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3


October 2010 (Three Years Ago)


Martha had just arrived in Lagos. She went to the club which would eventually become her place of work although she did not know it yet.

She had arrived a day ago into the hands of her new guardian, Sophia. When she arrived, Sophia had peered at her for long and nodded her head, a smile spread on her bedizened face, which Martha believed had ruined her beauty. It was many months later that Martha would know that the simple nod was an acknowledgement that she would succeed in the ‘business.’

She was at home on the first day while Sophia went to work. She didn’t ask where she worked. Visitors, as she had learned, do not ask many questions. Sophia would tell her when the time was appropriate. So she sat at home on the leather settee, her shoes removed so as not to dirty the rug and tiles, and she watched television till her eyes itched. She slid into boredom later like a cube of sugar melting inside hot water and she moved her feet rhythmically to the hum from her mouth.

The following day, Sophia arrived at night and told her they were going to a club. She didn’t ask where. She wore one of Sophia’s jean and vest and followed. She felt strange in the trouser. It was tight and comfortable and made her feel proud of her own body. But it was louche, shameful and ungodly if her foster father could judge it.

She remembered how she had left home one night all too sudden, sudden and she surprised herself by showing the courage to run away. It all started with the man she called father.

Initially, she had thought she owed her life to him. The neighbour talked about the ‘favour he did for her’ as they would talk about one who invented feminism or the civil rights, and Martha, being a responsible little kid thought she had to worship him. It was said that he was kind and from the thought of his kindness, she had a deformed perception about kindness. They described him as a man with a heart of gold. Mama Toyin, their neighbour, said when he brought Martha home on that day in a cartoon of biscuit, she looked like a skinny baby crocodile. Martha thought she would have said lizard if Martha had smiled at other things. ‘You should be grateful,’ the old, lousy woman had added.

She wasn’t grateful. The stories did not help up to the bitterness of her situation even after she ran away, she thought of being left to rot on the refuse dump, fed upon by flies and rats and cockroaches. She had kept this to herself or she would have been whipped, to destroy the evil spirit in her soul and so she would smile and nod when the woman told such a story, her story.
So she became a member of a family of three, Mr Ajasin (the Good Samaritan and a bishop in his church), his wife and their first son, Ayo. It took five years before there was another addition to the family, a girl; they named her Florence. By the eight harmattans of her arrival in the house, Martha realized she had a strange love for music. Although she had the voice which was useful in the choir, it was her body that would want to expound this strange feeling. She danced. She would dance to the strings from the terrace’s metal pole, Ayo being the drummer. Her dance was different among the choir and they would stop and watch. She danced at home to the song on the radio and her siblings would hail.
‘Where did she learn to dance like that,’ her foster father would ask.

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

She remembered it all. But she was done with such restriction. Now that she was away from them, she could dance and feel no torment.
They arrived at the club. There were a metal door and a sign at the top in blue light. Rendezvous clubhouse. They walked past a bar where people sat peacefully and drank. It was quiet there and they continued through a lobby till they reach another door. Two men stood by this door and they smiled at Aunty Sophia, allowing them into the interiors. They walked through a long lobby, with strange sounds from the side rooms, like a face-me-I-face-you house. The only difference was that there was no door, just curtains, and she could make out the shape of a girl or that of a man lying on his back, or the cry of a girl whose seem naked or actually naked. She paused and stared round. Where’s this place? Girls walked past her wearing just bras and pants and hefty men stood at intervals, smiling at Aunty Sophia as they allowed them and until they got finally to a big hall.

It was crowded. The light was red and dark that made her look twice before she could see their faces; even if she walked up to them tomorrow, she might not be able to tell if she ever met them. Two girls were standing on a podium, climbing, wriggling and twisting by two poles. They were wearing just their pants and bras, and by moving up and down the pole, they gave the world the chance to see the space under their thighs. She watched and, for a moment, forgot she was following a woman.

They took a corner to their left and it led back to the lobby they walked past earlier. They entered a room, where Aunty Sophia sat and dressed like the girls on the pole, a pant and bra exposed her body too much. Then she stood and said, ‘wait for me. You can watch from this room,’ pointing to a corner, which hung the CCTV and a man sat by a desk ‘or you can come to the main hall. I will be back,’ she said and without waiting for Martha’s response, she left. She would learn later that the man behind the office desk was the manager of the most lucrative part of the hotel, Rugged (pronounced Ruggedi). Martha didn’t have a reply either. She couldn’t even nod her head and she just stared at the exposed buttocks and arms and back as Aunty Sophia cat-walked out of the room.

Like a zombie, she followed her back into the hall and stood by a far corner, where there was a bartender. There, she watched, first as Aunty Sophia danced briefly and then a man tapped her buttocks, flashed some money and she followed. The man sat on a chair. She was surprised to see Aunty Sophia adjusting the only piece of clothing covering her nudity by holding the edge of pant, expanding it and pulling it up. She folded her hands and watched and watched – Aunty Sophia, the other girls, the men drinking, the way they put money in the girls bra, the way the girls danced by sitting on men’s laps, pulling the men’s face on their chest, the way they led men out into the lobby, like a ram willingly following a butcher.
That night, they talked about Martha becoming a stripper. It was an idea she would not welcome, and, so, she shook her head and began to cry. This wasn’t what the woman told her. Aunty Sophia moved to the arm of the couch, sitting beside her, an arm across Martha’s shoulder. They were inside her apartment.

‘See, I started like you. Since then, I’ve been able to afford all these things.’

‘No!’ she said and sobbed.

This wasn’t the way she wanted to live, to spread her legs for men to see, to sit on their laps and place their head on her chest. No. She wasn’t going to take such a life; it wasn’t better than what she was running away from. Her life in Abeokuta was hell enough that she would wish death on the man who adopted her and when her prayer wasn’t answered, she sat by street corners and cried her energy out. The man would not let her dance and by night, when Martha lay in bed, wrapped in Mrs Ajasin’s wrapper, he would come as silently as a snail. Such time frazzled her and it never ceased to happen almost every night. The creaking of the door would cut her fantasy of becoming a famous dancer. She would toss and toss and toss, hoping he wouldn’t come close, and she would hold her leg tight, her eyes shut, body stiffened. But the hands would come on her buttocks and roll her over, then grip her legs, then pulling Mrs Ajasin’s wrapper off her body, the bed vibrating to hold his weight. Then her legs would be shifted apart, and she would shut her eyes tighter and tighter as if she was seeing a bad dream.

There was an old uncompleted building near their house in Abeokuta. She used to find solace inside for crying and to wish death on herself or the man. Twice, a woman had found her weeping and she lied about her woes. She didn’t say dancing was rebuked in the house; she said her father hates to see dancers. She didn’t say he climbed over her every night, she said she didn’t feel like one of the family and that if she could find a way to run away from the family, she would take it. The woman listened and the third time the crier met the sympathizer, an arrangement was made. She would come to Lagos – to escape that life – and by 2 am, one Sunday morning, she had gone into Mrs Ajasin’s purse ‘to borrow five thousand Naira she would pay back later in life,’ climbed the fence because the gate was still locked and left, her back turned against that life.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and pressed her nose to ease the painful sting she was feeling in the nostrils. When she thought she had been away from such life, being used as an object of satisfaction like a toy, she was signing up for another.

