You have to understand, I did not to choose this life - it chose me. My childhood had somehow prepared me for this job – if you can call it a job that is. My mother had the same job and her mother as well. I guess I couldn’t escape it. It’s a cold evening, and it's around 7 pm. I’m sure it will not rain today. The rain cuts business down almost to zero.
You see, the street side is not a place to be during a downpour. The sky is a dark blue with a few stars spread out, that’s how I know it will not rain. I’ve been told stars are a sure sign that the skies will hold back.
Thank God! I’m wearing the white dress, the stretchy one that shows the curve of my hips clearly.
White is a good colour when you’re trying to be noticed among several other girls, especially when your complexion is as dark as mine
. My make-up has been applied. My mum taught me how to wear make-up. Maroon lipstick (red was for the light skinned ones) and a bit of eye shadow. I’m wearing six inch heels, not so much for fashion but more to be noticed easier. At 5’ 1”,
I am one of the shorter girls here. I’m not wearing any underwear; I have learnt that sometimes the only way to get customers is to give a preview of what’s to come. I’m standing on Burton Street, the small stretch before the roundabout to Yusuf Lule road. Most of the girls are already there. This street has no lights at all. I like that about it, any sign of lights means we have a potential client. The buildings on this street are homes that were turned into offices.
They have domineering gates with large signposts at the entrance. There isn’t a sound from them at this time. Lights. I quickly bend over, enough to give the driver a glimpse of what he will be getting if they choose me. I manage to bend yet still twist my body so they can see a bit of my face. I’m smiling. I’m good at that now. It comes with practice; I don’t have to be happy to smile. I can conjure up a smile at your slightest bidding…it’s one of the requirements of the job. A white corona slows down next to me, I can tell by the car that this client might not pay as handsomely as I would like, but I learnt a long time ago not to pass up any offers, you might go hungry if you do. A dark face is staring at me all I see are wide eyes and sparkling teeth. “Get in,” he shouts with impatience.
He has to drive off before anyone sees him. I jump in, still smiling, I’m not sure where we are going, but I have to be clear on my prices.
“Long or short?” I ask loudly, with my eyebrows raised, it’s something I always do. “Long, how much?” he shouts out. This might be a difficult one, I think to myself. “Fifty thousand,
” I say. “Okay,” he blurts out as we drive off to what I assume is Ntinda. Getting home won’t be too expensive, I stay in Naalya and that’s pretty close to where we’re going. We pull up at Max’s motel. Everyone that stays in Ntinda uses this spot.
We come out of the car and he rushes out. I follow after him like an unwanted puppy. They always act this way at first, like they’re doing you a favour. I hate this part! We get to the room and he wastes no time taking off his clothes. He lays there on the double bed covered with a thick brown blanket. Everything about this motel is dull. Ugly brown curtains to match the blankets, cream walls and basic furniture, everything looks as if they were dragged out of the nearby primary school. 37 Everything about this motel is dull apart from the people. The different clients that is.
They range from the boda-boda rider who decides to pleasure himself with the day’s earnings to the city tycoon who tries to remain inconspicuous on his visits. I look down at him and he is well built, much better than most of my usual clients. He looks at me waiting. I hate this part too. The beginning. I pull up my dress. Even though he’s paying for ‘long’
I am determined to give him ‘short’. I’m not in the mood to do too much today. I’ll please him enough to the point where he can’t tell the difference. We are at it now; this is the part that I don’t hate so much, the satisfaction I give them. All of them.
We rock away as the motel bed creaks. I can partly hear the beds in the neighbouring rooms making the same sound; it’s like a song matching rhythms, matching beats. His face is twisted almost as if he is in pain.
I know that means I am doing a good job.
He’s a first timer. I’m sure of it. He asked the price. No one ever asks the price. It’s over now. I’m thinking about it and I am pretty sure this is the part I actually hate the most. The self-loathing. The moment I start to blame all of this on my mother, the point where
I am flooded with memories of listening to my mother cry every night when they left. The different men she brought home, that is. I always wondered what made her so unhappy. She had enough money to look after us on her own and she was a good mother. It’s only now that I am older that I understand. “Pay up,” I shout. I am not smiling any more
. When it’s time to get paid it helps not to smile. “But, you’re expensive,” Of course now that it’s over, he realizes. I don’t say anything, arguing never works, I just look at him, stare actually. He pulls out a crumpled fifty thousand shilling note.
The old notes, the ones that are larger and much paler. I grab it and stick it in my bra before he changes his mind. He goes to the tiny bathroom to wash off. He really is a first timer. I waste no time rummaging through his trousers. Nothing.
I check his shirt, there’s a wallet, a few crumpled ten thousands, I grab them and then I’m gone. Max’s motel is conveniently or should I say inconveniently situated away from the main road. This means I have to call my boda-boda guy
. Great! I’m home now. I throw on pair of leggings before I got home; I wonder what girls did before leggings were in vogue. Mother opens the door. She is smiling at me; she knows I have some money for her.
She stopped bringing the men home a long time ago; there isn’t a large market for hookers over fifty. How did I get myself into this?
I can’t even explain to myself. Maybe it was because of the several daddies I had or watching my mother apply make-up every day and somehow look after us.
Or maybe it’s the fact that I was raised on the words “Look after your body, you never know when you’ll need it to make a living.” Maybe that’s it. It’s the receptionist job I have, that’s where I get the money. This is what I tell her, this is what she pretends to believe. Maybe she does believe it,
I don’t really know. Mother sticks out her small hand, waiting. Even at fifty she’s still in great shape even though she isn’t as beautiful as she used to
. The job took its toll on her. There’s a shadow of regret behind every smile she wears, maybe this is the effect of the night job. That’s why I’m going to stop, seriously. Soon, someday. I greet her and hand over the fifty thousand note, she’s still smiling as she goes on about how much
I make her proud. Okay, I’m certain now, this really is actually the part I hate the most, my mother’s adoration. I walk to my room, I have a long day tomorrow, my university class has a sociology test to sit.
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