Street Walker by Natasha Msonza

It was getting darker and colder. The temperature had dropped unpredictably; a thing to be expected at this time of the year. The streets were slowly becoming deserted. Lena checked her time; it was nearly midnight. She wrapped her arms tighter around her naked shoulders, wondering how much longer she had to wait at this corner before there was some sort of action. She felt as if her buttocks were about to turn into ice cubes.

Business was ordinarily slow during weekdays, but today was unusually so. A gust of wind fleeted around her legs, lifting her loose short skirt around her thighs. Lena looked down the road, yearning and half expecting bright lights to careen towards her. There was no moon tonight. This was bad for business because potential clients wouldn’t be able to see her very well. She made a mental note to herself to leave if there was no action in the next 30 minutes. This business, much to her discovery, demanded a lot of patience. She remembered the last time she had waited so late; the police had come and rounded all the girls up for loitering. They left the station in the wee hours of the morning and only after satisfying a few libidinal needs and parting with all their earnings.

As if on cue, the bright lights of a car suddenly appeared in the near distance down the road. It was moving slowly, its driver obviously ogling the numerous half-naked bodies lining the street. The car, a beat-down Hyundai Excel suddenly came to a halt a short distance from Lena, right in the middle of the road. Lena observed as the scantily dressed women rushed to the vehicle like piranhas that’d smelled blood.

Lena stood patiently in her dark corner, having a slight change of heart thinking after all, today was probably not as dry as it seemed. Her eyes remained fixed on the women jostling for attention from the occupants of the car. In a few seconds, a lot of them fell away as the girl she recognized as Paida victoriously opened the passenger door and jumped into the cheap car. Paida she knew so well and would recognise in any amount of darkness, for she had been the gang leader of the girls who tied her up and beat her when she first walked ‘their’ the streets. Because Lena was a stranger and had no pimp, she had naturally been treated with suspicion the day she appeared on a spot belonging to one of the girls. Little had she known all street corners in the Avenues were marked territory. It hadn’t taken long to learn the ropes because she was adamant, and she would show them all who ruled these streets.

It was indeed getting colder and once more, the warmth of her cosy bed back in the flat beckoned, tempting Lena to leave. But she just couldn’t. This was her new ikigai – what gave her life new meaning. She was not about to let some man in need of help go without tonight. She stepped closer to the roadside and waited.


They all called it prostitution, but Lena called it a job. When a friend initially told her about sleeping with men to pay her bills, Lena was shocked. She thought she could never do that, no matter how desperate for cash she was. After all, it was just wrong. How your perspective on right and wrong can change considerably when you actually think about versus just accepting something as wrong because you’ve been told forever that it just is.

Unlike the other girls, Lena did not really need the money. She made enough as a top-notch accountant. She was rather amazed that she could get paid for doing something so fun. There was a market for a more or less normal woman like herself; she was surprised to find out. She had initially had this concept in her head that you had to be either extra-ordinarily attractive in order to be a highly paid call girl, or you were a $5 crack whore. She had discovered the satisfaction of taming the animal called man, and the adrenaline rush at the prospect of presiding over one was irresistible. Men were such fickle creatures you see. They think they are all powerful yet are such soft puppies in bed. Lena intended to teach them all how to respect a woman and know that the love of a woman cannot be taken for granted, that the gift of love should be freely given...

Working the streets was not easy. She and the other girls kept ‘pepper-sprays’ in their handbags that were especially useful when a client got out of hand or refused to pay. The homemade sprays consisting of acid and salt would thoroughly burn into the skin, giving enough time for escape.

The last time she didn’t get paid, Lena had a gun pulled on her and told to get out of the guy’s car after giving him an oral job. Not much she could do there. Occupational hazard.

It hadn’t taken long for Lena to have an impressive and regular clientèle. She learnt all the tricks of the trade and developed some of her own. Among the new things she discovered, she found out that the wealthiest clients preferred women who did not grovel, or reveal too much unnecessary skin. If you were physically well endowed, you didn’t need to expose flesh that could still be seen under light clothing.

Lena noticed that a lot of the girls walked with a careless slouch, the spare tyres around their waists hanging and protruding with neglect. That – to their ignorance – is what lost them many a potential client. Men also like it when you smell nice and not of the sharp cutting smell of stale sweat that accompanied sexual activity and hung around most of the girls like a halo. Even if you are a prostitute and the men know it, they still don’t want you to make it so obvious that you’ve had plenty more before them. They all have fragile egos and if you treated each one right, they became obedient dogs that meekly followed you home. This she had learnt from her friend, a seasoned streetwalker who was also a top-notch accountant. Lena recalled her friend’s invaluable advice and the last conversation they had the previous night and couldn’t help smiling.

"If you want to retain loyal clientèle, don’t delve into false flattery in your whore script. Most importantly you only mention a guy’s largess if his manhood is in fact exemplary and noteworthy. It is part of some escorts’ repertoires to stroke not only the client’s body, but his ego too. There is usually no point. If a guy is average and you are telling him he is gigantic, he’s going to know you are being flattering and not honest, so why say anything at all? It’s more sensible to comment on his manly shoulders, cute voice or dressing –something real and true; don’t you think so, Lena?"

"Yes indeed."


Another hour had gone by, yet Lena stood her ground. She felt sorry for the other girls who had huddled together partly to warm themselves and partly to do the usual gossip about her. None of them really liked her, but that was ok. This is normal behaviour amongst the competition. The funny thing was, none of them really liked the others either. They often were always bickering amongst themselves. They were like the people from the Middle East, always fighting, and when they sign a peace treaty, its temporary.