‘All I want to do is to work,’ she sobbed. ‘I thought I could work as a maid and raise some money and go to school.’ She stopped, keeping the rest of the story to herself. She had heard stories of how girls come to Lagos to work and many years later, they would become big women, riding fine cars to their village, parked before a small bungalow in the street. The neighbours would then tell the story – she was just a little girl when she left, working as a maid, look at her now, how did she do it.

‘My dear, you are facing the reality,’ Aunty Sophia said, ‘if you are in this kind of job and you are smart, you can meet someone that would help you.’

‘Not this. I don’t think I can do this.’

‘When I heard your story, I feel you need help and I’m ready to give it to you. Trust me; you can have a good life after all this.’

‘Can’t I get a job as a maid?’ she cried, biting her lower lips.

‘You can but I’m not the one to help you find it. This is Lagos. Strip club pays you twice as you will get working as a maid. And a maid is a “useless girl” when madam husband cannot get to her. She is also a “useless girl” if madam husband gets to her and madam finds out.’
‘I don’t want to do that kind of work.’

‘My dear, you can do it. I didn’t die doing it. On lucky nights, I come with as much as twenty thousand Naira, because I’m smart.’ she said, raising her buttocks from the couch the way Martha had seen her done at the club, and smiled. ‘They will pay you every night. Cool cash,’ she winked.

‘I don’t know how to dance around that pole.’
‘I will teach you.’

Martha was quiet.

So it was set that she would become a stripper and she would start the next day. Through the night, Martha thought about her new life. She imagined the way her family would feel if they heard about it, that she regaled men in a night club. Then she remembered how much Aunty Sophia said she could make – that’s hundreds of thousands per month. She smiled. It took a very long hour of staring at the ceiling before sleep knocked her over.

The next day, they went to the club around 3 o’clock when it was empty and they met with the manager, who Aunty Sophia introduced as Rugged, then saying this is the girl I told you. Rugged was bald but he made for it for a good amount of beard and sideburns. He wore a white vest and black jeans, with a Rolex wristwatch. He smiled at Martha and asked of her favourite song. She waited for some seconds, thinking about what did becoming a stripper has to do with her favourite song. But he insisted, looking straight to her face.

‘Do me, by P-square’ Martha said. That was one song she could not get tired of.

Rugged played the song through a computer and the sound cried out of the big speakers, ‘could you dance to it?’ he asked.

Martha laughed. She couldn’t tell what he was driving at but it seemed like a big joke to have asked her to dance to this one song. She could dance to it all day and so she danced, first tapping her feet, front, back, her shoulders take their own movement and her waist rotating like the atlas ball fixed to a pole. Rugged clapped. Aunty Sophia clapped, beaming with a smile. Then Rugged sat on a settee.

‘Give me a lap dance,’ he said, tapping his thigh.
‘Sir?’

‘What’s sir, I’m Rugged. I said I want a lap dance.’ He frowned.

Martha glanced at Aunty Sophia, who crossed her hands on her chest and stared back at her. She made Martha remembered Mrs Ajasin when she was angry.

What will she do? She wasn’t interested in all those things she had seen Aunty Sophia doing to men the other night. She had feared this would be part of the job, and she had reminded herself it was better than living under the same roof with her foster father. She would do it, she had thought. She looked behind Rugged’s bald head, where there was the TV, a woman dancing to Dbanj’s song, Fall in Love.

‘I don’t know to do a lap dance.’

‘Are you sure you tell her what job she will be doing here?’ Rugged asked, turning to Aunty Sophia who was looking unpleased.

‘I did,’ Aunty Sophia said.

‘And other things?’ he asked.

Aunty Sophia nodded, then she said to Martha, ‘watch,’ and she walked to Rugged and started a lap dance. She started slowly like a cat walking over a soft mattress. She sat and twisted on his thigh, her back against his chest, Rugged’s face blank. she shook and teased her buttocks on his groin, shifted forward, then pushed back with a sudden jerk. Rugged gasped, and then they both chuckled as if they had communicated a secret that was oblivion to Martha. She stood, turned to Martha and said, ‘your turn.’

Martha froze. She could feel her heart drumming against her chest. Then silently saying, the lord is my shepherd, she took tentative steps towards the man who was staring at her chest with the keen interest of a doctor. When she began, Aunty Sophia scoffed, shook her head and said, ‘she needs to learn badly’ and so, they started training the next day, at home and at the club.

https://hadehsblog./

ndiuelish:
Nice story my guy. Continue

Thank you... Update coming soon

Your comments, likes and critics will be appreciated... Thanks

Lyydia surely knows her stuff. Keep doing the great work

2



Abeokuta was the same city after three years. It was the same familiar buildings, the touch of the sun over the city’s roofs, and only the feeling was different, the feeling of one daughter returning to her mother after a long sundering. She had looked from one corner to another, not with the aim to see something entirely new, but to see the quotidian things newly, that it was the same as she used to know, the road, the filling stations, the government buildings.


Their house still wore the same brown colour, fainting and dull. Bishop’s Toyota was parked at a corner of the house. She heard that he bought a new car a year ago, but the car wasn’t anything new as it was parked. Dust and mud covered the body, a blinker was broken and a little crack was on the rear windshield. At the other corner, there was an orange tree where it used to be, taller than what it used to be. She took a minute to see it all, the floor, the hibiscus flower at the front near the gate, the sounds of chicken from the poultry behind. Then, slowly, as though, she might miss an important moment, she walked to the door, her bag pulled by her side. She sighed and raised her hand for what seemed like hours, sighed again before knocking on the wooden door with carved images.

‘Who is it?’ her foster mother replied. Her voice was clear and alive as the time of Martha’s childhood. It was different than what she heard hours ago when she was on the bus.
She cleared her throat and breathed out, and said, as her heart kept pushing against her chest, ‘Martha.’ She heard a shout and then the repetition of her name as though the woman was exultant to announce it to those in the house and then quietly as if she did not want her to hear it. Shifting her weight on one leg to another, she folded her lips and breathed out. She was wearing a short gown and her ears held long earrings that they might consider too big, lips covered in red lipstick. It was all her way of saying she didn’t subscribe to all she was taught or feared about her hypocrite father’s teachings. She stared at her white painted fingernails and her exposed arms and smiled. She would be an obedient girl anyway and by the end of two weeks, she would be in Lagos, fighting the rough path to becoming a great woman. The door creaked. Her foster mother stepped out, smiling and hugged her tight, detached herself, and checked her from head to toe. They hugged again, with Mrs Ajasin, touching Martha’s arm, back and breast. She giggled and defended her chest and they both laughed, a pure and sweet laugh. They hugged and she realized Mrs Ajasin smelled of sweat, onions and seasoning. This brought a kind of longing for the type of food she used to enjoy as a girl.

