“Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs?”
– Maya Angelou
A pounding headache coerced Miene’s eyes open. She turned her head to the left and the pain worsened, so she laid still, face up and head pinned to the pillow. Her sore eyes took a quick, sweeping glance across the room trying to identify anything that would give her a clue of where she was. A giant portrait of a young woman sitting topless in a dark background, pushing her cherry-red lips forward hung unbalanced on the wall. Next to the portrait, a rough sketch of a butterfly was glued to the wall like a wallpaper with air bubbles. The blue-themed room smelled of oud cologne and Arabian incense. It begged for fresh air. The strong conflicting scents wafted into her nostrils, attacking her senses. Miene pinched her nose, held her breath for seconds, then released it. She held her breath again, and released it. On one side of the room, a bookshelf containing arranged books, glossy magazines, and a chipped mug used as a pen and pencil holder, stood against the wall. An army of ants, their movements synchronized, zigzagged towards crumbs of crackers on the milk-colored tiles a few inches away from the bookshelf. One tile was cracked. On another side of the room, pairs of heels, sneakers, and a pair of crocs were arranged in a row beneath a clothing rack. A bra dangled on a hanger. Miene’s eyes moved away from the dangling bra and rested on a skinny body in a silk pink nightgown lying on the tiles, her chest rising and falling as she breathed with a gentle snore. Strands of her jet-black boho braids escaped from her bonnet and found rest on her face. She was sleeping like a little girl who fell asleep while playing with her barbie dolls. A brief laughter escaped Miene’s lips; she was in Layla’s bedroom, in Layla’s house. They got back before dusk and even though Miene could remember everything that happened at the lounge, she didn’t know how or when Layla changed into a nightgown. She tried to peel her head off the pillow, but a sharp, stabbing pain shot up the back of her head and down to her spine. She winced, sank her head into the pillow, and grunted in pain. Her breath stank of alcohol and mint. She shut her eyes and cussed herself for drinking too much.
Anger was one of Miene’s weaknesses; she was either not angry, or extremely angry. One of her early memories was pouring hot soup on her sister’s face on Christmas day. Their mother had dished steaming hot okra soup into small soup bowls, each bowl containing a chunk of chicken. Miene’s eyes were glued to the bowl containing chicken lap, but Keno asked for it before she could. Without hesitation, their mother handed the bowl to her. Miene felt betrayed and, in one swift motion, she snatched the bowl from Keno, a glob of soup jumping out the bowl, and splashed its content on her face. Keno squealed. Her face scalded as the slimy, greenish soup slid down her face. Their mother dashed out of the kitchen, her hands flying in the air. Miene recoiled to the ground, hugged her knees, and cried.
Miene pushed herself up and grunted with the effort, and then rested her back on the headboard. Image of the skinny waitress from the lounge crept into her mind. She looked like she was around Keno’s age. Stay away from trouble, they say, but what should one do when trouble comes lurking at them? The waitress’s offense was standing up for herself. She would write about sexism and stereotype, but first, she had to make herself a cup of tea and confirm if Layla was still alive; she looked like a dead fish. She groggily steered her body out of bed, kicked a pair of strap heels that lay beside the bed aside, and headed to the kitchen.
—-
The email came in on Saturday morning. Miene waited all week for it, the anticipation made her lose sleep. She refreshed her inbox every day, her hope wearing off with each day that passed, and by Friday when nothing came in, she gave up hope. She was sitting on the couch in her pajamas, hunched over her laptop with dark-circled eyes, eating burnt toast and editing an article. An email notification appeared on the lower right corner of her laptop’s screen. She pushed her slipped glasses back up her nose, dragged the mouse pointer to the tiny red dot, and clicked on it. As emails displayed on the screen, she swallowed hard before clicking on the email from GNG magazine.
Dear Oghenemiene Isime,
We hope this meets you well. We apologize for the delay in sending in our final decision.
