My friend and I are hanging out at Rockefellers, a popular cosy bar in Abakaliki. A half-outdoor-half-indoor bar. There’s no wall separating the inside from the outside as they sort of merge into one another the way traffic flows into a main road from a side street, if you get what I mean. From where you sit, you can watch the kitchen area where young men and women busy themselves preparing barbecued chicken and grilled fish or meat and fried chips, while you sip a beer or a glass of Johny Walker or a Jameson Black Barrel.
The good side of this kind of bar is that, during the hot seasons, people sit out in the afternoon, and in the evening, when it gets cold, they go in. On busy nights, they play jazz and rock music and the bar is filled to the brim, and everyone is just happy to sit where they can find space and a table.
So, this evening while we sip our Jameson Black, we watch some girls dressed in skimpy gowns as they perch on tall stools, drinking from tall cocktail tumblers and singing to a series of karaoke songs, for it is a Saturday, and every Saturday night up until nine o’clock is a Karaoke Night. When the Jameson begins to do its slow work on us – like every triple-distilled Irish Whisky is wont to – I tell this friend of mine about my experience with a sex worker in Asaba.
In 2021, between May and November, I lived mostly in a cosy upstate hotel in the centre of Asaba. It was a good year, a busy year. I had a contract to build one of those beautiful duplexes you see in such cities as Abuja or Los Angeles. Most people do not know that I am a civil engineer because of my books, so when a book club in Asaba learned from Nnamdi Anyadu, the writer, that I was now mostly in their city, they were surprised. It was a year after the release of Colours of Hatred, my second novel, and it had just won the Chinua Achebe Prize for Literature. This club ordered copies for their members. I recall that we met in some small hotel to read and discuss the book, after which I drove back to mine.
It was late in the evening, around seven or eight o’clock on a Sunday in Asaba. Sunday nights were usually busy days for this hotel. In fact, from Fridays, guests took up rooms for events such as weddings. Mostly these guests were young people who slept away from home to be able to club and enjoy themselves. On my return from the book reading, I stopped at the expansive lounge of my hotel to sit a while before going up to my room, when I noticed this lady sitting on the sofa facing mine.
At first glance, she was an ordinary lady, in an ordinary-looking dress, on an ordinarily busy Sunday in Asaba. The lounge was busy as the automated doors kept swinging open every minute or less. I opened a copy of Colours of Hatred, which I had with me and flipped the pages, looking for a chapter to read and engage the time with. I am not the kind of writer who loves to read their own published work. After the tiresome uncountable rewrites that precede book publishing, I usually find that when the book is out, I lose interest in reading it. And seated in this comfy sofa of the expansive lounge in Asaba, I found that any attempt at reading the book was a waste of time. So, just when I dropped it by the coffee table beside the sofa and looked up, I noticed this lady observing me with keen interest.
She was tall, very tall. Her left leg was crossed on top the right, exposing smooth, lush legs, waxed and shiny, for it was oiled. But I had no way of knowing just yet. Seeing that I had caught her looking at me, she looked away, giving me enough time to study her. She was a beautiful woman, with a kind of beauty that grows on you. That is, the more you studied her, the more you realised how beautiful she was. She was fair, but it was difficult to tell if she was naturally fair or had acquired this complexion, as has been trendy these days. It was the time when Nigerian women were going crazy for fair skin and, more so, fake boobs and butts –hyped by such platforms as Instagram and TikTok. I saw she wore no brassieres. Do not ask how I knew this; it is the kind of thing I notice easily.
She wore a tiny chain on her neck with a small pendulum-like pendant, which accentuated her chest area and attracted attention there. She had on some leg chains. There were three of them, or it could be one but wound into three. They made her feet dazzle. I wondered if she wore a waist chain, too. In all, she was a beautiful woman, classy, if I should use that word. Our eyes met again and locked, this time.