She stepped into the living room, where her step-father was sitting on a settee, his face behind a newspaper. Their eyes met and the smile on Martha’s face dissolved slowly like a cube of glucose inside warm water. This wasn’t the kind of communication she wished to share, the type she wanted to avoid at the moment. She knelt down, supporting her left hand on her bag and she said, ‘good afternoon, sir.’

He didn’t smile nor did he frown, his face was expressionless, plain and without focus, as though her presence distracted him from some important activities. He only snorted and said ‘Martha,’ as if he couldn’t believe she was the one kneeling before him.

She sighed. This wasn’t how she planned to meet him after the years. She had thought he would be afraid to see him, and that she would keep quiet about it till she becomes a great person. But looking at him, he stared calmly, so innocently that she doubted if he still remembered his actions. He looked at her as if she was a long past, a lost child, everything a distant, blurry memory and missing between the years and the present.

‘Come, come, come.’ Mrs Ajasin took her arm and her bag and she followed her into an old familiar room, the room she used to share with Florence. The woman brought her wrapper and her big vest, saying ‘change to this and join me in the kitchen.’ She remained in the room and stared at the old things, the walls, the paint, the shelf, hangers, reading table, the bed. Many times, Mr Ajasin had come over with his torch, asking her to spread her legs to this side and this side and he would climb over this way, sliding his filthy hand into her wrapper. She closed her eyes and sighed. Florence used to sleep on this side of the bed, a clueless, calm and harmless sleep. She opened her eyes. The walls of the room held pictures of her stepsister, the pictures they took together many years ago where it was Christmas and she wore a Santa cap. She was young and no man had ever climbed over her. She smiled at the thought and wished she could boldly say that now. She laughed, the hopelessness of her wish felt humourous. Florence was now a fine and older girl – by the new pictures, she was older and more mature. She could see her thighs in a picture where she was wearing an inter-house sports dress and in her eyes was pure innocence. She would be fifteen next month, she thought, just like you, when… when… She saw another picture of her where she was jumping over a bar and there she saw the skin of her thigh, just covered by a short. She would be fifteen next month, just likee you.

‘Just like me, what?’

She frowned and stared at the picture that had been a source of questions and painful remembrance. Her father, she screamed. She turned quickly. Where is Florence?

It was the morning of the following day when she was called into the sitting room. She could guess what the purpose of such meeting was about by looking at Mrs Ajasin’s calm face and Mr Ajasin’s expressionless face and she was ready for it. Florence sat by her right, wearing a smile. She remembered hugging the girl tightly as though she wanted her to glue to her own body and never be separated again. She had waited till night when they were about sleeping before she asked one important question that had bugged her. ‘Are you still a virgin,’ she had asked. First, the girl frowned. Then Martha had pointed to the girl’s lower region and asked again, ‘hope, you haven’t done it before.’ The girl shook her head and giggled as if she was tickled all over the body. She had sighed and patted her head and blurted out, ‘he didn’t touch his own.’

They started with songs that lasted thirty minutes in English, Yoruba and pidgin. Then they switched to worship songs. Mrs Ajasin prayed for forgiveness. Mr Ajasin expressed ‘their’ appreciation to God for giving them the cloth to wear and food to eat, or bringing the prodigal daughter back and for guarding her movements through the ‘wilderness’, for protecting her from the wolves of this sinful world… it lasted another thirty minutes. When Martha was called to pray, she started and ended in three sentences – thirty seconds.

‘Blessed redeemer will appreciate you lord for you are our guardian and refuge. Therefore, we give you control of today’s activity. Take it and give us reasons to be grateful at the end of the day.’ she paused and added ‘amen.’

She kept her eyes shut for long before she opened them. Her step-father was watching her as though she was possessed by something evil and by looking her carefully he would find it either on her right arm or on her cheek or on her belly. She kept her face straight, focusing on Florence’s happy face or the figurine of Jesus on the TV.

Mr Ajasin said amen again, thank God again, cleared his throat and said, ‘we want to know, Martha, where you have been and why you run away?’

How could he ask? He was the reason she left, of course, now he was asking like a completely innocent soul, as if he was clueless of the deeds he had committed. She bit her lower lip slightly. Her hands brushed the top of her knee which was clothed in a jean trouser. She had chosen to wear it despite knowing it used to be forbidden in the house. Mrs Ajasin’s face seemed to be saying, please tell us, Florence's face was saying, ‘I want to hear it,’ and Mr Ajasin, ‘say nonsense and you will not imagine what I will do to you.’
She had prepared her answers in two parts. The first part was for the distant future when she would have become a doctor, married and with kids. She would stand before this man and tell the world the atrocities he had committed. The second part was for now – a blatant lie – she ran away to find a job in Lagos and to find her real parents.

‘I ran away,’ she said and after the expected ‘why’ as their reply, she added, ‘ I think I would find my parent.’

‘What?!’ Mrs Ajasin screamed.

‘It’s a lie,’ Mr Ajasin stood. ‘You are a fool if you think I will believe such a thing.’ His voice was rising. ‘Tell us how you have been surviving for the past three years.’ ‘Slut.’

Slut? She called you a slut. She felt blood flying around in her veins and to her head. She blinked twice and again. She exhaled and what came out of her mouth could have been a blast from a furnace. Slut? How could he say that when he was a greater, shameless slut she called ‘father,’ when he was the Satan who set her foot on the run. She whirled to her feet to match his height.
‘You made me a slut, Mr Ajasin,’ she said. She heard a sudden gasp behind her.

Mr Ajasin’s eyes were darting from one corner to another. He was looking at her as though she had breached an agreement, a secret they both agreed to keep bottled.

‘You are the shameless fagot; you called me your daughter and raped me for years.’

Mrs Ajasin stood and hobbled on one foot and another, deliberating. She didn’t offer coherent words, except ‘ah’, ‘yeeh,’ as though she had lost the ability to utter coherent sentences.

‘You haven’t seen enough, sir,’ Martha said, ‘by the time I’m done with you; your life will never remain the same. You will wish you never saved me,’ she added, tears threatening to flow from her eyes socket. She was a vessel for the words coming out of her mouth. There was an aged annoyance inside her, a caged one, it was talking now and she had no control over it. What she was saying should have been said so many years back, but she hadn’t earned the freedom to say them. When she earned such freedom, from stepping into the wildness of the world, she wished she had taken a different route to earn a living, had the world been easier. She was angry that the source of her trouble was the one to cast the first stone. How dare he?

A knock came over the door. Three people were allowed into the house. The first was a woman in a white shirt and a black trouser. The other two were police officers. The lady greeted and introduced herself as sergeant Ngozi.

Martha remembered the lady. She was an officer at Uchenna’s office in Ikoyi. They had met several times and each time was an encounter as if there was malice between the two who hadn’t done much talking to one another.

‘We have bad news,’ the female officer said, ‘I suggest you sit down,’ she added.