Miene read the first two lines and paused, her palms hot and sweaty. She rubbed them together and found the warm sensation from the friction soothing. She bit her lower lip and drifted her gaze to the clock on the wall. It had stopped working, its still hands a reminder of her nonchalance to everything else but writing. Her snake plant suffered the same fate, its leaves turning yellow before it eventually died like all her relationships. Writing was her religion. A feeling of loss and regret consumed her and, for the first time in a long while, she felt alone, truly alone. Her eyes moved quickly, back to the screen as though running away from the truth.
After careful consideration of your resume and articles, we are delighted to offer you the position at GNG magazine. We thoroughly enjoyed your work and believe our visions align for the magazine’s success.
Please find attached your offer letter (GNG_Offer_Letter.pdf) which includes details on your role, salary, and start date.
Congratulations!
Miene flung her hands in the air and screamed in euphoria. She placed her laptop on a stool, jumped to her feet, and twirled in delight like a little girl showing off her new dress. She moonwalked across the room, humming, twirled again, and threw herself on the couch, laughing hysterically. Her desire to work at GNG magazine began when she accompanied Layla for a photoshoot at the head office in Maitama; Layla was featured on the magazine cover as “Lawyer of the Month” after her success in a high-profile case. While Layla struck poses in front of the cameras, Miene toured the space, awestruck by its elegance and grandeur. The white walls, grey and white offices with minimalist furniture, and lush velvet sofas. Large portraits of magazine covers hung on every wall; glass bubble chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, casting a warm glow. The tiles were spotless and sparkling, and the paper-like, slightly chemical smell of magazines filled the air. Miene drank in the experience. Her eyes lit up as she picked up a magazine from a magazine rack and traced its glossy cover with her fingers. As she skimmed through its pages, a strong desire to work there coursed through her veins; she wanted to write articles for the magazine, bond with members of the editorial team over coffee and croissants, and have her own workspace in the building.
She picked up her phone on the couch, typed and sent a message about the job to her family’s group chat on WhatsApp. Immediately the message was delivered, three dots bearing her mother’s picture appeared at the bottom of the message, signaling an incoming message. Next, she texted Layla.
Babe, I got the job! The email just came in. I’m so happy, I could cry.
She ended the message with two smiling emojis. Layla replied almost immediately.
Omg! Congratulations, babe. I’m in transit, I’ll call you when I get home. I’m so freaking happy for you. We have to celebrate.
Of course. Where, though?
Barak’s bar. Know the place?
No, but a Bolt driver should. Last person to get there pays the bill. LOL
Deal.
Her mother’s message popped up on the screen:
Congratulations, my dear. Wherever you are, roll on the ground and give thanks to God. The lord has finally done it.
Okay, ma.
The message amused her; she would not roll on the ground–it didn’t make sense to her. Instead, she clasped her hands and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.”
—-
The ding sound drew Miene’s attention to her phone. She pressed the power button with her thumb, and a notification flashed on the screen; her ride had arrived. She secured the second strap of her heels round her ankle and checked herself out in her dressing mirror. She wore a black leather mini skirt and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and the top two buttons unbuttoned. To complete her perfume combination, she dabbed perfume oil on her wrists, gently rubbed them together, then sniffed them. She smelt like melted chocolate. Satisfied, she tossed the tiny bottle of perfume oil into her clutch bag and sashayed out of the room and out of the house. A maroon car was parked in front of her gate. As she approached, she squinted at the number plate to confirm it, and then opened the door and climbed in. Cool air from the car’s air conditioner greeted her as she settled into the seat.
“Good evening, ma’am,” the driver greeted courteously. He was middle-aged and bald.
“Good evening, sir,” Miene responded, buckling her seatbelt.
The driver turned on the car ignition, and the engine rumbled. He moved the gear stick into the D position and drove off, driving neither fast nor slow, like one who just bought a new car. Lucky Dube was playing on the radio. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, shook his head, and whistled along to the song as he drove. Miene stole a glance at him and smiled, reminded of her father; he, too, shook his head and whistled while listening to music. She sank further into the seat and heaved a sigh. The buzzing sound of her phone startled her. She dug into her bag, pulled out the phone, and unlocked it. Two WhatsApp messages from Layla popped.
