AM I A PROSTITUTE?

My stomach grumble continuously and I feel the consequent coil that starts from my lower abdomen and travels the length of my stomach. The bells in my head begin to sound and Professor Iwekaye’s head becomes enlarged in my sight. I suddenly have this mental image of a girl who slumps in class. She has no father, her mother is being treated at the hospital for typhoid, her younger sister needs money to pay her WAEC fees, this girl has not eaten in the last 3 days so she slumps in class. Of course she dies before getting to the hospital.

Her uncle comes to take care of funeral arrangements. He arrives in a black Range Rover Sports car. He steps out and all heads turn towards him. He is strikingly handsome with grey and black hair existing in perfect harmony on his head. His skin screams of good living, glowing and shiny. Then he frowns and his cheekbones arch slightly upwards, the face becomes longer and his perfect appearance is marred. He has come to ensure that the cause of death of his niece be known through an autopsy. Of course he does not mind the cost because that body lying in the morgue is his favourite niece.

I snap out of my reverie as another hunger pang begins. That girl in my day dream shares my story but I will not die! I will live to be great and do great things. I will be a canary, singing about how I checkmated poverty without compromising my dignity. I will tell stories and grant interviews about my rise from zero to hero level or from grass to grace. Wait! Those two lines are often used. Mine will be from errrrm… errrrm, I do not know. I guess I will employ someone to come up with my punch lines. Mother and Jaiye will live in a house on Banana Island or anywhere else in the world. Her working hands will be softened with the palm lotions. Her skin will be glowing like Uncle’s own because she heeds the advice of her personal physician.

  

This pounding in my head has increased. I pack my books and leave the class. I don’t know if the lecturer noticed me leave .At the gate I reach into my bag for the crumbled one hundred naira I borrowed from Sade this morning and mentally calculate what to buy with it to appease my angry stomach. #20 garri, #10 sugar, #5 pure water. The remaining #65 will not be enough for me to visit my mother at the hospital and that’s even assuming I trek home now. I decide to use the rain water we sieved and saved yester night to soak my garri, I can do without the sugar so that leaves me enough money for a visit to my mother. Just then, my phone ringsI see its Chief Olowo’s no on the screen. He is one of those rich men who keep complimenting my looks. 

I know I am a beautiful girl, tall, naturally light skinned despite the years of poverty. Chief is one of the many men who crave the juice between my legs in exchange for money. Today he wants me to come meet him at a hotel and for the first time I weigh my options. If I go to see him the worst that can happen is that he will attempt to touch me with his sweat infected hands. Maybe he will even attempt to lock his lips with mine in an unholy kiss. I cringe at the thought, for chief has rather unusual lips. The upper lips are deeply darkened, evidence of his misspent youth on the streets of Lagos smoking marijuana. The lower lips are unusually pink so much that I have often wondered if he is a victim of a failed lip lift surgery. The “v” etched in the middle of his lower lip seems to be an archive for the saliva that never fails to escape his mouth. Thus his lips have the added function of ensuring his 65yr old mouth doesn’t drool. On the other hand, I will eat a good meal, beg him for assistance and repulse his advances, in that order. At least he will give me transport fare back home even if my plea doesn’t loosen heartstrings. My decision made, I hail a cab and go to see chief.

 The hotel is one of those highbrow ones where they eat 100,000 in one sitting. I try not to stare at the surroundings as I ask the receptionist for chief’s room. He directs me there and I enter to see chief irritatingly dressed in a shirt and trouser. The fabric of the shirt is stretched against his stomach in a tug of war that only the button in the middle seems to hold together. He pats the bed for me to sit and gives me the menu to decide what I will like to eat. Trust my hunger pang to chose this moment to strike again. I order a meal of pounded yam and vegetable with a full catfish and a big pack of five alive. Chief and I embark on harmless conversation about school and friends while I down my manna. I use that opportunity to plead my story and he assures me of help. 

 After eating, I tell chief that I am ready to leave and he smiles, places his palm on my breast with one hand and the other hand draws me towards him. I know this is the moment I take a stand or break. I stand and plea with him to help me for the sake of humanity and allow me retain my dignity but he smiles again. That creepy smile that reveals badly dented dimples, I know then that he will not help so I ask for transport fare and he laughs this time. I kneel down and beg him, wishing my heart desires unleash into my pleading tongue but now he tells me to get out. I stand tall and clean my tears with the back of my palm, open the door and head out. Mama’s medical bills have just been delayed yet another day, my sister can do her WAEC next year, and the meal I have will sustain me another day. But, I think again. My family needs money and this seems a gift horse...

                       TO BE CONTINUED I THINK 

I intended this piece to be a short story but somehow it became too long for comfort. Have never liked summaries, like to think am a story teller and that's probably one of the reasons am not into poetry. Bottomline is; this story is a failed experiment but i really hope you enjoy it. That way i will know it isn't a wasted effort.