From: Norm Hums <Nhums@rocket3mail.com>
To: Lassy Hums <Hotlass4real@gmail.com>
Cc:
Subject: Dear Lass

How do you begin a story? How far would you go to cover up a lie? How far is far too far that you can not return? And when you do decide to, what would you give for redemption?

You don’t know me, I hope you will, or I hoped you did, if this mail doesn’t end in your spam box and you are patient enough not to delete it, then I should be so lucky.

I want to tell you about me and my relationship with you, I do not know if what I have to say is interesting or worth telling but I think it should be told, this is all I’m ever going to say about my life journey and by God I’m writing it an Email, smh.

I will not bore you with the details of my childhood, it was normal. It wasn’t one of extreme poverty or wealth, just an average family with hopes of a better tomorrow. there were a number of things I wanted to be when I grew up, a doctor, but then I didn’t like blood and I never quite got the hang of mathematics required to be enrolled in science classes. There were other things I wanted to be too, but excuses, life and my skill set pruned them out.

I tried my hands in writing and did put out a few good but unpublished poems and short stories, mostly because I was too lazy to write a novel.

But all this doesn’t concern you, I sent this email to explain why I left, I have seen a couple of movies and online clips to understand that children blame themselves when they are abandoned. I hope the explanations I am about to give will help save you from carrying such a burden.

THE JOURNEY
I’m not a hero, I didn’t leave to save you or your mum from some terrible fate, no. I left because of the consequences of my actions, I left because I made bad decisions that cost me all I had and probably some part of your future, to quote Pete Edochie “my continued stay would have been nothing but an extension of my irrelevance”.

The day I left I had nothing on me, and no idea how to reach where I was going, my destination was outside our country of birth, nowhere particularly, but any space outside the geographical expression called Nigeria. Your mum and my mother were in the room of my Mum’s house and I was supposed to be watching you in the parlor.

Ladi, your mum, intentionally kept you there with me, because I suppose a part of her knew, she had loved me too much for too long not to know what I was thinking, she kept you with me as an anchor, to remind me of what I still had, of what I hadn’t lost. She knew I was going to do something, she feared the worst, she thought I might hurt myself, but the part she didn’t know was that I was too much of a coward posing as a pragmatist to end my own life.

Ladi was the only one that saw through my empty smiles and reassuring laughter, and knew that it was the hollow sound of a man who had crashed. She prayed every night and held me tighter every night, she came back home from work early, and never went out with friends, always there, mothering me more than she was you, but it was like pumping air into a leaky balloon, there was only so much she could do.

On the day I left, she had just come from the market, it was a Saturday, no work. She went into my mother’s room to speak to her and tell her how expensive things were. I had packed a bag while she was in the market, mother saw me packing the bag, we gave each other a knowing look and I saw her heartbreak, she knew in that instant that in all likelihood, it would be the last time we would see before one of us would die. If my journey didn’t kill me, time and age would take her before I could return. And so while you sat there, a child playing with some of the toys we were able to take from our former apartment, I walked out and shut the door gently, so Ladi would not hear.

I trekked to the junction, where the women sold wrinkled tomatoes and stale dry fish. Then I trekked to the market, doubting myself as I grew wearier, ‘where you dey go? Are you five, getting angry at mummy and running from home? Will you turn back and head home? Is this really what you want to do to Ladi?”.

But there was something momentous about that look I had exchanged with my mother, I knew then that I couldn’t turn back, I understood later on that it was a moment of sadness, reality and pride all mixed into one, she was sad to see me go but she had been also expectant, waiting, preferring to see me try rather than waste away like a sagging pawpaw that had become too ripe on the tree.

So I kept trekking, at the market, I met a Northern trucker returning from Onitsha, on his way to Jos to bring more goods, he had spent the night in Okene and was now willing to load palm oil to be delivered in some different locations up north, before finally proceeding to Jos.
“you be Igbo?”
“no” I replied
“you sure? I no trust this Igbo people?” he bit into a kola
“yes I am, I am from Okene”
He looked at me bemused, “anebira uvin?”

I knew he was from Okene the moment he asked if I was Igbo, but I acted surprised still that he spoke my language. He was one of the many Ebiras who liked to pretend that they were of Hausa origin, because of the access it gave them and the illusion of power by association they enjoyed.

We spoke in ebira from then on, he wanted to know more but recent events had thought me to keep quiet and listen more. My phone had rung 4 times, it was Ladi, I switched it off, coz I knew she would start texting and my resolve would be broken. The truck driver knew I had no money, he said he could tell I was educated, and educated people are only nice and gentle when they needed help,

“*akowe, you go school, you no get work ba? hehehehe, na so life be”. I would have told him off, tell him who I was or used to be and the way things were but I could see the joy in his face, in having a man like me at his mercy. He offered a ride to Jos, in return for my services to load and offload palm oil through the journey. Our first stop was Abuja, it had been six months since we (yourself, Ladi a& I) had been forced to leave.

I’ll stop here, I have to go now Lass, its morning here, and I need to clean the snow from the driveway before I head out. How is Ladi? Could you please not tell her about this mail.

NORM

*akowe: an ebira term loosely used to refer to an educated person
* anebira Uvin?: translation "you are ebira?"

ikbnice:
Centino, I swear you break my heart. I thought you said if you write Katakata Street story update on a daily basis, it is still unending. Why giving it an abrupt end... Sniffing life out of the famous story.
Anyway, it seems you are occupied more than ever before.
I doff my hat for your relentless updates this while.
You are great.