Guess who will pay the bills –You!
Where are you?
“Sir, are we almost there?” Miene asked.
“No. It’s still far.”
“Oh, okay. I actually don’t know the place.”
“I see. So, is that where he’ll meet you?” the driver asked, and eyed Miene.
“I beg your pardon.”
“I asked if that was where oga will meet you.” The driver’s voice was suddenly thick and laced with mockery. He glanced at Miene and whistled; there was judgement in his eyes, in the way he looked at her like she had a dark secret and he knew about it. She looked away, out the window, unsettled and lost for words. Abuja was seductive at night. The aroma of freshly baked pastries mingled with the savory smell of suya wafted through the air. Eateries and lounges shone with warm florescent lights, illuminating the faces of overdressed people. Tall streetlights cast a warm glow on the exhausted faces of pedestrians climbing in and out of coaster buses. Flashy cars booming with music flowed like a steady stream. The nightlife in Abuja was like an ocean with strong currents – it was almost impossible to dive in and return.
They reached a police checkpoint and the driver slowed down. A car in front of theirs was being inspected. A young police officer shone his flashlight into the car, scanned the trunk, and slapped the back of the car, signaling the driver to drive away. He proceeded towards their car and moved to Miene’s side. The driver turned on the headlight, and the officer lowered his head, peering into the car. He grinned like a mischievous child and said to the driver, “Oga, you dey enjoy o. You like better thing sha. Anything for the boys?” His voice was brassy and unpleasant. The driver returned his smile, as if he understood his unspoken thought. He sank his hand into his breast pocket and brought out a crisp one thousand Naira note which he pressed into the palm of the officer. The officer in turn threw his enclosed hands in the air and exclaimed, “happy weekend, sah!”
The rest of the journey was tense with loud silence. Miene felt diminished, like an object. When they arrived at the lounge, she transferred the driver’s payment into his account and climbed out of the car; she slammed the door shut with force. The driver muttered something inaudible and sped off. Miene dusted her skirt. “Oga, u dey enjoy o,’’ she mimicked, “stupid ass.” She proceeded into the premises of the lounge, conscious of the prying eyes of a group of four men standing beside a black SUV at the parking lot, smoking cigarette. They looked flamboyant and exuded the confidence of men with self-importance. Blings adorned their wrists and fingers, and dark shades hid their eyes. One wore a black embroidered kaftan and a blue bama cap, while another sported a vintage shirt and loose pants with an unnecessary oversized necklace. In every sense, they were typical Abuja men. She felt their eyes scanning her body as she walked past –from her chest, to her waist, and down to her oiled thighs and legs. Two heavily built and unsmiling men stood by the two mantrap doors of the lounge ushering people in and out. Miene stood at the bottom of the stoops and texted Layla.
I’m outside.
Heavy tread of boots from behind made her look over her shoulder; one of the cigarette-smoking men was striding towards her, the one in a vintage shirt and loose pants. He approached her accompanied by the lingering smell of cigarette mixed with expensive cologne.
“Hello, beautiful. It is wrong for a man to keep a lady waiting, y’know?” he said. He had a British accent. His beard was well-trimmed and shiny. He had the face of a male model –pronounced cheekbones, smooth face, and full lips.
“Jesus Christ, I’m sick of this stupid assumption! Is it written on my face that I’m here to meet a man?” Miene snapped. She clutched her bag and moved away.
“Well, I just thought, y’know…” he said, and moved close to her, “anyway, my name is Dotun. I’m a UK-trained medical doctor, I just got back. You’re a fly girl, I’m a fly guy, so I’m thinking we should, y’know, chill together. I promise, money is not a problem.” The way he stressed the UK made Miene laugh, a brief laughter. He looked like a little boy desperate for applause, like a teenage boy who posted pictures of himself with bundles of money pressed to his ears on social media. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, blank faced with eyes fixated on him.
