Chapter Nine

They  took  their  places  on  the  bunks.  Maya  and  Mama  sat  on the lower bunk to the right while the two other inmates sat close to each other on the lower bunk to the left.

All was set. Mama was ready to tell the story of her life; the one the other inmates had never known about her:

“I will start the ball rolling. Our stories will be told in this format. It will begin with me, followed by Fatimah, then Mercy, and finally, you, Maya. I decided to make it this way based on the number of years each inmate has spent here. With that being said, it’s time for me to get started.”

Like students getting ready to receive lectures, they took out the pen of their attentive ears and looked Mama in the eyes. Realising that they were ready to go, she began her story:

I go by the name Adanna Jenifer Ezekwe. I am the second child but the first daughter of a family of seven; three boys and four girls. My father died when I was seven years old. My elder brother, David Ezekwe, had died earlier, before my father, under mysterious circumstances. Mother had to endure every sacrifice imaginable to give us the best of education, clothing, and training so that we could be like the children in the village. I hail from Umueche village in Abia North of Abia State, Nigeria. Life was a living hell as we grew older because of the incessant increase in the cost of living. As a result, Mother looked forward to the time when I would be hired as a housemaid in the city.

Mother’s dream came true when one of her distant relatives came all the way from Lagos to the village to visit her rarely-seen extended-family members. Fortunately, she was able to see that Mother could not afford the expense of raising six children. Madam Ify, as she was fondly called, promised to take me down to Lagos. To show how serious she was, Madam Ify gave Mother a sum of 15,000 Naira. That was a huge sum of money at that time. This was in 1992. Madam Ify promised she would return to the village in the next two weeks to take me along to Lagos, since she did not come prepared to see me in the first place.

As a child, I had always dreamt of living in the city, supporting my mother with the proceeds I made and helping to train my younger siblings, since it was the tradition of the Ibo tribe for the first child to assume the responsibility of taking care of the other members of his or her immediate family. During Madam Ify’s stay in the village, she told us of what an exciting a place Lagos was--the great buildings, the good roads, and the comfortable lifestyles of the people. She claimed that she was living in the elite area of Victoria Island and worked as a supervising officer at the National Ports Authority in Lagos. I looked forward to the day when I would be with her in Lagos working in that company. No matter the peanuts I received, it was no matter, provided my people would get to eat from the profits of my sweat.

In exactly two weeks, Madam Ify was back in the village, fully ready to take me along with her to Lagos. Seeing the level of my preparedness, she gave Mother a sum of 25,000 Naira and foodstuffs: tubers of yam, two bags of rice and beans, large bottles of groundnut oil, tins of tomatoes and packages of onions, bags of salt and sugar, and some other things for my siblings. Mother showed great appreciation for her gesture. She would not have to labour again as her dreams came through . Mother was able to set up her small trade business at the village square. At that moment I

knew that the living condition of Mother and my siblings would improve immensely.

But this came at a price unknown to them: me. Mother cried when she saw me leave her and her other children, and head out of the house along with Madam Ify to the car that would take us to Lagos. I think she hired the driver to do the job. I had no idea that I had been bought at a very cheap price!

We eventually made it to Lagos after a long journey. Rather than taking us to Victoria Island where she claimed she was residing, she took us to the home of one of her friends and instructed me to get out of the car with my bag. Then the driver drove off to God knows where!

By this time ,I was beginning to realise the troubles I would be in for. In her small apartment, I slept through the night in the company of heat and many house flies. One week later, I was feeling seriously sick, but because of how strong my body was, I recovered and continued to accept what she had to offer.

Two months after we arrived there, Madam Ify introduced me into the business of hawking. I hawked bottled water and canned soft and alcoholic drinks. She ensured that I sold all she gave me for the day to sell by threatening that if I didn’t, she would not give me dinner. I used to leave home as early as 6:30AM to hit the streets of Oshodi to hawk, and get home as late as 8:30PM, with everything completely sold. This was happening towards the latter part of 1992. I was fifteen years old.

