closer to you,’ he said.

She would melt now, from head to toe, from his breath that was touching her hair like a massage. The glass cup would fall from her shaking hands if she didn’t hold it tight, so she supported it with the second hand. She had always wanted to be this close and to hold him and to feel his hand wrapped around her shoulder or her waist. He was rubbing her shoulder gently, and she shut her eyes briefly before she opened them again. After that, he reached for her head and placed it gently on his chest. She relaxed like a puppy that had found a bed.

‘Can I dance for you?’ she asked. It was all part of the plan to make Officer Uchenna come out of his cage. Martha remembered Aunty Sophia once told her to ask him what he wanted. ‘Make sure the environment is right,’ Aunty Sophia had added. She had thought of his place as the best. Her friends and housemates were gossipers; they would call her a fool if she brought a man like Officer Uchenna to the house and showed romance on the couch in the main living room they all shared. It was a rule that clients were not allowed in the house. They wouldn’t understand that Officer Uchenna wasn’t a client. They wouldn’t know she wasn’t ‘in for his money,’ and he wasn’t ‘in for the thing in between her legs.’ She had asked for their advice, and all the three girls had told her to take his money and dump him. She didn’t want that.

‘A lap dance,’ Martha added.

He looked up at her, marveled and speechless.

So, Martha took the tumbler from him and placed it on the centre table. She changed the T.V channel to ‘Hip TV,’ where 2face’s African Queen was being played. She started dancing in front of him. She danced and wiggled and shook, her side turned to his face so that he could see her bum and her breasts swinging inside her gown. She turned to face him fully. He stared into her eyes, and she smiled. His face was expressionless, like a toddler watching the launching of a rocket. She turned her back to him, sat on his lap, and placed his hands on her laps. She moved her bum on his lap, and his body followed her commanding movement forward and backwards. Turning to face him, she ground her bum on his groin, watching his face for any sign of pleasure or resistance. She moved his head closer to her chest with a cool smile and moved it back, slowly.

He was calm, watching, as if cautious of expressing himself. He sighed, and Martha knew that was a good sign. Her breathing increased like that of a tired athlete as she put more passion into the lap dance. She wanted to kiss him, a longing that had stayed in her heart for many days, tormented her for months, and inflicted her with insomnia. She paused, for her nipples were beginning to push against the fabric of her gown. So, she brought his head closer to her chest and held it to her breast longer than she had held any other man’s. She felt an electric kind of shock running through her body. As she kept performing the actions, Officer Uchenna was calm and obedient.

She could get more than this, she thought. She bent again, but instead of closing her chest to his face, she brought her face closer to his. It was slow; the movement of the two lips coming together felt like a slow journey between two snails. Then she kissed him. Her first kiss. The instant her lips touched his, things turned faster like a jet flying into space, the two lips rubbing against each other rapidly. He kissed her back, and then she kissed him back, and then he kissed her back. Is this how sweet kisses are? She would like to keep doing these; this tongue communication, this exchange of passion, this tasteless but sweet flavour, waking all the senses in her body from her toes to her intestines, even her closed eyes were rolling. The butterflies in her stomach were doing a high jump. She felt happy.

She felt a great comfort when he held her waist to keep her still as though she might fall off a cliff but for his hands on her waist. Her hands were suspended, shaking, their lips still entangled. She was blinking her eyes, trying to force them close, not wanting to see anything, at least not at the moment. Her mind rode to the faraway future. By then, she would have stopped working at Rendezvous. She would have saved some money and gone to school. She would have a sweet, older, and caring man like Officer Uchenna by her side, a man she could be proud of. She was eighteen, young, the world was in front of her to explore. She would have loved to become his wife. She would become a great woman with Uchenna’s support and develop Uchenna’s calm and patience type. She would help others become who they want – especially children that have been molested or assaulted. ‘I am going to live a life of sacrifice. Girls who are victims of abuse and molestation deserve to succeed, they deserve victory despite their humiliations. I am going to bring out as many of them as possible from the ruins.’ That would be her words. One day, in the long future, when she had become a doctor and the wife of a high ranked police officer, she would be standing on a podium addressing young girls that have gone through emotional tortures. When the time comes, she would dance joyfully.

She pushed her tongue into his and kissed him more. She stopped kissing –the urge was beginning to get the better of her. In a split second, she unbuttoned his shirt. She reached for his trouser buckle. With the expertise she had learned from working in ‘Room 2,’ at Rendezvous, she held it. He winced.

‘Can I go wild for you?’ she asked.

Then he held her hands and carried her off his laps.

‘I’m not your customer,’ he said as he stood and entered his room.

Martha stared at him leaving with her mouth fully wide open. The last couple of minutes flashed before her eyes like a ray of blinding lights – flashes of her move, her dance steps, and the last statement she made. Can I go wild for you? She stared at the direction of his room and then turned at the opposite side, the TV. She sighed and rubbed her palms on her face. Maybe it was a dream, a sweet one with a feeble ending. It wasn’t a dream – all of it. It was her reality. Everything had turned sour so quickly. The kind of job she was doing for a living would end up hurting her at the very minute when she least expected it. With shaky hands, she fiddled with her purse, which fell back on the couch repeatedly before she could take a full grab of it. Without looking back, she walked into the street. She would walk. She couldn’t walk all the way home but she would walk for a long, long time before taking a cab.

The night felt cool. A cold breeze blew from the east, kissing her left arm exposed by her armless gown. It felt nice to be walking in the kind of weather but she couldn’t enjoy the atmosphere. ‘I’m not your customer,’ the statement replayed in her head. So he must have been thinking about her dirty job as she was dancing on his laps, Martha thought. She sniffed and pressed her nose, suppressing the pains that stung inside of her nostrils.

It was the sensation that came when she had too much to think about and was about to cry. She would press her nose and suppress her tears. It would stop her from crying for some hours or minutes depending on where she was or what she heard or what she thought of. When she was at Abeokuta, sometimes pressing her nose helped when she didn’t want to cry at home. When she got to the uncompleted building, she would let her sober emotions take control; her clothing would get soaked with some tears to escape.

A car honked at her from behind. She didn’t mind if she was walking in the middle of the quiet road. The car could knock her down for all she cared. Life was a place of despair after all; she was unlucky since her birth, unlucky with the type of parents she got the first time and the second. Looking back on the road, she realized she was walking on the pedestrian path, her movement wasn’t obstructing the car in any way.

The car slowed down by her side while the driver wound the side window down. She cast her eyes on the man; she hissed while she kept on walking.

‘Hello,’ the man said.

‘Get lost!’ she barked.

The man drove off spitting some insults, which Martha didn’t bother to give any iota of attention to. Then her heavy tears began to fall. I’m not your customer. Officer Uchenna’s voice replayed again in her head. She was crying as she strolled on. She should call a cab and go home and do what she usually does when in a bad moment – curl by the bed and touch herself.