The room was silent. The presence of the visitor did not ruin the current atmosphere; instead, Martha began to breathe hard. She was sweating. One thing was certain and that was she hadn’t informed the police about Mr Ajasin’s atrocities. She hadn’t informed anyone either, except the woman who helped her to Lagos three years ago, and she had promised to keep it a secret.

‘Your son,’ the lady said, ‘was murdered two days ago.’

Martha heard the voice, like a muffled sound, as if someone blew air into a cup of water. She brushed a hand over her head and gasped. They had met two days ago, she remembered. Ayo was fine. He was the handsome little boy who melted her heart like butter – bearded, with a sweet smile. They talked about coming home. At the restaurant, they ate. The shock registered first on Mrs Ajasin’s face and she cried. Then a long silence followed. Martha felt a sudden stab in her stomach and she winched, then she turned, staring at the walls as if a face would appear on the frame or peer in through the window and he would say, ‘this is a prank, we were meant to come home together, and now, I’m here.’ She closed her eyes and muttered what seemed like a prayer.

‘We have to keep the body for now for our investigation.’ The lady continued. ‘We are to inform you,’ she paused and when she was sure she had their attention, added, ‘Miss Martha, we will like to bring you in for questioning.’

Mr Ajasin collapsed to the floor like a heavy book. Martha heard a scream. Then her hands dropped lifelessly by her side as if she had been electrocuted and all cells were dead. The female officer was walking towards her and Martha shut her eyes. Maybe she would wake up from this dream. She collapsed down slowly as images of three years began to form in her head. Her world was getting dark, to a meshed-up picture of human bodies and vision that seemed like blurred colours. She remembered that little girl who was climbing the fence to escape the life she never chose. She was young again, her present situation pushed back and her breathing was being swallowed by the recent news. She would die if she had the chance. She wasn’t dying.

Whatever pain and whatever shocked she felt and whatever weakened her bones now, she felt worse when she was seventeen, until that day she said goodbye to Abeokuta, never to come back until she becomes a doctor. It started there – she could point at it like a spot on a beach.


****

https://hadehsblog./

@IamHadeh

1


Martha refused to return to Abeokuta despite the eyes staring at her like a tamed cat. She placed the glass cup on the table and waved her hand at her step-brother, Ayo, who happened to be her boyfriend and soul-mate. But he insisted she returns home.

They were in a restaurant. The sound of music mixed with side giggles and the noise from those watching the big TV and those drinking. The light was dull, creating an ambience.

Ayo was her stepbrother. They were separated when Martha decided one night that she couldn’t live in Abeokuta anymore and she disappeared, then three years later she had met her step-brother in Lagos.

When she left, she was just sixteen. She was innocent except for the torment and oppression that made her run in the first place. She had arrived into Lagos and fell into the hands of a guardian who happened to be a prostitute and stripper. She was hurtled into the hands of men, satisfying their perversions in the bar and in hotel rooms, sometimes visually, when she climbed the pole, sometimes physically, when she climbed a bed, sometimes in the rush like a flying jet, when she was called suddenly to help out in a car or an office desk.

She picked the cup again and sipped her wine. She wasn’t going back to Abeokuta. Not when she hadn’t achieved her aim in life. How could she meet her foster father when she hadn’t become a doctor but a stripper and a call girl?

‘Why?’ he asked.

She peered at him. She would tell him the reason, wished she could explain and watch what his reaction would be but not now. She would tell him only when she becomes a woman of importance.

‘I will go back home,’ she said, ‘but not now.’

‘Why!’ he asked and stamped the table with his palm. ‘You left home without letting us know your reasons and here you are insisting you won’t go back to the family that brought you up.’

She shook her head. The family that brought her up, she puffed and lower her cup down. The clock on the corner was digital and the time was 9 o’clock. The noise was getting louder as many people were entering the restaurant. She shifted and picked her bag from the table and, in the next minute, she was running out of the door and he was after her like a cat all over a mouse. Their desire wasn’t inclined and if she didn’t run, he would lure her to return, making her face the one she didn’t want to meet soon.

The night was a lonely night. By the standard of things, she used to be lonely at nights if she were sleeping at home. She would hear the noise of the AC and the crawl of some creatures up in the plastic ceilings. She could hear her own breath as she sat on the bed in just her underwear pant. She expected him to call, to say sorry, that he wouldn’t ever force him to do the things she didn’t want to do anymore. The silence was strong as though it was a human figure wearing a strong smell. She stared at her phone. She’d lost interest in playing with it as an object that could quench her boredom.

There was a TV hanging on the wall. She had switched it off some minutes ago. The light, too, was off, except for the bed lamp. A small table held her make-up kit, a power bank, her purse, her cards, a small jotter, a book titled ‘Americanah’ which she had read and read many times. An artwork decorated the wall in its frame. When the light was dim, the painting seemed to glow, sending a sweet sensation down to her stomach.

Her phone buzzed and she reached for it like it was a mosquito sting. She discovered he wasn’t the one and sighed, dropping the phone dejectedly.

His text came in late that night. She was still awake, waiting as though it was an important event that could not be missed and that would not fail to happen. The text read: At least talk to mum. This is her number 08133344455.
She waited till morning before she called the number, her step-mother, his mother. It rang slowly, too slowly and she felt her heart threatening to come out of her chest as a second passed with the phone ringing. It had been three years since she last talked to the one she used to call ‘mother.’ She was a heartless child. She hadn’t asked after the woman as though it was a painful memory. She remembered how well she had treated her as a daughter, how well she taught her about womanhood. She would say ‘no matter what, you will still have to do more house chores than a man. So practice now. It would become a habit before you are married.’ She would wake her up at five. The day began with washing the plate and then putting rooms in order, then it would continue in the kitchen, cooking.

‘Hello,’ a voice said on the other end. She recognized the voice, the same clear voice that sang among the choirs, the same voice that used to wake her up every morning, the same voice that would pelt her and say ‘your father was just being a father, he didn’t want you to become a bad child.’ She had thought she would keep her cool but something was melting inside her stomach, some emotions she hadn’t known existed. She was smiling, she was shedding a tear.

‘Mummy,’ she said softly, her own voice sounding different.

There was a pause on the other end, then a sudden blurting of ‘Martha!’ it was a question and a surprise altogether. She sniffed her tears and said ‘mummy,’ again.

‘Martha is that you?’

‘Yes… yes, ma. It’s me, ma.’

‘Ah Martha, we missed you. And it wasn’t good that way. What have we done to you that you wan punish us like that? It’s not good nah. It is not good at all. Put yourself in my shoe as a mother. I have been praying for you since you left and saw your message. Glory be to God. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, ma. I’m ok. I’m ok.’

‘Hallelujah, where are you?’

‘I’m… in Lagos.’

‘oh, God. Ayo too is in Lagos. I will call him for this good news. When will you come home?’
‘Ermm..’ she hadn’t thought of it. She would come home when she becomes a medical doctor and could stand before her step-father, the bishop. By then, she would have quit her job as a stripper come, call girl. She would come home when she could stand seeing her step-father’s eyes.

