Written by Japheth Prosper
I hurtled my SUV past a slow moving Nissan Altima and stopped in front of a brothel at Fadeyi. No one would ever believe I could be found in a spot like that. What the heck was I looking for? I had a wonderful three-year old marriage which had only recently produced a set of twins – all boys! I had a wonderful career and a fat account. My estate was growing in size and so also were my investments. What then was I looking for at Fadeyi?
Something indeed must be wrong with me and I am very sure you’d think now that I am crazy. I am a lunatic who should probably have a bed at the psychiatric hospital. But please hear me first!
I met Ngozi only about two weeks before at a club and she told me that she was a pr0stitute in a brothel. I was supposed to run and not have anything to do with her but I wanted to play game. I never knew that I was heading into the snake pit. Although she claimed to be Igbo, Ngozi never spoke a word in her native language.
I have learnt a bitter lesson and would like every married man out there to learn from my story also. It is completely wrong for any sane person to patronize harl0ts. I was very stupid.
I grabbed my phone and dialed her number that evening. I have a dull head in cramming phone numbers but that was not the case with Ngozi’s. Her number was glued to my brain like a leach. Nothing could ever let me lose it. When something is very dear to someone, he holds it close to his heart. Ngozi’s phone number was very dear to me.
“Hello,” she exhaled from the other end.
“NG, how far?”
“Who?”
My heart sank into my stomach. She promised she was going to store my phone number on her phone the last time we met. Why hadn’t she done that yet? Why was she treating me like I wasn’t important?
I felt envy stir in my stomach. This wasn’t fair at all.
“Ngozi, so you still haven’t stored this number on your phone?” my voice was like that of a child whose mother had denied breakfast. I had been calling her almost every day since after our first meeting at the club.
“Who be this abeg?” she probed further. Her voice was impatient now.
“Guess,” I mumbled weakly.
“Charles?”
Again, my heart sank and I could still feel that pang of jealousy stirring in my stomach.
“Na Ben?”
God! She had so many men in her life and their voices didn’t mean anything to her. I was almost going to burst like a balloon.
“Abeg, I no dey for cheru kain bia business. Who you be? If you no talk, I go hang up o;” she thundered irritably and what followed was the sound of her chewing gum.
“It’s Ifeanyi,” I grunted painfully
“Which Ifeanyi? Na Ifeanyi Mushin abi na Ifeanyi Ikorodu?
Jealousy! The realization that I wasn’t the only Ifeanyi in her life made my heart spring.
“Ifeanyi Ikoyi,” I heaved choking with grief.
“Okay, lover Boy! How you dey? Na wa for you o!” Her voice was now very friendly. “Where you dey?”
“I’m in your area…”
“We no go fit see today,” She said quickly.
“Why?” I snapped. “Wetin happen?”
“Lover boy, Idris dey come see me and I no fit disappoint am.”
“Idris? Who the hell is that? Why are you treating me like this?” My anger was fanning now. “You behave as if you don’t care about me.”
“Why you dey talk like this? You don forget say na asewo I be? Abeg, go house. I no fit follow you today.”
“But…”
“Except if you go come my place before he go come.” She cut me short abruptly. “I don promise Idris and I no fit disappoint am.”
I thought about the offer for a while. It wasn’t a wise thing for me, a married man to go into the brothel. No! That was crazy.
“I can’t come in Ngozi;” I blinked. “Please come now. I shall double your pay today. Please!”
“No,” She insisted. “Even if the president come today, I no fit follow am. If you no fit come inside, forget am.”
“Ok,” I shrugged painfully and gave life to my car engine. I was already trying to reverse and leave honourably when a thought crept sharply into my head. Go! Go in. You can’t just burn your fuel to this place for nothing.
The voice was loud. Not ever a Bishop could reject it. I felt as I brought the engine dead and flung my body out of the car. The memories of our last meeting still remained fresh in my head. I couldn’t shake it off.
Minutes later, I stood by her door knocking and trying desperately to hide my face. There were a lot of boys – bad boys from the ghettos. You could tell from their cheap clothing, willful cravings and dirty languages. I wish I had listened to the low voice in my head and turned back.
“I dey come,” I heard Ngozi say from inside. A man, a roughly dressed man in his sixties swept past me talking to himself. He reeked of liquor and cigarette.
“Ngozi,” I cooed gently through the key hole. “Please open the …”
The door stood ajar and there she stood with her chocolate skin and ever long weave. As she did at the club, she was smiling at me. She was not as pretty as my wife yet here I was with her. I wonder what I was doing there.
“Come in,” she beckoned and I hurried as if I was a machine controlled by a remote.
I sat down on her little six-spring bed and no sooner had I locked the door than she held my shirt and began to scream.
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