She checked her phone which had been placed on silent since she stepped into Officer Uchenna’s house. Officer Uchenna was calling. She waited until it stopped ringing and she switched it off immediately. She hailed at a cab. I’m not your customer. The thought lingered. Fresh tears threatened to fall from her face. Once again, she pressed her nostrils together harder

****

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6

Martha’s wish about the relationship diddled on like a snail. Although she had had more than five outings with Officer Uchenna, yet nothing had changed about the way they spent their time together. Officer Uchenna was only content with taking her out and spending some time with her. He would come over most, especially on Sunday nights, and they would visit a beautiful place. Most times, they would end up in a lounge or a posh restaurant where he would order for sumptuous drinks. But Martha wanted more.

She admired the muscular structure of his body. She had seen his chest many times and wished she could rest her heads on it. She wished to touch his big arms and to feel the muscle of his biceps wrapped around her waist. She wanted to be with him many times in a day and to see him as often as she saw the walls of Rendezvous.

She was happy that he never took her to a clubhouse or talked about her job at Rendezvous. When they sat at a restaurant, Martha was immersed with longing; she gazed with affection as if she wanted to reach for his arms and touch them. Officer was talking about the things that didn’t bother Martha.

‘I loved Fela so much,’ Officer Uchenna said forking a chunk of chicken. ‘I used to listen to him all the time when I was young.’

‘We can’t listen to his song in our house,’ Martha said.

Officer Uchenna looked up as if he’d just heard something strange. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Most people liked his song even if they didn’t like him personally?’

‘My father doesn’t like both his song and his personality,’ Martha said. She didn’t want to say that, to talk about her foster father with the fear that Officer Uchenna might ask further questions. She cut a small portion of the moi-moi in her plate and put it in her mouth.

‘I listened to Fela throughout my childhood,’ Officer Uchenna said. ‘I am his fan till date, even till university days.’

At the mention of University, Martha stopped cutting the moi-moi. She waited a minute, thinking about her academic ambitions too. She’d wanted to go to school but she was still entangled with a job she didn’t like. How long did she have to wait or lie that she would go to school one day and become a doctor one day?

‘We would sit in the classroom and sing his songs. We gathered friends that year from different departments. Skipped school to go listen to Fela. It was crazy. School life —’

It was at this point that Officer Uchenna’s voice began to fade in Martha’s ears. She scratched her hair and wished Officer Uchenna would stick with talking about Fela. But he was talking about his school days in Unilag — his encounters with prideful lecturers, the things he did as a member of the student union government. She bit her lower lips. She feared that Officer Uchenna would ask her questions about her academic ambitions.

The conversation shifted later to things Martha loved. ‘I loved dancing. Really, all this kind of dance, I don’t need to try too hard,’ she said.

‘Can we dance?’ officer Uchenna asked.

‘No,’ Martha giggled.

‘Why not? You just said you are good at it.’ He had a curious look on his face.

‘Some other time,’ Martha managed to say.

They kept meeting and the same routine continued, eating, talking and giving gifts. Martha’s wish that Officer Uchenna would ask her to be his girlfriend didn’t seem in the routine or in the near future.

Sometimes, her fantasy went wild. Once, when they visited the Film house cinema in Surulere and watched an old boring movie. Martha rested her head on his shoulder, a wrap of popcorn in her hand, her head on his shoulder. The ambience and dull light had a similitude of Rendezvous. The seats were made of fabrics which were darkish red. They were soft too, enhancing the romantic atmosphere of the interiors of the cinema.

Martha imagined him kissing and smooching her right there and when Officer Uchenna looked into her eyes and licked his lips, a thousand butterflies fluttered in her stomach as her heart began to ponder faster. Then she blinked.

‘Do you enjoy the movie?’ he asked.

She blinked and kept quiet. She didn’t want to talk about the movie. She wanted to kiss him and place her hands on his arm. But he looked at her, patiently waiting for her response.

Martha shook her head.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I hope they show something better the next time we come.’

She sighed and bit her lips. Officer Uchenna must have noticed, she thought, he was too smart to not see the lust in her eyes. She stared at the big screen at the front.

‘Where should we go, next time?’ he asked.

She wouldn’t go to the cinema apparently. The movie they watched some minutes ago was boring and the cinema created a romantic atmosphere, despite that Officer Uchenna ignored the signs or seemed to haven’t noticed.

‘Let’s go to your place,’ she said.

Officer Uchenna nodded and brought her home later that night. Martha’s brain was filled with the thought if the cinema and the longings she had for Officer Uchenna.

She kept looking forward to spending more time with him. Unless she was at Rendezvous, her thoughts were filled with the joyfulness of the moments they have shared together. She reminisced on how he usually stared at her as if she were the most expensive jewellery in the world. She thought of him whenever she could and the thoughts grew like watered plants. Usually, after one date night or lunch, they would plan the next one. Martha would express what she wanted as a gift and he would bring the gift when she least expected it. It was fun. She wished they could meet every day, but many times, their dates would be cut short by calls from his office. Before she slept every night, she gave it enough time to imagine how sweet to have him lay beside her. Her mind painted pictures and more pictures of them sleeping and rubbing bodies together.

On one particular night of their outings, Martha asked him, ‘Can you marry someone that is younger than your sister?’ They were eating at a restaurant.

He looked at Martha as if Martha had said ‘can you drink poison?’ ‘Yes,’ he responded so quickly as if he was already expecting the question and had kept the answer on the tip of his tongue.

Martha looked away from him. She was surprised with the way the words rolled out of her own mouth too in the first place as if she had been chewing on the question for centuries.

Then they both continued eating. Martha controlled her facial expression, trying to hide the joy she was feeling within. She kept quiet, smiled briefly and used the serviette to hide her smile. She didn’t ask more questions on her mind. She was probably younger than his sister if he truly had one, she thought. What were his plans for her? What would happen to her education? She didn’t ask and another night passed without answers.

She was getting impatient. She wanted to know what he wanted from her and so she began to think of ways to get answers. But she was afraid of sounding stupid. She was scared that all the sweet moments would stop if she pushed too far. She would get an obvious answer since he knew the kind of job she was doing.

Sometimes, she imagined he would come one day with a face expressing disgust, and demand that she should give him a lap dance. She imagined him saying, that’s what she does for a living. But they went on many dates and he never mentioned what her job was or acknowledged he knew the kind of job she was doing. She was happy and was waiting too for the day he would ask her to be his girlfriend.

On the nights they didn’t meet, she went to Rendezvous, where she performed lap dance and attended to men in ‘Room 2.’ Sometimes, her customers would come with wild demands. A particular short man who could barely speak perfect English language once asked her to dance naked before him. ‘I want you to… to make you dance in a naked way. Your clothes take am. Dance…’ She glared at the man and hated herself for working as a stripper. He was potbellied with a round head like a coconut. She walked back to the main hall, leaving the man in limbo. She didn’t reply Rugged who came afterwards to ask why she left the customer in Room 2.