All things must come to an end, I daresay centino is a master strategist asides being a brilliant writer. He quickly understood the idea that the momentum was going to wane making the story to become dreary. Better to wrap it up now with a 'coup de grace'.

I'll miss the story too but to quote vision 'a thing isn't beautiful because it lasts'. As a matter of fact, some of the really blissful memories of live usually span over short periods.

Next story centino, let me advise that you begin to consider okada books as a platform, even 4 this one sef.

jaygiant:



I been think say na only me they reason am.

Oga, stop rough play abeg!

paafin:


Please, you guys should stop this nonsense before it gets out of hand!

I been think say na only me they reason am.

Centino:
Make una no beg na, e dey make me feel bad. Actually started writing today but stopped because midweek updates get in the way of hustle. The opportunity cost is always loss of income because time na money. I dey road as I dey type this thing so.

People asking wey this or that character? characters are fading away etc. I know where they are and what they are doing but I can't with once or twice a week depict everything. This tory plenty sotey under the right circumstances I fit write am everyday for 5 years e still no go finish. True.

Now I'm seriously considering doing this as a side hustle, meaning that if i take time from my regular paying schedule do am and i know say something dey come from there, e go dey worthy of d sacrifice.

So my people, hit like if you go like to see this thing as side hustle so that twice a week go dey sure and in a few months, thrice, and in no time, daily. Only Sunday dey very sure now because man must wack.

Here is an idea, create a WhatsApp group, and anyone that wants to be added must send credit of 100 naira (one week subscription which is 2 updates, Wednesday and Sunday, each update must be at least 900 words oooo!), or credit a designated account with 400 naira (monthly subscription, 8 updates, 2 weekly), once a person's subscription lapses, he will be removed from the group until he subscribes again. Just thinking out loud here ooo, nairalanders if you have a better idea put it up, if your plan is to insult, use d energy to do something creative like centino

Routiner

The priest could be seen behind the confessional, he sat there and listened intently to the man in dansshiki, I wondered if he was a politician, he was kneeling before I joined the queue so I had not see his face. I wanted to wonder what he would confess and what his penance would be, but I focused on mine, instead; The usual, I watched porn, I have been angry and unforgiven, thankfully there was no masturbation or fornication this time.

I saw the danshiki clothed man do the sign of the cross, the elderly man ahead of me noticed it too and took it as a his cue to move to the box. I turned and saw a middle aged lady seated next to me, she wore jeans and a T-shirt that hugged her buddy, my eyes lingered at her chest trying to read what was written on the shirt. She caught my eye, I nodded at her a bit embarrassed, I was genuinely trying to read the imprints, not that I didn't notice that she was quite endowed in the region.

Unrepentant.

He stared at my breasts, and his gaze made my nipple taut, he doesn't look so bad really, tall, average weight with fat that comes with aging, he'd be strong in bed. My mind began to wonder to the things we could do then I noticed the crucifix on the rosary held by the young girl seared next to me; I suddenly recalled where I was and why I was there. I looked at the confessional and hoped it was a different priest from last week. I couldn't see him but the one from last week was Yoruba, I could tell from his accent, he was also very harsh and berating, he asked uncomfortable questions.

"ave you discussed it with your osband? Does he know he doesn't sastify you? Ow habout the sildren, do you consider them?"

Yeah right, like I am going to tell the Chairman of Emerged Group PLC, a man who 50,000 employees answer to, that he didn't know how to warm my cockles. "No, thank you!"

I looked at the young man who stared at my breasts again, I'll give him my number. Chairman is in China signing some trade agreement on behalf of the government.

The breast starer noticed I was looking at him and smiled back, I knew I had won, I might be middle aged but I didn't look so bad, baring two children didn't damage my physique much. I tried to look at the crotch area of his jean, to see how tight it might be, but he sat legs crossed. Yes, I'll give him my number and call him tomorrow after I drop the kids of at school, it will take a day or two but I should be able to nudge him to get a hotel for thursday through Saturday. Just in time to for me to come confess on Sunday after mass.

My eyes wandered back to the crucifix on the rosary, and I noticed the young girl holding it was sniffling.

Penitent

I had no choice, I simply had no choice, it was either that or loose him. I couldn't loose him, he was my world. I sniffed to drag back the mucus threatening to escape my nostrils and drip down my lips.

Seven years I watched him grow, there was no way I was going to watch him die. I waited 4 years to have him and when he came he completed my joy. I named him Ayomikun, and his father agreed. The fates sealed me up after that, it was almost like they were telling me, this was a one time offer.

But I wasn't so concerned, so far Ayomi was there, the fates could seal me up forever. Sometimes after we had sex hoping for a baby, I'd laugh knowing nothing will come out of it, other times when it was successful, we didn't keep our hopes up because we knew in a few months we would wake up to blood stained bedsheet, and we would rush to the hospital where the doctors will tell us what we already knew, another foetus gone.

I never let it bother me, Ayomi always ran up to me and said 'mommy' and that was enough to make me tell the fates to go hang, they could do their worse, I had ayomikun to call me mummy.

The fates heard me and they did their worse.

My Ayomikun stopped eating, he looked tired and the sun was out of his smile, he didn't walk like one who had happiness at the sole of his feet.


"His kidneys are failing" the doctor said with such false pity I wanted to slap him and spit on him, I wanted him to take back the words.

"He needs transplants," my husband looked on.

"When can it be done?" I asked,

"As soon as we have a donor, and more importantly, the money" he said

"Money isn't a problem" my husband said, he looked so arrogant as he said it.