She did not smile at me, and I did not smile at her. Why would I? I did not know who she was or what she was doing there. She could be waiting for a lodger to come down, or be a lodger herself who came for a wedding and was staying in the hotel. She could be anybody, even another man’s wife.
I took up the novel again and read a page or two; then, some young people came in, talking loudly. At this point, I picked up my key from the receptionist. Without looking at her, I could feel her gaze follow me till I passed by her seat and went to the stairs. By the time I got to the second floor, the elevator doors clinked open, and she emerged from it, which startled and surprised me.
Now, she smiled and said, “Good evening, sir.”
“Hello,” I said, for it is better to respond to a “good evening” with a “hello” when you are not really interested in a conversation, for a “hello” sounds emphatic and straightforward. Perhaps because of the way I responded, she did not say anything else; perhaps she would have said something if I had hesitated. But I had turned and hurried off to the end of the hall where my room was.
In my room, I showered and changed. I poured myself a glass of Jameson and chewed some groundnuts while sprawling on the expansive hotel bed. John Wick played on DSTV until around ten in the night just as I poured myself a second glass of Jameson before calling my wife. Around past ten, while chapter two of John Wick was starting, I dozed off.
While I slept, I had a dream. There were light but hesitant knocks on my door. The knock kept coming, and as much as I willed that it stopped, it persisted. Then, someone called my name, and I woke up. And true, there was a knock on my door. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap … like a cat tapping at a door, asking to be let in. It was two in the morning. The television was turned off. I couldn’t remember at what point I did that. I rose from my bed and, without thinking or asking who was there, opened the door. My room was pitch dark, but outside, the large corridor was well lit. I could see clearly the person who stood there, and it surprised me to no end.
It was the girl of the night earlier, still dressed exactly the same way – in flat striped slippers, leg chain and – possibly waist beads or chain – skimpy, fanciful short gown, and a chain with a pendulum pendant on her neck. She looked as elegant as ever, perhaps more so, because I was now seeing her in a different light. She stood a bit back, a hand on her waist, the other fingering her phone, waiting, watching, a hint of a smile on her lips. She had intention, I could see.
“Hello?” I greeted.
She smiled and said, “Do you care if I come in?”
“Why?” I asked.
She said nothing, only broadened her smile, blushing sort of, and I asked again,
“Why do you want to come in? It’s late … do you … do you not have anywhere to stay for the night?” I asked because it occurred to me just then that she might be stranded and needed a place to stay till morning.
Just at that moment, a woman’s voice came from nowhere, begging, begging, but moaning. There was a ta-ta-ta sound following her moans, a clear indication of two people making the best use of their night. The sounds were heavy, and everyone could hear it even if they did not care, even if they did not pay attention. I paused when I heard the sounds first, startled, until I remembered I was in a hotel. She did not seem to hear it or feigned ignorance. She only smiled and said, “Just let me come in. Okay?”
I hesitated, then stood aside for her to walk in, into the darkness of the room. I turned on the light. It was too bright. I turned it off and pressed another switch by the bed, and the room was partially illuminated. It was the best light for the kind of affair that was going on in the room where the sounds were coming from. And I wondered if she thought so too, if she thought that was why I turned off the too-bright light. I sat on a chair by a reading table where my computer and books and notepad were, and indicated she sat on a small sofa in the room.
She sat on the bed instead and said, “So?”
“So … what? I don’t get.”
“So, do you care for company tonight?”
“You are already here. You are company. Why did you wake me up?”
“I saw how you were looking at me at the reception. I thought … thought you wanted me.”
“Oh.” I rubbed at my eyes. “I … you are a prostitute?”
“Sex worker.”
“Oh. My bad. I forgot the terminology has since changed.”
“You bet.”
“I was admiring the leg chain. I like it, that’s all.” I lied. I wasn’t only admiring the leg chain. She was an attractive woman, but I wasn’t going to be telling someone who just mentioned to me she was a sex worker that I was admiring her.