‘He was…,’ Martha snarled, ‘He was ridiculous. He asked me to dance naked.’

Rugged frowned, ‘What’s the big deal about dancing naked?’

‘He wanted me to dance naked. To dance… To dance without clothes.’

‘It still makes no difference. It’s not in the hall for God’s sake!’

Martha hissed.

She left Rendezvous that night thinking why men like Officer Uchenna were so rare. She wished Officer Uchenna would visit Rendezvous one day.

A wild and risky idea came to her mind. She decided she would try something crazy for Uchenna soon. She would invite him to her house and when they are completely alone, she would give him a lap dance. She would strip naked and dance for him. No man in his right mind could ever overcome the lust for her type of body –big breasts and wide hips. No man had ever resisted her whenever she danced, not to talk of stripping off all her clothing. She would watch as his face would lighten. Then she would put a hand on his chest to feel his heart pulsing harder.

Then the day arrived.

****
Thank you for reading.

Check https:///view/hadehsblog. for more stories.

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Story resumes this weekend.

Although it is now available on Okadabooks, I will keep sharing.

I have other works coming up, and I needed to push this out and be done with it.

Bambooks users, I hope it will available for you guys soon.

Mercis.


Princess Awele knew the real father of the child they were fighting over. The fighters were her brother, prince Adebiyi, and the palace resident, Akile, who had been of good service to the king over the many years of his residence especially during wars.

It was a hot afternoon. The empire’s men and women, young and old, filled the yard like palm seeds around a palm tree.

Princess Awele sat quietly, her eyes scanning from one corner to another. She sat at a distance for it was better to sit among the commoners than to sit among the chiefs and stepmothers, those who would remind her that her bride price had been paid and she didn't deserve listening ears in her father's house. She remembered when she was a kid of about six and up to her maiden years when she would sit at the feet of the king’s chair. She was adoration to the throne. The king would call her to sit as a beautiful princess and let the visitors smile at her and praise the king for such a goddess.  But, quickly, things changed when she got married five years ago. 

Princess Awele's brother, Prince Adebiyi stood in the middle of the yard facing Akile. Akile stared at him, each bearing his sheath by his waist. Father does not deserve this, princess Awele thought; his first son shouldn’t be fighting a palace residence over who the father of a boy is. The king was getting old, his time running out like the oil of a clay lamp. He didn’t deserve this kind of gormless scene, this kind of commotion at the king’s palace. When she looked at the old man’s face, she could see the pain but no shame as she had expected.

Princess Awele was the first child and daughter of the king. She, by virtue of her age, used to be the most honourable of the king’s children. For many reasons, this was not agreed upon by the whole men and women, stepmothers and stepdaughters and stepsons of the empire. Awele believed marrying a man from another town would solve the problem. Her marriage was the decline of her position as a respected princess. 

After she got married and left the palace, Adebiyi could have earned his reverence because he was a man but he squandered it. She heard that he drank too much wine and would be carried home. He slept with widows on the dry mud when he thought the empire was asleep. He made passes at the maidens and women and even the married. Even the guards secretly said he demanded too much of them. This made people looked forward to Adeponmile, his stepbrother, the next son of the king as the most respected. 

Prince Adeponmile was the calm and the peaceful man that every parent wanted as a son. He would not step on people’s hen. He wouldn’t seat at the palm wine shed and drink more than half a calabash all evening. He wouldn’t pry in matters that do not stop him from walking away into the forest to hunt for game. This kind of life fit a good son but it didn’t fit the most respected prince in the empire, someone who could lead the town to war, someone who could speak at the top of his voice when the people were crying.

Princess Awele sniffed, remembering how she came back to the palace. Death had taken away her husband, the prince of neighbouring town after five years of marriage. They had two sons. One morning, the natives had seized her by the shoulder and sent her packing, cursing her as evil and demonic. She remembered the bitterness of it all, the reviling, with claims that her charm as a woman was too much.

She wondered why she had so much influence as a woman wherever she went. ‘I don’t know,’ she had cried to her husband one night. He had smiled and told her, she looks like a goddess. She agreed about it for she had seen men froze in speech when she walked past. She had smelled envy and seen hatred in the eyes of women. Her father used to tell her she was the daughter of Queen Idia, the great queen, the beauty of the past on which other women asked the gods to give them half of her beauty.  Although she believed her reality, she didn’t see it as her weapon. She remembered her mother’s advice which she had taken to heart: ‘beauty does not make a woman, it is a privileged and you as a princess is privileged… support your husband and the empire always in your own little way.’

Defend the empire in your own little way. To do that, she loved her father, the ruler of the empire. To do that, one time, she had gathered a team of women, slaves and maid; they prepared the meal and sang the war songs and danced the victory dance and fed warriors during the war. To do that, she followed her father to dialogue with other kings, her sight rendering the other speakers defenceless. 

‘The boy is my son,’ Adebiyi shouted, his bare chest covered in sweat.

‘How did you come to that belief, my prince? The mother of the child was my love before she died.’ Akile replied.

Princess Awele could smell bigger trouble. She would step up and stop the two men from fighting. Her father was old and should not be seeing this kind of things, and she would do something. She sat still and stared around. There were the faces of chiefs and stepmothers, those who would remind her to stay silent. Had she forgotten her position in this house?  A woman whose dowry had been paid did not deserve to intervene in important family matters again.

The wind blew over the yard and trees waved slowly. She thought of the deceased mother of the child, how would she feel in heaven that two able men fought for the paternity of her son. 

‘I will challenge you to a fight,’ Adebiyi said and drew out his sword. His eyes were red, his face dark, his body slippery from sweat. Akile took a step back, held his hand over his sword firmly as though he was waiting for an instruction to draw it.

Princess Awele hands began to tremble because she could guess who could win. She didn’t know how the fight between the two could lead to the discovery of the real father. She placed her hands on her laps and she could feel them moistened on her Ofi. She looked around, can someone stop them?

Princess Awele thought about the source of the trouble.  A boy was birth on the empire’s auspicious day. On this day, every soul stayed indoor from the first cockcrow to the appearance of the moon among the trees, and till every trace of the sun was gone. Any childbirth at this period was blessed and the birth inside the palace was more blessed, such a child was sent as an agent from the gods to command greatness. The son between Adebiyi and Akile was the grandson of another king. The princess had come to visit the empire’s king as a maiden and had fallen in love with the ways of the people. She had decided to live among them. Then one day, the news spread about her pregnancy. Shame followed every woman who did not wait for her wedding night and so she kept quiet about the real father of her son, and she died on the day of her delivery. It was the job of the empire’s men and women to decide who the father of the child was.

