The night has its own smell. It’s a mix of exhaust fumes, roasted meat and cigarette smoke. By the time I stand on my corner, the neon light from the beer parlour across the road has started to flicker like it’s tired too.
I move my bag from one shoulder to the other, watching cars slow down and speed off again. People see me and hiss, but they don’t know the hunger that drives a woman out at this hour. They’ve never tasted desperation. They do not know the mouths we have to feed.
“I get pikin wey dey wait me for house,” I remind myself. My son is six. He sleeps in a room I pay for with this body. That is why I’m here.
But it wasn’t always like this.
From Ogun state to Lagos streets
I grew up in a small town in Ogun State. My father was a taxi driver. He died when I was nineteen. Overnight, my mother became a widow with debts, and I became the firstborn everyone looked to.
I left school and started braiding hair to assist my mother financially. She raised us with sweat and blood. But it stopped being enough when sales dropped and the landlord doubled the rent.
By then, I was already in a relationship with a man I thought would marry me. He used to come to the salon, always smiling, promising to “take care of me.” When I got pregnant and told him. He vanished. I later saw wedding pictures of him and another woman on Facebook. My hands shook so hard I could barely hold my phone.
I cry tire that day. He leave me with belle, go marry another person. Men are scum!
An extra mouth to feed
When my son was born, it was just me and my mother again. No baby clothes from him, no hospital visit, nothing. The only thing he left me with was responsibility.
At first, I tried to cope. During the day, I ran my mother’s provision shop. Sometimes, I did people’s hair in their homes. But the money never stretched far enough. There was no one to send me money. I did it all myself until I couldn’t take it anymore.
One day, a friend told me about girls who do “hooks” on the mainland and how much they make. I refused at first. But hunger has a way of changing your morals.
The first night I tried, my hands were shaking. I stood at the roadside pretending to be waiting for someone, praying nobody I knew would pass. When a car stopped by, my heart jumped out of my chest.
My palms sweated even though the air was cool, and my voice cracked when I said my price. My knees felt weak as I climbed into the car, mind racing with all the warnings I had heard. I wanted to run, but I also knew there was no turning back. That was the night I crossed a line I had sworn I never would.
Thus, my life was split into two.
Daytime shopkeeper, nighttime hook-up girl
Now it’s routine. When men stop, the conversation begins with money. Sometimes they wind down slowly, pretending they’re just asking for direction. Other times, they roll it down fast, the smell of cigarettes often rushing out.
When they ask my price, I tell them 100k. Some agree, others try to negotiate 50k, 40k, and even 10k. If the money no reach, I move. I’ve learned not to beg. Begging brings disrespect.
But even when the money is right, the fear of getting intimate with a stranger sits in my chest. It’s rough. The thought that tonight I could end up with a man who might be mean, violent, or a thief, sends shivers down my spine. But what choice do I have?
Condoms, HIV, Agbo?
The best I can do is stay protected. Condoms are non-negotiable for me. I always tell the ones that insist on going raw, “You’re not my boyfriend, so why won’t you want to use a condom?” Some men try to add money to convince me to drop it, but I won’t.
One night, a client refused to use a condom. He tried to force himself on me, shouting that he had already paid. I fought him off and screamed.
Another night, the condom broke midway, and I didn’t know. When I found out, I sat in the bathroom shaking, terrified of what this could mean. I know the risk of contracting STDs and STIs is high, but what scares me the most is HIV.
After nights like that, I take my own measures. I don’t like hospitals, so I get “agbo” (herbal mixture) from local sellers, whatever will make me feel safe. I know some girls who caught HIV this way. I don’t want to be next.
Officer abeg na…
Unfortunately, it’s not only diseases I have to worry about. Sometimes it’s violence. I have been slapped, dragged from a car, and robbed. Once, police raided our spot, shoving us into a van, calling us names.
They arrest us, insult us, and still collect our money. At those moments, I remember my son’s face and wonder if I’ll ever make it home. My mother doesn’t know the full truth. She just knows that I “do night jobs.” I see the questions in her eyes, but she doesn’t ask.
Ashawo na work
Society does not treat us kindly. People shout, “Shey your mama know say you dey outside?”, laughing like it’s a joke. They insult us, mock us, spit words that cut. I’ve gotten used to it because I have no choice. I need to make money.
Some of the men who insult us in public are the same ones who sneak here at night. Dem go call you ‘ashewo’ but na dem dey find you pass. How does that even work? Hypocrites!
People should not be humiliated for trying to survive.
Sometimes, when a car pulls over and the man leans out to haggle, I imagine him at home with his wife. The double life of Nigerian men is an open secret we live with.
In the mornings, after the night’s work, I sit in my shop, selling recharge cards and biscuits. People greet me, thinking that is all I do. They don’t know the night version of me. They don’t know the girl who wears her wig and walks into darkness to pay for daylight.
E go beta…
I dey pray make God give me better work. I want to stop this. I want to be able to tell my son, “Mama worked hard, and we are fine.” Maybe one day I won’t have to put on short skirts and walk the streets to feed him.
One day.
