The next day I spent with Ginika. We went to my gym around 11, went to breakfast, got dressed (we showered up at the gym), and caught a silly movie in the afternoon. Dinner, this time on Ginika, and then we went back to my place and had some great sex together. Sounds pretty great, doesn’t it?
Eh. There were problems already, and we had only been seeing each other for a short period of time, and I was finding my mind wandering. I met Maryam the night before when we worked together with one of my clients. She was an escort, high-end like me, and after we had a threesome with Bisi (my client), we went for a few drinks, a bite to eat, and a pleasant conversation.
We found we had a lot in common in our backgrounds as well as cultural interests, plus we were both football fans, while Ginika didn’t like team sports.
I was calling Maryam once or twice a week, or she was calling me, though we hadn’t been out socially so far. I liked talking to her, as she was the only woman (or man). I knew that I could talk openly about my work and know there was no judgment on her part.
She was doing the same thing, except she was a woman working with men. So we could easily relate to our work problems, along with other issues. I wanted to take her out, but between each of our schedules, there wasn’t a lot of time where we had the same days off. The only day we did have in common was Tuesdays, and I had those reserved for Ginika at night, assuming she didn’t work late. I really did want to get together with Maryam.
My biggest problem with Ginika was that she kept saying it was too early to make any sort of commitment to each other, which would almost certainly require me to stop working as an escort/gigolo, a ‘job’ I was very well paid for and from which I was saving quite a lot of money. Ginika, who was rich (we met through her very wealthy mother), didn’t understand the appeal of making a lot of money for me, a middle-class guy from Lagos.
When I started working in this field, I was facing the prospect of getting a master’s degree. I was undecided about a “real” career, but I would be able to pay easily if I went back to school now. Her inability to understand this was annoying. And then, that Sunday night, she pissed me off.
We were lying in bed at her place after sex, very relaxed and slipping towards sleep, when she said, “You know, Kayode, if you stopped working that awful job, it wouldn’t cost you any money out of your pocket. I could easily replace however much you needed each week. I’m rich on my own. My father left me a lot of money when he died. I could make up what you lose every week for as long as you need until you find proper employment.”
I sat upright in the bed very quickly. “Ginika, what do you think I am? Some sort of kept man? I’ll just sit around, waiting on your beck and call, run your errands, and then fuck you when you want. Until you decide when I can go out and find a job?” I was furious, and she could see it.
“No, Kayode! You wouldn’t have to do anything! Just stop screwing around with all those women. I don’t want to share you.” Her eyes were welling up with tears. “Kayode, darling, I love you.” The tears were falling down her cheeks and along her neck, and one, improbably, fell along her left breast and clung to her nipple, just hanging on.
Gentler now. “Ginika, look, I appreciate how you feel. But I’m not just going to take money from you. First of all, I don’t need your money. I have some money set aside. I wouldn’t take money just to be someone’s personal gigolo. Not yours, not anyone’s, not even your mom’s.
I work with whom I want, when I want. You called my job “awful.” I might have thought like that before I started. But honestly, I like what I do. Sure, sex is a factor, but that’s not why. I’ve met some wonderful ladies over the years, and I am a help and a comfort to them. I listen to them in a way their husbands never do or did. And I’m sorry to hurt you this way, but I don’t love you, Ginika. Not in the way you want.
I love you as my friend, I care about you, and I want you to be happy. But I don’t love you like I think about my future with you. I don’t feel that way, and I don’t know if I ever will. This is the first time I’ve had a personal relationship with a woman in a long time, and it feels good inside. And to be honest, I really hate what you said about my job. I like what I’m doing. I’m living a life I never thought I would have.
Maybe that makes me shallow. I’m comfortable with my life for now.” I looked at her with some defiance.
She was crying hard now. “Sure, you like your life! You fuck anything in a skirt who can afford your fee! You’re just a low person, selling yourself! A fucking whore!”
“Ginika,” I said very softly, maybe so it would sting, “we met because you hired this “whore” to do something for you no other man was able to do. Maybe because you were such a closed-up bitch.” Shit, not my proudest moment of my life, exactly. But she really hurt me and pissed me off.