People believed the son was Adebiyi’s; he told them in the palm wine shed. People heard about it when he played ayo under the Odan tree. Princess Awele could not believe it for his brother did not have what it takes to make a woman fall in love so much that she would keep mute for nine months. A woman’s virginity is a thing of honour for the woman, her family and her husband and her husband’s family. If she had been raped, she was a queen and could have voiced out. She had kept quiet, Princess Awele thought, to hide the identity of her child’s father. Prince Awele winced and stared at Akile who stared into the earth as though praying to gods. She winced and whirled and steady herself. She turned, barely sitting, and stared at the man she used to know, paused, her hand was over her chest, shaking. She would cry. He looked at her briefly and nodded as though she had a passage to her thought, as though he was saying, ‘that’s the truth.’ She nodded at him and at her own thought. Akile would not stand so boldly for what wasn’t his. He was sweet. He was a man’s woman, a warrior, with the heart of a river priest. He was a trap that woman could not let go. But she had let it go for the sake of the empire and her father. 

‘Draw your sword,’ Adebiyi said, 'whoever wins the fight will have the baby.’

Her heart began to tremble like the leather of a beaten drum. She tightened her first on her chest. Her eyes narrowed on her father, the king. Akile held his sword and pulled it out gradually. Akile would win, he was better with his sword, she muttered and the thought warm her buttocks as though she was sitting on hot coal. She shifted and pressed her palms over her laps, her eyes darting. Her father remained quiet. Chief Ige wanted to talk but the king shoved him with his horsewhip. Then the metals clanged and clanged and clanged once more. 

Princess Awele saw in Akile's eyes confidence and the reluctance to fight. In Adebiyi, she saw the naivety and an overestimated strength. Then she remembered who would bear the loss if Adebiyi collapsed on the earth, left to bleed to death. It was her who mourned her mother's death when she fell on her way back from Akuko River and the queen never got up from the sickbed.

She sniffed hard. Her fingers were moving, her blood pulsing against the veins, telling her to act. If her father would allow bloodshed in the courtyard, she would not allow it. Not that of her brother. She shot up on her feet and pushed the men apart.

'Stop it.' She said, tears flying down her cheeks. She did not mind the people... She was possessed and blinded from those who would say she didn't know her place --- a widow, shameless, sleeping in her father house.

'You, Akile,' she started, 'you have a mighty strength with your sword. Your father is a warrior, the son of a great warrior of his time. And you are the son of your father. Your strength is in your arms and the sword. You are not a coward.'

She turned to Adebiyi. 'The true son of Adegunwa. The heir to the throne. The water that flows and cover entire Benin. Your eyes are the eyes of the gods. Your voice the voice of your ancestors. Your birth is honoured. Your presence is the grandeur of brass. A thousand bow at your feet. You are a future to the throne and the empire.'

She was breathing fast. She did not look like a princess. Since she returned to the palace, she devoid herself of trinkets and mask and beads. It was a shame to be in a father's house after her dowry had been paid and wearing them would mean a greater sin. She would not look like a princess if that would lessen the number of hateful words that fly her way and around the walls' corner. She only wanted a place to raise her boys until they come of age. But standing between these red-eyed men, she was more than a princess. The people stared at her as they would stare at barehanded kid climbing the tallest palm tree. 

'Akile,' she said, 'tell us. Is the boy your son?'

'Yes,' he said.

‘Adebiyi is the boy your son'

'Yes,' he said.

She turned to the King and knelt before him. Perhaps she was guided by the courage of the spirit which was beyond her ordinary ability or perhaps the fact she had understood and estimated what each man could do and what he feared. She knelt before the king and asked for permission to pass judgment between the two. The king waved his horsewhip.

‘Akile,’ she called, ‘prove that the boy is your son. Akile was quiet for a minute before he began.

‘I’m a boy from a poor home. I've been living my life on the king’s commands and wishes. I would serve him till death. But in this palace, I met a woman who recognized my strength and mind as a warrior. We met once outside and the urge was strong upon us. The hour was dark and the humans were asleep. We went inside and did the abominable.’ The crowd gasped.

Akile fell on his knee over the muddy earth and dropped his sword. ‘My lord, it was an abomination to meet a woman without paying her dowry and without the consent of her family. But give me my son and strike me with the punishment I deserve.’ He supported his body with his hand over the floor.

‘Adebiyi’ princess Awele called, ‘can you prove that she is your son?’

Adebiyi laughed and the laughter dragged on and on. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, ‘only a coward would cry to show he owns what belongs to him.’ He faced the side as though something was hanging there.

Princess Awele turned to the king. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘you are a great man. In your power, we would settle the quarrel between these men.' She turned back to both men. ‘The king, the mighty forest that humbles the great hunters, the river that besieged the greatest of a swimmer, would give the son to you,’ she said pointing to the two of them. ‘But he would curse you with the power of his seven ancestors, curse you that you shall be stricken by thunder on the seventh day from today, curse you that this land would not bless you if the son is not yours.’ She said, ‘so walk to him boldly and take your son.'

Akile crawled on his knees to the king’s feet and lay on his face. He said and wept ‘curse me. Curse me and give me my son.’ His body was oily and the muddy earth stained his arms.

Adebyi stood still and stared at his sister. He tightened his fist against the handle of his sword. Princess Awele stepped back from him and the crowd whirled towards her and stood around her. Adebiyi stamped his foot on the earth and without looking back, walked out of the yard. Behind him, her sister was sitting on men’s shoulder, the songs of celebration filled the air.


Source:

https://hadehsblog./

kayusdguy:
My father says this stuff in Yoruba but I'll say it in English. "You don't name a man Folorunsho (I think it means a man protected by God) and then because of that he thinks to use a rope made from a plantain tree to climb a palm tree." I don't know if that makes sense to you.

A man called Folorunsho (protected by God) should not climb palm tree using plantain leaves.

5

Sophia and Rugged came to the police station in the morning. The officer had asked her to call someone and she had only thought of Sophia and no one else. She was happy that she showed up but she kept quiet when she was called out of the cell and didn’t acknowledge her.

She was told to say her side of the story and before she could finish she was soaked in tears. Rugged listened carefully without fretting; Sophia moved closer and hugged Martha. When she finished, Rugged said they should excuse him, so they left and stood outside of the new officer’s office, awkward silence falling between them.

They stood apart and Sophia folded her hands over her chest. She was quiet and watching. Martha expected she would say another word – that she would advise her like she used to do, that she would correct her where she had gone wrong, but she was placid, watching, just watching her. Martha stared at the floor before her toes. She was wrong to have left Sophia, but she had needed her freedom from the house. Before she decided to leave, Sophia had asked her to pay half of the house rent and that was it. Martha thought of having another place where she would pay definitely but have her freedom.

‘Thank you,’ she said, still looking at the floor. She felt ashamed. She had been admitted into Sophia’s house for free for the first couple of days, free food and she got her first pair of trousers. She had paid her back poorly. She wanted to say sorry but she cast her eyes at Sophia and saw her eyes were still peering at her. Martha kept quiet and said thank you so softly that she could barely hear the words coming out of her own mouth.