Meanwhile, Madam Ify was fond of telling my mother that all was well, when in reality, I was going through hell on earth! As fate would have it, one Saturday morning, I bumped into one of our big brothers, a cousin really, who was surprised to see me looking tattered, and hawking along that busy road. I told him all that was happening to me and what I was going through at the hands of

Madam Ify. He promised he would take the matter to the village. He was never seen again.

One time, I came home after work very terrified. I didn’t make any good sales for the day. She beat the living daylights out of me. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I ran away from the house and started living under the Oshodi Bridge. I was there for two weeks. Madam Ify didn’t bother looking for me. When I couldn’t bear the harsh realities of living outside, I went back to her, pleading for her to take me back; that I would do anything without any complaints. She told me she hadn’t worried about me because she knew I would find my way back to her place.

Surprisingly, Madam Ify took me away from hawking. She told me she wanted to introduce me to a better business. For two weeks, I just ate, slept, and watched television. As a naïve teenage girl, I thought all was becoming well. I had no idea that more problems were on their way!

Three weeks later, we left Lagos for Benin City, Edo state, Nigeria. There, we were living in a more spacious three-bedroom flat. All seemed rosy, but one thing got me wondering: what was this woman really up to when different men came to have whispered discussions with her in the house, while staring at me during and after conversations? In time, I realized that I was, in fact, the center of their discussions!

Madam Ify took me to a place where I met a man whose name was Charles Oba. She said to me that I would be living with him for a long time. She promised I would be given far better treatment if I lived with him. Traveling to countries like England, Canada, South Africa, Japan and other countries would be all I’d be doing. Madam Ify promised that she would be sending my mother and siblings the money she would make by trading me. I was confused because I had no idea what she really meant. She left me at his mercy, not

knowing how deeply I would be soaked in the ‘trade’ which was about to drown me.

Charles Oba eventually became my agent. And at a very tender age, I lost my virginity to him. He subsequently took me to a native fetish priest, popularly known as BABA LAWO, in his village. There, I was forced to drink a bottle of blood as a sign of allegiance. Meaning that no matter what I did or what he or the client did to me, I WOULD NOT divulge anything. Otherwise, I would die miserably and mysteriously. He commanded me to undress, and placed all kinds of incisions on my body; eyes, breasts, butt and my private part. The priest assured Charles that with these marks on my body, I would attract many rich male customers. He forced me to place some charms around my waist so that there would not be any attacks from enemies on me, from either the physical or the spiritual world. With Charles Oba carefully keeping close watch, the journey into the real world of prostitution began for me.

He assigned me to various rich people government in the country in various strategic places, such as Abuja, Port-Harcourt and Lagos. The money was pocketed by my agent and Madam Ify. To make this life livable at all, I hoped she was giving the people in my village the money. Whether she did it or not is, until this day, uncertain to me.

We traveled to various countries for pimping. I had the opportunity of visiting countries like Italy, where I stayed six months; Canada, three months; Germany, two months; the US, a month; and the United Arab Emirates, four months. For the first time, I was paid money directly. This meant that Madam Ify’s share would be reduced by fifty percent. I started supporting my siblings thereafter for the next five years.

I thought all was going well for me until Mr. Oba introduced me to a client in South Africa. His name was Isa Pierre, who lives in Johannesburg, South Africa. He took me to his hotel suite. Thinking

it was a normal assignment, I was surprised for the first time in this life of mine—he wanted me to have sex with his two dogs for

$20,000! I rejected it!

As he tried to force me into the act, I smashed an empty vodka bottle on his head in self-defense. As I was running out of the hotel room, people around me saw blood on my hands. The hotel clerk rang the police station close by and told them that something had happened and gave my description. Then, when the housekeeper told him what he’d seen – the man that I came in with lying in a pool of blood – he called the Emergency Medical Team.

Before I could board a taxi to the airport to catch the next available flight from Johannesburg, South Africa to Lagos, Nigeria, the police caught up with me. I was arrested and charged with attempted murder and human trafficking. All I had on me, even the charms around my waist, were seized. I was subsequently given a prison sentence of ten years.

My connections abandoned me. I have no idea where Madam Ify fled to. Charles Oba was never seen again. I have been on my own since the time of my arrest in 1998. Only my family in the village communicates with me. They sent me letters saying how much they miss me, and they are praying and pressing hard for my release from this prison. I am happy they are doing well in the village. Now that I am in prison here, I know why they say, ‘there is nothing like family.’