I got out of bed and got dressed quickly. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” she challenged pure venom in her voice now.
“I’m leaving. I don’t think we should see each other for a while. I’ve seen what you really think of me, and I don’t exactly like it.” I buttoned up my shirt and sat on the bed to put on my socks and shoes.
“If you leave here, I’ll tell my mom what we’ve been doing behind her back! She’ll drop you like a bad habit! Your best ‘customer’!” She looked positively manic. And like, she wasn’t kidding.
“You do what you have to do. I would hate to have to stop working with your mother. She treats me with respect in a way you seem to be incapable of doing. You know what I think? I think you can cum with me, something no other man has been able to do for you, and you’re terrified of losing that. That you won’t be able to find it with another man. You shouldn’t worry about that, Ginika. I think you can, if you want to. In any case, you and I are done. I won’t be coming back. I’ll send you your things on Monday.”
“Go, get out! You’re nothing but a male whore! Go fuck your old ladies! You’re incapable of loving anyone! Do you want to know why your relationship with your parents is shit? Because you’re shit! A shitty person! You cheap son of…” I didn’t hear the rest; by then, the door to her apartment was closed behind me, and I went into the middle of the night and booked BOLT.
On the ride home, I thought. A lot. Some of what I said to Ginika needed to be said; she was treating me not like a boyfriend but as a personal employee, paid to be at her exclusive call. And calling me a ‘whore’ really hurt, maybe because there was some truth to it. But the word is so pejorative. She could have made her point in a nicer way. So could I. I hurt her. I don’t like hurting people in any manner.
As tired as I was when I got home, I didn’t get much sleep that night. I was bothered both by Ginika’s behavior as well as my own. I decided I would call her at work when I woke up and try to at least make things friendly between us. I set my alarm for 9 and eventually drifted off to sleep.
I didn’t make it to 9. A little after 8, I got a call from Ginika, who was crying. “I didn’t go to work today, Kayode. I didn’t sleep last night, and I’m a wreck today.”
I felt bad right away. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep either. I said some pretty horrible things to you last night—well, early this morning, actually. I’m sorry for how I spoke to you, Ginika. I’m not proud of myself.”
“I started it all, Kayode. The fact is, I don’t like what you do for a living, even though it’s how we met. I get jealous of you being with all those other women. Especially my own mother. It’s just too much to deal with. It would be hard enough if you had a traditional job and were just dating other women. My feelings are getting stronger for you. I mean, you made me feel something I thought I would never experience.
And I think I got over-attached because of it. But I don’t think we should see each other, Kayode. You and your job, you and my mom—it’s just way too much. If we kept seeing each other, it would turn into a fight every time.
If you want to stay as friends, that’s good for me. But I can’t have an intimate relationship with you.” She wasn’t crying anymore, but I could hear her breathing deeply. Nervous.
I closed my eyes and sighed with relief. She was thinking much like I was. “Ginika, thanks for being so kind about this. I was going to call you a little later at work and say much the same things, from my side, of course. As things are, I don’t think this makes for a good relationship. But I would like to be friends. Maybe get lunch sometimes or have a day together when I take some time off. I think it will be better for us.”
“And don’t worry, I’m not going to tell my mom about us, aside from being friends. There’s no point anymore, and I don’t want to take anything away from her. You make her happy, Kayode. It’s still strange to me, but I just care about her being happy.”
“You’re a gem, Ginika. Really. We can meet later for dinner if you want to return each other’s things. I’m buying.”
“You’re damn right, you’re buying!” She said it with a laugh, and that made the ache in my chest go away. This would be better for us. If we could keep things friendly, of course. And that opened the door for me to call Maryam. From that one evening on, I felt a real chemistry between us. But I wasn’t going to call that day. It could wait a few days after I considered it carefully.
***
So, as you know, by now, I have been working for Dami for over three years at that point. I was her most reliable and trusted employee (I heard that from her own lips), and she raised my rate to all new clients, though the existing regulars were paying what they had been, for the time being, at least.
