[A SHORT STORY] THE BROTHEL MISFORTUNE

A look at Life's Through The Eyes of a Brothel Bastard

I was born in a brothel…

I know it's not the best place in the world to be born, but there are some things in life that we cannot choose. One such thing is the place our nostrils taste the blandness of oxygen for the first time. For me, it was a nameless brothel somewhere in Edo state.

My mother was an Ashawo¹. Her life was all about the business of sex. At least, that was all that mattered to her until something happened. My Aunty Sandra calls it, or rather him,

"the most unfortunate thing to ever happen to your mother."

He came into her life one night and kept coming back. That was not unusual. Sex workers usually had regular visitors who, for one reason or the other, had been enthralled by their choice enchantress and always wanted more. They became customers.

My mother was, in Aunty Sandra's words,

" a Forza speciale²".

She was the kind of Ashawo every man wanted; one with a perfect body, having blossoms in all the right places. She always had men turning heads and drooling with desire. She was destined for Italy, which was perceived to be the pinnacle of the sex worker's trade, but the funds to go never came. I was told she once caused a fatal accident on the street beside the brothel; two cars collided. Both drivers were fully focused on her backside instead of the road.

Her eyes were like a pair of spells that drew men to her beautiful gorgeous body. As a result, she had a never-ending stream of "customers''. However, this one man whose name Aunty Sandra never mentioned (she hated him that much) came along and became more than a customer. That wasn't supposed to be a problem, either. It was a madness that happened with every Ashawo once in a while. She would develop an unusual fondness for one particular customer. This obsession could happen for more reasons than one.

Sometimes, it was because the customer regularly paid her more than he should. At other times, it could be that the Ashawo involved was getting real sexual satisfaction from the man. Thirdly, it could just be that he was handsome or the Ashawo involved liked him. This last reason was usually too flimsy to last too long. It never spanned beyond a month. The case scenarios that involved money and sexual satisfaction could go on for months. Everyone thought this would be the case between this Customer and my mother, but there was more.

A brothel was the home of unholy symphonies. There was almost no time when it was tranquil. There were always sounds: squeaking beds, screams, grunts, moans, and every sound that accompanied the rituals of unholy ecstasies that happened there. It was customary to hear the voices of men and women alike moaning and grunting and screaming at different pitches, cadences, and calibers.

In my Mother's room, there was an exception. Only the men participated in the vocal rituals. Sex could be pain or pleasure, or a mixture of both, and my mother had such a weird threshold for both. She never let out a grunt or a moan. Not even a sigh was heard.

However, any man who entered her room could not reciprocate the silence.

“Only God knows what she did to that men,'' Aunty Sandra always recalled smirking. "They would scream in pleasure at the top of their voices and make promise after promise that they never kept, of course".

She always had them coming back. She was always fighting one sister or the other over customers, not because she wanted to, but because they had to. One of their customers had crossed over to her side. It got to a point she had to avoid some men to avoid the trouble that would come with them. The caution on her part didn't help either as the men left the other women still, disappointed that they were stopped from tasting the one and only Forza Speciale. It wasn't that my mother was the only beautiful woman in the brothel; she was just exceptional in a way that words would never communicate. That was asides from the fact she was actually the fairest of them all. This made her the object of scorn and envy.

Her only true friend was Aunty Sandra. She always said she didn't see the need to be jealous of someone who could teach you to be better. She tagged along with my mother and learned what she could. In return, she kept my mother's back and protected her. It was a beautiful symbiosis. Things went well until "he came along''.

First, it started with little ignorable sighs. Soon my mother was grunting, moaning.

"Next thing you know, she was screaming."

There was something nice and hilarious about the look on Aunty Sandra's face every time she got to this part of the story. She just couldn't believe that the "silent machine" (that was another name they called my mother) had lost it over a man.

“When I confronted her,” said Aunty Sandra, she said she was 'in love with him.' How does an Ashawo fall in love? That didn't make any sense”.

Soon the news was spreading. My mother, the Forza speciale, the silent machine, was screaming her brains out in sexual ecstasy. This revelation led to a series of hilarious events. Most of her customers tried their luck to have the same effect. But it was always the other way around. They were the ones screaming their heads off while she grinded and humped away atop them, silent as death itself. But when he came, it always happened.

