The next Saturday was her first time as a stripper. Aunty Sophia had given her another short gown in her collections and Martha drank two cups of alcohol to feel, as Sophia said, a little wild. She wore a blonde wig, she was helped with her makeup, and her sandals were as high as the thread of a staircase.
The red light of the club adored her skin. Two girls were already on the podium, the bar wasn’t crowded yet and the few men who were around were interested in drinks and gabbing. She took her position around the pole and started dancing. She had practised with Aunty Sophia. The lady had given her time to tutor her about everything. They would sit together on a dull evening and talk about lighting up the evening. What they had both meant was coming to the club, learning pole dancing and how to give a lap dance and to drink and dance. Then last night was the longest when she had listened to Aunty Sophia through an hour of talk which felt as if she was engulfed in her advice, her story, her mistakes and her future. She wouldn’t want that again.
Her dance was slow at first. She danced, observing the other dancers on the podium. It felt easy than she had imagined. If this was just her job, she would be willing to come every day. But it wasn’t and so she had come to a conclusion that lap dancing wasn’t prostitution and that people do dirty jobs in their life before they become successful. This was her dirty job. When she glanced at the faces in the club, men holding cups or ogling women in short gowns, she knew they wouldn’t agree with her on this thought. She danced, climbing up and down and around, delicately, head down, legs up, legs spread apart but not too wide. A man watching would have noticed she drew her legs back too quickly than the other girls. She was told that the management would pay two thousand nairas for dancing on the pole but the men would pay if she could give them a good lap dance. ‘The price for lap dance although is fixed at 2k, but they can pay you well and even ask for more if you satisfy their bulala.’ She looked across the club and she glanced at a man who seemed young, smoking a cigarette. He wore a black vest. He was on a low cut, sitting on a stool, body blaring tattoos and a dazzling piece of jewellery on his muscular chest. He waved at her and Martha looked away then looked back at him. He waved again. Martha took another second before walking gingerly like a model to him, remembering the lessons aunty Sophia had thought her in the past few days.
‘Save money, no matter how fashionable you want to look… there are cheap men everywhere; learn how to differentiate them… I was like you when I came to Lagos. My mummy just let me just go as she had told you. And I wish I can leave the job soon but there was not enough money to allow me to quit. Save money if you really want to leave this job someday… carry your own protection all around. You don’t want to do things because you are hot and no protection around… men are perverts; many will pay if they can use you for their own satisfaction if they are satisfied with each time with you. So you have to learn that… Tease them. Good sex. Most of them are stupid…’
Martha had sighed through the long hours. She had thought she wouldn’t need the protection, except, of course, she met a man who really meets her taste – tall, dark skin that would compliment her light skin, and rich.
She pushed strands of hair back from the wig on her head. Pushing her toes one after the other like a tiger after a prey, she bent to the man’s face and asked, ‘what can I do for you,’ crooning her voice like she wanted to pelt a child.
The man smiled and puffed into her face. ‘Give me something, girl,’ he said.
Martha feigned a smile, placed her hand on his shoulder and said, ‘money, first.’
‘Oh, baby, you want the doh first.’ He reached into his wallet and brought out two thousand naira notes. Martha took it and slipped it in the corner of her bra. She sat on the man’s lap and started her dance – just as she had been taught.
She swirled her bum on the man’s groin and the man gasped and breathed. She turned to face him, her legs on each side of his waist, and she pulled his head closer to her budding breast. Careful, not to suffocate him, she slowly wriggled her chest on his face, then carefully pushed him back. Then she twitched his head back to her chest. He smelled of cigarette, alcohol and sweat. She felt him hard under her buttocks, pushing her up, and she felt for a moment, she was on her bed in Abeokuta. The inner of her thighs felt warm and she pulled her legs tighter as if that would stop it. A desire was growing and she would explode if she didn’t act. She frowned. She wanted to stand up, to run into a room and stop whatever was burning inside her thighs, but they said a lap dance lasted five minutes. She would endure and so the rhythm of her dance dwindled, the hot desire under her thigh taking control. She breathed out loud. The colour of her eyes changed. She stood from the man’s lap and danced seductively before him. This seemed to reduce desire. Then she sat back, rocking the man slowly, placed her hands on his shoulder and said, hope you enjoy it.
‘Com mon, yes. You do good, babe,’ he said. As soon as she estimated the time to be enough, she hurried off, slipping past a number of hands that were calling her, and entered the bathroom. She waited there till late when she left for home. Rugged paid her three thousand; he said the extra one thousand was because it was her first day. She smiled, she had five thousand but the thought of what she did to have the money nauseated her. It would go away, you are not a prostitute. You are doing this to raise money.