One of the girls, Rita, had attempted to become her friend once. She had 9 siblings younger than her. There was never enough food in their house, and she never got much of an education. She had told Lena that it had been really tough when each breath she took was accompanied by the realisation and worry that she might not make it through another day. Rita’s saving grace was that she had become numb to the life she led, through drug abuse, selective memories and the usual justifications one makes to oneself in order to make it through.

Another car came by, bright lights headed purposely to the secluded, dark corner occupied by Lena. She immediately recognized the green Jaguar. The occupant was a regular. Regulars often no longer needed to go to the street to solicit, they only had to make a phone call to book an appointment.

She crossed the street immediately, jumped into the front seat and gestured in the direction of her flat. Regulars could safely be hosted. In a few minutes of driving in silence, Lena sensed that the man was not in talking mood. Must be his senseless wife again.

Shortly, they arrived at Trecarell Flats. Wordlessly, they both disembarked and made for the stairs, straight for Lena’s room. As usual, it was neat and tidy, smelling nicely of lemon-grass and incense. She preferred to keep the room dimly lit. The man plonked carelessly on the bed, a blank look occupying his visage.

Lena kicked off her shoes and joined him on the bed. He remained motionless, and she slowly began to stroke him. He began to loosen up, his face relaxing a little in the semi darkness. She continued to stroke him. Whatever was eating him also fed on his libido, but that was not a problem. Sometimes a visual treat was all that was needed. Sinking back next to him, she continued stroking him, doing the complementary fake moans and soon felt some reciprocation. In a few minutes it would be over, and she would collect her money and go back to her corner.

Since he didn’t seem very verbal today, Lena let her mind wander. It amazed even her how she could maintain an air of paying serious attention yet her mind was elsewhere. Sometimes she imagined God looking down on her and shaking his head in disappointment. Sex, she thought secretly, was one of God’s great jokes on humanity, and loneliness was the human condition.

She looked at the beast huffing and puffing atop of her. Seemed as if he had forgot to use deodorant that morning, because his pits were ripe. Pools of sweat were already dripping from his forehead down between her breasts. It strangely had the cooling effect of water. Lena resisted the urge to bring her wrist close to her face so she could check the time.

More than anything, the stink coming off him today served as a major distraction. In her experience, sometimes when the guy is fat, ugly and smelly, she’d ask him for a drink first. Sometimes she met some real crazies who wanted to do crazy things like get tied up, choking or violent beating. With those, she just psyched herself up and charged more. At the end of the day, she’d just try to not think about it. Now it was just a job.

The man suddenly stopped, then slowly slid off her and lay on his back, catching his breath. Only his heavy breathing formed the other sound filtering in the room amid distant wails of police cars in the thick night outside. He lit a cigarette and silently smoked. His quietude was beginning to make Lena slightly uncomfortable; he was usually very chatty. She just shrugged and hoped he would soon leave.

Last time she saw him, over a week ago, the man was literally close to tears, and all he was saying, sounding a lot like an automaton, was that his wife simply didn’t understand. She was impossibly hard headed. Lena knew better than to prod for details. When a man came to her like this, the last thing he wanted was interrogation. Only understanding. He said he liked her because she actually seemed to enjoy what she was doing versus just being in it for the money. She also understood him. Probably, silence in the man’s vocabulary meant understanding.

Eighty percent of her clients were either married or involved in long-term relationships. She did not judge them for seeing her. If anything, they were smarter to see her than have an affair with their secretary or maid to get some sexual gratification. They did not have to worry she’d fall in love and start calling their wives or girlfriends or boiling bunnies on their stoves.

Lena believed she was in a profession that provided a great service. She liked helping people, and indeed satisfied an immediate need. People hardly recognize or visualise the extent and gravity of what happens when men and women lay down in random beds in random places for paid sexual encounters. They are usually all so quick to judge.

“Why?”

A thick voice interrupted her thoughts that for a moment, Lena thought she had imagined it. She turned her head to look at her companion who repeated the question before she could ask anything.

“Why?”

“Why what?” she asked reverently. She sat up and faced him.

“Do you have any idea who the hell I am? Do you know that you are an evil witch woman? I am going to bring that to an end soon,” the man then laughed derisively.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Lena asked, panic beginning to build up inside her.

“You don’t know? You are serious you don’t know? Switch on the lights,” the man commanded.

Lena obeyed. She stood naked under the light bulb’s halo. For a moment the man stared at her, open-mouthed. Lena fidgeted uncomfortably, but stared right back. The man lifted his fleshy arm and reached for her. Lena slapped it away. He suddenly lurched forward and smacked her hard right across the face.

“Rex! What the hell are you doing, are you drunk?” For a moment she stared closely at his face, her right cheek stinging as though bitten by a thousand bees. She looked at him in the new light, she saw that one eye was twisted like a fish’s, and that his words did not correspond to the movement of his lips, and she thought these were hallucinations brought on by the ringing in her ears. She shook her head briefly. Instinctively, she reached for her robe hanging behind the door.

“What, are you ashamed now? You? But you were not so ashamed to cheat on my little brother, were you? You had no problems sharing that body of yours heh?”

“Your brother?” Lena asked, comprehension slowly beginning to settle in.

“Yes, Tamuka. You killed him-“

“I did not kill him, he committed suicide! He killed himself. I loved him. And I loved that other man also, don’t you understand?”