Sophia said nothing but Martha noticed what seemed like a nod. She looked at the office, the counter, the police van through the window, the ‘bail is free’ tag attached to the wall.
Rugged came out some minutes later, the new police officer following behind. The police officer ordered another officer to return Martha’s belonging, her bag. Two minutes later they were driving out of the police station.

‘How did it go?’ Sophia asked and Martha almost say thank you again for asking.

‘Well, it was set up. She fell into a trap. The officer who arrested her and those boys know about. I call one of their bosses from another branch and fix it. Gave them something for the weekend,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ Martha said.

Rugged nodded and turned at Sophia, ‘thank her,’ he said.

‘Thank you’ she repeated softly.

They drove in silence afterwards and Sophia alighted along the road. Rugged asked Martha to accompany him to meet the officer who made her release quick. They were going to show appreciation. So they drove to another police station, where an officer saluted Rugged amusingly and asked them into an office.

It was a clean office, the room occupied by a small plasma television, an office desk, two cushions, a center table, the flag of Nigeria, the coat of arm and the picture of the state commissioner. There was a picture on the wall showing a bearded man in uniform, a bearded man who seemed to be as old as Rugged. The office owner came in after them and exchanged pleasantries with Rugged. They laughed and hugged and clasped their palms together as if in one fist, then they grinned again. They disengaged and stared at each other and talked for some minutes and hugged and laughed all over.

‘Meet my friend,’ Rugged said, ‘Uchenna, he is now a police officer.’ He added. They were now sitting on the couch. Martha smiled and felt she was the unpaired soul in the room. She had been through a lot in the past 12 hours and she realized she hadn’t had her bath since the time with those boys, she hadn’t eaten anything either. Her hair must be unkempt and her face a jumbled color. She had been too occupied with her desire for freedom to care about it. She smiled and when the man extended his hand, she took it briefly and released it and looked at his chest and not his face.

Uchenna was the D.P.O of the branch they came to. He had taken the position after he got lucky, ran through the promotion process like an aggressive bulldog. He was younger than the position no doubt but he was powered by personalities that control the police forces– the kind of thing which is possible if he knew someone who knew someone at the top of the government. He was well-built, tall, dark and spoke as if he measured each word before saying them, in that soft manner of an actor following a script. He could have been an actor, by the way, and his features could have sold well in the movie industry.

‘You were telling me about your girl?’ Officer Uchenna asked, ‘what happened?’

Rugged narrated how Sophia had called him, and then he turned to Martha to narrate her own part of the story. She did and when she was close to the finish, she was sniffing.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Officer Uchenna said, ‘you are unlucky. The way things work here, you just have to give them something. But now that you are here, you can call me anytime. You don’t have to worry. I will be your shield,’ he said and smile.
Martha smiled. Suddenly, it was easier to smile after all she had been through. She stared around the office – the portrait of the president, Goodluck Jonathan, the coat of arm and the minister of police. She smiled at it all.

She was given Officer Uchenna’s number and she settled to a cup of juice a female officer offered her, watching as the two friends talked about football, politics and why they haven’t married.
It was four days later when she met Uchenna at a shopping mall in Ikoyi. She had just returned from the barber’s shop, her haircut well-trimmed and neat. She was wearing a blue gown that hugged her waist tight and the shape of her curves were revealing. She wore a necklace and a brown watch to match it. When she saw him and she said, ‘officer Uchenna,’ he froze beside the grocery shelves, turned to her, his hand still holding a basket. He put the basket down and frowned. Martha smiled and said ‘good afternoon.’

He said, ‘Martha, right?’

She nodded.

His mouth curved to an ‘O’ and she watched as he fought to find his word. He stared at her from head to toes. ‘Waoh!’ he said eventually and Martha laughed. He walked closer and said, ‘let’s do your shopping.’ Then he picked the basket and they walked and talked, picking one item and another.

‘So you also buy things here?’ he asked.

‘Yes, she said. I didn’t know I was going to meet someone like you here,’ she said.

‘I wanted to grab a few things for the weekend. But don’t worry, I can come back for it,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I take you for lunch?’ he asked. Martha stared at him and then her wristwatch. ‘We won’t stay long,’ he quickly added ‘I will have to go to work later in the evening.’ She agreed and they bought her things and walked out of the supermarket. He drove to an expensive restaurant on the street.

Martha watched him carefully. His face had a strange admiration, which seems like if he wasn’t smart enough Martha would turn into the wind and disappear. It was a pleasure to see a man who would treat her this way; this seemed like a genuine impulse, like a father celebrating her daughter. He was older than a man she believed she could date, older than a man who should act like this towards her. He was around his mid-thirties like Rugged. Martha was just eighteen.
When they sat by the table, he asked her to make her order and not to feel shy. That was difficult. He was a police officer, not those kinds of men who come to the club, Rendezvous, he was handsome and so Martha found it difficult not to feel shy. She stared at the menu for too long and then at her fingers as if she was noticing, newly, the nails and the lines on them.

‘I couldn’t believe you were the one,’ he said. His smile was like a white sheet of paper. Martha glanced at his face and his head and imagined him in police uniform, the black cap on his head. ‘You look really different.’

‘I was in a mess the other day and that didn’t help my look,’ she said.

‘Please don’t be in that mess again. It hides your beauty,’ Officer Uchenna said.

They chatted and ate for some minutes.
They ended their lunch on that day and he drove her home in his car. He didn’t leave on the without asking for another date, ‘I want one which you really planned for,’ he said and Martha nodded and a day was fixed for it. She had thought she would be going to the Rendezvous that day, but she had gotten more groceries than she could afford and she was ready to take a day off again and this man was so cool. So she said yes to another date. That night when she shut her eyes to sleep, even before she became unconscious to sleep, she dreamed of being in his hand, her head on his wide chest and muscular arms and he was smiling and she was giggling, even giggling as she dreamt.

On the next day, she spent hours being finicky on a million of dresses before she limited her option to three, then she took photos of the dress and asked for her friends’ (the other strippers at the club) permission. She finally chose a red gown with a rose design on its chest side. It exposed her cleavage and she spent a good time applying the right amount of cream on her body especially her cleavage. She ate biscuits that afternoon to feel light and by night she ate another few biscuits before Officer Uchenna drove her to another restaurant. He didn’t freeze like he did the previous day. He didn’t look into her eyes like he was seeing stars. He had smiled broadly and gave her flowers when she had opened the door for him.

The restaurant was another classic one on the mainland. There was a touch of gold colors on the cushion, the table, the wallpaper, the artwork of a woman pounding yam.

The waiter brought their orders – fruit wine and chickens and fried rice and fish pepper soups and vodka. Martha had sipped a little wine and glanced at the couple at the side of their table. They seemed like a father and a daughter, except that their laughter was wide like a girl flirting with her father’s friend. She hoped Uchenna and herself didn’t look that way and if they did, this is Lagos, it is done. She hoped however that she would look older than she was actually as people as often said of her at the Rendezvous.

