AMID SECRETS - CHAPTER 3
*Nwanyieze’s POV*
“Nne, how was your work?”
Mama Uju is a big woman, light skinned and spotless. She has even white teeth and a head full of thick, dark braids.
“Fine, Mama,” I reply.
I’m so exhausted, my body feels like it’s about to collapse. Opening my handbag, I dig out thirty thousand Naira and hand it over to her before curling up on the bed I share with Adanna, Mama Uju’s only child. The month has ended, and so it’s payday for me- or for Mama.
She is called Mama Uju by me alone because only I in this Lagos, know her past. Back then in Owerri, Mama Uju lived in the same public yard with my parents and I. She took me in when my so called parents threw me out because I was accused of seducing my father, when in truth, he had R@P£D me countless times.
It came as a huge shock to discover that they were not my actual parents, and that I had been adopted at three years old.
Mama Uju is a widow, and she lost her only daughter then, Ujunwa. Out of habit we still called her Mama Uju and she never seemed to mind. When she relocated to Lagos, I was just concluding my West African Senior Secondary Certificate Examinations (WASSCE), which she had payed for.
By then, I was an orphan again, and the government couldn’t care less about me. Watching Mama Uju leave was heartbreaking, and I remember crying so hard I fell ill. She then promised to make arrangements for me and encouraged me to write the Joint Admissions Matriculation Board (JAMB) examinations.
While managing with my adoptive parents, she helped to process my admission from Lagos. Next thing I knew, I was on a bus to Lagos and my fake parents were all too happy to get rid of me. University admissions are competitive by nature because of the pursuit for academic excellence, and I had scaled through and gained a spot in one of the leading universities in Lagos.
We live in a three-bedroom apartment in Shipeolu, Gbagada. Adanna, an illegitimate child, was born a year after I moved to Lagos, and her father wants nothing to do with her as he is ‘happily’ married. Seeing that Mama Uju had more on her plate, I went to her and seriously told her that I wanted to support her.
A new baby didn’t come cheap and with her new duties as an unemployed mother struggling to start a business, I also had to take care of the house while teaching myself to sew. It had looked to me like Mama Uju wouldn’t want to leave her child with anyone at that point.
“Be a sales girl, nne,” she had suggested.
“No, Mama. It won’t bring in enough income. And what about time for studies?”
“A nanny?”
I had shaken my head. How would I have time for my studies while taking care of children?
“I’ll think of something, Mama. Don’t worry. ”
She had nodded. “Please don’t do anything illegal, Nwa.”
“I know.”
I wasn’t a virgin thanks to my fake father, so what was the point of suffering when I could use my body to advance myself? My zeal for education was so intense I was willing to sell myself.
And so a few weeks after our discussion, I told her that I got a part time job as a waitress at a hotel’s night club on Lagos Island.
Of course, this is a lie.
Normally, I turn up on the streets every few weeks, especially when I need the money. Some other times, I show up at parties with Temi, especially when expatriates are in attendance. I prefer the expatriates because most times, I’m sure I won’t meet them ever again and they are quick to dole out Naira, with the thought that their foreign currencies have a higher value than the Naira. My meetings are usually discreet, both parties are satisfied, and the deal ends.
At the end of every month, I give her a part of the earnings to support her and our little home while I use the rest for my education and personal upkeep. I don’t give her a lot to make her suspect or ask questions, and so there is peace in the house about it.
And as a student I still keep a low profile. Currently I’m in my third year studying Mass Communication and all I do at school is attend lectures, submit assignments and write exams. No flashy car or jewellery. My runs is solely for my education and to help Mama Uju cater for our little family. Plus future savings.
There are rumors going on about me in school, of how I’m a lowkey runs girl, but I ignore them. No friends, despite all attempts from my fellow students and lecturers. I go out of my way to avoid lecturers and students anywhere I see them outside the school walls.
“Don’t you dare sleep,” Mama Uju warns me. “Go and take a hot bath right now!”
I actually feel dirty and used, but my muscles are just too heavy to move.