For a moment they stood facing each other like two spent swimmers, chests heaving. Rex looked rather comical standing there completely naked. Memories of her late husband Tamuka came flooding back to the day he had gone through her email and discovered her communication with Mike. She had tried to explain to him that it did not mean she loved him any less. She had just developed feelings for Mike deep enough to swim in. In short, she loved them both, for different reasons, Mike for what Tamuka could not give her. Mike was more communicative, more adventurous, more... powerful. He had that 20% that was missing from the loving, soft and caring Tamuka.

She had not been ashamed to be caught. If anything, she hadn’t been hiding it, but had been courteous enough not to fling it in Tamuka’s face that she was also in love with another man. Everyone thought she was possessed but she challenged them, including her parents, if they were content being with one sexual and emotional partner for the rest of their lives. Her father and her father-in-law were known to have sired bastards with other women, why was it okay and acceptable only for men to fall in love with multiple partners? Surely this was a natural feeling? Poor Tamuka could not deal with it.

At first he had ranted and raved, then calmed down and slowly made love to her that night, after which he asked her, “Have you slept with him?”

“No. Not yet, “ she had replied.

The next morning she woke up to find a cold body sprawled next to her. Tamuka had gotten up sometime during the night, taken an overdose of Malaquinn and came back to die peacefully in his sleep. Succumbing quietly to the excruciating pain of betrayal. How she had cried, how she had missed him. It was worse when Mike lost contact. That was nearly a year ago and yet Tamuka’s death and Mike’s desertion still stung like it had happened yesterday, and ever since she had been searching... searching for a new purpose.

It did not take her long to invent an easy justification for her surrender. This was her world. The sad oppressive world that God had provided for her, and she was responsible to it.

Rex suddenly had a revolver in his hand, aimed straight at her forehead. In a flash Lena was out of the door, barrelling down the passage towards the exit of the building. As she rounded a corner, one bullet caught her on the thigh but she kept going, holding off the pain for the moment. She recognised Paida’s door and made for it, arms outstretched for help. She would probably be back by now. Lena snatched the door open and flew into the darkness. There was obviously no one home and no key in the door either. She had just cornered herself. She scrambled in the darkness, making for where she knew the bathroom would be located. She heard the front door open and bang shut. She held her breath and murmured her first prayer in almost a year. Just then the room flooded with light and Rex towered over her with a wide grin on his face. The little room resembled a tavern latrine, not only because of it oppressive narrowness, but also because of the pestilential stench and the heat.

“What do you want from me?” Lena shouted, crawling around the little room like a trapped animal.

Rex just grinned and drew closer. The man had gone completely bonkers. Stark raving mad. Lena wondered where she would go if she died today? Did people make love in heaven? Did they?

As he drew closer she bolted once more for the door, blinded with the need to escape the fury that was this man. The instinct for self-preservation is what reigned supreme as she headed for the stairs. For an instant she was suspended in the air, and then she realised that she had died without Communion, without time to repent or say goodbye to anyone.


"...And in local news, a young woman fell to her death last night in one of the flats located in the notorious red-light district. The woman – aged 28 and an accountant with a respectable firm, was believed to have been suffering from a multiple-personality disorder. She was found dead clad only in a bathrobe at the bottom of a staircase. Police are still investigating her presence there and the cause of death. The deceased’s family could not be reached for comment."

Street Walker was written by Natasha Msonza.

Copyright © Natasha Msonza 2010.

Natasha Msonza a.k.a Stash was born in 1984 in Zimbabwe where she did a Bsc Honours in Media and Society Studies at the Midlands State University. She also attained a certificate in Human Rights and human development from the University for Humanistics, Utrecht, The Netherlands.

She is a human rights activist with a passion for social justice and a flair for desktop publishing, development of IEC material, design and layout. Natasha blogs for an online community for Zimbabwean activists, and the Norwegian Council for Africa (NCA) blog forum.

Natasha is also the author of her personal blog Stashsays. She is currently working as Programme Officer for the Humanitarian Information Facility Centre (HIFC), an organization working with the media to facilitate humanitarian reporting in Zimbabwe.

As a hobby, Natasha is learning to play a guitar and is currently writing a novel she hopes to finish sometime before the next Armageddon. She gives private tuition to ordinary and advanced level students studying literature. She likes playing chess and basketball for sport.

Love Happens by Myne Whitman

Her Lagos adventure started last December with a hand delivered letter from her father’s estranged sister. Aunt Isioma said she would be in the village for Christmas and wanted forgiveness for the damaged relationship between both families. She also wrote that Gladys could return to Lagos with her if her mother agreed. Gladys had been as surprised as her mother and brothers at the request, but also very excited. At twenty-six, and after one year steeped away in the far north of the country for national service, she was ready to move to the next step. Her mother disagreed but went ahead to visit the village for the New Year.

“Gladys,” her mother called a few hours after her return to Enugu a week later. Gladys and her brothers had remained in the town for the holidays. “I’ve had a discussion with Isioma. She was still in Onicha-olona when I got there.”

They were together in the bedroom they both shared in their small flat. A fan whirred overhead, shifting threadbare curtains drawn across the louvred windows.

“She told me she is now a widow.”

“Oh no! When did her husband die?” This was not contained in the letter.

“He passed in September last year. She said he wanted a quiet burial so she didn’t bother to let anyone know. I also don’t know how those Yorubas do their tradition. Anyway, everyone was agog; it’s been almost twenty years since she was last seen in the village. I couldn’t help feeling sympathetic for her; I know how lonely widowhood can make one.”

Gladys watched her mother clear her throat and fiddle with her neckline.

“We spoke privately and she apologised again saying she wants us to put the past years behind us.”