‘I use to come here when I was a sergeant,’ he said. ‘My Oga used to bring me here. You know, he took a special likeness for me. Because my father was connected. Pops know a man who was close to the commissioner. I was the commissioner's son after all,’ he laughed and Martha only giggled briefly and began to eat her fried rice. He was eating his fish.

‘That was how you became a D.P.O at a young age right?’

He nodded and smiled, ‘but it didn’t happen overnight. I’ve been in the service for some time and I was responsible. My boss got transferred and the order came that I should be the next boss.’

Martha thought of what he meant by responsible, she had checked his finger many times to know he wasn’t married, and the other day, he and Rugged had teased each other for not getting married. Responsible, she thought, can a police officer be responsible. He was different though, perhaps because he was the boss and he wasn’t at the roadblocks and among those who waved cars down and asked for their papers. What they want is a tip and the drivers could go to hell with their incomplete driving documents.

‘I’m not that young by the way,’ Uchenna said.

‘I don’t know how young you are,’ Martha said. ‘But… I’m the younger one here anyway. Can you guess my age?’

Uchenna shook his head as if making calculations, ‘eighteen? Nineteen?’

‘Wow’

‘I’m right?’he asked.

‘Yeah, you are. You are truly a police officer. I thought I looked older than that,’ Martha said.
‘Not to me,’ he said. ‘I just could tell. I could guess people’s secret. It’s part of my job.’ He winked.

‘Really?’

‘I know some of your secrets. You sleep late. Past one at times. You are still chatting and uploading on Facebook.’

Martha laughed. She felt warm and calm to laugh this way while he was looking at her closely. She stared at the plate of rice and fed another spoon to her mouth.

‘You must be keeping eyes on me,’ she said. ‘Am I safe?’

‘No. Until I know everything about you. So tell me all your secrets.’ He leaned closer to her mockingly but spoke loud enough that those around could have heard the discussion.
She laughed and thought of what she could call a secret in her life, her mind wandering round the scenes that she had kept away from anyone else, scenes of her foster father climbing over her bed, scenes where she had done stupid and shameful things as a stripper at Rendezvous. Men had asked for strange things. There was a time two women had asked for a private dance in their home. She hadn’t told anyone about but it came freshly to her mind now – how the two women had surrounded her and used her as a human toy. Her faces grew sullen suddenly. The pay was good but she would never do it again. What if the pay could sponsor you through medical school? She shook her head briefly, so short she thought that the man before her wouldn’t have noticed.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ she said, brushing a hand through her hair, hurriedly putting a spoon of fried rice into her mouth and chewing it slowly afterwards.

‘I’m not a dangerous guy if that’s what you are thinking. I just want to know you. Just to want to spend a lot of time with you,’ he said.

‘No, no, no, I wasn’t thinking about you as a bad guy. You are nice, a very nice person to me.’

‘I’m blushing,’ he said and they smiled.

‘So tell me, what tribe are you?’ ‘You are Martha. That doesn’t say it.’

She chewed another spoon of rice and said, ‘I’m Yoruba,’ although she didn’t believe it either. His face was expressionless. It wasn’t a lie. Her foster father had named her ‘Toluwani,’ (this is God’s own). She was raised by Yoruba parents but her real parent could have been any tribe in the country.

‘Great,’ he said. ‘I thought you are Igbo. My instinct deceived me on that one,’ he added.
Martha wished she could tell him that she had thought herself to be Igbo or Urhobo, that she was just living with Yoruba parents. This was the truth about her life – that her true identity had been exchanged, gone or dead; perhaps it was just missing and would be that way till the end of her life. This was her real mother’s fault or the fault of the ones scared of raising her up. When she told Sophia how she hated to have been thrown on the refuse dump as a baby, and to have landed in the hands of her foster father and to have been tormented every night, Sophia had told her to be grateful instead; some mothers would have had other worse plans.

She drank some wine, sipping it slowly, waited, and then sipped more slowly. All the while Uchenna was watching her like a bar of magnet that could disconnect from him any moment. She smiled at him and he smiled back, chewing his soup of fish. Looking at his bearded face as he smiled, she wished she could reach for his beard and touch it if possible put her head on his muscular arms and let it soothe her to sleep. She drank more wine and waited and drank more and waited for the best day to ask the questions on her mind.

She preferred Sundays nights for their outings although he always wanted Saturdays; it was the best days for Martha to earn well at Rendezvous, a weekend, the hall would be filled and there were usually many offers. As the outing persisted, not as often as Martha wished because Uchenna had occupational duties, some questions began to come up in her mind like stubborn weeds. Why would a senior police officer be interested in her when he knows she works as a stripper? In the clubhouse operated by his friend, Rugged? He even knew she was young, very young. What would become of their relationship and dreams if he asked for her hands in marriage? The question seemed stupid – the man would not be stupid to tarnish his own image, but two weeks, they hadn’t shared more than a hug and gifts and her patience was getting slimmer by the day.

So, one day when they were eating, she popped a question at him ‘can we go home now?’ He looked up from his plate and glanced at the half-empty wine accusingly. When Martha remained quiet, he said alright.

‘To your house,’ she added quickly. The skin of his forehead crisped. He glanced at her face as if he had heard wrong. She had thought of the absurdity of this request and had cancelled it out once. She had thought that she could have waited and let him do the invite, but there was a silent voice in her saying she should say it to surprise him. She noticed the sudden pause in his reaction and how he carried on immediately as if he was not surprised. She had meant to surprise him anyway; to see what he would say. He said nothing, dried his mouth with the serviette and said alright. They drove through the night and he was more talkative, talking about the great things the government was doing in Lagos and his life as a student in Unilag, which reminded Martha of her own fantasy degree in medicine. Martha was quiet; absorbed in the thought of what his house would look like and what his behaviour would be once they are in his home and the door shut against the world. Her worry was cut short when he received a call on the way about some emergencies and he had to turn around and take her home.

‘They need my attention at the office,’ he said, ‘another murder in Lagos.’

It was relieving and painful like a delicious meal with too much pepper and Martha did not know how to react. It meant her questions would wait and her curiosity would be stronger. Her mind conjured thoughts of them together in a happy mood as they made a turn towards his office and then she thought how long it would be to have answers to her questions.

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4


The next Saturday was her first time as a stripper. Aunty Sophia had given her another short gown in her collections and Martha drank two cups of alcohol to feel, as Sophia said, a little wild. She wore a blonde wig, she was helped with her makeup, and her sandals were as high as the thread of a staircase.


The red light of the club adored her skin. Two girls were already on the podium, the bar wasn’t crowded yet and the few sitting men were interested in drinks and gabbing. She took her position around the pole and started dancing. She had practised with Aunty Sophia. The lady had given her time to tutor her about everything. They would sit together on a dull evening and talk about lighting up the evening. What they had both meant was coming to the club, learning pole dancing and how to give a lap dance and to drink and dance. Then last night was the longest when she had listened to Aunty Sophia through an hour of talk which felt as if she was engulfed in her advice, her story, her mistakes and her future. She wouldn’t want that again.

