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Authors: Leye Adenle
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lower parts and the counter were green. A foot-thick yellow line separated the two colours.
There were girls everywhere: tall, short, slim, plump. All dressed up and made up, all looking upset. Some sat behind the worn counter on a row of low wooden benches; some were standing with their arms folded across their bodies. Some leaned against the walls of a dark corridor that surely led to some darker horrors within. Those not frowning with upturned noses were pleading frantically, others, sensually, with police officers who appeared to enjoy the attention. Others were making calls on their mobile phones, or sending text messages. There were lots of them, and more were arriving, escorted in by men holding AK-47s battle-ready and absolutely unnecessarily. It looked like a whorehouse filled with disgruntled staff and unyielding pimps.
With a wave of his hand, the boss got someone to take me down the frightening corridor through the throngs of women.They stretched out their arms and called me ‘customer’. One was determined to get my attention. ‘Johnny, it’s me, Rose,’ she kept repeating, until the officer threatened her with a slap gesture and she recoiled into the line of girls. I wondered if, like me, she found it difficult to tell foreign faces apart and she had mistaken me for a white boy she knew, whose name was Johnny. Then it hit me, the meaning of ‘customer’. I was a John. It made sense, there in a rowdy noisy ‘joint’, surrounded by desperate hookers.
I was led to a room that smelt of dust. It had a single two-foot-square window with dirty glass louvres that looked like they had never been opened. Iron bars set about one foot apart protected it: enough gap for a slender man like me to squeeze through. The door was a flimsy plywood ensemble that was coming loose at its hinges and had lost most of its bottom bits to decay. It was even hotter in there; I was drawing in more dust than air into my lungs. I heard and saw the mosquitoes that flew straight at me. There was no chair, no bed, nothing.
‘Wait here,’ the officer said, and while I did, I had the time and solitude to evaluate my situation. I concluded that I was well and truly fucked. The Nigerian police had arrested me, my phone had been seized, I had lied to the police about my employer, and nobody who cared about me knew where I was.
Someone had told me that in Nigeria, there’s nothing a bribe cannot fix. I calculated how much money I had on me. At the hotel, I’d changed fifty pounds into naira at the rate of two hundred and fifty naira to a pound. I also had an extra hundred pounds in twenties hidden in my socks. I wondered how it would go down. Do I make an offer first? Would I be told how much to pay? Was there a going rate for this sort of thing? Was it going to be a negotiation? I desperately wanted my phone back. Would that cost me extra?
If I got the phone back, who would I call? Sure, my boss could bark all day long in the office in Old Street, but what could he do for me now? I had listened to him scream at people on the phone, even watched him reduce colleagues to tears, but somehow, I didn’t think his bullying would move the folk here. Nah. As bad ideas go, calling the Walrus – that’s what we called him – would be the worst.
I could call Mel. At least she was half Nigerian. But then again, what could she do from her flat in Maida Vale? She didn’t even speak a Nigerian language. Then there was Ade, my fixer, a man who had proven to be as reliable as a campaigning politician. He was meant to have picked me up from the airport, but just before the last boarding call for the Virgin Atlantic flight from Heathrow, he called to apologise and explain that he would be in Abuja on some official assignment. Thankfully, he arranged a car to collect me and deposit me at the hotel. He promised to see me in the morning once he got back from Ghana. It was only later while watching an air hostess point out the exits that I realised
There were girls everywhere: tall, short, slim, plump. All dressed up and made up, all looking upset. Some sat behind the worn counter on a row of low wooden benches; some were standing with their arms folded across their bodies. Some leaned against the walls of a dark corridor that surely led to some darker horrors within. Those not frowning with upturned noses were pleading frantically, others, sensually, with police officers who appeared to enjoy the attention. Others were making calls on their mobile phones, or sending text messages. There were lots of them, and more were arriving, escorted in by men holding AK-47s battle-ready and absolutely unnecessarily. It looked like a whorehouse filled with disgruntled staff and unyielding pimps.
With a wave of his hand, the boss got someone to take me down the frightening corridor through the throngs of women.They stretched out their arms and called me ‘customer’. One was determined to get my attention. ‘Johnny, it’s me, Rose,’ she kept repeating, until the officer threatened her with a slap gesture and she recoiled into the line of girls. I wondered if, like me, she found it difficult to tell foreign faces apart and she had mistaken me for a white boy she knew, whose name was Johnny. Then it hit me, the meaning of ‘customer’. I was a John. It made sense, there in a rowdy noisy ‘joint’, surrounded by desperate hookers.
I was led to a room that smelt of dust. It had a single two-foot-square window with dirty glass louvres that looked like they had never been opened. Iron bars set about one foot apart protected it: enough gap for a slender man like me to squeeze through. The door was a flimsy plywood ensemble that was coming loose at its hinges and had lost most of its bottom bits to decay. It was even hotter in there; I was drawing in more dust than air into my lungs. I heard and saw the mosquitoes that flew straight at me. There was no chair, no bed, nothing.
‘Wait here,’ the officer said, and while I did, I had the time and solitude to evaluate my situation. I concluded that I was well and truly fucked. The Nigerian police had arrested me, my phone had been seized, I had lied to the police about my employer, and nobody who cared about me knew where I was.
Someone had told me that in Nigeria, there’s nothing a bribe cannot fix. I calculated how much money I had on me. At the hotel, I’d changed fifty pounds into naira at the rate of two hundred and fifty naira to a pound. I also had an extra hundred pounds in twenties hidden in my socks. I wondered how it would go down. Do I make an offer first? Would I be told how much to pay? Was there a going rate for this sort of thing? Was it going to be a negotiation? I desperately wanted my phone back. Would that cost me extra?
If I got the phone back, who would I call? Sure, my boss could bark all day long in the office in Old Street, but what could he do for me now? I had listened to him scream at people on the phone, even watched him reduce colleagues to tears, but somehow, I didn’t think his bullying would move the folk here. Nah. As bad ideas go, calling the Walrus – that’s what we called him – would be the worst.
I could call Mel. At least she was half Nigerian. But then again, what could she do from her flat in Maida Vale? She didn’t even speak a Nigerian language. Then there was Ade, my fixer, a man who had proven to be as reliable as a campaigning politician. He was meant to have picked me up from the airport, but just before the last boarding call for the Virgin Atlantic flight from Heathrow, he called to apologise and explain that he would be in Abuja on some official assignment. Thankfully, he arranged a car to collect me and deposit me at the hotel. He promised to see me in the morning once he got back from Ghana. It was only later while watching an air hostess point out the exits that I realised
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