‘Martha,’ her step-mother said, ‘when will you come home? We want to see you. Me, your father, Ayo, Florence. All of us,’ she said. ‘Come today,’ she added.

She heard it clearly but she blurted, ‘ma?’
‘come home. We have been waiting for long, my dear. Just come home. Your father. Your father will be fine. Just come home.'

Then she imagined her step-father’s face, the man who picked her up from a refuse dump and raised her. She would say, ‘Daddy, I’m back,’ and he would look at her, not smiling, not frowning either. She wanted to tell her foster mother, Mrs Ajasin, that the man was the reason she must become a great person and it was more than her father’s scowl; it was her payback.

‘Mummy, I will come.’ There was a pause on both ends as if both were waiting. She checked the phone and continued, ‘I will come, not today – tomorrow. I will come tomorrow.’

‘Alright, darling,’ Mrs AJasin said.

She sighed. She had just brought a journey of ten years nearer.

She called Ayo to tell him she had decided but he would not answer his call. She filled her bag with some clothes that would last her two weeks. Two weeks were enough to celebrate her reunion and she would be back to Lagos, back to her work. She sighed and called Ayo again, the phone rang until it went dead.

The day rushed to the night and then it was lonely like the previous. The rats in the ceilings, the walls, the paintings were her companion. She picked her shoes and went to work as usual at a bar, as a striper. She slid into the changing room, filled with girls and girls costume. She changed into a short gown, wore lingerie and wore a small mask that only covered the area around her eyes. When she stepped out, her eyes caught some familiar faces of men who raised a toast at her appearance. There was a taunt man, bearded. He wore a suit and a tie loosely, shirt unbuttoned to his chest, and he smiled and called her with his finger to which she feigned a smile.

'Lap dance,' he said.

She sat on his lap and writhe and wriggle. She heard him exhale as though puffing. Perversion was a pleasurable thing, she thought, it cost money for women to sit on another man's lap than it usually costs in the outside world. She moved her bum rhythmically, up and down, quick and slowly as though she was obeying an army commander. She turned to face him, putting his face over her chest. He exhaled and he pushed him back slowly. Then she pulled it back, fast. The man smiled and tilted his head to the side in a knowing way. She shouldn't be doing this, she said, but when the man showed a strand of cash she led the way to the corner.

The light was blue and she could hardly see the next person unless she walked close to their nose. There were partitions made of fabrics and tall above human height. They could hear moans and dark figures behind the partitioned curtains. The place smelled of incense and lavender and sweat. The man stepped to one of the partition and she sat on a small stool. He loosed his belt and she moved closer, sitting on his lap, the clothes and underwears were shifted by hurried hands, sliding into her like a nail drawn by a magnet and she was three thousand Naira richer when it ended.

She walked past another stripper who was earning her extra cash in loud moans and entered the bathroom. She cleaned up and sprayed perfume on her body.

She walked back to the hall and was heading to the pole when a man pulled her and said 'lap dance.' She feigned a smile and followed him to a place he could find a seat. Just as she sat on his lap, she caught a figure looking curiously at her. The light cast a red shadow on him. Their eyes met. It was Ayo and he was leaving.
She was pulled back by the man when she tried getting up. In the man's eyes was anger that seemed like a stabbed kitten. Then she sat back and performed her occupational responsibility, feeling sad about it.

She went to Ayo's house after that. It was a single room around the campus of Lagos State University. The place was always lively with music blaring and filled with the smell of cigarettes, meat, hemp, alcohol, and dirt. Cars were usually parked. Rooms were lit, often powered by loud generators. The building was occupied by students, but hardly would she meet anyone when she visited. They talked behind their doors in high spirit, loud noise or the spirit of a party. When it was quiet, the building was empty or the exam was forthcoming in LASU. The building was always a reminder of her longing. She imagined herself sitting in a room like one of these rooms – decorated with wallpaper, had a student desk and a look of student lifestyle – behind a table, facing her medical books. It was in her mind yet and it would soon come to pass, she always thought.
She slid the gate open and waved at the gateman.

Ayo wasn’t at home when she knocked and opened his two bedrooms flat with her spare keys. It was dark. She turned on the bright bulb and waited and waited and waited. When it became apparent that he wouldn’t come, she picked a paper and write on it.

‘Bye-bye, Ayo. I have decided and maybe we will talk when we get to meet there. And please pick your calls.’

She placed the letter on a glass table and placed a remote control on it.

She left for Abeokuta in the early morning. The mosques were calling the Muslims to prayer and the traders were standing like one who had been working all night, food vendors pouring hot rice inside small bowls for their buyers and darkness disappearing over the city like smoke. She thought about Ayo as she sat on the old seats of the bus. He hadn’t picked his calls. She called Mrs Ajasin instead and tell her she was on her way. Her thought returned to him again. She remembered asking him if he would marry her if his parents indeed say ‘no.’ He had chuckled and replied ‘that’s not possible, they know you, you are their daughter.’ She shook her head to that – they don’t know her, not any more, the things she had done in the last one years, they don’t know her. She used to be their daughter, their little girl, the one with a cute smile and body bigger than her age, but many of that changed when she left home except her body size. It had changed when her father lunged at her and used her body for pleasure.

She was going home eventually and she wished Ayo could be beside her, patting her back, assuring her that no matter what ‘father… bishop,’ says or do, he would be beside her.’

How will you cope now with father after all he has done to you? She smiled and replied, ‘pretence. I will pretend nothing happened until I become a great woman.’

She unlocked her phone, it turned off and she unlocked again and again. She scrolled through the pictures, the one where Ayo was smiling. Like his father, he was bearded, but he was younger and more handsome. Perhaps you are measuring the beauty with the affection in your heart. She shook her head.

The bus drove towards Abeokuta. Ayo had been her ‘brother’ and friend since childhood. They were raised by the same parent. She was adopted but she never felt that way from Ayo’s mother. They grew together. They shared the same bed innocently at some points. They watched movies together and talked about it for many days later. When she danced as she loved to, Ayo would clap and hug her in that shy hug like someone who over-estimated the effects of a simple gesture. They shared their ambitions together. She would become a doctor and he would become an engineer and they would make their parents proud – Ayomide Ajasin and Martha Ajasin. That had ended when she decided to run away at sixteen, but it had first taken a blow when his father began committing abominations when she was fifteen.

Ayo’s picture was still in her hand. He wore a white vest and his smile lit his face as though there was a light bulb under his facial skin. The muscle of his arms was evident and so was his wide chest, making her smile inwardly. The woman beside her said, ‘handsome bobo, is that your boyfriend?’ she shook her head, smiled and thought of what she would call him and how the chaos in her life had become still since they reunited. She could call him anything of course when they were together – treasure, hobby, love – but she shook her head. When she reached Abeokuta and she is before his parent, their parent, she would not call him any of that. ‘my brother,’ she said to the woman and smiled, his picture still in her hand.

