Antwerp is cold. And rainy. And old. Like a great grand mother. Some parts look like they have aged gracefully. Some parts look like they have aged harshly. Like they have led a hard life. It is to one of those that Bob takes you. An apartment with windows painted a garish green and a door handle that looks worn out from being constantly called upon. It squeaks in anguish when someone lets you into an over-crowded room with red walls glaring at you. There is a brand new leather settee, three mis-matched chairs with metal legs and a huge wooden stool with carved elephant legs. When you comment on it, your host, a burly man called Simon barks, Everybody wants to know about that chair. All the white people, they always asking about it. Offering money, plenty of money. But me, I refuse to sell" You wonder why he is angry but you soon learn that that is the way he talks. You wonder if he was born that way. With an angry bark for a voice.

Your education starts earlier than you expect. Bob is right. You can go to school. He just does not tell you what sort of school. And what you are expected to learn. To stand in underwear barely covering your essentials in front of a window, a smile searing your face while you glower inside, your lips red like fire.

At first, you are angry with Bob. But the anger dissipates when he leaves you without food for a second day ( you feel your intestines twisting in hunger). The anger transforms itself to an emptiness which you just want to fill. You ask yourself what other choices you have anyway, you do not want to go back to the life you had in Nigeria. Besides, Bob has your passport, he takes it from you as soon as you have gone through immigrations.

The first night you work, you are shy but soon, you learn to trash that shyness and let it mildew. In time, you learn to be different things to different men. A slave. A mistress. A dog. To listen to those who want to talk. The man whose wife is a bitch, he should never have married her. The one who simply likes the feel of a black woman's body. His wife is too milky and he likes to see the contrast between the insides of his legs and the outsides of yours. Another who simply wants to explore the myth of the black woman being a tiger in bed. He asks you to growl and even though you feel foolish, you oblige him and he gives you a huge tip.

You are a hit with the clients and you make money. More money than you had ever dreamed possible for one person to own. You make enough for Bob to buy more patent leather shoes and enough for you to start saving. You work for seven years before you get the courage to go home.

You arrive, a picture of success. A blue skirt suit. Black high heel shoes. A black leather bag swaying at your side like a top model doing the cat walk. The neighbourhood turns out to welcome you with shrieks and songs. Children shove each other out of the way, offering to carry your three Samsonite suitcases as they tumble out of the cab.

Sister, na me go carry am oo
Sister, look, I strong well well
Sister, na me come first. No mind all dis oda people
Sister, see me, na me dey help your mama when she go market
Sister, I am your nwanne, we share the same blood.

You smile benevolently. Ostentatiously count some cash into the cab driver's waiting palms and lead your troop of acolytes into your parents' one room house where your father waits, dignified. Frailer, balder, settled in his chair like a king on his throne. He barely gives you a nod. Not forgiving you for leaving home. Your mother stands, uncertain, beside him, her eyes taking all of you in. Her eyes shift from you to your father and back to you again. You hand out money to the little children and allow yourself to be engulfed in your mother's arms as she eventually totters towards you like a drunk, her hands held out in front of her. She lets out a little cry and holds you tight against her. Her happiness engulfs you and presses your nose into the side of her neck.

You stay at home for two weeks complaining about all the usual things that people who come back from overseas complain of: the weather. Too hot. The water, not safe. The power supply, unstable. The mosquitoes, vicious.

Neighbours you remember and those you cannot recall file in to see you, reminding you of what good friends you always have been, their eyes, greedy gulping in your clothes, their eager hands touching the fabric, their faces shiny with sweat and anticipation. They want to touch you, get a feel of paradise through you. They ask you how life is abroad and you serve them stories to satisfy their famished ears.

Sunday with the half a brain comes too, dragging behind him, his beautiful baby who is no longer a baby and who is no longer so beautiful, he is so thin you fear the slightest gust of wind will blow him away like a loose sheet of paper.

You hand out manna, a piece of clothing here, some money there. Your mother hovers around you like a body-guard to ensure you do not give out too much. When you bring out a huge bundle of notes in mint condition to give to an old neigbour who complains that he has been out of a job for three years and has some trouble feeding his family, your mother touches your arm. It is a slight touch, her fingers barely touch you, but it is enough to let you know that she considers the gift extravagant. You divide the bundle into two and give the disappointed neighbour one half of it. He says thank you, nevertheless but his eyes shoot a stern look at your mother. She ignores him and hisses something about ungrateful people. That night your mother warns you about giving out too much money, If you give out too much, this house will be full of people tomorrow with their various complaints. You have a family too, do not forget that. Your father and I need money as well. I cannot remember the last time I bought a new wrapper. Your father hardly gets any customer these days, you have seen so for yourself. "You tell her that you will be more careful, and that of course she must go out the very next day and buy herself some new wrappers, you have enough money to pay for her. She throws her hands in the air and does a dance of happiness.

You suffuse your parent's one-room house with happiness but your father remains unmoved. He hardly says a word to you. When you complain to your mother, she tells you not to worry, he will come around sooner or later. He is a man and he has his pride she tells you and asks you to give him time.

Your father ultimately relents and forgives you after you squeeze into his balled up fists, more money than he has ever held in his entire life working as a cobbler. You promise him a new house. A decent house with four rooms and a colour television. You garnish that promise with that of a new car. You watch his smile grow wider with each promise you make. His eyes grows brighter, sparkling like stars in a clear sky. You know in his head, he is already living in his new house with the television and a garage with a car, probably in GRA. Or Independence Layout. Faraway from the slums of Obiagu. A life removed from his little shed outside the house where he sits in front of a wooden table waiting for his dwindling customers to trickle in. He will be an oga, the master of a duplex with four rooms, all carpeted. Your mother will prepare her dishes in a kitchen the size of their present house, on a gas fire, not a kerosene stove. Your father will never have to work again as you have promised him a monthly allowance.

You see that your parents do not really believe that you are a typist in some big firm. Sometimes, you catch your mother's eyes following you like a loyal dog around the house. You are sure they can guess what it is you actually do from the fatigued look your body has acquired over the years, the tired sway your waist involuntarily displays. Yet, you know that they are too scared to ask what you really do.

Soon, your two weeks are up and it is time to go. As the cab that takes you to the airport drives off, you wave regally from your seat at the back and smile with the borrowed smile.