Easy Motion Tourist (19 page)

We were on the Third Mainland Bridge. Darkness spread out on either side of us, behind us, and before us beyond the reach of the headlamps’ beam where the bridge continued it’s ambitious stretch over deep water. I remembered the driver who picked me up from the airport told me the bridge would soon collapse from lack of maintenance. He told me this while we were stuck in an endless traffic jam and as I was looking down at the lagoon below.

Amaka overtook a white bus and I did a double-take. A child appeared to be driving. Behind him, stony-faced men and two frightful dogs stared back at me.

Aunty Baby’s place was a large two-floored building that looked like an office block. An old man in a brown khaki uniform hopped off his stool by the front door and his wrinkles stretched into a smile.

‘My daughter,’ he said, and embraced Amaka.

They then spoke in pidgin. I was lost.

‘This is my friend from overseas,’ she said, taking my hand.

He embraced me too. He smelt of VapoRub.

We walked down a wide corridor lit by a single bulb, to a flight of stairs that ascended into darkness. On the first floor landing, we came upon girls in various stages of undress, all waiting their turn to hug Amaka.

She would explain later that Aunty Baby and her husband Flavio bought the rundown hotel years ago, intending to fix it up and make a business out of it, but Amaka convinced them to turn it into a safe house for the girls. Here they got free medical care, training in different vocations – all paid for by the Street Samaritans. The couple charged five thousand a month for a room shared with other lodgers; it was a fraction of what they could make running it as a regular hotel.

The girls were at different stages of leaving the streets. Aunty Baby didn’t mind – so long as they didn’t bring men to the hostel. When they found husbands, or learned trades and got jobs, they would have no excuse to continue hustling, but in the meantime they had to feed. Amaka did the maths for me: if a girl has four ‘boyfriends,’ and each time she visits a boyfriend he gives her five grand, if she sees each boyfriend once a week, in a month she would have made eighty grand. That was a lot more than some bankers earned, she claimed. It was with this money that the girls – some of them – were able to buy hair dryers, rent small shops and open salons, or pay their siblings’ school fees. Some were paying off family debts. Not one of them was spending the money on frivolous things like high fashion or holidays. They were selling their bodies for a good reason, as disturbing as that sounds.

Flavio turned out to be a middle-aged, seriously tanned, Italian ex-sailor. Amaka had not mentioned this. He was on a sofa, in a pair of white shorts, in a room that looked like an office. His short-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned, showing off his hairy chest, and he was eating peanuts that he prised from their shells while watching the news on TV. He jumped to his feet on seeing Amaka.

‘Amaka, my second wife,’ he said with arms outstretched. ‘Why do you do this to me? Why don’t you come and see me during
the day when your aunty is away?’

I swear, he sounded Nigerian.

‘And who is this young man? Is he trying to steal you from me?’

‘His name is Guy. He’s a journalist from Britain. He’s doing a story about the Street Samaritans.’

‘Guy, welcome. Come and sit with me. Drink?’

Aunty Baby entered through another door. Looking at her  I could tell she had a kind heart, just like Amaka said. I guess character moulds the face.

‘My daughter, you just show up unannounced any time. I don’t like the way you drive around this our Lagos at night,’ Aunty Baby said.

‘This is Amaka’s new boyfriend,’ her husband said.

‘Really? You are welcome. You must be David. No, no. It’s Andrew. Is it Andrew? Oh no, wait, I remember, Antonio.’

I got the joke. Amaka introduced me once again as a journalist writing about the charity. The three of them sat together on the sofa and chatted. They looked like a family. Her family. I suddenly felt out of place.

‘Aunty, I’m looking for a girl,’ Amaka said. ‘And we have to talk.’

Aunty Baby looked at me and smiled. ‘Yes, we have to talk,’ she said. ‘Come.’

The women left the room, leaving me alone with Flavio.

‘So, you like her, ehn?’ he said with a wink. I liked his Nigerian accent.

‘On no, it’s not like that.’ I was ready to repeat the story Amaka had already told about me doing a story about the charity.

‘We are warm blooded men, my boy. I saw the way you looked at her. You like her.’

