The Brothel Misfortune : [Chapter 1]
Read the prologue before you proceed
A few moments after I arrived, I had lost a lot already.
First, I lost my father, then my mother. Who knew who or what would follow next? The only thing or person I had apart from baby things and some money was Aunty Sandra, who almost went delusional at my mother's death hit.
"I was going through a lot at that moment," Aunty Sandra recalled. "Your mother was the only family I had...that I wanted to be with. She was my confidence, hope, and light in the tunnel".
In my later years, I would fully understand the full import of that statement. But at that moment, My mother, her friend, had left me, left her, left us to face the uncertainty that life offers all by ourselves.
"I held my breath immediately your mother gave up the ghost. I couldn't believe it was all happening. I was lost in thoughts of nothingness. I was thinking, but I couldn't place my mind on my thoughts. I could almost say I was going mad. Suddenly I jolted back to life. The sound of your baby wails brought me back to reality. Finally, the reality of the incident dawned on me. Your mother was dead. Itohan was dead".
Finally, Aunty Sandra behaved as a regular human being would: She screamed. In the following moments, my dead mother's room was filled with sex workers and their customers. The picture must have been grotesque; my mother's lifeless body on her bed, tainted by blood and various natal juices, semi-naked masculine and feminine figures joining the lamentation that Aunty Sandra had started. Soon, all the people who sold food and other things outside the brothel would abandon their stores, running towards the noise to be a part of whatever was happening. Of course, there would be many queries and confusion in the room. Every child should come into the world amidst an atmosphere of joy. Mine was different. I was supposed to be the only one crying, but it wasn't just me. Everyone was crying with me.
"Somehow, they managed to sneak you and me out of the room,” Aunty Sandra Continued. “I didn't even get to hold your mother one last time. They took us to my room. You were crying so hard I thought your little heart knew what was happening. I was so scared I started crying all over again. I don't mean to say that I stopped crying initially. Amid my former sorrow, I found new motivation and fresh energy to wail a little longer and louder.
“I don't know how or when it happened, but we must have fallen asleep... You and I on my bed. It must have been hours before your wailing woke me up. For a deep sleeper, I responded too quickly to your cries.
“Maybe I was dreaming about your mother. I still think I was because I woke up with thoughts of her flooding my mind. I took you in my arms, and you stopped crying. It was both thrilling and scary. I looked at you. Someone had bathed you and dressed you up.
“I headed straight for your mother's room, hoping I would still find her there. To my utter disappointment, she was not there. The bedding was also not there. I just stood at the door and cried, this time, silently. I later discovered that your mother had been buried just behind the brothel. It was rather too fast”.
But whoever cared about how, when, or where an ashawo was buried. She was just a tool that helped to satisfy and quell the overwhelming sexual needs and wants of society. She was a living sex toy, a replaceable tool that would evoke no nostalgia whenever death or any other unfortunate incident took her.
Here was my mother, the Forza speciale, the silent machine, the enchantress who caused car collisions without trying. She was gone. Soon, everybody would almost forget she ever existed. Most of her customers had already moved on. So she was going to be easily forgotten.
The events of the days that followed were trying for Aunty Sandra and I. Bad news tends to spread like wildfire most of the time. The news of my mother's death spread through the prostitution network in Edo State, peddled from the lip of one prostitute to the next. In a matter of days, it was making waves in the markets and every place where tale-bearing mouths and story-happy ears were present. It didn't take time for my Mother's tale to be the crowning jewel of every aporoko1 session around town. The foolish ashawo, who decided to get pregnant by an unknown man who was too afraid to bear the responsibilities, died giving birth to her misfortune of a daughter.
For our brothel, it was not a problem. Rumors fly all the time and die down after a while. Little did we know that this rumor had no plans to die anytime soon.
It had been some weeks since my mother's death. Aunty Sandra was nursing me outside the brothel. She was gradually getting used to the whole mother-and-child experience.
"Good afternoon Aunty," came the voice of a man jotting Aunty Sandra from her motherly duties.
She looked up and saw a young man. She looked from his face to the faces of the four other persons that followed him. She did not need a soothsayer to tell her who they were. They were my mother's relatives. They had come for only one reason: to take me. They must have heard about the child their dead daughter had left behind.
"We no wan fight you2," said the young man who led the group.
"Na our sister pikin we come to carry3."
Aunty Sandra couldn't say much.