“What’s your own opinion Mama?”

“I told her I didn’t appreciate how she thinks she can come back so easily without any explanation for what happened.” Gladys bent her head as her mother continued, “Didn’t I tell you I sent Isioma several letters when your father was sick and never replied? It hurt me so badly when she didn’t show up for the funeral and I thought I would never forgive her.”

Gladys squeezed her mother’s hands.

“When I married your father, I was happy he had a sister my age. She was already married and lived in Lagos but I hoped we would become like sisters. That never happened.”

Gladys knew it was so painful for her mother because she lost most of her own relatives when her village fell during the Nigeria-Biafra civil war.

"Anyway, I decided to let bygones be and told her I forgive her. But I have my reservations; I’m not comfortable with her request for you to come and live with her in Lagos.”

“I know this Mama. But I still have to go there for the Zenon Oil test.” She’d received the invitation letter a couple of weeks ago, and it had since become the fulcrum of her attempts to get her mother to allow her to move permanently to Lagos.

“Yes, and that’s the reason I told Isioma that I’ll accept her request.”

“Oh, thank you Mama...” Her jump of joy was halted by her mother’s next words.

“I could say we’ll find a temporary place for you in Lagos but I have to be realistic and think of your future too. If you succeed at the test, there’ll be interviews, and I don’t want you to have to travel back and forth or worry where to live. You all do very well in your studies, and I thank God for that, but it has not been easy. I still have to see your brothers through school.”

“I think I’ll pass, that’s why I am so excited. Mama thank you.”

Her mother looked at her and smiled with pride.

“I know you will, even if not with Zenon. The truth is you stand a better chance of getting a job there in Lagos.”

Gladys nodded and her mother hugged her close.

“You understand that if not for our tight finances, you wouldn’t be going to stay at Isioma’s place in Lagos?”

“I know. But things are getting better, you said so yourself.”

“Yes I did...”

As her mother spoke, the electricity was cut off. They both laughed because this was the second time in as many hours. Gladys opened the windows and turned up the kerosene lamp burning low in the corner. As she placed it on a table, the clutter in the dark room sank to the edges and shadows jumped across the faded walls. She sat back beside her mother on the low bed. It had a double mattress, one of which she threw on the floor when it was time to sleep.

Her mother continued speaking. “It may not be easy living with your aunt though. We don’t have much but this is your home and you have the run of it. It could be a different situation in Lagos. Isioma is a very wealthy woman and we’re the poor relatives. It is possible she expects you to work around the house as some sort of help.”

"I understand and won’t mind if that is the case. I am not afraid of work."

"I know Ada’m. You’re my first and only daughter and I did my best to train you well. No matter what happens, please, be a good ambassador for me.”

“I will Mama and trust me, it will all come out right.”

“I pray so. Your aunt might be amongst the rich people of this world, but I have taught you that true wealth is friendship with God. For reasons known best to her, Isioma kept away from us for over fifteen years. Do not give her grounds now to complain or call me bad names. Any time you want to come home, remember we’re here with open arms."

Tears sprang to her eyes and she hugged her mother tight. "Thank you Mama."

"It will be well Ada'm." Her mother called her the pet name again, smoothing her hair.


Gladys travelled by the cheaper night bus two weeks later and arrived before dawn. She knew Lagos had about fifteen million people; over five times the size of Enugu but it was an eye-opener seeing it herself. As she wandered out of the Peace Mass Transit bus station, the motor park just ahead was a noisy chaos with hundreds of battered yellow buses parked at random. The toots of vehicle horns, mobile phones, and loud shouts assaulted her ears. It was her first time in the crowded city, and she hoped to meet people who would advise her on the best route to Victoria Island. Her wealthy aunt was not much help as she never used public transport.

She lugged her wheeled box down the road; there was no sense in dragging the flimsy rollers along the potholed side-walk. The congestion was evident with people everywhere even though it was not yet fully light. Yoruba language bombarded her, from most of the people who thronged the streets and from the boys yelling through the open doors of moving yellow painted buses. Afro beat music blared from loudspeakers on top of parked vehicles.

She tuned out the noise and listened to the conductors barking out route and destinations to determine which of them was going to the area she wanted. She soon found a smaller Danfo bus, clambered in and plopped down on the empty space on the middle bench. She was not surprised when the conductor said there was no timetable and the vehicle would only move when full. It was the same almost everywhere she'd travelled. She settled in expecting they wouldn’t wait too long to fill up.

Passengers thronged the park and this bus was not one of the larger models. That would have meant a longer, sweatier delay on this humid morning.

The park also served as a market and narrow shops with colourful banners lined the edges. The scene was swarming, air thick with body odours, dust, and strange food smells. Gladys absorbed it; amused as she watched some of the other passengers buy various items from the hard discomfort of their seats. Hawkers came up to the bus to offer underpants, watches, popcorn, sausage rolls in worn wraps, and plastic bags of pure water. Gladys bought the water, not troubled about its purity, and sucked the bag dry. She tossed it out of the window as the bus wheezed and shuddered its way out into the traffic.

A mother with a child on each knee blocked her view of the road ahead and cramped next to the woman’s wide hips was the brawny conductor. Gladys contented herself with looking out through the smudged windows on both sides of the rickety yellow bus. It took them over an hour to hurdle the Lagos lagoon via the Third Mainland Bridge. As the sun started its ascent over the sometimes inching, sometimes stationary bus, Gladys was riveted by the sights and sounds of her new city. She marvelled at the contradictory panoramas that met her gaze.