I smiled, or blushed, but thankfully, in the heat no one could
tell the difference.

‘She is a great girl,’ he said. ‘I’ve known her for a long time. You know, my wife is like her mother. If Baby says she likes you, the game is won. Amaka listens to Baby and Baby listens to me. But since you say you don’t like her…’

He shrugged.

‘She is a nice girl,’ I said. I wanted to talk about her.

‘Oh, she is the best. And you know what? I can tell you how to get her.’

‘How?’

‘Ha-ha.’ He slapped his palms together. ‘I knew it. You like her.’

He was laughing at my expense but I didn’t mind. He was right. He recovered and launched into tales of the exploits of his youth: how he became a sailor in Livorno, how he moved up to captain his own vessel, how he ended up in Nigeria, and his many conquests along the way. He all but claimed to be an emeritus professor on matters concerning the workings of a woman’s heart, and he was willing to teach me what I needed to know.

‘Do you have a talent?’ he said.

‘A talent?’

‘Yes. Girls like a man who has a talent. What is your talent?’

Not that I took him seriously, but he made me think. I’d never considered what my talent was – if I had any at all. I’d briefly captained the first fifteen rugby team in school, but that didn’t seem to qualify.

‘I don’t have a talent,’ I said. It was more of a realisation.

He looked at me as if I was his son and I had just come home with all Fs on my report card.

‘You must have a talent, or have money, or something special.’

And in one breath, he condemned my chances with Amaka.
The boy in me wanted to tell him what she and I had been up to earlier at the hotel.

‘What is your talent?’ I asked him.

‘I am Italian,’ he said, his palms outstretched.

Amaka and Aunty Baby returned while he was still laughing at his own joke. Aunty Baby sat next to him.

‘My daughter tells me you are writing about Street Samaritans. This girl is a special girl. When Flavio and I bought this hotel, she came to me and said “Aunty Baby, let’s use this place to help the girls.” Her father was an ambassador, you know?’

She had not told me this.

‘She can have any job she wants, she doesn’t even have to work, but instead she took over the charity to help these girls. She said “Aunty Baby, these girls need a safe place. Let us start a hostel for them. They will pay and we will be able to keep an eye on them and make sure they are OK. They will have somewhere to come to where they feel safe.” I called my husband and I said, “Flavio, this is what Amaka is asking me to do, what do you think?” He said “why not?”

‘That is how we started this hostel. At least five hundred girls have passed through this place and moved on to better things. They have cleaned up, they have found good jobs. A lot of them are married now with children. They have decent lives, all because of Amaka. But she cannot do it all alone. She needs money. She needs donations. Please, tell your readers about the good job she is doing. Tell them to donate money to her charity. Tell them she is the only hope for so many desperate girls here in Nigeria. If not for her, a lot of them would still be on the road.

‘I’m telling you, Chiamaka is the only hope for these girls. Will you write that in your paper? Will you tell them?’

‘I will.’

‘What would you like to know? Do you want to talk to some of the girls?’

I looked at Amaka for help. Was she blushing under her flawless black skin? The more I saw and understood of Amaka’s world, the more intensely drawn to her I felt and yet the more inadequate about myself and my part in it.

Aunty Baby picked up the intercom phone from her table: ‘Tell Agnes to come to my office now.’

Agnes opened the door and pulled her unbuttoned shirt close at the sight of me. She was curvy, with the face of a child. She did her buttons, then her face brightened when she saw Amaka.

‘Agnes, this man has come from Britain to learn about Street Samaritans,’ Aunty Baby said. ‘Please, tell him how you came here to this hostel.’

Agnes stayed at the door, twiddling the hem of her shirt. Flavio and Aunty Baby made space for her to sit between them. She looked at me, then at Amaka, then back to me. She seemed uncomfortable.

‘Tell him how Amaka found you.’

‘I was working at Bar Beach,’ she began. Her voice sounded as young as her face but contrasted with her older body.

‘What work were you doing at Bar Beach?’ Aunty Baby said.

The young girl’s head dropped. Her fingers returned to the hem of her shirt.

‘I was a prostitute,’ she said, barely audibly.

Aunty Baby put her arm around her.