“So, was it just the leg chain for you? Do you have a fetish for leg chains?”
“Fetish?”
She nodded.
“I don’t think it is a fetish. I think the leg chain on a woman and possibly … the waist chain or bead is a sign of freedom, especially … in our kind of society.”
She nodded but said nothing.
“I … you know, a few years ago, our society thought women who wore leg chains as lesbians. I do not know where that assumption came from … I do not doubt that some are, but I think it is an error of generalisation. Some women just like to wear it. My wife wears one.”
“You are married?” she asked quickly.
“Yes, I am.”
She seemed disappointed. “How long have you been?”
“Long ago, actually?”
“You married early. You are too young to be married.”
“There is no age barrier. Long ago, our fathers used to marry at nineteen or less.”
“Yeah. But they married other women as they matured.”
I thought about that.
“They married other women as they got older,” she continued. She coughed slightly. “I wonder what man would remain with one woman from age nineteen till they get old.”
“It’s possible,” I said. “Some of them had just one wife.”
“But the majority had other wives.”
“I agree.”
“So,” smiling she said in a low but inviting voice, “back to my reason for waking you … do you want company?”
“You are already company,” I repeated. “But for the other,” I smiled. “No, thank you. I will pass.”
It was a hard thing to say, especially to a very beautiful woman in a cozy hotel room on a cold night.
She seemed disappointed. “I thought you wanted but didn’t have the courage to ask, so I thought I should make the bold move.” She emphasised the word bold. I said nothing. She said nothing for a while. I thought she was sad. I thought I saw the look on her face, so I offered her a drink.
“I have whisky. Irish whiskey. A Jameson. Chilled.” I opened the small refrigerator in the room and brought out the half-empty bottle of Jameson Black Barrel.
She smiled but said, “No, thank you.”
I poured a glass for myself, raised the cup to her and took a sip.
She hesitated, made to stand, but sat and asked. “If I may ask, why do you not want to fuck? Why? Because you have a wife?”
“I am not into the business of fucking sex workers.”
And she laughed, which surprised me. It was a hard laughter, the kind that sent one heaving up and down, up and down. She fell onto the bed, and this made her dress rise a little. It was then that I saw she had nothing beneath the dress. I wondered briefly if she had on a waist bead.
“You … ehm. What are you still doing here, in this hotel?” I asked because it made no sense that she would be getting home this late without anything beneath her dress. “Did you come because you need a place to stay till morning? Because you had no customers?”
“Oh no. I have a room here.”
“In this hotel?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have a room here.”
“You live here?”
“I come here every weekend to take a room and to meet my clients.”
“They know you stay here?”
“Some are mostly married men, so they call and meet me in my room here and go when they want or when what they paid for has elapsed. If not, I catch the eye of some lodgers here. Like I caught yours.”
“You did catch my eye, I must confess. You are a sexy lady.”
“And why do you not want this?” She pointed at herself.
“Because … I told you why already. It is not my thing.”
“I remember. I laughed earlier because of the way you said it. That you are not in the business of fucking sex workers.”
I nodded. I sipped from my glass. She asked if I had smoke and I said no. I offered her the glass again. She took it this time and said thank you.
She sipped, smiled and sipped again. “What drink is this?”
“Jameson. You haven’t had it before?”
“No. I doubt.” She looked at the glass admiringly, licked her lips and sent my heart racing.
“It is an Irish whiskey. Good. Better than Jack Daniels for me.”
“I love Jack Daniels and Red Labels . . . Johny Walker.”
“Jack Daniels is good. Red Labels is whiskey for plebeians. It is harsh. Makes the pallet angry.”
“I see,” she said. She handed back the glass. It was the only one in the room, so we shared. I took a sip and she smiled. “You know, you are not into the business of fucking sex workers, but you have kissed one today.” There was this hint of mischief in her smile.
“I haven’t kissed one before,” I said.
She shrugged. “You have kissed one now. You have kissed me. We shared a cup.”