As I tell you this story, I have served three years in this prison.

Still, have seven years to go!

Mama fell silent. She felt like shedding tears.

But Maya consoled her, saying, “Look ahead at the beam of hope. This was a horrible thing that happened, but it’s not forever.” This gave Mama the courage she needed to blink back the tears and smile.

“What a story!” Maya remarked, looking at Mama with pity.

“What a horrific thing that may have happened to you! I had no idea,” Khadijah commented, pitying her.

“I’m moved by your story!” Mercy said,with tears in her own

eyes.

“Khadijah, let’s hear your story. You are next,” Mama said to

Khadijah.

Without wasting time, Khadijah went on to tell her own story:

I know my ordeal is not as long as Mama’s. But my story is one about the consequence of going beyond the boundaries set by your parents. I was born a Muslim, and raised as one all my life. I have been taught by my parents to live with the strict dictates of the Holy Koran. I was ‘Dad’s girl’ all my life, but had always wished that I could enjoy life to the fullest. At the age of thirteen, I started mingling with questionable people. To me, I reasoned that they were people who were just being liberal with life. But to my parents, they were not to be associated with at all. In Alexandria, I grew up as the only child of a Jewish-Libyan mother and Egyptian father. At one time a sailor, Dad retired to take on the responsibility of being one of the leading Muslim clerics in the whole of Egypt. People looked up to us as role models. But I didn’t like that lifestyle.

When I turned eighteen, a family friend talked me into schooling in South Africa. He got me a brochure of the lists of South African universities. As I looked at it, I admired the lifestyle of the people living in Johannesburg. What really attracted me to schooling in Johannesburg were the people, social joints, and quality of social life. I convinced my dad that studying at the University of Johannesburg would be great for me. My dad, Midol Hassan, agreed to send me abroad to South Africa. He owns a publishing firm in Polokwane – EL-Amin Book Publishing. Preparations were made, and I thought freedom had become mine.

When the time came, I left for South Africa for the 1998/1999 academic session.

It was in my second year that I met one dashing young man in the person of Clark James, a second-year student of Industrial Chemistry. He was the only true love I ever knew. Clark made me the woman I am today. He promised me he would not cheat on me and would arrange to meet my parents within the next two years. Everything was going on well between us. We had fun all the time, and visited some of a more esoteric places in Cape Town, such as Pretoria and Mandela’s Qunu village.

On the 1st of September 1999, I was out doing errands, getting ready to travel home after the end of my first year. When I got back to the hostel, I saw the greatest surprise of my life; I caught Clark in the act, on the bed with my best friend! I took justice into my own hands by stabbing Clark to death. And before I could realise what had come over me, I discovered that Michelle, my ex-best friend, had gone to alert everybody in the hostel about what had happened. It was then I knew I had committed murder! The news got to my parents, and they took it hard. They wrote to me, telling me that they’ve disowned me as their only child. But they will do the best they can to get my release from prison. As you can see, girls, that has been my plight!

Khadijah ended her story to complete silence. Looking around at her audience, she couldn’t help but wonder why the others looked so surprised.

“You never told us this before. Why didn’t you tell us of this burden?” asked Mama, who couldn’t help but pour out her feelings.

“Such is life! If you didn’t know, ladies, now you all know!” she answered. Maya found it strange that Khadijah could be so stone-hearted about what she had done.

Mercy was ready to say her own side of the story. With all ears ready, she began to relate her ordeal:

Mercy Laurent is my name. I was raised on the streets of Limbe, Douala, and Yaoundé in Cameroon, never knowing who my parents were. At the age of six, I was molested by a man who I called my uncle. When he saw that I was about to tell his mistress, he drove me out of his house. All my life, the street has always been my home. I was able to speak English quite fluently because of my association with Nigerians over there. Drinking, smoking, clubbing, gambling, partying, and fighting were the street attitudes I carried with me wherever I went.