"First, there was no saliva in my mouth," she said. "it was all dry. Then there was no breath for a conversation or an argument. All I could say was yes, no, and okay. What else was I going to say anyway? They had more rights than I did. They were your mother's family. I had no choice but to concede".
It was agreed. I was to go with these strangers who were supposed to be my family. They had come from a distance and would leave the next day, taking me along. I was on the verge of losing one more person - Aunty Sandra.
It was a quiet night for the whole brothel. Business went on as usual. But deep down in every heart, there was a bit of grief. They were just getting used to having me around as a replacement for my mother. But their joy with this baby was about to be cut short.
The one person who felt the impact of everything the most was Aunty Sandra. For her, I was her only solace for my mother's demise. Even more, I was her responsibility, directly inherited from my mother.
"But how could I tell them your mother asked me to hold onto you like my own? How could I explain to them I did not want to give you up for anything? I knew they had the right. But this wasn't about right or wrong. It was way beyond that. I felt like doing the right thing was wrong. But what could I do?
“I spent the night watching you sleep and crying: crying my eyes out because I would not fulfill your mother's request, crying because I would miss you so dearly. You woke up about three times, and I had to hold back my tears to nurse you back to sleep.
“It wasn't until three o'clock before I could sleep.”
***********************************************
It was eight o'clock in the morning.
The sun was shining, and Aunty Sandra was beaming along with it. I was in her arms, and all the occupants of our nameless brothel were flanking her rears. Opposite her were my mother's family members. Hot words were flying around like bullets, and it was all happening because of me.
Aunty Sandra had woken up with a new resolve which she seemed to have dispensed among all the other sisters. She had decided that she was not giving me up without a fight and that I would only leave the brothel over her dead body. My Mother's family members had come to the brothel as early as seven o'clock as they had to start their journey early enough. Now I was the only reason they weren't moving already.
The arguments raged on and on. Accusations and counter-accusations were flying around.
" I was ready to fight to the last drop of my blood," recalled Aunty Sandra. "I wasn't going to give up so easily: not after the dream I had."
Yes! It was all about the dream she had that morning. In the dream, she was in my mother's room. My mother came inside while she was packing my things.
"she looked unhappy. She begged me not to give you to anybody".
That was the reason for the verbal Armageddon that was happening. It was all talk at this point, with each party scoring a banter point now and then. It must have been quite a show with keenly interested spectators. But things were about to change.
"The plan was pretty simple," said Aunty Sarah, "just intimidate them long enough until they leave. But then, they stepped on the line".
One of the women that came with my family made a terrible mistake. She called Aunty Sandra 'a good for nothing ashawo'.
A brief intermission followed. t was like a foul had been committed in this verbal armageddon, and now something needed to be done to set the records straight.
At this point, it is germane that I describe Aunty Sandra's physique properly. Maybe I hinted at it when I said earlier that she kept my Mother's back. But let me be more graphic.
Aunty Sarah was tall and huge. Her arms and feet were big and strong. The only part of her that did not deserve the nickname Goliath (which the rest of the brothel called her whenever she was in a good mood) were her face and her body curves. They saved her from being categorized as a man. She used to tell me that most men who entered her room always took something for strength. She was enjoyable, but she was work. That was the woman who someone called 'a good for nothing ashawo'.
In the world of prostitution, only one kind of person had the right to call an Ahsawo an ashawo: It had to be another ashawo. Any other person who dared it must be ready for whatever follows.
Aunty Sandra quietly handed me over to the next ashawo by her side and quietly walked towards the woman bold enough to get into trouble. She stood in front of her and looked down into her eyes.
"She already knew she was in trouble, Aunty Sandra said. But she was still putting up a bold and unapologetic face. That I could not accept".
One fast move from Aunty Sandra brought the offender to the ground.
"I had already made up my mind on what to do with her. On a regular day, I would have torn her clothes, stripped her naked, and left her looking like an ashawo. But I was going to be merciful. She needed clothes to go back to wherever she came from without you. So I held her mouth open and filled it with sand.
"she was spitting and crying, begging, and calling for help, all at the same time".
But there was no one to help her. Her four compatriots were also suffering a similar fate. All the other ashawos had descended on them almost immediately. The only ashawo who was not in the heat of the assault was the one holding me. I could imagine her though, screaming suggestions, instructions, and directives to her fellow ashawo and taking a break to rain abuses on the opponent, telling them how it was the women in their families, dead, alive, and unborn, that were ashawos. That unfortunately would include my mother and me. But who cared at the moment? The ashawo club was the winning club.