“Oh. Okay. I will add that to my CV then.” She smiled. She had this beautiful smile that was disarming. I was sure it did the same to other men. It was the sort of smile that made your penis nod in your trousers. She went back to her demand. She was a persistent businesswoman.
“So?”
“Yeah. I decline, ma’am.”
“Because of your wife?” again she asked. “Some young people who are married are devoted. But after like ten years, you will want to sow wild oats.”
“You sound intelligent. You are educated?”
“Of course. I have a degree in accounting.” I didn’t want to mention that my wife has a degree in accounting as well. I said, “I have been married for ten years, actually.”
“No. How is it possible? You are—”
“Thirty-three.”
“And you got married at twenty-three?”
“I have six wives, actually.”
She threw back her head. Looked me hard and said, “You are clowning, abi?”
“No.”
“Seriously.”
I shrugged.
“No. No way.” Then she said abruptly, “Oh, because I said … I get it now … because I said men who marry early marry other wives as they get older, you want to tell me you have six wives?”
I should have stopped the conversation there, but went on. Besides, we were sharing a bottle of Jameson and anytime spent conversing over a glass of Jameson I do not consider a wasted time. So, I told her how I happen to have six wives and how the other five are all married to other men but are still my wives.
“This doesn’t make sense to me,” she said.
“Well. The women are more or less my friends, but I call them my wives, and they call me their husband. They have husbands, too, and their husbands know about this other husband, which is me. It’s a cool thing.”
“Sounds cool.”
“Yeah. I have known the first two since twenty eleven. They are both writers. The first, whom I will call A, is in the US with her husband. The second lives in Lagos. Let’s call her D. And the third is in Lagos, too, with her husband. She is my editor, and we practically talk every day—”
“Let’s call her M.”
I laughed.
“The fourth lives with me. The fifth and sixth live with their husbands in Abakaliki.”
“Let’s call the fifth and sixth Y and Z, and the fourth who lives with you, Wife.”
“You got it.”
She nodded happily.
“I have been lucky to have all of them in my life,” I said. “The first three are older than me. Way older, so I go to them for advice on family, marriage, finance, writing—”
“Sex?”
“Uhm. Yes. I can discuss that with the first two. No problems at all. In fact, my first wife’s husband is a doctor.”
“That doesn’t make her a professor of sex.”
“Yeah, but she has experience, you know, so I discuss such with her.”
“And… permit me to ask.” She bent forward, which I kind of noticed she did whenever she wanted to ask a serious question or to say something serious. “Do you … do you get to fuck them?”
“Eh?”
“Once in a while?”
“Come on, no. These are people’s wives. The fifth and sixth are wives to my best friends. But most people do not know who their husbands are because of how close we are. So, when some people meet them, they ask of me. In my town, I am kinda popular. When they are asked about their husband, Obinna, they understand and say he is fine. Some people do not know.”
“But you would have had something going on if they were single.”
“Is that a question?”
“Pass me the drink.”
I poured her a glass and handed it over.
“You should sit on the bed.”
“I am okay.”
“That chair doesn’t appear comfy.”
I went to the bed and sat, backing the bedhead. She turned to face me. She emptied the cup and placed the glass on the floor. She lay on the bed, her arms outstretched in front of her, giving me the panoramic view.
“So? If they were single?”
“I met A and D before I got married. If they were single, I do not know what would have happened. But it is not something I have ever thought about or is willing to give much thoughts. In fact, I married Wife because A encouraged it. She once said to me, ‘Obinna, you should stop dilly-dallying and propose to Wife, so you don’t end up dating your wife and marrying your girlfriend.’ It was a good advice. I don’t forget those lines.”
“You don’t end up dating your wife and marrying your girlfriend. Nice. I will keep that in mind.”
“Yeah. You should.”
“Was there someone else at the time aside Wife that made her say that to you, perhaps someone else you were considering marrying?”