And the tests began, everyday, Ayomi slipped farther and the fates laughed at me as no match came. Last week, he lost consciousness, that night I went to the doctor,

"Take mine or my husband's"

He looked befuddled, "what?"

"The kidneys, one from my husband, one from me, please," I pleaded.

He saw the desperation in my pleading eyes, " I'll see what can be done"

I went home with hope in my heart only to have it dashed

"No I can't" my husbands tone of finality almost froze my heart. "We will have other children" I wanted to tell him we won't, that the fates had decided it, that they were punishing us for our goodluck, For achieving so much success in so little time but I kept quiet.

He wouldn't look at me, and in the following days family members came to sympathize as if my son were dead, his mother came and discussed the folly of giving up our kidney for an uncertain procedure.

Ayomi had a week to live. I went to the hospital to pick two donor forms, I filled mine and signed and filled his. When he came I took it to him along with the medical bills, Ayomi's last report card and told him he had to sign, he looked at me and without looking at the papers signed everything.

The hospital will call to confirm, he would still have to go to the hospital and surrender himself to the blade. His mother will never let him, so in the morning I served him breakfast.

"Why do I taste peanut?" He looked at me in askance

"Because I put peanut butter in your bread"

"What? You know I'm allergic, are trying to kill ..." He looked at me and it dawned on him, he ran around the house looking for his epinephrine, he searched for his car keys and then his phone, he made for the door but it was locked, I saw him weaking, he couldn't scream and then I saw him collapse.

I went to him, and held him, I could see the hate in his eyes. My tears fell in his lips

"I'm sorry" was I said as he began to gasp for breath, whizzing hard. He tried to grab my neck but he was too weak. And then I heard him say 'Ayomi. . ayo.."

"He'll be fine" I whispered to him and as the clock struck 12, I watched my husband die so my son could leave.


This time the mucus escaped from my nose and messed up the cathedral floor as I stumbled to the confessional to tell the priest how I murdered my husband.

. "This is what am gonna do........am gonna take out this big guy beside me and use you to knock out mr second in command before killing him......then use that scarpel you are holding to open up your arteries.

"Hm.....", the doctor pursed his lips as he got closer. "So how do you intend to do that being the one tied up?", he asked.

"Who said am tied up?", the prisoner asked. Then he raised his hands and showed the doctor the rope that was used to tie his hands. He had loosened it.

The doctor saw it and gasped. The big man made a move to grab the prisoner. But he was much more faster. And with an almost lightening speed, the prisoner got up and swung the chair at the big man. The chair struck the man and the blow snapped his neck, killing him instantly. With the same speed, he grabbed the doctor's hand that held the scarpel and twisted it. At the same time he grabbed the collar of the doctor's shirt and swung the light weight man at Joseph who was making a quick move to grab the weapon on the table. The doctor's body knocked Joseph down and the impact left both men sprawling on the floor.

Joseph immediately made an attempt to get up. But a strong hand grabbed his neck, almost crushing his windpipe and lift him up. One moment his legs were dangling in the air, the next his body is being careened against the wall, face first. The impact cracked his skull and shattered his jaw. As he crumbled to the floor, a foot came looming at his face and crushed what was left of it against the wall with a sickening crunch.

The doctor, still sprawling on the floor managed to turn after shaking off the massive concussion he took from the body slam. He looked up and saw the man, their prisoner standing over him. Then he looked around and saw the other two men lying on the floor dead. One's neck was twisted in an angle not possible for a human neck while the other's face was unrecognizable."


Haba sir, Arnold schwarzeneger in True Lies?! I love the story but some of this scenes are straight from a Hollywood movie. You are a gifted writer boss create your scenarios from your own mind. . you can let your visual experiences from the movies guide you, but don't just recreate them whole

Following, really following.

Go on

It was no gloomy day, the day was bright and full of laughter, there was no ominous feeling, it wasn't a day to be remembered in in infamy. There were guests and fela crooned open and close from the stereo set. The sun was high up, but its rays were lazy, it didn't burn the skin like it would in harmattan. The day could have been called beautiful, it was still full of hope and there was a bright smile on my Father's face when I killed him.

I felt cold but the blood seemed to warm my hand as it went out of him and filled my hands and stained my bright pink shirt. I felt like a paradox, I was free yet bound by the monstrosity of my action, I cried while laughing and heard my mother's screech mixed with silence.

"What have you done, Iwo omo yi?" She rolled on the floor and the guests held her from me, "kuku pami, kill me oooo" she screamed some more. I still held him, he was still smiling, his eyes were not closed and they seem to bore into me. I loved and hated him at that moment, his eyes seemed to be mocking me, as if they were taunting me, gloating at how he had as somehow managed to have the last laugh.

" I told you to leave it to me! Heh! What have you done?, ose yi tan!" She was calmer now, my mother. She seemed to have come to acceptance so quick. The male guests took him from my hand and I sat there in the pool of his blood. I refused to wash them off even when I was handed to the OC torture at the police station, through the ordeal of having to urinate where I sat in the cramped sell, I refused the water, offered by benevolent cellmates, to clean up because I feared it will wash off the blood. When they came to post my bail, mother said I smelt of urine and caked blood, and when they paid the SAS officer to declare the case inconclusive for lack of evidence.

When I refused to be bathed at home, the driver and gateman held me down while my aunty ran a hose over me.

'Rahmoni, tear those stinking clothes off her" she spat. " evil child, sister ought to have left you to rot in there! Eni aijiri!" She said with so much venom, she turned the hose on me again, the one the houseboy uses to wash away chicken blood from the pavement after mom slaughtered them. The water pricked me, like tiny hot needles, after she turned of the hose, the harmattan cold hit hard and my nipples began to taut.