“I hope you didn’t get into trouble?”
“‘No, Mama.”
For me, getting into trouble would be to catch a segzually transmitted disease or to get pregnant. There are loads of diseases out there up for grabs and I don’t want any. Condoms are vital for my work, and I refuse to bed a man without them, no matter how enticing the pay may sound.
I watch Mama Uju count the money.
“You worked so hard this month, nne,” she says softly. “Why don’t you take a break?”
“I won’t take any shifts next week,” I promise.
“I’m frying akara (beans cake) now. Hurry up.”
Wearily, I got to my feet and proceed to undress. Day break has arrived already, and because I have no classes today, I plan on sleeping indefinitely. But first, food in my stomach is crucial.
Adanna is seated in the sitting room, her little face oily from eating akara like the toddler she is. She is painstakingly beautiful, with light skin, almond-shaped eyes, and curly dark hair. Her father is a white man, was one of Mama Uju’s regular ‘customers’ who dropped her the moment she revealed she was pregnant.
“Sisi,” she greeted me, jumping off the couch and launching her chubby body towards me. She unknowingly smears oil onto my fresh white shirt, but I didn’t mind. I let her feed me a bite of her meal.
“Ada, kedu?” I ask in Igbo. (Ada, how are you?)
“A di m mma (I am good.),” she replied in her baby voice.
Mama Uju has instructed me to speak strictly Igbo to Adanna, because she learns English at school and will learn Yourba from her peers while growing up.
My phone rings and I fish it out of my pocket. It’s Temi calling. I barely say hello before she blasts me with a squeal.
“Girl, where are you?”
“My house na.”
“Omo ehn, e get this beta party wey I just hear about oh.” (I just heard about this great party.)
“I don tire. Body dey pain me bad.” (I’m tired. My body hurts badly.)
Last night’s client hadn’t let me rest.
She switches to English. “They just need party girls. It’s this big politician’s son oh. They asked for ten girls and each girl is going home with one hundred thousand Naira hands down! I was told to come with a hot babe and I thought of you.”
One hundred-k? As in, ten thousand times ten? Jesus is Lord!
“Talk true,” I gasp. Parties like this are very popular and strictly by invitation. There, dollars are sprayed, vintage wines are spilled, connections are made.
“I swear down na legit talk I dey tell you so oo!” (I swear I’m telling the truth.)
“I’m in. When?”
I can imagine Temi grinning from ear to ear, revealing her gapped upper incisors.
“Tonight, sis. Tonight.” Temi replied.
_____
*Maduka’s POV*
*Friday night.*
The night every person including school children look forward to, the night we all start preparing for even from Wednesday. The night we never want to end but rush through, only to have Monday pop up and begin the unending cycle all over again.
I have never seen a group of people who love Friday nights more than Lagosians.
Jide and I are speeding towards Banana Island.
Banana Island is a place of unrivalled opulence and grandeur. It’s an entirely different world from other parts of the country. It’s a gated community, and its inhabitants enjoy such luxuries as underground electrical systems and water supply networks, 24 hour-electricity supply (the only other place such privileged is the Nigerian President’s residence), extremely tight security, good road layout, a central sewage system and treatment plant and the well-cherished company of fellow wealthy folks.
I wonder how Jide, who is currently singing Phyno’s Ezege, gained an invitation to such a party. Jide is Yoruba, but he has crammed all the lyrics, to my amusement. He is a year older than me, a few inches shorter, and very dark skinned with a head shaved clean. Unlike me, Jide keeps a full beard which contrasts sharply with his shiny head.
We went to secondary school together and somehow ended up serving for the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) in Enugu State. He is my true ride or die partner, my buddy. We have been through funny and serious times together, from boarding school to NYSC.
“You sure say I go like this party?” I question.
After a busy day working at my small agricultural consulting firm, I have a pounding head ache.
“Guy, I dey tell you say na turn up na wetin go stop this your head ache. (Partying will cure your head ache),” he answers, very confident.
“So who’s hosting the party?”