“she would scream, moan, and call out his name,” recalled Aunty Sandra. "He was taking over her world altogether, becoming her soul’s sole obsession."

Gradually my mother's extended entourage of customers was reduced to a mere dwindle, and soon they were all gone. Only one man came into my mother's room. It was him and him alone. He came with gifts every single time.

“He did look like a well-to-do fellow,” said Aunty Sandra, “But I never really liked him. Yet, she loved him with all her heart”.

Their little romance kept growing until it budded into a pregnancy.

"Your mother was breaking every rule an Ashawo should keep,” Aunty Sandra recalled.

The rules were simple: Just three; Never fall in love, never get pregnant, never trust a man. The rules are in that order for a reason. Avoiding the love trap would ensure that you never got "stupid enough" to get pregnant, and if you got pregnant, there were ways to terminate it safely. It might be expensive, but that was the price you paid for your foolishness. Terminating the pregnancy was the only way to ensure you didn't break rule three- Never trust a man. Trusting a man would only end up in heartbreak.

An Ashawo would forever be an Ashawo. Although she can leave the trade and live another life, she can never erase her past. While she was in the trade, she should never dream of people ever seeing her differently. That would be the beginning of her downfall. This ideology was the unspoken creed of the sex worker. But my mother threw all sex worker reasoning and ethics out the window because of him. She was pregnant, and she was keeping the pregnancy.

"I tried all I could to dissuade her," Aunty Sandra recalled. But my pleas fell on deaf. He had promised to take her away from that kind of life once everything was right. My mother believed it all. Everything was going fine. It had been months. My mother was almost due, and he showed up every day.

"At this point," recalled Aunty Sandra, “I was beginning to like him and develop a certain level of trust in him. He looked like a good man, and I could see he was doing something to your mother no man ever did. He was treating her like a proper woman, not like a sex object, not like a breathing living tool for erotic flenjure, but like a proper woman".

For once, it looked like a change was on the horizon, but some things never change.

It was one early morning in July. A car drove into the Brothel. This wasn't unusual as many men came with their vehicles. Those who got there early enough were lucky to park inside the brothel. So a car wasn't considered one of the wonders of the world, at least not in this brothel. However, something was different about this car. It came in the morning as opposed to the regular evening time. Secondly, it was filled with all kinds of baby things. All the sisters outside kept wondering why a car full of baby stuff would drive into the brothel in the morning. The driver must have missed his way. How wrong they were. The car door opened, and to everyone's amazement, HE was behind the wheel. He had never come with a car before.

In the few minutes that followed, the whole brothel was ablaze with some good fire.

"I was still sleeping," recalled Aunty Sandra. "One of my customers was right on the bed with me. I had a long night and intended to sleep late into the morning. The noise awakened me. I thought it was some usual early morning disagreement or chatter among the sisters. I was willing to ignore it and go back to sleep until I heard your mother's name repeatedly. Normally, it was usually in arguments, gossip, and fights your mother's name came up. I thought she was in some trouble. That was enough to take my sleep away. I jumped out of bed and ran outside, ready to play protector. But when I got there, I saw the most beautiful thing: your mother's lover moving baby things from his car to your mother's room. When I saw that, I just started crying. If there was any need for a final sign to prove his seriousness about my mother, this was it- a car parked inside the brothel full of stuff for her unborn child. I was so happy this was happening to your mother. She would finally get out of this life and have a better one".

My mother was overjoyed. Who wouldn't be? Her dream life was happening. If he could go this far, then there was no going back. My mother's fate enlightened the whole brothel. It was a story of hope, like an Ashawo Cinderella narrative.

That day was to be a memorial. Everyone was happy, everyone but him.

"He wore an unusual countenance that looked like sorrow,” recalled Aunty Sandra. " I just felt it resulted from some somber reflections on becoming a father. I used that to tease the living daylight out of him.

"That day, he stayed longer than usual. He didn't say much, which was also unusual. He just held your mother and looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time or maybe the last time.

“He usually gave your mother money, and I got lucky sometimes too. However, the money he left that day was not in Naira, and it was a lot. When it was time to go, he hugged your mother so tight you would think she was the air he was breathing to live. He was almost teary. He left that day and, as usual, would return the next day. At Least, that was the norm. He came every day.