Men, women and children paddled canoes on the mucky black water beneath; oblivious to the stench Gladys could smell from the top of the bridge. The large numbers of wooden houses balanced on stilts above the lagoon had rusty tin roofs wreathed in coils of smoke from open cooking fires. A sawmills further down burnt sawdust and belched up even more clouds of smog. All this mixed with the exhaust plumes from the traffic to create a dense haze that tickled her nostrils. The late January sun outlined the façade of the Lagos Island skyline that towered in the distance. The many high-rise buildings may have been a different colour in an earlier life, but all she saw now were structures blackened by decades in the fog.


Almost an hour after she disembarked from the bus, Gladys stopped to check if she was still on the right path. She’d trundled along engrossed by the spectacular architecture. Well designed residential houses sat way back from the road with painted aluminium roofs and high metal gates. She now stood before the enormous construction site of an almost complete church whose grandeur was not diminished by the swarming labourers or the wooden scaffolding. Stained glass windows depicting scenes from the bible reflected off marble walls and a massive pillared gateway framed the paved courtyard. The laughter and whistles of the labourers when they noticed her gawking reminded her of the otherwise deserted street.

Gladys walked a few more feet, took another peek at her journal and concluded she was truly lost. She held up the journal in confusion. She’d sketched the directions at a mobile phone kiosk during an earlier conversation to inform Aunt Isioma of her arrival. Then, the route looked clear enough but now she knew the hazy map wouldn’t be much help in locating the right way. She looked back at the construction site. A couple of the bare-chested men drew away from the group and moved closer to her. One called out something, probably in Yoruba which she didn’t understand; the other winked with a suggestive leer and a complex hand gesture.

She ignored them and instead walked rapidly to put some distance between them, and then studied her map more closely. She looked up the street again, then down at the map repeatedly, her brows furrowing as she tried to identify a landmark. She could not identify the street she was on the map. Her heart began to race, her underarms broke out in sweat and she felt like crying. Her luggage though easier to wheel on the paved side-walk, was now a burden. She was afraid they were going to rob her or worse rape her. As the labourers gained on her, she recalled her mother’s question before they said goodbye at the Trans-Ekulu Motor Park. "Can you find the address on your own? Perhaps you should wait to be picked up..." Gladys had shrugged. "That will take too long. I’ll call Aunt Isioma to get the directions and I’ll be fine. I'm a big girl, Mama. I can get there without any problem."

She shook her head as she stared at the map again but was jerked out of her self-mockery when the gate of the house ahead of her opened with a loud clang. A black Mercedes S class model with tinted windows purred out. She stared at it in appreciation as it turned towards her, distracted from her quandary for the moment. She took a step back, startled when the car stopped beside her. Her mouth almost gaped when the back passenger window rolled down. She couldn’t help but note the looks of the man who stared back at her. He was very attractive, probably in his mid-thirties, with a certain stamp of authority all over him. He had a permanent line between deep set golden-brown eyes and pink lips accentuated by his dark skin.

"May I help you?" he enquired.

"No... I’m OK." she stammered in uncertainty.

"That doesn’t seem to be case from where I’m seating." His deep voice was mellow but his stare sharpened with suspicion as they went to her large box.

"Erm... I think I've lost my way." She burst out without much thought and then could have kicked herself. That sounded so lame and suspicious.

His eyebrows climbed his high forehead. "Are you sure?"

“Yes.” She caught the sympathetic eye of the driver through the front window and began again. “My aunt lives at...” She looked down at her journal, stumbled over the address and continued. “This is my first visit and I may have taken a wrong turn as I walked...”

He scrutinized her for a few seconds and gestured towards the car. She didn't understand at first and stared at him. When he repeated the motion, she asked, “What?”

“Get in.” He bent away and swung open the back passenger door on the far side.

“Why? Where do you want to take me?”

“Where else but to the address?” he snapped. His driver chuckled but gave her an encouraging nod with another smile.

Gladys was a little hesitant; there was no hint of softening on his face. She glanced up at the two labourers who were still standing a few feet away. What a dilemma.

“Well you can just get me to the end of the road and point out the right direction...”

He cut her off. “I said we’ll drive you there. Get in.”

His terse voice ended the conversation. It was clear he had no time for chit-chat.
Another car honked behind his and the driver pulled over, popping open the car trunk in the process. Gladys decided to trust him and stowed her luggage away. Rather him and the kind driver than those men who were still looking at her like bait to fish. She scrambled into the car with a mutter of reluctant thanks and the hope that it wasn’t too far out of his way. The interior of the car was spacious and lavishly appointed. She admired the fixtures and automatic controls, the bucket seats fitted with tan leather. She could imagine her car-loving brother’s envy when told him about it later. A few minutes later, they drew up before another big mansion.

“This is your aunt's address.” He stared straight ahead.

“Thank you.” Gladys stepped out and hefted her box from the boot. She expected them to drive away without delay, and was surprised to see the car still there as she rang the bell at the gate.

"I'm here to see Mrs. Dehinde-Ojo." She gave the man who unlocked the gate her name and her details.

“Ah! Madam dey expects you. Come inside.” The gate-man grasped the luggage and ushered her in. When she looked back, the car and its occupants had vanished.


"Oh Gladys, thank God you arrived safely."

She was inside the big house, wrapped in Aunt Isioma’s arms.

Perplexed by the effusive welcome, Gladys hugged her back in a tentative manner. The underlying awkwardness was so real and she wondered if her aunt could not feel it.
Aunt Isioma was tall and light skinned like her. Her cotton nightgown skimmed her slim figure. Only her face showed she was a similar age with Gladys’s mother. She didn’t look too different from the pictures in the old black and white family albums back home. As they spoke, Gladys followed her through a wide hallway and into the living room.