She danced slowly at first. She danced, observing the other dancers on the podium. It felt easy than she had imagined. If this was just her job, she would be willing to come every day. But it wasn’t and so she had come to a conclusion that lap dancing wasn’t prostitution and that people did dirty jobs in their life before they became successful. This was her dirty job. When she glanced at the faces in the club, men holding cups or ogling women in short gowns, she knew they wouldn’t agree with her on this thought. She danced, climbing up and down and around, delicately, head down, legs up, legs spread apart but not too wide. A man watching would have noticed she drew her legs back too quickly than the other girls. She was told that the management would pay two thousand nairas for dancing on the pole but the men would pay if she could give them a good lap dance. ‘The price for lap dance although is fixed at 2k, but they can pay you well and even ask for more if you satisfy their bulala.’ She looked across the club and she glanced at a man who seemed young, smoking a cigarette. He wore a black vest. He was on a low cut, sitting on a stool, body blaring tattoos and a dazzling piece of jewellery on his muscular chest. He waved at her and Martha looked away then looked back at him. He waved again. Martha took another second before walking gingerly like a model, to him, remembering the lessons Aunty Sophia had thought her in the past few days.

'Save money, no matter how fashionable you want to look... there are cheap men everywhere; learn how to differentiate them... I was like you when I came to Lagos. My mummy just let me just go as she had told you. And I wish I can leave the job soon but there was not enough money to allow me to quit. Save money if you really want to leave this job someday… carry your own protection all around. You don’t want to do things because you are hot and no protection around… men are perverts; many will pay if they can use you for their own satisfaction if they are satisfied with each time with you. So you have to learn that… Tease them. Good sex. Most of them are stupid…’

Martha had sighed through the long hours. She had thought she wouldn’t need the protection, except, of course, she met a man of her taste – tall, dark skin that would compliment her light skin, and rich.

She pushed strands of hair back from the wig on her head. Pushing her toes one after the other like a tiger after a prey, she bent to the man’s face and asked, ‘what can I do for you,’ crooning her voice like she wanted to pelt a child.
The man smiled and puffed into her face. ‘Give me something, girl,’ he said.

Martha feigned a smile, placed her hand on his shoulder and said, ‘money, first.’

‘Oh, baby, you want the doh first.’ He reached into his wallet and brought out two thousand naira notes. Martha took it and slipped it in the corner of her bra. She sat on the man’s lap and started her dance – just as she had been taught.
She swirled her bum on the man’s groin and the man gasped and exhaled. She turned to face him, her legs on each side of his waist, and she pulled his head closer to her budding breast. Careful, not to suffocate him, she slowly wriggled her chest on his face, then carefully pushed him back. Then she twitched his head back to her chest. He smelled of cigarette, alcohol and sweat. She felt him hard under her buttocks, pushing her up, and she felt for a moment, she was on her bed in Abeokuta. The inner of her thighs felt warm and she pulled her legs tighter as if that would stop it. A desire was growing and she would explode if she didn’t act. She frowned. She wanted to stand up, to run into a room and stop whatever was burning inside her thighs, but they said a lap dance lasted five minutes. She would endure and so the rhythm of her dance dwindled, the hot desire under her thigh taking control. She breathed out loud. The colour of her eyes changed. She stood from the man’s lap and danced seductively before him. This seemed to reduce desire. Then she sat back, rocking the man slowly, placed her hands on his shoulder and said, hope you enjoy it.

‘Com mon, yes. You do good, babe,’ he said. As soon as she estimated the time to be enough, she hurried off, slipping past a number of hands that were calling her, and entered the bathroom. She waited there till late when she left for home. Rugged paid her three thousand; he said the extra one thousand was because it was her first day. She smiled, she had five thousand but the thought of what she did to have the money nauseated her. It would go away, you are not a prostitute. You are doing this to raise money.
She had the room to herself when she got home, Aunty Sophia had been driven away in a black SUV, where she smiled and waved and an older man in Agbada sat nonchalantly beside her. Martha took the money from her bag and placed it on the bed. She took off all her clothing except her pant and bra, watching the television by the bed. She switched it off as it was interrupting her flow of thought. She thought of what she would do with the money, she thought about how easy it was to make that much in one short evening, how it seemed like the money was thrown at her without working for it, how she could afford nice clothes and good shoes if she earned enough by the end of the month. But the thought of what she did to earn it made her feel tart as though she had bitten her lips out of enormous excitement to enjoy a delicious meal. She hated the way men look at her and the other girls, first like an attractive car and then like a car they would never take home but test drive. And what was that she felt when she was sitting on the man’s lap? It was strange as if something was burning on her thigh and it was warm and nice. She shifted her thighs and stared at her groins and thought about the moment. She shook her head. No, she shouldn’t be feeling that way. It was…it is unholy.

Martha was learning about the modus Operandi of the club. The club was a business organization and it was focused on making money so, it prepared girls randomly for night parties in undisclosed locations and whoever turned down the offer would be out of the club forever. The girls didn’t want to turn it down, either. They look forward to those parties and they talked about it that ‘one connection with a big man or a politician can change their “career’” as though they had one. At the club, men bobbed girls’ buttocks and such girls would scream or keep quiet – depending. If she screamed or flinched, a bouncer would come and throw the man out but it was unlikely because the men were rich and could afford the bouncer. If she didn’t shout, it meant such man had put dollar bills or some naira notes in his palm, showed it to the girls face before rapping her buttocks like a besotted drummer. There were cases of breast grabbing or men reaching their hands into places they didn’t pay for. Like the girls, Martha talked or didn’t talk. She was learning.

Gradually, she eased into life as a stripper. She came by every evening to dance like she always told herself before she left home, but she would silence the other voice inside which would say she was going to the den where men gaped at preys, men watch them like kids watching cartoon and they could have access to them like toys at the flashing of two thousand naira notes. She learned the etiquette quickly. She was making money, of course, and she could make more or save more so that she could quit very quickly. Life was sweet here. Every night she gave lap dance and turned down the request for a ‘short time’ in the ‘room 2.’ But after the day's end and she got home, alone with her thought, she remembered the burning desire under her thighs. It was hot and sweet and couldn’t be enjoyed. She would shift on the bed, half unclad, begging for it to stop. She wanted more, to feel, to hold another human close in a hug, to feel another human inside of her although when she told Aunty Sophia, she shook her head and warned her against it. At the club, she looked for Aunty Sophia to see if that face was watching and their eyes would meet, with the older woman shaking her head whenever she received another offer for a ‘short time.’