She had the room to herself when she got home, Aunty Sophia had been driven away in a black SUV, where she smiled and waved and an older man in Agbada sat nonchalantly beside her. Martha took the money from her bag and placed it on the bed. She took off all her clothing except her pant and bra, watching the television by the bed. She switched it off as it was interrupting her flow of thought. She thought of what she would do with the money, she thought about how easy to make that much in one short evening, how it seemed like the money was thrown at her without working for it, how she could afford nice clothes and good shoes if she earned enough by the end of the month. But the thought of what she did to earn it made her feel tart as though she had bitten her lips out of enormous excitement to enjoy a delicious meal. She hated the way men look at her and the other girls, first like an attractive car and then like a car they would never take home but test drive. And what was that she felt when she was sitting on the man’s lap? It was strange as if something was burning on her thigh and it was warm and nice. She shifted her thighs and stared at her groins and thought about the moment. She shook her head. No, she shouldn’t be feeling that way. It was… it is unholy.
Martha was learning about the modus Operandi of the club. The club was a business organization and it was focused on making money. So, it prepared girls randomly for night parties in undisclosed locations and whoever turned down the offer would be out of the club forever. The girls didn’t want to turn it down, either. They look forward to those parties and they talked about it that ‘one connection with a big man or a politician can change their “career’” as though they had one.’ At the club, men bobbed girls’ buttocks and such girls would scream or keep quiet – depending. If she screamed or flinched, a bouncer would come and throw the man out but it was unlikely because the men were rich and could afford the bouncer. If she didn’t shout, it meant such man had put dollar bills or some naira notes in his palm, showed it to the girls face before rapping her buttocks like a besotted drummer. There were cases of breast grabbing or men reaching their hands into places they didn’t pay for. Like the girls, Martha talked or didn’t talk. She was learning.
Gradually, she eased into life as a stripper. She came by every evening to dance like she always told herself before she left home, but she would silence the other voice inside which would say she was going to the den where men gaped at preys, men watch them like kids watch cartoon and they could have access to them like toys at the flashing of two thousand naira notes. She learned the etiquette quickly. She was making money, of course, and she could make more, save more so that she could quit very quickly. Life was sweet here. Every night she gave lap dance and turned down the request for a ‘short time’ in the ‘room 2.’ But after the day and she got home, alone with her thought, she remembered the burning desire under her thighs. It was hot and sweet and couldn’t be enjoyed. She would shift on the bed, half unclad, begging for it to stop. She wanted more, to feel, to hold another human close in a hug, to feel another human inside of her although when she told Aunty Sophia, she shook her head and warned her against it. At the club, she looked for Aunty Sophia to see if that face was watching and their eyes would meet, with the older woman shaking her head whenever she received another offer for a ‘short time.’
A week passed too quickly. It was the Saturday of her second week that she gave in to a young boy’s request for a ‘short time.’ The boy wore a face cap and she couldn’t see his face clearly under the red light. He was light in complexion and tall and spoke in short sentences as though he was rapping to a song. Five minutes later, she had done the job, received her payment, felt satisfied and really satisfied, a burden was lifted off her as though she felt ache earlier and ice had been placed on her pain. But it was for a while. When she arrived at home at night, she sat on the tiled floor thinking about the short time with that boy. The period was so short and relieving, but as she sat on the tiled floor in just her pant and bra, she felt as though the boy had slid into her and had withdrawn a lot from her emotional bank. She wanted to be in someone’s company, a father, a man, to be hugged and to laugh. She stared into her phone screen and flung it over the bed. She folded her knees over her chest and thought of that moment she felt a burning desire under her thighs. She didn’t know when she began to cry, a slow and free flow of tears down her cheeks.
Her phone beeped and she saw messages from a man she had shared her contact with, a man she had saved his name as ‘idiot’. The messages were pictures and videos of men, naked men holding naked women in strange manners. There was a video. She watched and grimaced, feeling a burning under her thighs. She shuddered at the scenes and actions. Reaching her hands into herself like she would rinse a cup, she touched and relieved herself. Then she flung the phone and cried.
When Aunty Sophia arrived, she woke up from sleeping on the tile and walked to the parlour, covering herself with a towel. Aunty Sophia was pouring herself a drink from the fridge.
‘Why did you leave early?’ Aunty Sophia asked.
‘I had a headache,’ she said.
‘You had your first time today,’ she said. ‘how was it?’
She was shocked that she mentioned it. She had thought she wouldn’t talk about it. It was normal and all the girls did it for money. They would just get into the rooms and come back with money and the men looking relieved.
‘Good for you,’ she continued.
‘I did it because you do it.’
Aunty Sophia stopped and laughed. ‘You are becoming a slut.’ She said, not looking at her face. ‘Only God’s grace can save you now from what you are going to become.’
Martha was confused. Is this not the plan after all? Why did she give all those pieces of advice when she didn’t want her to sleep with men? She held the towel at her chest and sat on the settee. She was dirty and needed a bath, but that could wait. She needed to clear her head and think about what Aunty Sophia said. Was she jealous? Has she seen her when she took the contact of the man she saved as ‘idiot,’ the fool who slapped her buttocks and waved at her? When she screamed, one of his bodyguards had given her an envelope. Was she jealous of that? She thought about how often Aunty Sophia slept at home. She was sleeping at men’s house, gracing their bed like a nomadic cow. Now when she slept with one, she was razing the house down as if it was her body, as if it was her future. She stared at the parlour and hissed. The house – she would find a place of her own soon, she thought.