They covered me in warm blankets, and lay me on my bed. That was when I thought of him, how he held me and called me his little joy. The first time he came into my room, mother was in Oro for a burial, my breasts had become big though the nipples were yet to form. He tickled them and made me lie down, I bled when he was done and the sheets were soaked. He changed them and told me not to worry, I was now a woman.

He didn't have to warn me against telling anyone. I saw him crying when he changed the sheets and I loved him more for it, I began to pity him.

He came again, often. Sometimes he was drunk, other times he brought a gift, I began to wrap my arms around him and gradually began to meet his thrusts. He always left in tears, and avoided eye contact.

"Ayo mi. ." that's what he called me.

Mother made meals, and worried her mind with what career housewives did. She would tell at dinner how a bag of salt was expensive, how she needed to replace the China set the next time she went to Italy, trustworthy domestic staff were had to come by these days, she told him how well I was doing in school and how a smile always played at the side of my lips as if I was keeping a secret. How I was becoming more of a recluse hiding in my room.

You make me proud and happy, enitan" he smiled when he sat by my bedside after our unusual ritual. He turned to look at me " I can't keep doing this to you daughter". The world froze, he couldn't be saying what I feared, I could still smell him on me, I sometimes steal his perfume and give myself a good whiff one while touching myself on nights he didn't visit. I would sometimes put my ear to his bedroom door to listen to his groan when he gets intimate with mother. Why would he want to put me and under such agony, I've been a good girl, I kept the silence.

"I swear I told no one, please" I pled.

"I know" his eyes were glassy." But we just can't " I wanted to speak, I felt something welling up inside me, I wanted to explode but I couldn't, something was lodged in my throat, threatening to choke me, it smelled of chicken and when I opened my mouth, my dinner of rice and chicken stew came spilling out. I rushed to the toilet and emptied the rest into the bowl.

He watched me clean up the mess,

"When last did you see your cycle?" He had his glasses on, and his face had a worried countenance. "Enitan, did you hear me?"

"I don't remember sir" I said as I flushed the toilet.

"Think, when last did you use a sanitary pad?" His voice was shaky .

"I can't remember sir" he walked towards me and fondled my breast, the shirt I wore became soiled as the liquid that came out soaked into the fabric.

"Oh my God, what have I done?" He began to fidget and I didn't understand it "what are the odds? Why didn't you tell me you had started your period?" His voice was high pitched and sharp as if he was whispering and shouting at the same time.

I felt the tears begin to well in my eyes, I was angry at myself for disappointing him! "Stop crying, clean yourself up, we will go see a doctor tomorrow"

"But I'm not sick sir" why would I see a doctor? It didn't make sense.

"You are, you are vomiting, can't you see?" He turned and left.

When he went to jog in the morning, I went to mother. She was on the phone arranging for her visa interview date. She raised her left hand and I went to seat by her, leaning into her chest.

"Yes, 18th will be just fine, much obliged madam, regards to the family" she hung up " you want to talk about something?" . I didn't tell her everything. I only told her of the white fluid that seemed to always soak my blouse and how funny everything seemed to smell, then I told her how most of my meals always seemed to find their way back up my throat.

Her body stiffened, "enitan, stand up, let me look at you" she turned me around, examining me like some piece of meat. "He!!!! Modaran! Enitan!!" She looked at me again. And then she struck me, her palms wide open and straight across my cheek.

"Who did this? Tani? Who, tell me" she hit me again, this time on my back, and then again in rapid succession until I couldn't tell where the blows were landing. I kept wondering what it is that was done, that she would hit me so much to find out who did.

Father came in then and took me to my room, it was him who explained that I was pregnant, that's why I didn't see my bleeding when due. He asked if I had done what we did with someone else. I shook my head!

"You are sure? Not even with a boy in school?" I shook my head harder angry that he woulf think I betrayed him so. He calmed my mother down and told me we will go see a doctor to clean up the mess.

"What mess?" I looked at him now

" we have to have it removed, don't worry, its a quick procedure. . .." he was going on.

"No" I said in a low tone

"Excuse me?" He looked surprised.

I repeated it, I knew what the procedure was, it was an abortion, he wanted me to remove a part of me, a part of us, an evidence of our unison. He left quietly. He came again at night, I was happy to see him and I ran to him, he punched me in the stomach, the pain was deep and searing. He was angry, when I fell, he raised his hand again, but I moved, and I felt the blow on my sternum.

I saw him lift his hand again as I ran for the bathroom, and wedged my body between the door and the wall, he banged and I screamed, I yelled until mother came down, when he left I came out and she held me, she didnt ask who did it anymore and when I told her it was him she heaved a sigh, looked at me and said "I'll take care of it"

He would do it again, I knew, he would put something in my food or wait till I was alone in the bathroom. So that morning when the guest came and FELA's open and closed wafted around the room, I buried a knife in between my father's chest while he smiled and his blood stained me.

I didn't attend the burial, it wasn't an elaborate one. there were no guests allowed in the house after then, only aunty came to my room, she fed me and made sure I washed up. I went into the library in my third trimester, and I returned frequently to read most of the books, some of them had his distinct scent, the books were the only things of his that mother didn't burn. I was reading memoirs of a geisha when I felt the water, I had the urge to use the toilet but I knew what wanted to come out wasn't from my bladder.

It took six hours but he came out, I looked at him once but all I saw was hair and skin, I wondered then how people could tell who a child looked like from that. I never breastfed him, nor did I see him for another five years.