“Sorry, it would have taken too long for Ade to get here on time to collect the car and then come pick you. And there’s the traffic too.”

“No problem Ma. It did take the bus a while to get over the bridge which was full of cars coming this way; the rush hour I guess.”

“But you got here OK? You did not miss your way?”

“I did but it was fine; people were by and large helpful. Lagos is not so bad.”

Her aunt smiled and indicated she should sit. Gladys sank in and relaxed against the soft cushion behind her. Her muscles relished the soft contours after the uncomfortable bus benches. She looked slowly around. The fabric sofa she sat on was close to the hallway and in earthy tones that matched the abstract watercolour to her right. Large photographs of two good looking women dominated the nearest wall; those would be Aunt Isioma’s daughters.

The huge cream coloured room had a very high ceiling made more so by the white plaster which also highlighted the stairs leading to an upper level. There were two furniture collections in the expansive space; facing the television was an oversized chocolate leather settee with identical armchairs. A soft lavender scent filled her nostrils from the fresh flowers on a table.

"How was your trip? Have you let your family know you’ve arrived?”

“Yes Ma. I left a message for them when we arrived at the bus station. The journey was smooth and lasted the usual time.” That was ten hours across rough and sometimes desolate roads. “The bus company lived up to their name; there were movies on board and an armed security officer. Thank God, the latter was not needed.” That did not mean she caught more than a few winks of sleep.

“That is good to know. One often hears of overnight coaches that are ambushed and passengers robbed of their valuables at gunpoint. I don’t do much road travel myself these days and can’t remember the last time I boarded a night bus.”

Gladys thought that sounded condescending, but let it go and only nodded. In the next moment, her lips stretched in an unexpected yawn.

Her aunt stood up right away. "Sorry my dear, I shouldn't keep you. You've just come off a very long journey and must be very tired. Come, I'll show you to the guest room."

Gladys took in more of the house as she followed her Aunt to the steps. There was a large dining room off to her left behind an alcove with moulded detailing and two sentry potted palms. These complemented the other plants dotted around and the center pieces on the tables. When they got to the upper level, her aunt called out to a girl making the bed in one of the bedrooms.

"Bunmi, come over here. Leave the beds for a minute."

"Yes Ma," the girl replied as she joined them.

"Go and prepare some toast and tea for my niece. Please be fast, OK?"

They entered through into an airy, well furnished blue and white room which already held Gladys' bags. The heavy curtains were drawn and bright light poured onto the twin beds. Aunt Isioma crossed to the far one to tuck in and smooth a stray sheet. Her gaze swept over her niece for a quick minute. Gladys pretended to be absorbed in the small table pressed to the wall nearest the door. It was cluttered with small ceramic knick-knacks.

"This will be your room for as long as you wish to remain with me." Her aunt turned around the room. "I hope you like it."

"Aunt Isioma, this is great. Thank you very much."

The room was the size of the whole of the parlour area in their flat in Awka. Gladys couldn’t believe it was all hers. There was a built-in wardrobe paired with a dark wood dresser and the table near the door. The other objects were a mixture of lighter wood and stainless steel and appeared to be new additions. The cotton sheets on the bed looked very fresh.

"Well, I want you to be comfortable here, so feel free to tell me whatever you need.”
"I'm sure I'll enjoy my time here Ma."

"All right, Bunmi will bring the food when it is ready. You can freshen up in the adjoining bathroom." She pointed to a door on the other side of the bed. "It's over there."

"Thank you Ma." Gladys was bursting with happiness and couldn’t wait for Aunt Isioma to leave the room. A wide smile began to bloom on her face.

"You don't have to thank me, my dear. Just eat, sleep and relax. I’ll see you later."

Her aunt left the room and Gladys finally let rip a whoop of joy. She quieted as she rounded the room, touching everything - bedspreads, curtains, wardrobe, dresser, mirror, chairs. The wonderful house was made even better by Aunt Isioma's positive attitude. This was different from what she and her mother assumed but also put her on her guard. And then there was that attractive man that drove her here. She knelt down and said a quick prayer of thanks.

Love Happens was written by Myne Whitman and is the first chapter from her début novel, A Heart to Mend.

Copyright © Myne Whitman 2010.

I grew up in Enugu during the 1980’s Nigeria. My earliest memories are of reading everything I lay my hands on, studying and then trying to play as much as I could under my parent’s radar. I remember that I started to write while still in primary school of the kind of children adventures I wished I had. I read more after that, especially of the Mills & Boon romance series and stopped writing my own stories.

I started writing again during the incessant strikes while in University and found my pen tilting unwittingly to the romance genre. I reeled off three manuscripts in the following years until the weight of bank work and a subsequent master’s degree in public health research meant I didn’t have the time or the inspiration to continue.

Now recently married and with more time on my hands, I have gone back to that first love. I started from the genre where I stopped but hope I will be more versatile as time goes on.

A Heart to Mend is my first published novel.

The Saxophonist by Anengiyefa (Part Three)

Tonight's show felt different from the others that I had seen. I felt restricted not only because I was seated at the Shrine, which itself was strange enough, but there was a woman sitting right beside me whose presence was uncomfortable to say the least. I wondered if she thought anything of the fact that Moses had sat me next to her, but as far as I could tell she seemed completely unconcerned.