“Yea. There was. It was a brief period of doubt. I guess it happens to everyone.”
She nodded but said nothing.
“So, you see. I am lucky to have these older experienced women as wives and then these younger women as well. These younger women come to me for advice. Their husbands tell them to talk to me if there is a problem. ‘Go and talk to your husband’ they say.”
“I see. Sounds interesting.”
“So, let me ask again. If there is anything … say if you and Wife happen to divorce in the future, who among the wives would you choose to be Wife given the chance?’
It was a difficult question. Difficult to answer. It was something I hadn’t thought about at all.
“I don’t think about such things.”
“You don’t believe there is a chance that you might divorce someday?”
“Divorce?” I asked. It is a question not every married man gets to be asked all the time. It wasn’t like drinking whiskey or brandy and you constantly think of a good brand to taste or what level of intoxication it could give.
“I haven’t thought about it … because there haven’t been any reason to. I have been married to Wife sine twenty sixteen and not for once have I had any reason to someday think of a possible divorce or even a separation.”
With a serious face, she said, “You should think of it often.”
I wanted to ask if she was once married but at that moment, the ta-ta-ta sounds started all over. It distracted me. I could hear it because it was night, and everywhere was quiet. The lady stood and went to the desk and got herself some groundnuts. She asked if I wanted some but I shook my head. Now she was standing, I could see her well. Her backside wasn’t flat but wasn’t big either. It was what those in the modeling business could call a perfect butt. I looked at her bosom. it was the same; not big not small. Perhaps the size of large apples. But they did not impress me because I was one for large bosoms.
She sat back on the chair and drank from a bottle of water she had collected from the desk. It was almost full. I had taken a sip after eating some groundnut while watching John Wick earlier. She said again, “We have shared a glass of drink and now a bottle of water. We have kissed, believe it or not.”
I laughed. “Okay,” I said.
“Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“I should go. I like you.”
“Thank you. I like you too.”
“Sure you don’t want some … some….”
“No, thank you. Like I said, I am not into such business.”
She smiled broadly. She didn’t ask what I did for a living and why I was in the hotel. She didn’t ask for my number and I wasn’t going to ask for hers, that would be inviting temptation to knock on my door, again.
“Do you think I will charge you a lot of money if you said yes?”
“How much do you charge?”
“Depends on what you want,” she said.
“What range of services do you offer?”
“Short time is twenty thousand naira only.”
My eyes widened. I knew what short time was. Everyone does. If one got involved with her and resolved himself just once, be it in a few seconds or minutes or an hour, that was short time.
“Mostly for men,” I said to her. “The first time usually do not go on for long. It takes minutes. Say five or ten or twenty. So, for say ten – twenty minutes, a man would pay twenty thousand Naira?”
“Well, you sound experienced in these things.”
“I am a man. Men talk. For a second go at the thing, the man stays longer than the first.”
“Yea. So, if you want a second go. It is now full package. I charge between eighty to one hundred thousand Naira.”
“My goodness.”
“But if there is a special assignment. Say, I am assigned to a VIP at events the price could go up.”
“I see. And they pay?”
“Of course. Wait until you become rich. Politicians and rich people will surprise you.”
“I see.”
“Some girls get paid over a million naira for sex.”
“This is a lucrative business then.”
“Sex business is lucrative business. You should start one.”
We both laughed. “I will give it some thoughts.”
“I will leave now if you don’t want but … hey … I wasn’t going to charge you much?”
“How much did you have in mind to charge me if I said yes when you came in?”
She paused and smiled. “Before the conversation, I was going to charge you thirty thousand naira if you wanted me to stay till morning and say ten thousand naira if you wanted a short time.”
“You are so generous.”
She laughed and shook her head. She extended her hand. I took it. She held. I did not remove mine. It was like her hand had some foam padded into it or perhaps it was me imagining things.
“I don’t know your name?” I asked.
“Hey! You didn’t tell me which of your wives you’d choose if you separated with Wife?”