She started following men to ‘room 2’ as the other rooms were being called. She satisfied men for money and returned with three thousand nairas and a wet pant. It was too good, too fast to get rich. Then, gradually, like a child in a new world, she was learning about the job and the club. Lap dancing was a façade, it paid less than visiting ‘Room 2’. The sad thing was that the men knew it and they looked at her with those eyes of mockery, the way a mother looked at a child throwing tantrum.
Three months later, she had a lot of new clothes, a new phone and a better idea of places in Lagos which she had learned by spending a night in one hotel or another. She knew the drugs to use, the clinic to go when she ran into STD troubles or fatigue or pains or pregnancy. She was learning. She lived in a new house. She was looking for men who could afford her good money for satisfying them, ‘maga,’ the girls at the club call them. She was thinking, too. Why did the girl keep doing the job when they could make a lot of money and quit? Why didn’t Aunty Sophia quit after so many years? What were the reasons?
Her questions, like learning the truth about life, took many years to be answered completely, but three months later after moving out of Aunty Sophia’s house, she got her first answer when she encountered two boys.
They came to Renzdevous club like other men. She had seen them talking and pointing towards her and so she walked seductively towards them. She had learned a lot in three months that when she began to swirl and twist close to their nose, they paused and watched with their mouth open. One of them was fair, he wore a pink vest and shinning pair of earrings, his middle finger bearing a ring. The other was tall and dark and bearded, with muscular arms that could be convinced as that of a weight lifter or a boxer or someone who does heavy work – breaking rocks or pulling loads up a rig. They asked for her performance and she danced for each man, sitting on their laps and teasing them with her breast. Then the shorter man leaned towards her ear and said they would like to have her for the night – the two of them for twenty thousand. It was weird – two men over a night – nothing like she had ever done before.
She was quiet for long, watching from one face to another to catch a glimpse if they were joking. The taller one nodded and looked away. The shorter was looking at her face. She was not living with Aunty Sophia; she would have taken an excuse and sent her a text, asking for her opinion. Twenty thousand for a night was a good offer if she looked at the reality of it, she wouldn’t be spending the whole night with them. She brushed strands of her hair backwards. She brushed again and told herself it is just one night and just two small boys, she had been with older and more muscular men and so she said ‘Okay.’ If they try anything funny, she would just pull a crazy one on them like her friend Anita had done one day. ‘I just break bottle commot,’ Anita had told them, ‘con see as small boys dey beg me. They wan die? Then never live for inside street reach.’ She would be exercising the craziness she had kept and caged all her life. So, they left in a red Toyota car and she spent two hours between two naked boys in a hotel room, stupid boys, weird boys, who hadn’t have such opportunity and were bent on using it to the fullest, touching, groping, humping. She left them sleeping on the bed like lazy dogs.
The city of Lagos was just falling asleep. Martha could still hear the sound of music around. She was eager to get home and catch some sleep. She had made enough money for the night that could last her for a week. She was about getting a ride when she heard a voice called, a man in a black uniform stepping out of a dark corner.
‘Excuse me, madam’ he was a police officer, a short man with a belly like a pregnant pig.
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘I’m sorry young lady, but we have been vigilante around this place. We were told that girls like you are causing trouble and unrest to the occupants of this street.’
‘Girls like me?’
‘Yes,’
‘Girls like me. What do you mean by that?’
‘I’m sorry madam. But I don’t like to waste my and your time I will have to search you.’
‘Search me? For what?’
‘For security reasons.’ He said, walking close. ‘We don’t want someone reporting that a killer was on the loose last night. So cooperate with me, young lady.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ she said, in a low voice, imitating the soft voice she had learned to use, the voice of her partners at the club.
The police officer snatched her bag before she could hide it behind her back. He dipped his hand inside and began to search, his gun hanging on his shoulder. He brought out women things – a brush, a powder box, a handkerchief, a bottle of perfume – and put them on the floor. He then held a wrapped white piece of paper to Martha’s face. It didn’t belong to Martha, and her eyes widened and her heart began to drum hard as if she was running on a steep mountain where a lion is chasing her from below. She watched the paper and the officer’s face for any sign of trouble and she saw it, from the expression on his face and the slow movement which he held the paper. He crooked his torch between his neck and his head, and un-wrapped it, and then smelling it, he said, ‘you are under arrest for possession of harmful substances.’ Martha didn’t look away, but she heard the voice of a man behind her, mocking and laughing and she knew it was a hallucination but it was too strong to be separated from reality and so she soberly thought, may she shouldn’t have left.
Thanks Hadeh. We’re discovering more ofher experiences but when are we going to know what happened to Ade
You mean ‘Ayo’. You will find out soon. Very soon.
Nice long interesting read.