After a few minutes of beating, they let them go. It seemed like they had a telepathic meeting and reached a quick consensus. They all ran towards the gates looking dirty, cursing and howling treats about how they would be back to get me.
"That evening was the happiest we had been since your mother died," recalled Aunty Sandra. "You were giving us all reasons to be happy together, to believe together. There were usually times when the whole brothel was in agreement, but it was always over fickle issues of the trade: which ashawo moaned the loudest, or made men moan the loudest, and other silly things like that. If ever it was something serious, people took sides. But this one time, it was different. We were all fighting together for something, for someone, for you."
After that incident, I became the center around which the brothel revolved.
"Everyone would take out time to visit you in my room, take turns to care for you, and feed you. You seemed to understand the situation as all and sundry could come for you at any time. The only exception to the rule was where you slept at night. It always had to be in my room, by my side.
"Initially, I thought I could do a few rounds at night before you slept. But you were too wise for that. Once it was business time, your piercing voice would come ringing from one end of the brothel. It was time for me to pay attention to you.
"I tried it for a week before I gave up. There was no way I could manage you and manage men at the same time. I had to forgo one, and the choice was clear of course. Forgoing men, however, meant I had to forgo making any money. I had rent to pay and you to feed.
“Once again, the reality of keeping my promise to your mother dawned on me. It was going to be expensive, and I was going to have to sacrifice a lot. Sure, you had some big money stashed up somewhere in my room, but I was keeping it for the future. You needed to live a life better than we did. That money was to help with a part of that, at least, the start of it”.
Keeping me was more expensive than everyone had thought it would be. However, they had decided for some mystical reason to stick with me all. Since Aunty Sandra could not work, all the sisters agreed to contribute some stipend for my upkeep and hers.
"I almost cried while they were telling me about it. I never knew any prostitute could care so much about any child. But with you, the narrative was changing"
The arrangement went well, and for almost four months, everything was perfect. It did look like the good days had come to stay.
It wasn't until I was seven months before life jacked us all out of our little fairy tale. Something unexpected happened - I fell ill. That wasn't an unusual occurrence. At least, it wasn't supposed to be. Every child was supposed to get sick or feverish sometimes.
"You had a bit of fever when you started teething. That was normal. We all expected it to happen. At other times, we had to get to the hospital or get medicine. It was usually nothing too disturbing."
But this one time was different and terrible. I couldn't eat much, and whatever I ate barely stayed in my stomach. I couldn't sleep at night either. I would be hot when the weather was cold and cold when it was hot. It was a grave dilemma.
"The brothel was worried. We decided it was necessary to go to the hospital.
"Getting there wasn't helpful. After running many tests which cost outrageous amounts, they couldn't see anything wrong with you.
"After that, it was a downward spiral. You grew weaker and weaker, thinner and thinner. You didn't have the strength to cry anymore. All You could do was whine when You needed something or felt uncomfortable. It all looked bleak."
Here I was, ready to lose the dearest of all things - my life.
"But I was determined not to lose you, Aunty Sandra recalled. "I was ready to do anything. That desperation led me to different places: white garment churches, spiritual houses, and all sorts of places. Still, there was no solution. Some of the prostitutes were suggesting I go to a Babalawo4.
"At first, I refused to go into anything fetish, but you weren't getting any better. I didn't want my already tainted righteousness to lead to your death. So, I obliged. Sharon who was quite endeared to you, was chosen to go along with me."
The trip to the Babalawo's shrine was one experience Aunty Sandra would never Forget.
"We got there after about a fifteen minutes trek from the major road. We couldn't miss the place at all. I had never been there, but I was certain we had arrived. The stench in the air was enough to identify such a place.
"We went inside and met our first surprise- a waiting line.
“We quickly joined the line. The compound was quite big. Different huts formed a semi-circle around the big hut from which smoke was rising. From time to time, young ladies dressed in white would come out of the large hut. They either went out into the Bush or into one of the huts to get One thing or the other, which they took back into the bigger hut. We waited hours for our turn. I hoped the answer would be here after all this waiting.
"Finally, it was our turn. We got in, and to my utmost surprise, it was an Iya-Awo5. Even Sharon was surprised too. It's not so easy to find women in this line of trade. She looked rather frail, too old, and too sad for this kind of work"
But the surprise was just about to begin.