Mother wanted to send him to the west, where there were agencies who found a way to parcel unwanted children to willing childless couples for a fee. Father's mother refused, as far as she knew this was her son reborn, bastard or no. I wondered if she would claim him so much if she knew of his true parentage, mother had not bothered to explain my pregnancy to any one, a few weeks after my stomach began to bloat, she dismissed the gateman and allowed assumptive people to connect the dots she set out for them.

I visited the village when he became five and I saw him, he had the fair skin and the sly smile of our father.

"Aunty, can I go pluck some cashew?" He asked, he called me aunty. And then I saw that smile again.

"Yes you can, and you can call me Ayo mi" . I smiled as he ran towards the cashew trees.

Mother died in a plane crashed when he turned 16, he was brought for the burial, he offered condolences and he hugged me, and I smelt that distinct scent, the one only father had, the one still embedded in the books in the library, I secretly wondered if out son would also groan like him in intimate moments.

I walked in to him in the bathroom, he was naked and I stared for long, he saw me staring, he didn't try to cover up, his young mind hoping he might perhaps experience more than a burial, he looked me in the eye, daring me and I saw how much he looked like his father, how much I wanted him, even if temporarily.

"Are you quite alright Ayo mi?" He asked, he even sounded like him. "Anything I can help you with?" He smiled, he was beginning to hope, which emboldened him to try and endear me to what he sensed I wanted.

And I Wanted it, and that's when I saw, I was broken, ours was a doomed life from the day father came into my room and I bloodied my sheets. I wanted to tell him our story, of where he came from and what lay ahead of him but I couldn't, I let him be happy .

"Put on a towel" I said as I turned around. I went to my room and drank tea punched with a goodly measure of Lysol bleach. In the library, soaked in the scent of my father I willed all that was his to my son, our son, our monstrosity, and tried to make a note of all that happened so he could know, but I get weaker and the pen is heavier now, difficult to . . co. . .,.

He negotiated, I looked at him and almost laughed, he priced me, he seemed offended that will ask so much for my skin.

"Ten thousand wetin na," his thousand came out as tausan, and it made me laugh, and I saw in his knowing smile that he thought I was laughing at my own silliness, he thought I was mocking myself for daring to place such a high price on myself.

"you dey laugh, na true na, you get factory fitted ac for nyansh" . He put on a serious countenance now, like the bankers do when they tell you that your request for facility has been denied, the same countenance she had seen in boardrooms when businessmen smelt blood and were about to close in on a deal. It was almost the same, only the atmosphere was different, and the bone of bargain on this table was my vagina.

"you no dey talk again?" He signalled the barman to bring another beer, " na short time, I go pay two five" he took another sip from his beer and stared at the screen, acting like the cutthroat negotiator who had just placed a take it or leave it deal on the table, waiting, just waiting to see if you would call his bluff.

And on another night I would've, I would've quietly picked the beer he bought me and gone into my room, another night of no sales. No sales, I chuckled at the thought of it, sales, what was i selling? It was a matter of perspective really, to the man who grunted on me, I sold pleasure, to the church it was my virtues that I peddled, to family and friends, it was their collective dignity and pride, to my fellow ladies, it was just a part of their skin.

"na nyansh" Ivy will say, her real name was Ivuoma, she was fair, and that was all about her, she wasn't particularly beautiful but her fair skin would always make the men inquire.

"babe, pussy na for Bleep na, na wetin we dey sell be that, Bleep!" Miny will go on and give me a thorough lesson on justification of the prostitute business, which was simple, we sleep with men for free anyway, why not earn some money from it . No one knew miny's real name, but I suspected it was Amina, she had that tall and distinct carriage that was common amongst northern women, her face was beautiful but stern. She was slender with full breasts, that always seemed to want to jump out of her tight blouse every night.


"how far, where we dey go?" His voice jerked me back, he had taken my silence for consent, he looked at me again, unsure of himself now. On another night I would have turned him down, but the room manager had warned that he had had enough of free sex, i had to pay my nightly due.

It was easier to sleep with Bonaventure, he was clean and he didn't reek of sweat and beer, and he was always gentle, sometimes i closed my eyes and pretended we were lovers. When he was done, I would let him sleep off while I smoked. In the morning he will ask that I take him in the mouth. "Morning brushing", that's what he called it. He was there in the bar now, waiting to see if I would accept the price Mr. Businessman had offered.

I gulped my drink, motioned for him to follow me and headed for the room allotted to me for the night, 105. There was no air conditioner, but the room was chilly. He counted three 1000 notes then asked that i switch on the light, he examined the notes and sensing that it would be awkward to ask me for change of 500 naira, he searched inside his pocket and brought three crisp two hundred naira notes, he added them to two of the 1000 naira notes and stretched them towards me.

I pulled down my skirt, and lay down legs apart, he took off his briefs then turned, i noticed that he wasn't erect. I never like this, it means I would have to massage him and put the condom on for him. He lay on the bed and I began to touch him, his hands rubbed my back and buttocks, then he slid his middle finger inside me; that's when I noticed I forgot lubricate.

I opened the bedside drawer, and used some lubricants. He began to fiddle with the cusps of my brassiere, I gently guided his hand away.

"Nawa o, so because na two-five I pay, you no go allow me press bobby? " I noticed his manhood was hard, so I lay down without saying a word. He looked like a trader, but at least he smelt nice, the masculine sweat was still slightly apparent but his roll on also masked the odour.

"if I add money, you go suck?" He asked.