We had exchanged greetings when she had first arrived, but since then I might as well have not been there. I didn't mind being ignored, indeed I quite welcomed it. What was uncomfortable was that I could not enjoy watching Moses as I had hoped I would, there being a constant reminder sitting just inches from me that this man was unattainable in the way that I desired. Its not as if I didn't already know about her, or that I ever imagined that I could take Moses away from her. But I did not need to have to be constantly reminded of who she was and what role she played in the life of this man with whom I was so hopelessly in love. Moses himself had not looked away from our direction all night and that was pleasing. But because of the lighting, it was hard to tell whether he was looking at her, or at me. For the first time I felt a bit jealous.

At end of the set I got up and made my way outside without once looking in Moses direction, perhaps to send the message that I wasn't entirely happy with the evening so far. Outside I made sure to stand conspicuously under the lights by the entrance. Moses would come after me if he cared anything for me. He must have noticed that I was acting rather strangely, I told myself. And sure enough, Moses did come out and because I saw him before he saw me, I saw that he was casting his eyes about until they settled on me, where I was standing pretending not to have noticed him.

However, he wasn't alone and it was a few minutes before he managed to extricate himself from the group of people and then come towards me. There was a look of concern on his face and I felt sorry that I had upset him. But I needed to let him know that it was not comfortable sitting beside his wife. Moses seemed to understand immediately as he looked into my face, I didn't have to say a word. He came up so close to me that I could feel his breath on my face. I couldn't help myself and said "I'm sorry". Moses said nothing. He put his arm round my shoulders and steered me in the direction we had gone the last time we were together. I put my arm around his waist as we walked together. I didn't care anymore who saw us, or what anybody thought. In this place, he had more to guard against than I did, yet he had come after me and put his arm around me in the open, in full view of everyone. I must mean something to this man and the thought of it warmed my heart.

We walked down the street and slowed. I turned to face Moses and put my other arm around his waist so that both my arms were wrapped around his midsection. I placed my face sideways against his chest and before I knew what I was saying, said "Moses, I love you..." Moses held me, right there in the middle of the street. He is so gentle, this man. I cannot bear the thought of living my life without you Moses, I thought to myself.

Moses then told me that Grace was due to travel upcountry to her parents' home somewhere in the hinterland. He said the visit although already planned, was not yet set for a specific date. He needed say no more, because we both understood what this meant. That we, Moses and I, would get the chance to be together, on our own and soon. How blissful this would be, I thought. I looked into Moses' eyes. This man loved me, I could tell. We held on to each other for as long as we dared, not saying much, just enjoying the moment, feeling the warmth from each other. Reluctantly, we let go, because it was sensible at this point for us to return to the club and see out the rest of the show. Much of the communication between us was of the kind that is not spoken. We seemed to know what the other was thinking without having to ask. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Moses. I had never felt this way about any person in my entire life.

And so we returned to the Shrine, but I did not go back to sit beside Grace. I went to my spot, on the left side of the stage, closer to where Moses was than was the seating area. I wanted Moses to know that although I was in love with him, I did not want to be a part of his marriage, or affect it in any way whatsoever. Ours was a homosexual love. It was different from what he had with Grace. And that was fine, as long as he kept her out of our relationship. My reasoning was that the part of Moses that was attracted to me and which reached out for me, was not a part that Grace could satisfy. He wanted me to fulfil that part of him, and I was there for him. I wanted Moses to have all of me, since there was no part of me which he could not fulfil. I loved him and I was going to prove it when we had the opportunity to be together. I returned to the campus that night excited, in anticipation of the day when Moses and I could have each other. But at the back of my mind was the exam that was due to start next Monday. I hoped that on Friday when I returned to the Shrine, Moses would have some good news.


The Wednesday and the Thursday that passed before I was to see Moses again were the longest two days ever. But the pain of waiting was reduced by the fact that of necessity, I was confined for hours studying in that airy reading room near the amphitheatre of the science complex, one of my favourite places on the campus to sit and study. Very light and bright, with large windows providing views of the lagoon and offering a strategic view of Jaja Hall, a hall of residence for men. The sea breeze off the lagoon and the agreeable surroundings were supposed to help to focus my thoughts on my work, but every passing student was in my mind immediately compared to Moses. It always came back to Moses, whatever I did. There were many men in the vicinity and I've often wondered if I liked this place so much because the rooms of Jaja Hall had windows from floor to ceiling, such that it was quite possible to see right inside the rooms from where I sat. I did the best I could with revision and preparation for the exams. I desperately wanted to become free from studying and education generally, so that I could do all those things I'd always dreamed of. And the way out was to pass these exams, graduate and move somewhere far away from home and family. But there was this new complication in my life, my relationship with Moses. It was a distraction that I didn't need, but one which I had no control over.


Friday finally came and I arrived at the Shrine, careful not to arrive as early as I had done the last time I was here. Even before I turned into Pepple Street, I saw Moses standing at the corner looking in the direction from which I was approaching. He had seen me and it seemed to me that he was out there just to meet me. I was surprised, but I realised then that he must have been missing me too, perhaps almost as much as I had missed him. I thought to myself how unkind this world is, that denied us the joy of rushing towards each other and jumping into each other's arms. I loved Moses and I could see that he cared for me too. Smiling at each other from the moment we made eye contact, we came together, him walking towards me. I saw that he was being careful not to attract attention to us, so we just shook hands and walked side by side towards the Shrine.