"Normally, when you get to such places, the oracle is supposed to greet you. She didn't. She just reached out her hands in silence. She was asking for you. I reluctantly stressed out my hands, handing you over to her. She took one look at you and squeezed her already sad face. I was wondering if the sight of you was that displeasing.
"She finally opened her mouth and all she said for the next 2 minutes was 'Iku6'. The lady who stood like a statue beside her kept echoing the interpretation in English. Every single mention of the word from both speaker and interpreter filled my heart with more fear. Here we were hoping for a solution. But it was looking more like we had hit a dead end.
She turned after a while and then started to speak in Yoruba. The able interpreter did justice by telling us everything word for word. 'The child's mother is angry. She is not happy her child is being raised around so much immorality', said the interpreter.
"I did not understand the statement. I couldn't even decide whether it was true or not. First, we didn't even tell her anything. Yet, she was able to tell that your mother was dead. But there seemed to have been some miscommunication from whoever or whatever her information was coming from. Your mother was a first-degree ashawo. She had done it all and seen it all. She held records no one would dream of smashing. How could she turn around and be angry about the very thing she was? It didn't add up at all.
“As we left the shrine, we were unhappy and disappointed- Unhappy we couldn't get a reasonable solution for your sickness, and disappointed because the only solution in sight seemed impossible, and that was bringing you up in another environment asides from the brothel.
“When we got back to the brothel and relayed the information, there were mixed reactions. Some believed the Iya-Awo and were angry at your mother's demands. Others thought she was wrong and claimed that your mother could not have made any such demands as it was impossible for any ashawo whether dead or alive, to demand such over a child she conceived and gave birth to in the trade.
“At the end of the day, there was still no resolution as none of the prostitutes was ready to stop working. I could not even demand that from any of them. That was the source of our upkeep. How were we going to take care of you?”
Aunty Sandra already had enough on her hands. I was dying, and she was trying her best to wrestle me out of the grim hands of death. She had enough on her plate already and she was taking it all quite well. However, things weren't planning on getting any better.
It should have been about six weeks after the visit to the Iya-Awo. I wasn't getting any better, and the whole brothel was beginning to take the words of the Iya-Awo seriously. Maybe my mother was angry after all. Maybe death affects a person more than they thought it did.
A few days later, the whole event took another turn.
"It was a normal night. Everything was going fine. Business was moving as usual. Men were coming and leaving. Then it happened. Someone screamed in one of the rooms. Everybody started running in that direction. People got there and discovered the room was locked. It was Sharon's room. We knocked really hard, but there was no response to all the pounding on her door. When the door was finally forced open, all eyes met a scary sight. Sharon was alone, but on the floor, lying still and looking lifeless. As people gathered around her she suddenly jolted back to life causing another stir.
“When we had calmed her down, she told us she saw your mother in her room. She didn't do anything to her or said anything either. She was just looking bland, unemotive. This was some kind of warning for us all.
“In the following weeks, more sisters had nightmares about your mother. It wasn't as serious as Sharon's encounter, but it caused a stir in the brothel. We were all ready for the worse. It was about two months to your first birthday, and no one in the brothel thought you would make it. I was the exception, and I seemed a fool to hope. There was no silver lining around this dark cloud that loomed over you. If there was, I couldn't see it. Nobody could”.
My mother's ghost was appearing to all and sundry, except Aunty Sandra of course. Maybe, this was the reason why she wasn't particularly disturbed about all of that. She was more focused on ensuring that I didn't lose my life and that she didn't lose me. But the trouble was just all getting started.
***********************************************
One tricky challenge to face was the resurrection of a conquered foe. It drained the will for another battle.
The brothel already had my sickness to handle and didn't need more baby-related issues to worry about. But then, life has a sense of humor where it brings you the things you least expect.
It was April-exactly a month and two weeks to my first birthday and the anniversary of my mother's death. One evening, just before business started, a bus stopped violently in front of the brothel. The prostitutes sitting outside were wondering what was happening. The bus opened and the people in it started alighting- men and women. Suddenly, one of the prostitutes recognized one of the women. She was the one Aunty Sandra had given the beating of her life some months earlier. It all clicked immediately. My mother's family had kept their promise. They had come back for me this time with more numbers. They seemed to have learned from their last visit that this was no pillow fight. So they were more of them.
However, this new development wasn't supposed to be a problem. The brothel had fifty rooms, and none was vacant, except my mother's room. They were still outnumbered and couldn't put up a good fight.