*****

She wouldn’t have guessed she would be entangled with a murder case when she arrived in Abeokuta.



https://hadehsblog./2020/05/08/from-home-to-rendezvous-1/

An Escape To Rendezvous

At 16, she was forced out of the house by the beast she didn't choose...

It takes her three years to be back. And when she arrives her revenge is served even before she takes action.

Three years is a lot of years to live off parental guidance. Three years at Rendezvous...

MY ONCE LITTLE PUPPY

I used to have a puppy, a beautiful, brown furred, male puppy. He was obedient, loving, would lick at my feet; would wag its tail around me. I gave him the best of things, feeding, attention and love. And he reciprocated. No matter what love anyone showed him, he remembered his home, me, his real owner.

And he was like that until he came of age. When he was about 2 and a half feet tall, he spent less time at home. Whenever he had the chance, he sneaked out, jumping over the fence. He spent less time at home. He was always with the neighbours’ bitch. He spent the night outside in the street with one neighbour’s dog or another.

When he returned, he got punished, a whole day tied, without food. He looked feeble and made me think, he was only being a dog. He got released and off he went again, down the street, to his bitches. And that day, he never returned. His head was splattered on the road.
He was just being a dog.



YOU KNOW A MALE DOG

Sometimes he comes home –those are pretty good days. Most times he doesn’t return at all. No argument, he always has to be busy. When he calls, saying ‘I can’t be able to make it home tonight,’ you know a male dog; he has taken to the bitch’s bed that night.

A dog is a dog.

When you have a dog in form of a man, he loves you. No point in thinking otherwise. His world will crumble if you desert him, you have noticed. Who will give him such a warm care? You are the moon that light is starry night. The noon is bleak without the sun. The only woman in his life is you; though he is troubled by other women – he is troubled, not the other way round – and they are just trying, he is yours. He will always return to you. He always will.

He will cuddle you all over like a pet he is. Maybe he wants something in the heat. You have to be a careful – use condoms – else you pay for someone’s sin for the rest of your life. A dog will always be a dog.



THE MALE DOG

When we first met, it was magnetic. He was handsomely tall, with white eyeballs I would look up to see despite wearing heels, chocolate skin and he loved a tidy beard.

Just like the first time I picked my once little puppy, he, too, was beautiful.

We clicked quickly. He was from the south like I was. I called him Ayomi, though his mother named him Ayomide. He meant my joy, my world, the freezer that kept my love ice compact. Like loving my little puppy, we were made for each other and nothing could divide us.

He would skip class to have a nice time with me – in his house, in his bed, under the same blanket. He would remember my birthday and would meet my friend, gloriously declaring himself as the proposed groom. I received jealous stares.

Now I wished I should have recognized him as a dog, just like I did carrying my once little puppy. How I wished – now – that all we shared was a feeble dream that troubled my imagination. How I wished it wasn’t a reality that trouble my mind and extended to my sleep. My day was a mess for still having him.

Damn it! That blanket has covered many bitches; it’s hard to think.

It was good for them- fools. They knew they weren’t loved and they followed him. Or perhaps they were innocent like me – but weren’t just lucky. Who knows?

In the beginning, I was in their shoes. He said so sweet, ‘I have girls, who want me, but I know what I want and I’m sure none is like you. Kiki. I want this to work if you will only trust me.’ And I trusted him – like they did.

I believed him. I got lucky, got a ring, a promise that this would work after graduation. Unlike those unlucky ladies, who got nothing except kiss and many gifts and a night(s) under the sheet – it hurt to think. Maybe they got the ‘you mean a lot to me’ too. But he never loved them, or gave anyone else a ring or met anyone else’s parents Or maybe they did – That’s hard to know. Thinking of it stabbed my heart with needle stings.

I got to know him gradually as I did understand my once little puppy.

One night during the dog to lady relationship, his bed was wet with semen, just at an unexpected visit. He begged. We moved on – we all make mistakes. The other day at the supermarket, he went back that he forgot his phone which, in fact, was in the car. He went back – and I saw him… I saw the idiot wagging round another damsel. He fought hard for an explanation. My door recognized him every day as the fool who always came every day to beg for forgiveness. He would come dejected pleading at the door. He seemed as my once little puppy, crawled at the door, sad, with deflated ears. Then, I accepted him back.

The day that pulverize our relationship – he would have died. My cousin fell into his trap. I would have ended his life, just like one heartless driver did to my once little puppy. Rather, when I found them under the same blanket, my cousin, ignorant of the man’s connection with me, I bursted into fistful tears. Ayomi ruined me. I won’t let him empathize with me, I thought, this is the end. But he wouldn’t let it be.

On my finger was his ring, the promise. Our life would blossom. Our kids would play, with us sitting, watching together under evenly pruned, green grasses. The girl would have his eyes; the boy would have his height. These have ended, I thought.

The first magnetic love at Shoprite came back like a strong storm into my head, distorting many cords and I winched. When we were young – four years ago – it was just like the dream from a favourite play. Romeo and Juliet. He had the face, the physic, the wealth. He had money pillars to lean on. Girls flocked around him. Like tick to my once little puppy.

Once, when we had a hot argument, he shouted, ‘is it my fault that girls want me?’ He was close to tears. He needed help, I thought. I would have helped him, like I did, disinfecting ticks – girls – from my once little puppy. But Ayomi could not be helped. He wanted to do this just as much as they flocked around him like a thousand insects.

He came begging. He had grown lean and thin —- untidy beards, sore eyes, couldn’t look into mine. I sent him back with a stick. He kept coming.

Everywhere I go – home, friends gathering, and office – I received his message from friends and relatives. ‘He has changed. Give him another chance.’ Only if they knew how many chances I gave him.

He would come again, to the office, home, Shoprite, my saloon – looking like my once little puppy after being punished with a day fast. I couldn’t help it that my cousin shared the same bed with him. It’s too much to chew. Though the marriage was close, I would let it go. But his family and mine would not hear it. They came as though no other woman could wear his wedding ring. And Ayomi disturbed my dreams. In the day, he was getting thinner.

I wouldn’t have watched him die. I remembered those times when he was healthy, when we used to share the same cup of margarita. Or those times when we cuddled in the same tub, naked, covered in warm foams. Or the day together outside, our back on the beach’s sand, staring at the sea’s sky. We had thought of Korean names for each other. He had said I would be ‘Kim.’ Then, he would be ‘Lee.’ Or the other day, when we travelled to our village, he drank a lot of palm wine till he fell asleep. I tried carrying him on my back, he was too heavy, some meters covered and we fell. He wasn’t alcoholic, I could swear. It tasted good, he had said the next day, I couldn’t help it.

Then I embraced, with a teary smile, the possibility of those times again – he was the best I had had , and I couldn’t just let him go.

Two months later, after our marriage, we had a hot argument about his lateness and I stormed out to my parents. Willingly, I returned the third day to find another woman, in my home, under the same blanket – with the dog.


Oh dog, you are just what you are – a dog.


[b]The End[b]




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Obinnau





It was the early weeks of December 2015 when a young mechanic from a faraway city of Nigeria had come to Lagos to discover a riling scene – another man was on his fiancée’s bed.