‘I was working on the beach and one night the police came to raid us. They took us to the police station and said we must bail ourselves. Some of the other girls had money but I had not
done any work that night. One girl phoned her boyfriend to come and bail her. I begged her to ask him to bail me too. I promised to pay her back the money the next day.

‘When the boy came, he bailed us and took us to his house. My friend went to sleep in the room with him. I slept on the chair in the parlour. Later, he came to wake me up and started touching me. I asked him: “what about my friend?” He said she was sleeping. I told him I can’t do anything with him because my friend is his girlfriend, then he told me that she is not. I begged him to leave me alone because I did not want any trouble but he wouldn’t listen.

‘He told me to give him the bail money or take off my clothes. I said I would pay him the next day. He said he wanted his money right now so I told him that if he didn’t leave me alone I would go and tell my friend. Then he slapped me. I shouted for my friend to come but she did not answer. He started to beat me and try to take my clothes off. I was shouting and struggling with him until his neighbours knocked on the door. They asked what was happening and he told them there was no problem but I shouted that he wanted to rape me. He opened the door and told them I stole his money. I said he was lying but they joined him in slapping me, saying I should take off my clothes so that they could search me. I begged them to enter his room and ask his girlfriend if what he is saying is true but he didn’t allow them to enter his room and he then phoned the police.

‘I was locked up for five months before they took me to court. Nobody knew where I was. It was at the court, just before my case, that I met Aunty Amaka. She was talking to the police, then she and another lady came to talk to me. They asked why I was in court. I explained everything to them. Aunty Amaka told me
that she already knew. She told me that the other lady was my lawyer. The lady lawyer won the case for me. Aunty Amaka asked if I wanted to stop working at the beach so I explained to her that I came to Lagos to work as a house girl. It was when my madam and her family travelled overseas and I couldn’t find another job that I started going to the beach. She told me about this place and brought me here. That is how I came here.’

‘How old are you?’ I said.

‘Seventeen, sir.’

‘What about your family?’

‘My mother is in the village, sir.’

Aunty Baby cut in. ‘I call her mother regularly. She is blind. She has cataracts in both eyes. Agnes is saving money for the operation. Her uncle brought her to Lagos to work for his boss’s wife.’

‘What do you do now?’ I asked. I held my breath for the answer.

Aunty Baby replied for her. ‘She is in school. Amaka pays for her tuition out of her own pocket. She doesn’t do any kind of work. She is focusing on her studies and she is very bright. She says she wants to be a lawyer like Amaka. It is out of the allowance that Amaka gives her that she sends money home to her mother.’

I was embarrassed to find myself almost close to tears. This girl was only a teenager and yet she had worked as a slave to look after a suffering mother, had prostituted herself, had been beaten – probably raped – had been falsely accused of theft, had been arraigned before a court on false charges, and had been locked up for five months.

‘This is the life these girls suffer,’ Aunty Baby said. She was still holding Agnes, softly rocking the girl in her arms. ‘People call them prostitutes but they do not know anything about them. They don’t care what happens to them. Can you imagine if 
Amaka had not learned about her, what would have happened? She would still be in prison today. Countless times, Amaka has saved girls like her in court. The charity pays for lawyers to go around the courts in Lagos looking for these kinds of cases. It was Amaka’s idea. She is truly a godsend.’

Agnes was excused. She went to Amaka and threw her arms around her.

‘Please, Guy, tell your people to donate money,’ Aunty Baby said.

‘Talking about donations, Aunty, do you know any Chief Amadi? He lives in VI. I want to start hitting high-net-worth individuals for donations. The economy is affecting our corporate donors.’

‘Chief Ebenezer Amadi? I know him. His house is off Ajose Adeogun. Who told you about him?’

‘I’m putting together a list of people on the Island that I can approach. His name is the first on my list. What do you know about him?’

Aunty Baby looked unsure. ‘He is a member of Ikoyi Club. He has money.’

‘What does he do?’

‘Honestly, Amaka, I cannot tell you that I know.’

‘Do you think he would be willing to donate to the charity?’

‘I hear he is very generous, but why him?’

‘Why not him? I have to start somewhere. Do you know any reason why I shouldn’t approach him?’