we can’t afford to be shelling out boat tickets left, right and centre.’
Bula grunted in amusement. He must have heard all of this so many times before.
Zakiyyah was beginning to feel shivery, even though the room was so warm and stuffy. She touched her forehead and she was perspiring. She felt as if she could hardly breathe, especially since the air was so thick with Bula’s stale cigarette smoke.
‘How much do I owe you for the ticket?’ she asked Mister Dessie. ‘If I owe you, yes, I will pay you back.’
‘Two thousand seven hundred and fifty euros, all told,’ said Mister Dessie, without even blinking. ‘But for you, we’ll say two thousand five.’
‘How much is that in dollars?’ Zakiyyah asked him.
Bula had been prodding at his iPhone. ‘Three thousand three hundred and sixty-four dollars, give or take,’ he called out.
‘I can pay you back every week, when the club pays me,’ said Zakiyyah.
‘What club?’ asked Mister Dessie.
Zakiyyah felt even chillier now, and she was beginning to tremble. ‘The club I came to dance at.’
‘You won’t be dancing at any clubs, darling, not until you pay us back what you owe us.’
‘What do you mean? How can I pay you back if I cannot dance?’
‘Simple. You can work for us, that’s how. We have a club where men come along to be entertained by pretty young women like you. If you do that for two or three months, you should have cleared your debt, and then you can take yourself away and dance your rear end off wherever the fancy takes you. But not until then.’
Zakiyyah was shaking. ‘I do not understand you. I do not know what you mean. Please. I need my suitcase. I need my clothes. I do not feel very good. I feel sick.’
‘It’s not difficult to understand, darling,’ said Mister Dessie. ‘A man feels the itch for some female company, like, so he comes along to our club and chooses a female to give him some company. That’s all there is to it. Depending on how much your man’s prepared to pay, she’ll give him a hand-job, or a blow-job, or intercourse, front or back or both, and everybody’s happy.’
Zakiyyah couldn’t believe what he had just said to her. ‘You want me to be a
bagar
? A hooker?’
‘A
hooker
? We don’t call them that in Ireland. We call them
hostesses
, or sex workers. It’s a very respectable way of life altogether in Ireland, believe you me. It’s not quite like being a nun, I’ll grant you that, but it’s not so much sluttier than serving behind the cosmetics counter at Brown Thomas. And, like I say, you won’t have to do it for more than two or three months.’
‘I think I need doctor,’ said Zakiyyah. Her stomach knotted up and she unexpectedly retched, although nothing came up except a mouthful of sour-tasting saliva.
‘Oh, you need something to eat, that’s all,’ said Mister Dessie. ‘Bula can send out for a pizza for you. We’ll have to add it on to your bill, mind. But that’s business. You’ll never get rich if you don’t watch the pennies.’
‘I am sick,’ said Zakiyyah. ‘I cannot work for you. I cannot be
bagar
. Please, I feel very sick.’
‘You don’t have a choice, I’m sorry to tell you,’ Mister Dessie replied. ‘If you don’t work for me, I’ll report you to the immigration authorities and you’ll be arrested as an illegal immigrant and locked up in the Dóchas Centre. That’s the prison for women who don’t behave themselves, and believe me, you won’t like it in there.’
‘I can go back to Lagos. Please.’
‘Go back to Lagos? How? How are you going to pay for it? And just for the moment I have your passport for safe keeping, in case you think of skipping the country without settling up what you owe us.’
Zakiyyah retched again. She felt as if her whole stomach lining was being turned inside out, like the sleeve of a jacket.
Mister Dessie stood up. ‘I know what you need, girl,’ he told her. ‘You’ve caught the rabies, that why you’re
Bula grunted in amusement. He must have heard all of this so many times before.
Zakiyyah was beginning to feel shivery, even though the room was so warm and stuffy. She touched her forehead and she was perspiring. She felt as if she could hardly breathe, especially since the air was so thick with Bula’s stale cigarette smoke.
‘How much do I owe you for the ticket?’ she asked Mister Dessie. ‘If I owe you, yes, I will pay you back.’
‘Two thousand seven hundred and fifty euros, all told,’ said Mister Dessie, without even blinking. ‘But for you, we’ll say two thousand five.’
‘How much is that in dollars?’ Zakiyyah asked him.
Bula had been prodding at his iPhone. ‘Three thousand three hundred and sixty-four dollars, give or take,’ he called out.
‘I can pay you back every week, when the club pays me,’ said Zakiyyah.
‘What club?’ asked Mister Dessie.
Zakiyyah felt even chillier now, and she was beginning to tremble. ‘The club I came to dance at.’
‘You won’t be dancing at any clubs, darling, not until you pay us back what you owe us.’
‘What do you mean? How can I pay you back if I cannot dance?’
‘Simple. You can work for us, that’s how. We have a club where men come along to be entertained by pretty young women like you. If you do that for two or three months, you should have cleared your debt, and then you can take yourself away and dance your rear end off wherever the fancy takes you. But not until then.’
Zakiyyah was shaking. ‘I do not understand you. I do not know what you mean. Please. I need my suitcase. I need my clothes. I do not feel very good. I feel sick.’
‘It’s not difficult to understand, darling,’ said Mister Dessie. ‘A man feels the itch for some female company, like, so he comes along to our club and chooses a female to give him some company. That’s all there is to it. Depending on how much your man’s prepared to pay, she’ll give him a hand-job, or a blow-job, or intercourse, front or back or both, and everybody’s happy.’
Zakiyyah couldn’t believe what he had just said to her. ‘You want me to be a
bagar
? A hooker?’
‘A
hooker
? We don’t call them that in Ireland. We call them
hostesses
, or sex workers. It’s a very respectable way of life altogether in Ireland, believe you me. It’s not quite like being a nun, I’ll grant you that, but it’s not so much sluttier than serving behind the cosmetics counter at Brown Thomas. And, like I say, you won’t have to do it for more than two or three months.’
‘I think I need doctor,’ said Zakiyyah. Her stomach knotted up and she unexpectedly retched, although nothing came up except a mouthful of sour-tasting saliva.
‘Oh, you need something to eat, that’s all,’ said Mister Dessie. ‘Bula can send out for a pizza for you. We’ll have to add it on to your bill, mind. But that’s business. You’ll never get rich if you don’t watch the pennies.’
‘I am sick,’ said Zakiyyah. ‘I cannot work for you. I cannot be
bagar
. Please, I feel very sick.’
‘You don’t have a choice, I’m sorry to tell you,’ Mister Dessie replied. ‘If you don’t work for me, I’ll report you to the immigration authorities and you’ll be arrested as an illegal immigrant and locked up in the Dóchas Centre. That’s the prison for women who don’t behave themselves, and believe me, you won’t like it in there.’
‘I can go back to Lagos. Please.’
‘Go back to Lagos? How? How are you going to pay for it? And just for the moment I have your passport for safe keeping, in case you think of skipping the country without settling up what you owe us.’
Zakiyyah retched again. She felt as if her whole stomach lining was being turned inside out, like the sleeve of a jacket.
Mister Dessie stood up. ‘I know what you need, girl,’ he told her. ‘You’ve caught the rabies, that why you’re
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