Homeless in Port Harcourt: How a Friend Betrayed Me and Tried to Sell Me as a Sex Worker

I remember when I was homeless and slept on the streets of Port Harcourt for a week.

One of my male friends I called that week—I asked him if I could just spend the night at his place to bathe and sleep.

Instead, he sent me to a location and told his friend that I was an "OS" (commercial sex worker) and that he should sleep with me.

It was in Iwofe. At first, I thought it was his house. Poor me—thinking I had a true friend. When I got to the place, it wasn’t him that picked me up, but his friend. He told me the guy wasn’t around.

But it wasn’t even the main friend’s friend who picked me up. It was another guy entirely who later brought me to meet them.

I was quiet, just observing the situation. It was already late—around 10 p.m.

I asked where I could sleep, and they gave me a bed. I lay down and quickly fell asleep.

About 10 minutes into my sleep, the guy started tapping me, holding a condom in his hand, saying I should get up so we could have sex.

I asked him if he was mad or something. I told him his friend said I could stay the night. (They were students at Ignatius University.)

He replied that his friend told him I was an "OS" and that he was supposed to negotiate a price with me.

I laughed in disbelief and told him I wasn’t one—I just needed a place to sleep.

He kept disturbing me for almost five hours. Eventually, the other guy, who seemed like the more reasonable one—maybe he was just minding his business—got tired of the harassment.

He got up, told me to lie on his side of the bed, and told his friend to stop.

In the morning, he left the room angrily. That’s when I realized it wasn’t even his house either.

I asked him if I could bathe. He gave me everything I needed.

I changed my clothes, thanked him, and went on my way.

Men.

Comments

I’m scared of men because...

There are so many things to be scared of men for: the terrible acts of raping, murdering, and harassing that occur daily. But there’s one fear that even the so-called "good men" partake in, and yet they don’t know it is a betrayal . There’s nothing more demonic than a man driven by a specific kind of passion—not the passion to actually want to be with you, but the passion of a one-time pleasure that drew their attention to you: the release of the whitish, milky stuff called semen . Oh, they are players in that field, using a strategy of lies, engulfed with one desire: to ease the burden of the organ stuck between their legs. They can’t seem to pause and realize how much they are dealing with the reality set in front of them, which is the real human, who has her emotions locked in to his sweet, cunning words—the one she listens to for hours, and starts imagining her great life with...

USED

After they had sex, she felt a storm inside her. It was her first time—her body ached, and a dull, deep pain settled in her lower belly. But that wasn’t what hurt the most. It was the shame that crept in quietly, the embarrassment that made her skin crawl, and the guilt that swelled in her chest like a tide threatening to drown her. She lay there, still for a moment, then slipped out of bed and walked to the bathroom. She turned on the tap, watching the water run as if it could wash away what she felt. She cleaned herself slowly, carefully—tears sneaking down her cheeks. A few minutes later, he joined her. He didn’t say a word. He washed himself too, avoiding her eyes like they were poison. The silence between them grew louder. Was it over? Had she been deceived all along? He went back to the room, changed the sheets, and lay down, facing the wall like she no longer existed. She followed him quietly and sat beside him, the weight in her chest making it hard to breathe. “So… what’s next...

Sundays are lonely nights.

There’s a stillness about them that makes the world feel too quiet, like everyone has someone except you. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in the familiar ache of my own solitude, when my phone vibrated. “Lonely introvert , what’s up?” Esther ’s voice burst through the speaker—dramatic, chaotic, and full of life, the exact opposite of the heaviness weighing me down. She always knew how to pull me out of my thoughts. “Please, Esther, I’m not lonely. I’m writing,” I said, rolling my eyes even though she couldn’t see me. “Besides, you know I’m an introvert. My social battery is—” She didn’t even let me finish. “I’m coming over. Dress up. We’re going out.” “Esther, biko (please). I have work tomorrow morning. I can’t afford that club—” The line went dead. Ten minutes later, I heard that unmistakable voice outside my door. “Introvert! Open this door o!” She kept knocking like she was auditioning for a percussion band. I dragged myself out of bed and opened the door....

My Short Fables

Search This Blog