The gate was already open and he led me in, past those waiting in the queue and past that handsome bouncer who I kind of fancied the first time I came here. Moses nodded to the bouncer as we passed. It was a strange feeling I had whenever I was with Moses. It was a lovely warm feeling, the feeling of being where I am meant to be. Nothing seemed as important as being with him. I had never felt this way before, but I also knew that this was a feeling I never wanted to lose. The Shrine already had some people inside and it was a bit noisy. Moses and I went to a quiet corner and then he told me that Grace had left to see her parents this morning. There was excitement in his eyes and surely he too would have noticed the joy that was in mine. We agreed that we would meet at the street corner where we had just met. I was to proceed there after the show and he would meet me when he finished what he had to do.


The show went on as usual. At break time we looked at each other knowingly, but made no move to do what we had done each time since the first day we met. I has happy. Here was Moses right before me. And he was mine, even if only for tonight. All thoughts about Jurisprudence, Trusts Law, Psychology and all exams were banished from my mind. Tonight belonged to Moses and me and I was going to enjoy it. I was excited and danced as I loved to do to Fela's music.

Eventually when the show ended, I went outside and waited for Moses. It was nearly an hour before he came out and even then, he wasn't alone as is often the case in this place. Still, I knew that I was leaving this place with the man I loved, so no amount of waiting was too much. Moses left his colleagues and came towards me. I moved further forward and turned the corner so that by the time he reached me, we would be out of sight of his colleagues. We immediately clasped hands and headed towards the Ikeja bus station, a typically rowdy and chaotic bus station even at this late hour, and potentially dangerous at night, as is any other major bus station in Lagos. But I was with Moses and felt in no danger.


We boarded a taxi and headed towards Ogba where Moses had his home. Before now, I had tried not to think too much about what would happen this evening after the show and in particular, where we would go and what we would get up to. But this was unfolding right before me, even before I'd had the time to think about it. We were seated in the taxi, at the back. Our bodies were pressed against each other and Moses casually swung his arm around my shoulder. It felt to me as if he was asserting his claim over me. This man owned me and I absolutely loved it. Traffic was unusually light and we arrived at our destination after only 15 minutes of riding in the taxi. Moses paid the fare and led me through a locked gate which he opened and relocked.

It was a block of four flats, typical of this part of town, two flats downstairs and two upstairs. Theirs was the one downstairs on the right side from the front as we walked up the path leading to the building. It was dark and I was unable to take in all of the surroundings, but I sensed that it was a reasonably decent neighbourhood. Moses opened the front door, let us into their flat and turned on a lamp that sat on a cabinet near the door. The sitting room was tastefully furnished, spartan, in exactly the style that appealed to me. There were two two-seat sofas against two of the walls, a furry rug at the centre of the room and a glass coffee table on the rug. This was a lovely home, a nest that Moses and Grace had created for themselves. I instantly felt like an intruder.

Later, Moses told me that he was puzzled by my reaction when I had entered their flat for the first time. I tried to explain to him that I felt odd entering this place because it had the imprint of Grace all over it. It was his home, but it was hers too and I felt like an outsider, an interloper. Sensing this, Moses had tried to make me relax. He knew that I enjoyed being physically close to him and he made sure never to be in a position where I couldn't just reach out and touch him.

He poured some brandy, I guess to lighten the mood and I sat on one of the sofas. Moses put on some music, George Benson, Al Jarreau, Roy Ayers, Earl Klugh, Herbie Hancock, but the music was low and so was the lighting. He joined me on the sofa and we sat together just enjoying being together, luxuriating in this moment, alone and in private, not saying much. It was our first time like this and although I knew that he must be tired after the show, he seemed to be more concerned to see that I was relaxed and comfortable. He placed his arm around my shoulder again and pulled me close and then we kissed. This was the moment I had been waiting for all these days. I responded enthusiastically and from that moment on, what happened between Moses and me, suffice it to say that this was the most exquisite night that I had ever lived through; although I flatly refused to be led into their bedroom. He fetched some pillows and we curled up together on cushions taken from the sofas and placed on the rug, and in each other's arms we slept intermittently. Moses made me very happy that night.

The Saxophonist was written by Anengiyefa.


Copyright © Anengiyefa 2009-2010.

I grew up in a suburb of the city of Lagos, Nigeria in the 1970s and spent all of my childhood and formative years there. That city more than any other, is my home. I fulfilled my childhood ambition of becoming a lawyer when I was admitted to the Nigerian Bar sometime in the mid 1980s and went straight into law practice. But it was not very long before I became disillusioned with the system in Nigeria. I persevered for as long as I could, but seized the opportunity when it came to relocate to the UK in 1996. I have been living in London, UK since then and have since re qualified and been admitted to the Roll of Solicitors of England and Wales. I enjoy the challenges thrown my way in the work that I do and my profession is a big part of my life.



But then I've also discovered another love, a new found love of creative writing. In February 2009, I surrendered to a long held desire to start a weblog. In writing the blog I gradually drifted towards writing stories, episode by episode, making up the details as I went along. The stories I have written and the ones that are still at the embryonic stage in my mind are all based on real life experiences and situations, of myself personally or of others I have known. But the accounts are fictionalised.



I stumbled upon ST while on one of my web surfing expeditions. I was moved by the fact that several other African people were similarly motivated to write creatively such that I felt a compulsion to join this group of African writers. And I was pleasantly surprised when Ivor Hartmann read one of my scripts and thought it good enough for me to be admitted as a ST author. I have never had anything published previously, save for the odd contribution here and there to Nigerian and British newspapers and magazines, usually one strong opinion or the otherr. ST is the first venue at which my creative writing is published and I cannot say how pleasing this is. I know this is supposed to be an autobiography, but I was not going to let slip the chance of expressing my immense pleasure.