“Alhaji Kamarudeen Bello’s son, Saheed. Don’t you know him?”
“Son of the current Minister of Natural Resources?”
“Exactly. Dude has been in the US since after primary school. Just stepped into Naija and planned this party.”
“And you know this guy personally?” I asked
“Yeah. We were best friends from way back and we’ve been keeping in touch. He personally invited me, even gave copies of my picture and yours to the bouncers.” Jide laughs and I join him.
“Chill oo, this party reach picture level?” I asked
“Yes oo. The girls there will be so hot as hell.”
“That’s all you know. Woman, woman na wetin full your head.” I replied
Jide is crazy about girls. It doesn’t baffle me, really. I was once at that stage, but suddenly I realised it wasn’t a necessity to bed women almost every night. Over the years, I have come to realise that there are deeper things than sleeping with women. segz, to me, is just an activity without emotional connection. It’s just like eating, doing the dishes, sweeping the floor.
I admire strong, intelligent women who know their worth. The last girl I had dated had been everything, except that the feeling wore off after a year and we mutually called the whole thing off. I was secretly grateful that I never took her home to see my parents, because my mom would have been counting grand babies from the first moment of meeting her.
“Guess what?” he asked when we are allowed through the gates of the Eko Unity Apartment Complex. This is one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in Lagos State, with its rent reaching sky-high levels. It has every facility in perfect form, from multiple pools to tennis courts, a gym area, little supermarket, golf course, playground, and many more.
I think I’d rather purchase a plot of land and build a home to my taste.
“What?” I question. I won’t be surprised if Jide tells me that some A-list celebrities are showing up at the party as well.
“DJ Spinall is around.”
This pleases me, because DJ Spinall is very good at what he does and I can be rest assured that the party will go well.
Already, I can hear the music coming from the pool area. A wonderful mix of Ycee’s Omo Alhaji and Phizbarz’s Demo was playing. I’m beginning to get excited already.
The party is in full swing, and the pool is so beautiful. The music is loud and invigorating, urging me to just dance, dance and forget everything else. Stunning, bikini clad girls are in the pool, dancing, playing pool ball and swimming like mermaids. There are elegant canopies laced with white silk curtains which sway softly in the cool island breeze. These canopies are furnished with white, cushioned couches and tables topped with assortments of drinks and small chops.
“Oh my god,” Jide exclaims when someone walks towards us. “Saheed!”
The person comes closer and I see its a huge man the same height as mine, with a clean shaven face and a big smile. He is dressed in a white caftan and the popular checkered Arab scarf.
“Jide my man!”
The two hug tightly, hitting each other’s backs. When they withdraw, they stare at each other fondly.
“This is my guy Kaka. He replaced you after you left me,” says Jide with a laugh. Saheed laughs, too, and enthusiastically hugs me as well.
“You’re my VVIP tonight. Come, let me place you guys underneath my own canopy. Jide, jeez! We have a lot to catch up on.”
“You telling me?” replied Jide.
We follow Saheed, weaving past people dancing around the pool and dodging splashes of water. On a makeshift platform underneath a small canopy at the other side, I see DJ Spinall doing his thing, wearing his well-known Ankara cap and dark glasses.
Saheed seats us underneath the biggest canopy, filled with about five beautiful girls; the type of girls you only see in trending music videos.
“Make yourselves comfortable. Let me know if you need anything. Anything.”
“Yes, boss,” repli6es Jide, who is already interested in the girls.
“Let me check up on some things, guys. I’ll be right back.”
And with that, Saheed disappears.
I pour myself a glass of wine and take a sip. Wines aren’t my thing; I prefer spirits but today I want something different.
“Do you want to dance?” one of the girls asks me. This one has kept her eyes on me since I came close. She is very curvy with skin the colour of honey in the dim lights. Her face is perfectly made up, with eyebrows ‘on fleek’.
“Sure thing,” I replied
We dance for twenty minutes, before I excuse myself for a drink of water. My head ache is actually worse, and it’s becoming very annoying.
Jide was wrong.
.
.