People think the worst thing that can happen to a man is poverty.
It’s not.
The worst thing is watching poverty slowly remove your choices until you start doing things you once swore you would never do.
If you had met me six years ago when I graduated, I was full of plans. I was going to get a good job…Take care of my parents…Train my sisters…Build a house…Make my family proud.
I was one of those young men who believed hard work was enough. Then Nigeria laughed at me. I served, applied for jobs, applied again, and again and again. I attended interviews, some never called back, some wanted experience, some wanted connections, while some wanted money.
At some point, I stopped counting my rejection emails. I started doing odd jobs…I taught lessons, I sold things online, and I also worked in a supermarket. Nothing lasted as nothing paid enough. Then I came to Abuja.
This is because everybody says if you cannot make it anywhere else, try Abuja. But Abuja showed me another kind of suffering…The rent, the bills, the transportation, the fake promises, the fake job openings and the “send your CV.” I became tired, very tired.
One day, I couldn’t even afford to recharge my phone. That was the day I cried. I was twenty-eight years old and crying because I couldn’t buy airtime.
Then life did what it does, it introduced me to a man. A man who looked expensive. He asked me if I was interested in making “easy money.” I nearly insulted him until he mentioned the amount. I remember laughing…who pays that much for one night?
Apparently, many people do. Especially in Abuja, especially very rich women, lonely women, married women, widowed women, powerful women, and women old enough to be my mother.
The first time, I nearly backed out. The second time, I nearly threw up. But the third time…I stopped thinking too much. Money has a way of silencing your morals…I paid my rent, sent money home, paid one semester’s fees for my younger sister, paid another semester for the last born, bought drugs for my father, fixed my parents’ leaking roof.
Suddenly, I became the successful son, the responsible brother, and the hope of the family. Nobody asked where the money came from, nobody ever does. I never told them. How could I? How do you call your mother and say, “Mama, your son survives because rich women pay him for company?”
No. Some truths should remain buried.
I kept working, I kept sending money and I told myself I was sacrificing for my family. I especially wanted my sisters to finish school. I wanted them educated, independent and strong. I didn’t want any man taking advantage of them. I didn’t want poverty making decisions for them.
Tonight, my roommate dragged me out. “Come and enjoy yourself for once.”
I refused and he refused my refusal. Next thing I knew, we were in one of those new clubs in Abuja where everybody looks like they own oil wells. The music was loud, the lights were everywhere, the drinks were expensive, women were beautiful and men were pretending not to be broke.
A normal Abuja night and I was beginning to enjoy myself. Then my phone rang, I looked at the screen…My mother’s number. I immediately stood up. When my mother calls at this hour, I answer. I pushed through the crowd and went outside. The air felt cooler.
I answered, “Mama?”
Her voice immediately softened, “My son.”
I smiled. She started thanking me for the last the money I sent which had been used to pay one of my sister’s school fees. She prayed for me, mothers can pray.
I stood there smiling, then I noticed them. A few young women standing across the street. I didn’t pay much attention. Everybody in Abuja knows…hookup girls waiting, watching cars, checking their phones and waiting for clients.
I looked away as my mother was still talking. Then I noticed movement. One of the girls started walking toward a black SUV, I assumed she wanted to negotiate her price. The SUV’s headlights suddenly flashed and the light landed directly on her face. I froze.
No.
I blinked.
No.
The girl moved closer to the vehicle and the light hit her face again. I stopped breathing and the phone almost slipped from my hand.
I could hear my mum on the other end of the call but I couldn’t answer because standing under that streetlight…fixing her hair…preparing to get into a stranger’s car…was my sister.
My younger sister, the one I had just paid school fees for, the one who was supposed to be in school, the one I had promised to protect and the one I swore would never need anybody to survive.
She looked up, and for one terrible second…our eyes met. Everything around me disappeared…the music from the club, the cars, the people and everything. It was just me and her.
She looked exactly as shocked as I was. Neither of us moved nor blinked. I could still hear my mother talking on the phone…asking if I was there, asking if the line had cut but I just couldn’t answer.
My entire world had just stopped and I suddenly realized something terrifying…I wasn’t the only one in this family living a double life.
Read the part 2 here: Johnson: Part 2