Inflation hits all businesses sooner or later. I wasn’t worried about my regulars objecting when the time came. None were on a tight budget.
Most of my appointments were with regulars or semi-regulars by then. I had a few openings when a new client came along, and Dami always checked with me before I took on anyone new. I got a lot of respect from her, which I appreciated greatly.
So I listened when she called me Tuesday to see if I would be willing to take a new client, a potentially trying one, for Wednesday afternoon. “She might be difficult to deal with, Kayode. From what she told me, she’s a fairly bitter woman, and I can understand why she feels that way.”
“Ok, Dami. You have me intrigued. What can you tell me about her?
“Her name is Fatima Isyaku. She used to be a Muslim, until six years ago. A couple of years before that, she was married and a mother to six children. Living according to their religion requires a loyal wife and mother who is strict about observing their faith. Then she had a horrible accident in the kitchen of her home. She got burned all over her left arm, up her neck, and, to some extent, her face. I didn’t see her, so I don’t know how bad the scarring is at this point.
Anyway, after she recovered, her husband all but abandoned her. Some of the men in those communities aren’t exactly the most loving and warm husbands, to begin with, and he just stopped caring about her. But he wanted the children. In that world, the men get what they want. He presented her with a religious divorce and took their kids. That was, by far, the worst thing. She hasn’t seen her children for years now. And then she was so sad that no one wanted to be around her. She was ‘encouraged’ to leave.
Her husband was a wealthy industrialist, and he paid her a sizable amount to go away. She’s 52; she lives around Ikeja. She’s never had a good sexual relationship in her life, and she wants to see what it’s like and if a man can be attracted to her.”
I closed my eyes and ached for that poor woman. Growing up with friends of all faiths, I had heard some pretty awful things about some religions and how they treat women, including their wives. This was a terrible story to hear.
“Dami, I feel horrible for her. I’ve read some things about life in that community, so I know a little about how she was raised. Go ahead and make the appointment. Don’t charge her the new rates, but don’t give her a discount either. She might feel it’s being done out of pity, and that would only hurt her worse.”
“She doesn’t have an account, so she’ll pay you directly. You know what’s appropriate. Do whatever you think is right. You’re not the only one who feels awful for her.” So Dami set the appointment for 2 on Wednesday at Fatima’s apartment in Magodo.
There was still a thriving Muslim community there, though not a strict one. Fatima could feel like she was among her own people to some degree, as I found out when I met her.
I was prompt, as always, when I knocked on her door. Fatima opened the door and said, “You must be Kayode. I’m Fatima. Please come in.” Very polite, but very reserved. She didn’t smile and didn’t extend her hand. She turned and walked into the small apartment, and I followed. “Please sit down,” she said, again with little animation.
“Thank you, Fatima. It’s nice to meet you.” I offered my hand, but she didn’t reach back. We both sat down, and I got a good look at her. She looked her age, at the least. Almost all the women I met did what they could to look their best. Some were heavier than others, and some were plainer.
They all used make-up, all got their hair styled regularly, got their nails done, etc. Even when we weren’t going out in public, looking their best made them feel good about themselves, and they liked looking good for me, like they had been doing for men since they started dating years ago. There was no such attempt by Fatima. How much of that was a cultural thing and how much she was giving up on herself, I don’t know.
Her hair was not styled, giving it a mousy look, though it was clean. She didn’t wear make-up, so her face was very pale because she didn’t go out much. She relied on deliveries for most of her needs. Her clothes were kind of draped over her body. From her face, she looked like she was kind of thin, maybe skinny. She just wasn’t taking care of herself.
And there were the obvious scars. The left side of her face had some of that melt-look you see on burn victims, but not nearly as bad as her left arm, which was badly burned and scarred. Why she didn’t get plastic surgery, I couldn’t imagine. Like Dami, I felt awful for her. Her family and her community treated her like sh*t. I was determined to do what I could for her, to show her that her life wasn’t over.
I tried to engage her in conversation, but she answered mostly with one-word answers. I thought for a minute and said, “Fatima, it’s a nice warm day outside. What do you say to going out for a bite to eat? Maybe some chicken or a fast food restaurant where we could get a meat pie or a salad. Come on, I’m paying.”