More tragedies would knock him in the hours that followed.

He reversed the car out of the gate and running after him was the unfaithful Amanda, sweating and cloaked in just her towel. Though she pleaded and cried as she ran, he wouldn’t look back.

He drove in silence, new worries sliding into his disappointment – he wanted to hiss himself but there was no place to park, and he didn’t know where to spend night yet.

The night was warm as Lagos could be towards the year’s end. The population and industrialization had made the temperature different from that of Asaba. The time was past twelve. He has to find a place to spend the night. He had planned all along to pay his fiancée a surprise visit and to spend the night with her, he had washed and serviced his car, and perhaps he shouldn’t have surprised her; perhaps he should have stayed and let the relationship died as his friends had suggested. But he didn’t. When he came, the girl he wanted to marry was riding another man like a horse.

Where would he find a place to sleep?

Well, they said, Lagos has an abundance of hotels, classic and non-classic.

He turned left. There was a bush path and he wanted to hiss himself. As soon as he parked, two men walked towards him. A spirit of de-javu enveloped him.

This is Lagos, they had said, you have to be alert.

He ran to his car and locked the door. He drove away and forgot he wasn’t at ease. The men must have wondered why he ran that way, it wouldn’t have made sense if he was robbed there and his car been snatched. The news would have read the following morning: Man’s attempt to surprise girlfriend backfired – was robbed and murdered. That is a bad way to go down in his family, coming all the way from home to die in Lagos because of a woman. No.

They say, in Lagos, everything is a publicity stunt.

The night was still tepid when he finally found an inn – a tall, well-lit bungalow. Flowers lined at the fence. A lady was standing by the gate – pretty and well-dressed like she was heading to a swimming pool, he knew what she wanted; she would make his night great. He would forget about Amanda. This night, he would choose anyone who wasn’t as pretty as Amanda, in fact, every girl on earth is prettier than her at that moment. He would pay any night worker a lot of money to spend the night with him.

The girl approached him and he stopped. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I see you have been working all day, but I can help you relax and sleep better this night.’

She spoke good English – his type of girl – though he could barely speak the language. He stopped his schooling at secondary school, now it was six years ago he had sat down to study the language or any language at all. He asked for the price she would accept for a night. When he told him, he smiled and gestured for her to enter the car, in such a way a monkey would embrace the company of bananas. He didn’t ask of his name, but he wanted to familiarize: wet the ground, let her like you, when you get to the bedroom it would be a smooth transition – this, he had heard about Lagos night workers.

His name is Peter, he said, choosing a fake name.

They said choose a fake name so the prostitute cannot find you in case anything goes wrong, he has to be smart.

He asked for her name and she replied, ‘Susie.’ It was a fake name, he knew – everyone is smart in Lagos.

They entered into the hotel, him, holding his half-eaten cake in one hand and Susie following behind her. The inside was as wide as his bedroom in Asaba, where he arranged settee, a bed, two plastic chairs, a television, a play station, and his bags. Here is an exquisite space, white couches sat around as though this was a prince palace. If he was asked to pay just to see the lounge, he would gladly pay. All his life he had been in Lagos once and this was the second time. He hadn’t the chance of lodging into a hotel when he came, this first time of sleeping in a hotel, he was already enjoying it, he had chosen wisely. Hope the price would be fair.

‘Can I get a room for the night?’ he asked the receptionist. ‘You get Egusi soup and pounded yam?’

The receptionist, beaming with a smile replied, they have Egusi and with all kind of meat. He chose pork.

He didn’t forget to ask for the price because they said things are really expensive in Lagos.

When he heard the price, it was still a fair price. If he would enjoy the night with a pretty damsel, he needed to pay the price.

‘What will you like to eat’ he asked Susie.

‘Nothing, I’m fine’ she replied. Well, she had saved him some money. He was left to pay only her fee.

They entered into the room – large, an exquisite bed, an air conditioner that hummed into his life as though it aimed to take away the thought of Amanda. Each took turns to shower in the big bathroom that had a bathtub. He changed into his boxers and singlet and sat by the bed and stared into Susie’s face which was now devoid of make-up.
Someone knocked on the door. He opened. The receptionist came in, carrying his pounded yam and Egusi soup with beef. He collected and ate in silence as Susie had found pleasure in the cake he brought. He should ask if she really wouldn’t eat.

Are you sure you don’t want to eat? He asked.

I’m fine,’ she said, smiling.
When he finished eating, he climbed on to the bed beside Susie. She was in a towel already, what was left was for him to lose it at the side of her big breast – and he did. His eyes grimaced and forgot all the things he had heard about Lagos from the time he was young till now. Of course, no one says much about women. The only thing he remembered was that most women don’t love in Lagos and night workers don’t fall in love at all. When he was young he heard stories of a man who married one of them. Poor man, the storyteller had said, the wife spent his money and graced other men’s bed. He didn’t end well for both wife and husband; one killed the other, and the other ended with life imprisonment.

Susie took him like a raging bull would fight a lion. He was ready. That was why he had ordered for Powerhorse and pounded yam. He was meant to be unstoppable. Soon, the walls could not curtail their moan. They continued until he dropped on the bed, tired.

He woke up – panting. He scanned the room in seconds, even though it was a dream; the life he wanted wasn’t to end up in prison. He jumped off the bed and whisked into the bathroom. Truly, it was a dream. He breathed slowly, his life was still his. The stupid Amanda was threatening his dream after he had cut ties with her. But the dream showed she was dead. That’s her cup of tea if she was dead.

The dead and the living do not have businesses – not only in Lagos but anywhere in the world.

When he stepped back to the bedroom, heavy knocks came on the door. He stopped in his track and stood from the base of the bathroom door. He was wearing only his boxers and singlet and the weather was freezing cold. Stopping the air conditioner, he picked his shirt and trousers that were lying on the couch. The knocks persisted. This was getting uncomfortable for him and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. The time was still young into the morning – 4 am. Susie woke up from the heavy knocks and asked, ‘Who is knocking?’

He wore his clothes and opened the door. Two police officers were waiting at the door, one wore the black uniform known with the Nigerian police and the other who was tall and well-built, wore a white shirt and a black trouser and he held a pistol.

He grimaced – the tenth time he would see a pistol, all the fierceness and courage he used to have was melting away like ice cream on a stove. But what do they want, he scanned the room for what could be implicating and found none. He wasn’t a smoker or a smuggler, so he was safe, he thought.

‘What can I do for you?’ he said, smiling to the officers.

‘I’m sergeant Bello.’ The man in mufti said, ‘We are from the Nigerian police force, we receive some false reports about you at our station and we are here to find out the truth.’

He was patient to know what they really wanted. This wasn’t his first time of dealing with police officers and their troubles; when they have done all they wanted, they always came back to say, ‘we are sorry sir, Oga, we are sorry.’

‘So we would like you to cooperate with us.’ Bello continued.