“We can leave here and go somewhere else, somewhere quiet, and, y’know, talk. That’s one of my cars over there.” He chuckled and pointed at the black SUV. The other men were still standing there. “So, what’s it gonna be, princess? Wanna chill with me tonight?”
Layla emerged from the doorway, standing on the top step with her arms crossed. “Mie,” she called out, “are you okay? Who is he?”
Miene felt relieved at the sight of Layla, it was the breath of fresh air she badly needed. “Nobody,” she replied, shooting the man a stern look that dared him to say something, anything, in objection.
“Let me break it down to your level of understanding. The lady over there is my date. She’s one of the finest lawyers in town. I’m a writer; I work for GNG magazine,” she paused and studied his face. “So, you see, this Cinderella has her stuff together. And no, I don’t want to ‘chill’ with you.”
Disbelief flushed through his face as he glanced around to see if anyone was listening. His friends were oblivious and engrossed in their own conversation.
“Whore!” he jeered. The word rolled off his tongue seamlessly like a word he used so many times. It echoed in Miene’s ears. It wasn’t a new word; she had been hearing it since she was little. She found it amusing how when a man wanted to demean a woman, he called her a prostitute and laughed triumphantly, feeling like he hit the bullseye. They threw the word at every woman like a title; little girls were not spared. She was four when she heard her uncle grumble about her mother’s inability to bear a male child. “Na only ashawo she born,” he said, and pushed his nose to the heavens. It was the day Keno was christened. Whore was the dignified version; whores were working class women who certainly couldn’t have gotten to where they were in their careers without bending over for promotions. Whores were unmarried women who owned big houses and drove expensive cars. Miene had read an article on F for Feminist website that read: “All men have an ego, and while some know how to handle rejection, others just can’t take it. They expect women to caress their ego and when a woman refuses, it bruises their ego. It hurts so badly; they lose their mind and play in the mud like pigs.” Layla joked that whoever wrote the article was definitely Sherif’s ex and they laughed about it. Later, Miene held Layla’s hands and said seriously, “I’m glad you rejected Sherif’s marriage proposal. Saying no is not rude.”
Miene was in no mood to stoop lower than he just did. Despite the people she’d met since leaving her house getting on her nerve, she focused on having fun. She felt tempted to say his mother failed at raising a decent man, but the thought of uttering something so shallow made her stomach churn in disapproval. She knew better than to blame a mother for her adult child’s stupidity. There he was, standing on sinking sand, calling her a whore when he was the one with no morals. Approaching a woman he just met, whose name he didn’t even know. He looked small in her eyes. Miene dismissed him with the flip of her hair and walked up the stoop. Layla was smiling at her.
“What does he want?” Layla asked, trailing the man with her eyes as he walked away.
“Forget him. Let’s go inside.”
The bar was a secret hide out for rich people who wanted their night life private, away from the prying eyes of society, and for those running away from the world. It was red-lit and featuring soft and slow classic music. The space was filled with the cackle of drunk people, and was punctuated by the occasional click of glasses. The air was thick with shisha smoke, affluence, and sadness. A man with long, unkempt dreads sat alone at a table in a corner nursing an empty bottle of whiskey, his eyes bulging and heavy with melancholy. The bar counter was lined up with drinks on square napkins and cardboard coasters, and wooden stools lined along the counter. Two bartenders with rolled up sleeves moved from one end of the counter to the other, flipping bottles, mixing cocktails and filling glasses with colorful, icy concoctions. Flair bartending. Miene considered it unnecessary, a boring show of cockiness. Did they have to flip, spin, juggle, and shake bottles to serve drinks? A trio of suited men sat at the semi-circle booth conversing in low rumbles. Their table was empty except for a brown leather briefcase. One of them was a red-haired white man. He roared in laughter and puffed a fat stick of cigar; his laughter was tinged with arrogance. The other men laughed in obedience. Miene and Layla made their way through the scattered patrons –Layla led the way and Miene followed closely behind, her eyes scanning the room. They went to the counter and slid onto the stools, thirsty for alcohol and fun.