"I don't suck sir," I said, I saw the shock in his face. He was surprised at how well spoken I was, at how my sir came out crisp and educated.

"you . . .you what?" I was amused now, he had switch to another language, no more the pidgin, he couldn't let this woman for hire have a better command of English than him, so he switched to the young Nigerian's accent, the one that is an admixture of British and America intonation, the one radio presenters use, the one where they slur all their words as much as they can and speak faster than they should while they interject with "uhhh" "you know whaaa I meen?".

I wanted to switch to pidgin, so we could just get it over with, because I saw him going flaccid and I felt the harmattan wind in between my legs, lapping up the lubricant I had just used. But he stared at me with disdainful shock, so I put on my full britico.

"As a matter of personal hygiene sir, I do not put my mouth to anyone's private, quite honestly sir, I think you'll find it most appalling the possible infections we could both get".


He sat back now, and I could tell he wasn't a trader, he had the ego of an office man, he definitely was a job man, a supervisor somewhere, someone who lauded his authority over others, the authority he got from being lauded over too. He couldn't understand how a prostitute could speak so well. He had gone flaccid again. She almost laughed at his confusion.


"anything the problem sir, perhaps something I can help you with?" My former boss would be proud of me and my customer service skills. He could tell I was mocking him now, so I took of my brassiere and said " perhaps this will help."

"Put it back on" he said , he lay down and I hoped he wouldn't want us to talk, this was not going to be some sort of strange encounter with a LovePeddler.

"I no go pay you back ooo. ." I said so he could do his business and get it over with, I started fiddling with him again.

" Don't bother, I'm on my way. . I... " I was fiddling faster and he was gasping for breath, "wh.. .what . . .wh. .your name?" I jerked him faster, he was done in another 45 seconds, he quivered and closed his eyes, and then I saw how beautiful he was when he came. We didn't say more about anything he left and I counted the money again, five notes, some crisp, some dirty. Two more visits, I'll be able to have some money left after paying Bonaventure. I could buy myself chocolate and maybe some chicken.

He came the next week, my supervisor customer, and I saw his office ID, turns out he is a banker. He came the week after that, and waited outside while a mechanic pumped away on me, when he entered, he asked that I opened the window to ease out the smell.

We finally had sex the third time he came, then he told me he got promoted, I pondered why he would tell me that? I smiled and I saw him snoring off, so I started smoking and watched him like I would Bonaventure in the mornings. His wife called at midnight and he jumped up, he looked at me.

"you were tired" that's all the explanation I gave but I actually just wanted to watch him.

"did I cost you any business?" He nodded at the door, I didn't respond, he counted 5 crisp 1000 notes.

"you already paid."

" for the delays, you could get sometime off, take the rest of the day off, I'll see you next week?"

And he did, we spoke about his childless home, and I told him about my student days at Kent, I told him about my first job as a customer service officer when I dropped out of Kent, I told him about finally getting the degree, and when i started out as a marketer, my life was fantastic until I got raped in a cab on my way home. He looked at me.

"No worries, I didn't catch anything"

We talked about how he went to school, and he told her me I was beautiful, he asked her why I did the job? why I sold myself? And she finally had the answer, that's what I sold, myself. All of it, what bella called nyansh, what Miny call Bleep, and the church called virtue and my family called dignity, it could all be summed up in one word: MYSELF.

I had my answer, so when he came the next day, i didn't open the door, he banged and asked Bonaventure about me but i refused to open. I knew I will get out of here, I'll quit the smoking, and I'll seek and get some obscure job, I knew he could help me, I knew he was going to offer it but I didn't want him to, I was a prostitute and that's all I'll ever be to him no matter how high I rise or how polished my English would sound.

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that society was under a spell, the cost was humongous, how could right thinking people, people with education and lives worthy of emulation, justify it. He thought of his mother, how sometimes it was difficult to feed at home, how she would complain if you over salted the food and if it had to go to waste.

'Don't you know a bag of rice is no longer cheap?' she would ask in that voice that wanted to drive you into maddening guilt, yet when one of his siblings even mentioned marriage, the money came rolling out, cows were bought, bags of rice were purchased, cans of oil will flow in a house where oil was usually but in bottles and meat in the pot was counted before and after each meal to make sure no one got more than one piece.


He would eat to the fullest on such occasions, after all it would take another wedding before such sumptuousness came his way. So when he started dating, his greatest challenge was how to convince her that the best solution was to have a quiet wedding, not that he couldn't afford it.

He knew she and her family might even give a huge sum to support the deluge, but the more he thought about it, the more he added up, rather than spend over and above 1 million feeding and entertaining people who were not even there when you proposed, they could pool the resources together make a down payment on the new mass housing schemes in the city, the ones that give you your keys upfront and then allow you make monthly payments for another 7 years. They could use some of the funds to furnish a house and probably buy a car. This made sense to him, the cost of living was increasing, and when they had children the fees will be enough to make a man calculate the number of children he can produce.


So that night when he got home, he made up his mind to call her on phone and discuss with her, he was going to accept the traditional wedding, because he believed that what should be honoured should be honoured, but this white wedding, they had to have a conversation on the budget. Why do I have to feed 700 people because you said yes?

' you for talk no na' he thought and chuckled to himself. Even Jesus fed the 5000 with fish and bread, if only he could get that kind of miracle now.

'All these pastors sef, none fit change water to wine?' He laughed. At least with that he can hire two tanks of water and put ice, then wait for the pastor to come and do the needful.