“No, I don’t go out, Kayode. I’m kind of hideous. I don’t like to be seen.”
“Fatima, you’re hardly “hideous.”. You have some scars. I won’t lie to you and say they’re hardly noticeable. But, Fatima, we all have scars. Every one of us. Yours are just on the outside. Most of us carry ours on the inside, where they hurt worse. Come with me. Some children might look, but most people won’t give a damn.” I stood up and held out my hand.
She tossed it over in her head for a few minutes before she said, “Only if I pay. You’re my guest, Kayode.” She even tried to smile a little, which brought out a big smile on my face.
We went to the street, where there were a lot of private stores and small restaurants—nothing even close to fancy. It was a nice day, warm and mostly sunny, and I convinced her to walk about six metres with me to Mr Biggs.
We ordered our meat pie and talked. And we talked. And talked. Years of suppressed conversation came spilling out from Fatima as we ate. I asked a few questions here and there to keep her talking. Some of it was bitter resentment over how her husband, to whom she devoted herself, left her after her accident and how he took her kids. I encouraged her to look into hiring a lawyer.
“I would think a good lawyer could argue before a judge that you were coerced to give up custody of your children at a time when you were at your lowest. I know judges here give the religious courts a lot of leeway. But if you get a fair-minded judge, you might have a chance to get your parental rights restored, at least for your children who are still minors. It’s a chance, at least.”
She shared a small smile—more than she shared all afternoon. “They don’t even know me anymore, Kayode. You’re so sweet to listen to me go on and on. You’re a fine young man. You remind me of my oldest, Hakeem, who’s older than you. He’s 35 now. Working for his father.” She got sad, and I held her hand across the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. I left the subject of her children alone after that.
By the time we walked back to her apartment, it was after 4, the time our appointment was supposed to end. I didn’t have a later appointment that night. And we hadn’t done what I had been primarily hired for.
In her apartment, Fatima said, “Kayode, this was such a nice afternoon. A little painful, but mostly pleasant. And you’re such sweet company. Let me get you your money so you can be on your way.”
I took her hand and stopped her. “Why? We haven’t done what you hired me for, Fatima. I’m not in a rush. And I haven’t earned any money yet.”
She paused, unsure of what to say next. Finally, “Kayode, you don’t have to do this. I had a very good time with you already. And I know I’m not an attractive woman. I’m plain, and I’ve got these scars.”
“Who says you’re not attractive? I didn’t. I think you could be lovely. Beautiful.” I stepped closer and touched her scarred cheek. “Sexy, even. Desirable.” I moved to kiss her lips, and she pulled back a little.
“No, I’m not. I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but I know what I am and who I am.”
“Fatima, I firmly believe every woman is beautiful in her own way, unless she has a cruel inner self. And that is certainly not you. I wish life was better for you. I don’t understand a man like your husband. I won’t even try. Now, if you still want to go to bed with me, I’m more than willing. I want us both to have a great time.” I took her hand and gave it a nice, firm squeeze, and then I kissed her lips, which were trembling.
“I know you’re nervous. I know this can be a little scary for a woman who’s only been with one man in her life. And that was more than a few years ago. But trust me. There is nothing about sex that’s changed since you last slept with a man. We’ll go at your pace.”
“That’s not true for me. I have done some reading since I was divorced, and there’s a lot I wasn’t even aware of. I read about… oral sex, and I barely ever heard about it. I don’t think I want to try it. I don’t think I’ve ever had an orgasm. I never tried it for myself; the Koran forbids it. I just want to have sex with a man who will try to make me feel something.” She was ashamed to even talk about it. The way some men treat women they’re supposed to love.
“We won’t do anything you don’t want to do, Fatima. And I understand what you’re talking about. My name, Kayode, is actually a pseudonym. I don’t share my real name, but I have a number of Muslim friends. So I know a little of what you’re talking about.” I took her hands in mine and made sure we were making eye contact.
“We’ll take things very slowly. It’s called foreplay, building up…”
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