“Good evening, ladies. What can I get you?” a bartender asked, wiping down their side of the counter with a rag.
“Two shots of tequila for starters,” Layla ordered. She looked breathtakingly beautiful in her low-back mesh gown that accentuated her voluptuous figure. She was a gorgeous woman with the demeanor of a gazelle. Once, after a court case, the prosecuting attorney, Barrister Coker, attributed Layla’s win to her beauty. “She’s young and beautiful, a fresh flavor in the game,” he sneered. It was her first court case. She laughed it off, gracefully, and called him a sore loser.
The bartender moved away for a few minutes, then returned carrying a saucer with two shots of tequila, a pinch of salt, and two lemon slices. “For the gorgeous ladies,” he said and winked at none of them in particular. Layla smiled like a teenage girl in love. “Want anything else, senoritas?” he asked, locking eyes with Layla. Miene frowned, wondering if he called every woman senorita.
Layla leaned in, resting her arms on the counter. “What does the hot bartender have?”
He grinned boyishly and whispered, “what do you want?”
“Excuse me, are we still talking about drinks?” Miene interrupted, her tone sharp.
“Yes,” said the bartender. He cleared his throat and asked if she wanted anything else. Miene cast him a cold stare and said, “no!” If they needed another shot, they would call him. He nodded and moved to the other side. A waitress stood by the counter and called out orders to him. “I have an order for table seven: one mojito, one glass of Budweiser with ice, two shots of whiskey, and a bottle of water.”
“Mie, chill, you’re straight like a ruler,” Layla mocked and pushed the saucer to Miene’s side. “Let’s get drunk, baby.”
Miene eyed her and lifted one of the tequila shots with her thumb and index finger. “Want anything else, senoritas? He didn’t even pronounce senorita correctly.”
Layla flung her head back and erupted in laughter. The contagiousness of her laughter banished the irritation Miene felt towards her a few moments ago. How could she be irritated with a person like that? Layla was vivacious, free as a bird, and sweet; she was her Layla, her best friend. Layla picked up her tequila and held it in the air, “there’s no way I’m licking salt.”
Miene smiled, the kind of smile a mother gave to her child. “Let’s skip the salt, then.”
“Here’s to us, the baddest girls in the room. And to you, GNG magazine’s employee.”
“That’s right!”
Their glasses collided, and in unison, they gulped their tequila, shutting their eyes as the liquor burned down their throats. Afterwards, they sucked on the lemon slices. A stray drop of lemon juice trickled down Miene’s lips; she wiped it off with her palm and licked her lips, savoring the taste. She let out a soft moan and smiled, her eyes still closed. “God bless Mexico.”
Layla nodded in agreement. “I know, right? Congratulations, Mie. I am so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Miene said and pressed her hands on her chest in exaggerated gratitude. “I want another shot. Call your senor.” she rolled the r and laid emphatic stress on the Spanish word, amusing Layla.
“I see what you just did, you’re just a bloody show off.” They both burst into consuming laughter. Layla waved at the bartender, and he glided to their side of the counter, a wry smile on his face. He avoided Miene’s calculative eyes. She felt in control, and it made her feel good in a way. Layla ordered two more shots of tequila and a cocktail while Miene ordered a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Their drinks were served. As they drank, Miene recounted her experience with the Bolt driver to Layla. The only thing that held her from slapping him was because he was an elder and he reminded her of her father. Speaking of her father, she had been thinking about him lately. She would go home for Christmas and spend time with her family; she hadn’t gone home since she moved to Abuja two years ago. What did Layla think about Chimamanda’s Dream Count? She sent a copy of the book to Keno with a waybill and couldn’t wait to read her review. Had Layla chosen a topic for her master’s thesis yet? Layla nodded yes. Internalized misogyny. She chose the topic after she lost a client due to her “lifestyle.” She ran into the client, a woman, at the club and two days later, she received an email stating the client’s intention to terminate the representation. The client explained that she didn’t want a lawyer with questionable morals to represent her and that she didn’t trust Layla’s capability. Shocked, Layla called and asked if she would’ve ended their professional relationship if she were a male lawyer. She replied, “well, that would’ve been different.” Layla hung up and blocked her number.