“When next we meet, I will tell you.”
Smiling and holding my gaze, she said, “You sure we meet?”
“Yeah. I am here till end of the year. And this is August.”
“Then, since you want it this way … I won’t tell you my name. When next we meet, I do. Okay?”
“Deal then.”
She nodded.
“And hold on … after drinking my Jameson, what would you charge me if I were to say yes to your proposition now?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ll charge me nothing?”
“Yes. Free service. Free delivery.”
“I see.”
“So?” she asked again for the umpteenth time, head inclined to the left, licking her lips.
“I will pass,” I said.
“You should walk me to my room.”
I walked her to my door and said good night.
“You should walk me to my room, please. It is on this floor as well.”
“No.”
“Really?”
“M hmmn.”
She eyed me like I was a ghost. Like I had done some terrible thing to her. She stepped out and jammed the door so hard it startled me.
I paused, pondering it all. I went back and poured myself another glass, emptying the Jameson. I threw away the bottle in the trash. I lifted the glass to my mouth but remembering what she said twice that by sharing a glass, we’d kissed, I went to the bathroom and poured the whisky down the drain and rinsed the glass. Then, I regretted pouring the drink away. I went back to the bed and sat on it. I thought that pouring away the drink was a childish thing to do. I sighed and went back to sleep. But I could not sleep. Try as much as I could, I did not sleep that night.
The next day, I did not see her and I actually watched out for her. I did not see her at the lounge when I returned from the construction site and did not see her after I had showered and came down to sit on that exact spot to wait. When I remembered she said she came only on weekends, I went back upstairs. I went back to Abakaliki the next weekend for two weeks. When I returned, I watched out for. I wanted us to meet, this time at the hotel’s bar and share a bottle of Jameson and talk about anything at all. She was the kind that could hold her drink and a conversation well.
After several weekends of watching out but not seeing her, I went to the receptionist. It was David who was on duty, a chubby easy-going guy whom I tipped often.
“Uhmm. David.” I began, “There is this sex worker … she stays over in a room here, every weekend, you know?”
He thought about it. “A sex worker?” he paused for a while. “I don’t … know her.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t … She stays here every weekend you say?”
I nodded.
“There is no such thing going on here. This is a respected place.”
“Come on, Bro.” I brought my voice to a whisper. “She said the hotel reserves a room for her every weekend, and her clients come to meet her. Look, sometimes she gets to sit here at the lounge.” I pointed at the sofas, “and wait to see if she could catch a man’s eye. We met some weeks back and talked.”
David thought about it for a while. “Look boss. You are my guy. I can’t lie to you. There is no such arrangement, boss. If there was, even if the hotel wanted it a secret, I would have whispered it to you. But there is no reason why the hotel would want it a secret. It is not as if it is something bad or illegal sought of. This is Asaba. Prostitutes are everywhere in this town. It’s like we are the headquarters in Nigeria. I can call a girl for you if you want. They come here and drop their phone numbers for in case a guest wants a girl.”
“Look, I don’t want a girl. This particular one and I met and had a few things to talk about.”
“She lied to you.”
“Sure?”
“Sure boss. You see, you are not the first guest who has asked us of this fair and beautiful sex worker who has a room here in the hotel.” He went back to his work. I stood there for a moment, pondering it. It didn’t make sense to me, no matter how hard I thought about it.
*****
So, I finished telling my friend this story at the Rockefellers in Abakaliki, and he was silent for a while, pondering it. Then he said, “Did you think she was a ghost?”
“No, Bro. I don’t believe in such shits and look—”
“And you did not get her name?”
“I didn’t. Come to think of it I didn’t ask her from the beginning, and she didn’t ask for mine. It is possible if I had asked just when she walked into the room, she would have told me.”
He nodded. He added some ice cubes into his drink and took a sip. “Things happen. It’s possible she changed hotels or changed town after you met.”
“Or dead?”
“Or even dead before you two met.”