However, the problem was my health. I was sick. That was a scoring point against us. How could I be presented without my health being a major issue?
"There was no way we could hide you," recalled Aunty Sandra. We had to show you to them.
“The brothel came out as a whole to welcome and intimidate them. Of course, twenty people should respect and dread a crowd of almost fifty wild women with a reputation for chaotic spontaneity. Every prostitute came out. There was to be no business for the day. Not until our visitors had left, without me, of course.
"The discussion started. One elderly man stood up and greeted us properly. From the look of things, he was the leader and spokesperson of their delegation. He apologized for the events that transpired the last time they came around. He also thanked us all for taking proper care of you.
"Up till this point, it was all good. We were waiting for the real talk to begin. The old man didn't disappoint. He made sure that he mentioned your sickness all the way and hinted at the fact that things could have turned out better if you were in better hands.
"Some of the sisters were already fuming. But we had to keep our cool. The proceedings were going smoothly, and they were treating us with the utmost respect. We had to return the favor even if we were seemingly losing.
"When the old man finished talking, I stood up and tried to explain the present predicament and all we had done to alleviate the situation. I also hinted we were not giving up without a fight.
"We were all hoping that things should get dirty. That was the only way we would have the upper hand. We were at home, and this was enough to secure us a win, at least for another few months.
The hope for something dirty finally happened. One of the older women who came with my mother's family opened a can of worms. She said the air around the brothel was enough for any child to be sick.
"That was the loophole all the sisters had been waiting for. We jumped on it hard. As expected, the other women from your mother's family joined in. However, they were careful with their words this time. We were waiting patiently for something more to happen. But what happened next was not the kind of something I or anyone else was expecting.
"You were boiling, which was a norm at this point. It happened almost every day, so I wasn't too worried. I wasn't part of the heated argument going on. I was behind, holding unto you.
"Suddenly, you started stretching. I looked down at you. You were having a convulsion. I screamed, and immediately, we became the center of attention. Both groups now had one common goal-keeping you alive. I put my fingers into your little mouth to stop your teeth from coming together. You were already biting so hard, but I refused to remove my hand. It could be the only thing between you and death.
"The screaming and confusion got louder as more people from around the Brothel joined us. Everybody was screaming some suggestion or the other in my ears. I had never been so confused in my life. What happened next is still a surprise even to me. I lifted my head to the sky and cried out to God, your mother, and Your father (just in case he was dead). I asked them to save you and promised to give my whole life to raising you.
"I still don't know what happened, but it seemed somebody out there heard my plea. You stopped convulsing and started crying like you wanted to cry out all the deluge your cloudy eyes held back for the past few months. I cried along with you. We were a sight to behold. It was obvious to everyone present that I had no plans to let you go while I lived.
"I will never forget how that elderly man looked at me. In his eyes, I saw a mixture of admiration and sympathy. He walked up to me, bent down, and said those same four words to me, 'Take care of her'. He smiled and turned around. The rest of your village people followed him. I knew there and then that we had won for good this time. The whole Brothel was overjoyed that night. I cried myself to sleep that night.
"That night, I saw your mother in a dream. She looked elated, but she didn't say anything. I didn't need a word to know she was happy because I was keeping my promise. I felt like she was saying thank you to me.
"When May came, you got better and even started walking. Soon it was June and time for your first birthday. After all, we had been through in your first year, we decided to throw a big birthday party for you. We went to great lengths for that party. We were grateful you were here with us, hale and hearty, and we wanted everyone to know it.
"Your birthday was the first time every sister in the Brothel attended church. I was a Sunday regular, but this was different. Everyone wanted to especially thank God for preserving your life. We did a Thanksgiving7 and headed home for the birthday party. The Brothel was full. You were a popular little girl. The circumstances surrounding your birth, the fact you lived in a brothel that all kinds of people visited, the past year of your life: these reasons were enough for anyone to be well-known in the area. Everyone was happy for you.
"Your birthday was the talk of the area for weeks. More than anyone, I was sure you were gifted a second chance at life, and I was ready to give my life so you could make the best out of it".
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A word in Nigerian pidgin English for gossip.
Pidgin English for “we didn’t come to fight with You.”
Pidgin English for “we only came for our sister’s child.”
A Yoruba word for a male witch doctor.
The female version of a Babalawo.
A Yoruba word which means death.
In African christainity, thanksgiving is taking out a specific time individually or collectively during a church service to thank God for something one is grateful for.