‘Well, it’s fine. You can go ahead.’ He said, smiling and opening the door wider for them to come in. Bello nodded at the other officer and soon, the younger man was lifting up cushions and pillows and bags and even the cake on the stool.

‘Yeeh!’ Amanda screamed.

Our dear young man didn’t smell anything foul here. He turned, disturbed by the noise from the woman on the bed that was wrapped in a towel. What was the scream about?

‘Yeeh!’ she screamed again, her face squeezed like one who was kicked in the stomach.


‘Madam, are you alright?’ Bello asked.

‘My stomach!’ she repeated, clutching her stomach like he had seen women do when in labour. He wasn’t sure he was hearing properly. He wasn’t sure of what to do, but he was sure standing alone and watching wouldn’t solve whatever was wrong with her stomach. He rushed to her side and held her to his chest.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Madam, wetin you chop?’ Bello asked.

‘Cake’ she said, pointing to the piece of cake on the stool.

This girl must be wrong; he had eaten out of the cake and nothing had happened. The cake he brought all the way from Asaba to Lagos, the cake that was specially made for him by Chioma, the cake that was given to him for free, although Chioma would get her money when she has his head on her chest – this was the same cake the girl said was the source of her pain.

‘Calm down,’ he said, ‘it’s because you are not that used to cake.’

The second officer stood beside his boss watching. Bello bent to ask questions.

‘Yeeh!’ she shouted again, shaking as though she was electrocuted.

He frowned, ‘calm down, calm down,’ he pleaded, horror written on his face. Amanda was struggling with what was left of her life. Then she went limp. He shook her. Her hands dropped, freely.

Bello took calculative steps towards the woman and felt her pulse like a professional doctor; he shook her and announced she was dead.

‘You don kill her.’ The second officer said, came closer and he landed him a slap. ‘You have killed her.’

He felt the pain of what would become of him if he was arrested, how he would die in prison, he would become bearded after few days in those stinking cells, how the place would snuff the life out of him before he died. This wasn’t how he wished to spend the rest of his days, how he wished to make his Mama proud. Amada had ruined it all. He shouldn’t have picked Susie up either. ‘Susie! Susie!’ he shouted. He cursed whoever told her to choose that name. It wasn’t her name of course and she wouldn’t answer him no matter how loud he shouted.

‘Young man,’ Bello called, ‘you are under arrest for murder. It is advisable for you to keep quiet or else whatever you say would be used against you.’

“Oga…Oga, there is a mistake somewhere,’ he cried and sweated, the collar of his shirt cloaked in brownness of dirt.

‘There is a mistake somewhere, oga,’


‘What mistake,’ Bellow asked, his dark moustache crisping as he spoke. ‘Arrest him,’ Bello commanded the other officer. The other officer, as though waiting for the opportunity, pounced on him as a wrestler would do on his sleepy opponent. He kicked, pushed and dragged him out.

The only thing he could say was that he was innocent. Perhaps it was Amanda that cursed him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come to Lagos as his friend had told him that he was just wasting his time on the long-distance relationship. He wished to turn the hands of the clock and he would ignore the woman he met at the hotel’s gate. He was taken out of the hotel where he dropped his car keys for the perplexed receptionist.

They drove to the sleeping street of Lagos which wasn’t actually asleep but quieter than before when he had driven to the hotel’s gate. He sat beside Bello at the rear seat and the other officer drove. He looked back at his car and the hotel, the bright light, the road he followed to the hotel. He had prayed and begged but it seemed every plea sounded like an insult to Bello, who would stop and punch and slap with every word which came out of him.

It seemed in this life when one is hit by a brick; he would fall and landed his head on a rock. Last night, he was disappointed by his girlfriend but this early morning, when faint darkness lurked over the city of Lagos, faith has wished to land him another blow – the one he wouldn’t survive. What if he was taken to prison? What if the police officers tell their tales that the woman said he ate the cake? He had eaten the cake, too. They would investigate if truly she ate the cake. He would then ask them to test his body too, that he had eaten out of the cake. They would check, the lawyer he would pay to defend him would make sure the court run a test on him too. No, they would not answer the lawyer; they would say he was guilty without been investigated. The judge would make his judgment based on the proof these officers provided. He clamped his fist over his head, all his life he hasn’t been to police stations as the criminal. He was either there to give the men-in-black something or he was there to bail.

He remembered all the lessons and stories he had heard of Lagos and the deeds of the police and his heart sank like an open bottle pressed into a river.
They got to a junction where the road was brown of earth and bushes stood to each side. The other officer suddenly stopped. Bello cleared his throat and stared at him. He smelled of alcohol and sweat, he had seen his teeth earlier and they were stained and big.

‘You see, in this life,’ Bello began, ‘you can eat your cake and have it.’ he stopped and stared long at him and he continued, ‘It’s not juju, it is just common sense. If you kill someone and you found you have killed the person and the police find you, you can run or you can stay.’

He stared at him with mouth open.

‘You see, the wise ones go wait and let the police take them. You might think they are stupid they are not stupid. Or do you think they are stupid?’

That wasn’t a question he was to answer, but he shook his head anyway. If he wanted an answer, he has to give one, who knows if he would temper his arrest with mercy. He would love his prayers to be answered. He would resume going to church than before. In fact, he would become a choir or an usher or a deacon at St Mathew Anglican Church, Asaba.

‘You see, they are the wise one. When they are now arrested, they would sit the officer down and ask how can you help me. The officer would now advise them, do this and the case is closed. That is it. Case closed, nothing more. They are free from the law and no one would question them.’ Bello clapped his palms to signify how ‘case was closed.’

The young man continued to stare with his mouth open.

‘Your case is even different. We could say we didn’t see you or that the girl committed suicide. We could put a poison in that hotel room and say that is what she ate. We can say we are still looking for the criminal and we haven’t found him. Or we can say we found him but he ran before we could get to him.´ he tilted his head closer to him and continued, ‘they will believe whatever we say. Are you getting me?’ he asked.

The young man nodded vigorously.

‘So it’s up to you, are you a wise boy or you want to go to prison?’

‘I want to go home, sir. I will love if you release me,’ he begged.

‘OK. Ten million. And this case is closed.’

‘Ah!’ he screamed.

‘What is it?’ Bello shifted in his seat.

‘Sir, sir, I don’t have that much.’

‘Ah!’ Bello said, ‘Your village people will make you die in prison.’

‘Sir…I…I have five hundred thousand.’

Bello smiled. He handed the young man the phone they had taken from him and told him to make the transaction. When it was completed, Bello transferred the money to another bank account in a different bank. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I don transfer the money to my Oga.’

He was released and his body feeling a huge and cold wave of freedom, prison is not a paradise anywhere in the world.
He got to the hotel and discovered that Susie’s body had risen from the dead, packed all her things and left the hotel room, albeit magically.

After the incident, when the young man called to inform his uncle in Asaba, who has lived in Lagos for more than thirty years, his uncle laughed and said, ‘welcome to Lagos,’ in such a way his mother used to say to children, ‘fire is very stupid for burning your hands.’

THE END