A week passed too quickly. It was the Saturday of her second week that she gave in to a young boy’s request for a ‘short time.’ The boy wore a face cap and she couldn’t see his face clearly under the red light. He was light in complexion and tall and spoke in short sentences as though he was rapping to a song. Five minutes later, she had done the job, received her payment, felt satisfied and really satisfied, a burden was lifted off her as though she felt ache earlier and ice had been placed on her pain. But it was for a while. When she arrived at home at night, she sat on the tiled floor thinking about the short time with that boy. The period was so short and relieving, but as she sat on the tiled floor in just her pant and bra, she felt as though the boy had slid into her and had withdrawn a lot from her emotional bank. She wanted to be in someone’s company, a father, a man, to be hugged and to laugh. She stared into her phone screen and flung it over the bed. She folded her knees over her chest and thought of that moment she felt a burning desire under her thighs. She didn’t know when she began to cry, a slow and free flow of tears down her cheeks.

Her phone beeped and she saw messages from a man she had shared her contact with, a man she had saved his name as ‘idiot’. The messages were pictures and videos of men, naked men holding naked women in strange manners. She watched and grimaced, feeling a burning under her thighs. She shuddered at the scenes and actions. Reaching her hands into herself like she would rinse a cup, she touched and relieved herself. Then she flung the phone and cried.
When Aunty Sophia arrived, she woke up from sleeping on the tile and walked to the parlour, covering herself with a towel. Aunty Sophia was pouring herself a drink from the fridge.

‘Why did you leave early?’ Aunty Sophia asked.
‘I had a headache,’ she said.

‘You had your first time today,’ she said. ‘how was it?’

She was shocked that she mentioned it. She had thought she wouldn’t talk about it. It was normal and all the girls did it for money. They would just get into the room and come back with money and the men looking relieved.

‘Good for you,’ she continued.

‘I did it because you do it.’

Aunty Sophia stopped and laughed. ‘You are becoming a slut.’ She said, not looking at her face. ‘Only God’s grace can save you now from what you are going to become.’

Martha was confused. Was this not the plan after all? Why did she give all those pieces of advice when she didn’t want her to sleep with men? She held the towel at her chest and sat on the settee. She was dirty and needed a bath, but that could wait. She needed to clear her head and think about what Aunty Sophia said. Was she jealous? Had she seen her when she took the contact of the man she saved as ‘idiot,’ the fool who slapped her buttocks and waved at her? When she screamed, one of his bodyguards had given her an envelope. Was she jealous of that? She thought about how often Aunty Sophia slept at home. She was sleeping at men’s house, gracing their bed like a nomadic cow. Now when she slept with one, she was razing the house down as if it was her body, as if it was her future. She stared at the parlour and hissed. The house – she would find a place of her own soon, she thought.

She started following men to ‘room 2’ as the other rooms were being called. She satisfied men for money and returned with three thousand nairas and a wet pant. It was too good, too fast to get rich. Then, gradually, like a child in a new world, she was learning about the job and the club. Lap dancing was a façade, it paid less than visiting ‘Room 2’. The sad thing was that the men knew it and they looked at her with those eyes of mockery, the way a mother looked at a child throwing tantrum.

Three months later, she had a lot of new clothes, a new phone and a better idea of places in Lagos which she had learned by spending a night in one hotel or another. She knew the drugs to use, the clinic to go when she ran into STD troubles or fatigue or pains or pregnancy. She was learning. She lived in a new house. She was looking for men who could afford her good money for satisfying them, ‘maga,’ the girls at the club call them. She was thinking, too. Why did the girl keep doing the job when they could make a lot of money and quit? Why didn’t Aunty Sophia quit after so many years? What were the reasons?
Her questions, like learning the truth about life, took many years to be answered completely, but three months later after moving out of Aunty Sophia’s house, she got her first answer when she encountered two boys.

They came to Renzdevous club like other men. She had seen them talking and pointing towards her and so she walked seductively towards them. She had learned a lot in three months that when she began to swirl and twist close to their nose, they paused and watched with their mouth open. One of them was fair, he wore a pink vest and shinning pair of earrings, his middle finger bearing a ring. The other was tall and dark and bearded, with muscular arms that could be convinced as that of a weight lifter or a boxer or someone who does heavy work – breaking rocks or pulling loads up a rig. They asked for her performance and she danced for each man, sitting on their laps and teasing them with her breast. Then the shorter man leaned towards her ear and said they would like to have her for the night – the two of them for twenty thousand. It was weird – two men over a night – nothing like she had ever done before.

She was quiet for long, watching from one face to another to catch a glimpse if they were joking. The taller one nodded and looked away. The shorter was looking at her face. She was not living with Aunty Sophia; she would have taken an excuse and sent her a text, asking for her opinion. Twenty thousand for a night was a good offer if she looked at the reality of it, she wouldn’t be spending the whole night with them. She brushed strands of her hair backwards. She brushed it again and told herself it is just one night and just two small boys, she had been with older and more muscular men and so she said ‘Okay.’ If they try anything funny, she would just pull a crazy one on them like her friend Anita had done one day. ‘I just break bottle commot,’ Anita had told them, ‘con see as small boys dey beg me. They wan die? Then never live for inside street reach.’ She would be exercising the craziness she had kept and caged all her life. So, they left in a red Toyota car and she spent two hours between two naked boys in a hotel room, stupid boys, weird boys, who hadn’t have such opportunity and were bent on using it to the fullest, touching, groping, humping. She left them sleeping on the bed like lazy dogs.

The city of Lagos was just falling asleep. Martha could still hear the sound of music around. She was eager to get home and catch some sleep. She had made enough money for the night that could last her for a week. She was about getting a ride when she heard a voice called, a man in a black uniform stepping out of a dark corner.

‘Excuse me, madam’ he was a police officer, a short man with a belly like a pregnant pig.

‘Yes? What is it?’

‘I’m sorry young lady, but we have been vigilante around this place. We were told that girls like you are causing trouble and unrest to the occupants of this street.’

‘Girls like me?’

‘Yes,’

‘Girls like me. What do you mean by that?’
‘I’m sorry madam. But I don’t like to waste my and your time I will have to search you.’

‘Search me? For what?’

‘For security reasons.’ He said, walking close. ‘We don’t want someone reporting that a killer was on the loose last night. So cooperate with me, young lady.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ she said, in a low voice, imitating the soft voice she had learned to use, the voice of her partners at the club.

The police officer snatched her bag before she could hide it behind her back. He dipped his hand inside and began to search, his gun hanging on his shoulder. He brought out women things – a brush, a powder box, a handkerchief, a bottle of perfume – and put them on the floor. He then held a wrapped white piece of paper to Martha’s face. It didn’t belong to Martha, and her eyes widened and her heart began to drum hard as if she was running on a steep mountain where a lion is chasing her from below. She watched the paper and the officer’s face for any sign of trouble and she saw it, from the expression on his face and the slow movement which he held the paper. He crooked his torch between his neck and his head, and un-wrapped it, and then smelling it, he said, ‘you are under arrest for possession of harmful substances.’

Martha didn’t look away, but she heard the voice of a man behind her, mocking and laughing and she knew it was a hallucination but it was too strong to be separated from reality and so she soberly thought, may she shouldn’t have left.



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