“Oh, my God, Layla, I’m so sorry,” Miene dropped her glass and held Layla’s hands, “why did you wait until now to tell me?”
“It’s okay, I’m over it.”
“Layla,” Miene persisted.
“For real, I’m over it.” Layla winked, her gesture a practiced habit. But underneath her still waters, a war was breaking out. She mastered masking her emotions so well. She wasn’t over it; losing a client before a court case could harm her reputation as a lawyer. It took everything in her to not cry at the magistrate office when she went to notify the court about the client’s decision. She imagined Barrister Coker roaring with laughter, saying, “She’s nothing but a beautiful lawyer.” Despite her successes, she constantly had to prove herself capable and deserving of respect, but what finally broke her was being judged for her personal life. She retreated to the court’s restroom, her heels clicking, and broke down in tears. “I need a hug, though, from the hot bartender,” Layla joked. Humor was her coping mechanism.
The sudden sound of shattering glass, followed by a shrill voice, took over the room and drew Layla and Miene’s attention.
“How dare you?” a waitress asked a man at a table behind them. The man was too stunned to talk; he stared at her, his eyes and mouth as open as the sky. “How dare you?” the waitress repeated, “are you mad? I’m asking you, are you mad?” She was skinny and fragile-looking, but in that moment, under the dim light of the bar, she looked like a tigress, her nose flaring as she spoke. “How dare you spank my buttocks? Who raised you?”
The man upon recovering from the shock, sprang up and barked at the waitress, his voice loud and venomous. “You dare pour a drink on me? Do you know who I am? Do you know the magnitude of what you just did?” he fumed. A small crowd gathered; they did nothing to calm the situation, but instead fed their eyes. The man moved closer, his breath hot over the waitress’s skin. “Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do to you? The waitress stood firm, refusing to flinch, her eyes shooting fiery darts. A bouncer hurried over and tried to pull her away, but she yanked his hands off. She stood, her eyes blazing with anger.
“You see, she’s crazy.” The man laughed mockingly.
“What happened, sir?” The bouncer enquired and cast the waitress an angry look.
“She poured a drink on me, that’s what happened. I demand to speak with the manager now!”
“There’ll be no need for that, sir. I’ll handle it, I promise. I apologize for the embarrassment.
“If I see her here the next time I come, best believe you’ll lose my patronage.” The man sank into his chair. “Do I have to tell you to give me a towel and clean up the mess she made?” He sucked his teeth.
“Right away, sir. Once again, I apologize.” The bouncer said and turned to walk away, “Ann, follow me, now!” The waitress dropped the tray she held and followed the bouncer reluctantly.
“Show’s over, guys, go away,” the man shooed. The crowd dispersed, and D’banj’s “Oliver Twist” drowned the tension.
“Wow,” Miene slurred, “that man sure is a bastard.” She gulped the remaining drink in her glass and stared into space, her vision fuzzy. The bartender came over and cleared empty bottles of alcohol.
“What will happen to the waitress?” Layla asked, her words slurred.
“She’ll be fired,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Miene observed him with drooping eyes and noticed a dark mole on the side of his neck, with a small strand of curly hair stuck in it. “I don’t like you.”
Tems’ “Try me” came on. Layla ordered another cocktail. “You’ve had enough,” Miene protested.
“One more. Just one.” Layla nodded, singing along to the song, her heart heavy with underlying emotions.
“You try to challenge me, challenge me.
You try to distract me, distract me.
If I were the ganja, the ganja.
You bring the lighter, the lighter.
Yeah, roll me in rizla, in rizla.
Set me on fire, on fire.”
The air in the bar was thick with shisha smoke, affluence, and sadness.
—–
Image: BiancaVanDijk Pixabay remixed