When he got into his compound, her golf was parked outside and the lights were on in the sitting room of his one bedroom bachelor pad, the same apartment she had insisted on doing the decor. He had warned her that he was fine with her olans, so far he didn't have to spend his 12 months salary. What was the essence of having a fine home when you don't have food in it. She told him the kitchen, parlor, room and toilet were exclusively hers to set up, which made him wonder if he was to decorate the verandah since that's about all you get in an Abuja room and parlour.

'Obi muo, you are here' he said when he met her in the kitchen making oha with chicken and akpu, an acquired taste from his days of youth service in the east.


" My parents travelled and they wont be back till next week, so I figured I'd come over". After the hugs and kisses, he went into the room all the while wondering how to have the 'conversation'. Donatus, the friendly neighbour came over and they both waited for the food. She didn't like Him very much, according to her, mbaise men are very dangerous, and can not be trusted. He laughed it off and told her his sister was married to an mbaise man, and if his sister's husband was what you called wicked, then he would prefer to meet only wicked men in his life.


"MADAM where is the gizzard?" He asked as Donatus continued to chew silently. She gave him an angry frown, as if irritated that he would ask questions rather than thank her for the food.

" The chicken didn't have any gizzard". She replied and continued walking to the room.

"This chicken must have died of indigestion, how can it be that a chicken didn't have gizzard" he said as he washed his hands, she shot him a look, the type she gave when her face was about to explode from anger.
"Nne, dalu, the akpu reminded me of home" Donatus said , sensing a brewing confrontation, he said his goodnight.

" Donatus has started feeding your mind with rudimentary thinking, you are not even igbo, since when did you care about what parts of chicken I serve you?" Her eyes were venomous, she didn't let him finish his food before cleaning up.

"What does being igbo and Donatus have to do with me liking the crunchy taste of gizzard?" He asked matching her impudence.

"You 've never asked me about gizzard before!"

"You've never cooked local chicken for me till today!" he responded. "Look, if you had eaten the gizzard, you only had to say it, I wont ask you to vomit it na babe. . .na wa oo"


"It is wa for you too! I should say it okwia,? So that mbaise man can go and tell the whole world that I'm a woman, who cooks and doesn't serve her husband the choicy part" she dumped the plates in the sink, it almost broke them.

"Would you leave Donatus alone? These kind of stereotypical thinking is really annoying, you can't judge someone just because of his tribe!"

He was really angry now, at first he thought the mbaise thing was just a joke but she was going on and on, and he really hated people who thought they could define your existence by virtue of were you are from, his girlfriend back in school was surprised when he told her he was ebira. She loooked mortified and with genuine shock she asked in Yoruba 'Do ebiras go to school?' And that was the beginning of the end of their relationship.

"ohh, odiegwu! Defender of dignity, what do you know about stereotypes? " she asked as she put the leftovers in the fridge.


"I know my fairshare, I'm ebira, and some people still think we are naked mountain dwelling neanthertals , with a natural disposition to violence!" The ebira joke came to his mind now. The popular one in Ilorin, where they would say there's been an accident three people and one ebira died. He turned and went into the bedroom. Wondering, how an argument about gizzard had graduated into one about stereotyping and world view, and this was just an experiment of what marriage will be like, yet some mad people somewhere wanted him to cough out a large chunk of his earnings to celebrate getting into a life of probable monthly arguments and sleepless nights.


That night, he didn't move when she came to lay down, they both stared at the roof while the Air conditioning buzzed on as if the it were brooding about their strange silence.

Theirs was a none sexual relationship, not because they were particularly religious, but mostly because it made sense. He was intent on forging a life with her, and it signified some sort of respect; she wasn't just another girl he would have at the back of his cousin's car, or in an unmarked hotel room.

It was fine by him, if she didn't want to talk, but there was a way with her, every night, even though they didn't have sex, they would cuddle, and play with their bodies, she will lay on his chest, kiss him and call him Nwokoma, and it always warmed his heart. It made him feel full, so that night when her body warmth wasn't available to drive away the cold from the AC, he pulled up the blankets and truly thought about the possibilities of chickens surviving without gizzards.


Fresh eggs! That was it, he knew without being told. Fresh eggs in tomato sauce served with yam, that was what he was smelling from his sleep, so when he opened his eyes to see her smiling with the tray he wasn't surprised.

"Nwokoma, good morning. I made you something, we should get some of those special bed trays that you can balance on the bed, this one is really clumsy because of the plastic. . ." She went on and on.

He was thinking about what changed overnight, what trickery is this? Then it struck him! She had always told him to reduce his egg intake. There was a time she banned him from eggs completely, before grudgingly agreeing to once a week only with indomie. He had tried to explain to her why he liked eggs so much, to tell her that it was that fluffy thing he ate with yam once a month while he was growing up, and that the egg usually finished before the yams and you had to eat the rest with palm oil. She was having none of it, ' I care about your heart babe!' She had cooed then, why would she suddenly serve him egg this morning when she knew he ate indomie earlier in the week. He knew, this was either a poison or a bribe, either way, he was not in the mood to die or make peace so he simply stared at her when she was done talking, conscious of her tacit refusal to apologize.

"Sweetheart, wont you eat? I dipped the yams in eggs too ooo, like the ones you like to buy at Chester Fries" she was beaming with that smile of innocence.

"I'm not hungry" he stood up and walked to the bathroom, he could feel her eyes shooting into his back.

He got ready, and whistled while knotting his tie, he saw her put on her slender skirt, pick up her office bags and leave the apartment, she didn't offer him a ride like she would.