At age 12, I got involved in child prostitution in Limbe. The youngest of all clients that used my ‘services’ was a young man of seventeen years. I was so used to this that I engaged in multiple- sexual relations with various male clients for money. As I grew older, my fame was spread throughout the whole area. Knowing that I was becoming more popular amongst some politicians, my price rose as far as $30 per round. I moved to Doula and attracted a great number of clients, especially foreigners. Eventually, I settled in Yaoundé. There I was into politicians, businessmen, and merchants because my charges were high for professional reasons.

A certain businessman, named Michel Foe, expressed his interest in me. I was in Yaoundé at the time He wanted us to go to France, where I could become more educated and help grow his business. Michel knew I was a jump-around with guys, but he cared for me like no man had ever done. We got to France and settled first in Bordeaux, then in Nantes and finally, Paris. A certain middle- aged lady named Marie, who claimed to be French and a businesswoman, said she liked me a lot. She claimed that when she was in Cameroon for business, my name was brought to the desks of various businessmen for pleasure. ‘To them,’ in her words, ‘your name represented the pleasure every man seeks.’ She told me that she wished I was into women.

I had never even thought about it before, but it didn’t seem like a bad idea. One thing led to another…

It was my first time engaging in homosexuality. It was then that I became a lesbian. From then onwards, men didn’t matter to me. My business with them was purely professional, and that was it. Though I was living with Michel in his Paris home, I looked forward to a time when I could finally leave him and join Marie. I had money, so that wasn’t a problem. In fact, I was richer than Michel! I asked him, in a roundabout way, what he hated, and found out he detested lesbians. So, I arranged with Marie to come to my place to do ‘it’ at about the same time Michel came home from work. And that’s how he found out. That was the end of Michel’s and my relationship and the beginning of what I thought would be ‘the pleasure of life from another dimension’.

Marie asked me to join the group she was a member of in Paris. She called it the ‘The Sisters Seeking Extra Pleasure.’ According to her, the group guaranteed each member great fortunes, provided they engaged in mixed sexualities – bestiality, homosexuality, simultaneous multiple sexes with same and or opposite sex, marathon sex, and extreme sex situations. The more the member did this, the more the material returns. That got me interested! I signed up with the organization to the tune of $10,000. And I became a member.

The members were told that they had to attend monthly meetings. Before I could go professional with my ‘trade’, I had to practice the acts for fun, before I could see the monetary gains. I have engaged in various sex acts – bestiality, lesbianism, group sex, marathon sex…the list is endless! The harsh truth is that, because of these choices, my sexuality status was entirely affected. I couldn’t make up my mind what I enjoyed more – the sexual companionship of a man, fellow woman or animal. But my saving grace was that before I engaged in any of the acts, I never had sex with anything without the use of condoms. Therefore, HIV/AIDS, E-Coli, Syphilis,

Gonorrhea, Staph and any other STI have never been found on me. Interestingly, since my stay in this prison, I’m very surprised that the urge to have you ladies has never even crossed my mind!

A month later, I got to the meeting venue only to realise that it was actually a warehouse! When I asked the manager of the place, he told me he’d never heard of my friends, and that such a group didn’t exist there.

I knew I’d been duped! I had to look for Marie the best way I could, because all I had now was less than $5,000! After a long period of time, I got to realise that the name she gave me was actually the name of a deceased female politician in Paris. She was a scammer who needed to be tracked. Through my research, I found out that she was, in fact, French-South African, and that she was living in Johannesburg. I was determined to have my pound of flesh from her.

I went back to Michel, demanding a sum of $10,000. I knew he could afford it. Now married and with two kids, he gave me the money, but with a firm warning: ‘don’t come anywhere near me or my family.’

I traveled to South Africa and got the exact address where Marie lived. As she came to the door, she was very surprised to see that it was me. She tried to run away, but I caught her and beat her until she was black-and-blue and was almost dead. It took the intervention of neighbors to rescue her.

Unfortunately, Marie gave up the ghost on the hospital bed. By that time, of course, the police had been called, and I was arrested. I was charged by the court for ‘accidental’ murder and battery. The court considered the case files of the deceased into the charge; as she was a wanted criminal in South Africa, the verdict was reduced. Instead of sentencing me to death by hanging or to life in prison, which was normal, I would be given a fifteen-and- a-half-year prison sentence.Mercy finished telling her story and everybody in the cell was silent.