The next day came, but he did not come along with it. Day after day, we waited for him to show up, but he never did.

“It broke your mother. At first, she was in denial. She tried to convince herself that something was keeping him. She tried to reach him through the number she had always used, but the line was down. She didn't know anybody who knew him except herself.

"What was a budding story of hope days ago turned into the most sour tragedy ever. Your mother moved from exalted to insulted. Everyone who claimed to be happy for her days ago was now pointing fingers at her for being too foolish. She became the top discussion, the scorn, and debate of so many meetings in and outside the brothel. Her story was simple: she was the foolish prostitute who hoped she could be more than a pleasure tool. That was the narrative everywhere. For many of the sisters, this was their opportunity to get back at your mother for being too beautiful and stealing their customers in the past. Others just tagged along with the rest, not wanting to be associated with the scandal. I was the only one who thought differently about her. But that didn't mean much to her amid the ridicule and backlash.

"Her former customers took the fun of deriding her with every chance they got. One of them was unfortunate enough to try it in my room. I didn't say anything to him. I behaved like all was well and started offering the services he had paid for. But when he was almost reaching the climax of pleasure, I stopped, gave him his money, and sent him out of my room. I didn't mind the cost. I wouldn't allow anybody to insult my only friend for any reason.

“I tried my best to defend her within the brothel. No one was mad enough to speak about her in derogatory terms when I was around. But I couldn't be everywhere at the same time.

"Your mother stayed in her room, locked up most of the time. She couldn't take the scorn, mockery, and laughter that followed her whenever she came outside. She refused to see anyone. Sometimes even I couldn't access her room. Somehow I understood her need for solitude. Nobody could offer anything that could help her.

She wanted more than pity, scorn, or sorrow
She wanted the impossible; she wanted him
But he wasn't available,so she wanted nothing

"It took some time for your mother to finally come to terms with the fact that he was gone, and with him went her happiness and her drive to live, thrive, and survive. Soon, she became a shadow of herself. Her beauty was diminishing every day. You seemed to be the only reason she held onto life. There was nothing else for her now - She said it all the time. She just wanted to die. I tried to encourage her, to cheer her up. But her heart was far away in an unknown place with the man who had broken it.

“AlI of the trust and liking I had developed for him turned into deep hatred. I remembered him in my prayers every morning and pleaded that God should help me punish him wherever he was. That was the only other thing I prayed about other than your mother. I just hoped she could come out of this somehow, that things would get better. All we could do was wait for time to unveil the finality."

In June that year, the very first week, in the morning, Aunty Sandra went to my mother's room to check on her. She was in for the shock of her life.

"I opened the door,” she said, “and saw the most unexpected person in the world there - in your mother's arms… YOU.

"Nobody knew exactly how it happened. Her water must have broken at night, and no one was there. She had the threshold for pain, so she had a silent birth. Nobody heard anything. She must have been reticent and made as little sound as possible, or she didn't even make any sound. No one knows precisely what happened or how it happened.

"There was blood on the bed,” said Aunty Sandra.

She was always tearing up when she got to this point, and I was always crying.

“Only God knows how your mother did it,” she continued. “She was barely breathing. I thought she was dead. I moved closer to her. She opened her charming eyes one last time. I looked into them, and all I could see was pain, sorrow, and regret. I would never have thought those beautiful eyes could communicate such negative emotions well. When she saw me, she loosened her grip on you. You were sleeping when I picked you up".

I always remember this part of the story. Aunty Sandra told it with so much passion and sorrow. My mother said nothing but four words,

"Take care of her."

That was all, and she was gone, Leaving me nothing but Aunty Sandra, baby things, and the money my runaway father had brought. That's how I was told it all happened.

That moment was definitive. I was born in a brothel in the most unfortunate circumstances. I wasn't just a product of misfortune but the misfortune itself; the brothel misfortune and this identity was likely to define my life forever.

P.S

1. Don't resist the temptation to share this. Do it now:)

This is actually a part of a whole novel I'm working on. I would love feedbacks from the

Substack

community.

Comment, like and share this if it got to you.

You can suscribe to receive more great stuff from me.

1. Ashawo is a demeaning term used in many parts of Nigeria and west Africa to refer to sex workers.

2. An Italian military phrase which translate to special forces and is used to refer to very pretty sex workers within the sex trafficking economy.