After he heard the car leave the compound, he ran to the kitchen and wolves down some of the egg sauce, he didn't touch the yam slices because he suspected she might have counted it, it had taken a lot of self will and grace earlier on to turn down the food . He took a cab too the office and spent the better part of the day trying not to think about the consequences of his food refusal this morning. They didn't talk or chat all day, and she didn't offer to pick him from the office like she was wont to do. When he got home, her box was packed by the couch and she was still in her office clothes.


He was a bit perplexed because he knew he could smell onugbu soup, why would she cook and then leave?

"I'm going back home " she said without looking at him.

The confusions set in, this was a small argument, why would she prepare to leave because of it. Half his mind wanted to let her go, it will save him the headache anyway, but this was what his future was going to be like, laughter, fights and arguments. He might as well start confronting the demons now. He also thought about her mother, she had said his tribesmen were bad husband choices, he would die before he allowed that woman have the right of it.

"Obi muo" he started " I'm sorry about the gizzard, I meant nothing by it, I just like the taste, asking for it wasn't some masculine ego trip, but madam you really need to change your thinking about this mbaise people thing. It really really ticks one off especially when you are from a tribe that suffers the same abuse"


" I don't mean anything by it babe, its just talk. My dislike for donatus is not because he is an mbaise man, it's because he always seems to know when food is almost ready in this house" she said.


That took the wind out of his straight face, be laughed till he felt his stomach begin to ache, then she began to giggle, and they both lay on the center carpet and laughed till they were exhausted. He confessed that he had some of the eggs, she told him she knew, she said he had put it back in the fridge when she had kept it in the microwave in the first place, plus there was oil on the sides of the plate, and they started laughing again.


That night after eating the Onugbu soup she served without meat but with a full plate of fried gizzard, he smiled when she was coming to bed, then he saw her take her nightie from the wardrobe, then he started thinking, what had she packed in the box? When she had slept off, he went to the parlour to examine the box and like he feared, it was empty! He chuckled, trying not to laugh out loud so the neighbours wouldn't think him mad.

He decided not to have that 'wedding conversation' anymore, he knew now why people paid so much for a wedding, it was because you were happy and you wanted the world to know, and you couldn't care less if it left you penniless, so far she was with you, it would be worth every last kobo.

You refused to think about him, the day you heard he passed, you didn't think about his smile, or how he will shake his head and laugh when he saw you trying to pull the wool over his eyes. The midnight when your second born called from port Harcourt to inform you of his demise, you laid stolid on the bed and asked where his body was. That was all you asked , 25 years of knowledge and your mind was empty when you heard that he won't wake up again

And when you went for your brother's wedding, the one where the whole third and fourth generation of cousins showed up, the memories came back, and you felt surprise that you had not shed a tear for someone whom you knew as father. When you went to your future sister in laws home in quarters, where you will run around and play as a child. You remembered the distinct 'pom pom ' horn of his yellow Peugeot 504. You remembered when he will let you sit on his lap and turn the steering, while you laughed and jeered at the fourth born because he didn't enjoy such privileges. You remembered when you went to the city gate and he will buy suya and tell you not to open it until you got back home. You remember how impatient you'll get as the suya wafted through the car while he sat on a bench by the gatehouse laughing and chatting with his good friend who had two tribal marks and drove a white panel van.

You remember how much be loved kolanuts, and how his mother will give them to him, you remember how he will live you at his mother's two room and corridor housing, and you will feel you had just been banned from the sight of goodness to the dusty recess of civilization, and when he came back to get you, you remember how you look forward to lying on a bed, and he covering you with his own blanket when he woke up to go to work.

You remember how you would take spoons of bournvita and milk from his tins and eat them raw, you remember stealing sips from his small bottles of dry gin and you remember the first time he told you the bottle of Guinness he was drinking was on medical grounds.

You remember he sent you money to get a shoe when you told him you had a job interview, and every morning when you knot your tie, you wonder if he will suddenly appear in the mirror, or when you drive home late at night, you have a feeling he is seated in the back seat, and he will soon say something like he would say to the driver on the long road trips from Okene to Ilorin

You wonder if people cease to exist when they die or they just transcend, you chuckle at the time when you saw performance pills in his travel luggage, or the time he sent you a message teeling you to be careful of what you watch online, at the very moment you were browsing porn. You wonder what you would do if he called again to find out how you were doing. . .would you freak out and recheck if the bottle of water you drank is not a hallucinogen, or would you smile and say. . .it's been too long old man. You remember the first time he struck you, when he worked in the 504 bonnet and put you in the drivers seat, he warned you not to start the engine but the key was in the ignition and your hands were free. . So you gave it a twist, and it turned out that his hands were on the spark plugs, after the electric shock, he came straight and gave you a heavy slap and sent you crying to your mother who was cooking.

You remember the things you heard about his past, his days in America and mysterious return, the times your mother will complain about his nonchalance to his fatherly role, you think of how he almost seemed to have women around him, you remember the anger you felt when you read his little red diary he kept as a student.

You think of why you don't think about him because you want it to be profound and dramatic!! You remember the first time you fought, while you were a youth corps member, and how you didn't speak to him for months until he sent an apology message asking for the opportunity to be your father again, and you felt like a pampered child, happy that you won but disgusted at your own audacity for making an old man apologize . . Wrong or not

You still wish for that call or that message, or an argument. . You remember when he took you to the hospital because you had a termite attack, and when you went to eat abula while he still worked in Ilorin, and when you went together to cut your hair in baboko where they used the funny kind of clippers that didn't need electricity and mde the funny 'paka paka sound'. . .

You still haven't shed that tear and you wonder what kind of son you are. .