Sunday, September 25, 2011
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Sunday, September 25, 2011
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“You wan move or you wan make I move you.” The dark, lanky man in black uniform said in a harsh tone as he ordered me out of the seat. Already the Dj had stopped playing yet the hall seemed noisier, there was a new song on the lips of everyone in the hall…oga I beg. So I decided to sound differently. “You can’t keep treating people like animals,” the man hissed and ‘barked’ “move you imbecile” – he held me in the waist and pulled me towards a queue of other culprits or should I say, their other victims. I couldn’t control flashes of dangling and scary thoughts in my head. “Don’t manhandle me mister, do you know who I am?” My trembling voice did not make me sound assertive so I decided to say more hoping that my pitch would find its feet along the line. I looked straight up into the man’s sweltering eye balls, he looked back with a malign smile and said “shebi na you dey inside one thousand naira abi? You go hear am today.” Then I knew it was time for me to keep quiet.
12 hours earlier…
It had rained ceaselessly for weeks, and that particular day was no exception, the hazy sky disguised 4:00pm like 8:00pm; that hurried my anxiety the more, I wandered aimlessly in my apartment staring at my wristwatch every now and then; the watch seemed to have been stuck on a minute for the past one hour. Julius my former colleague did not help matters; he promised he was going to call before 6:00pm. The suspense and the mental picture of a new experience made my adrenaline pumped assertively like the mission was to fly a plane.
Two days ago, my assignment editor had summoned me to her office to explain my new task in the lifestyle beat. “…you need to ask your friends, if you don’t know how to find one, that would be all for now” She said, looking into my eyes with a daunting gesture. As I was about to shut the door, She tilted her head at a snail’s pace. “By the way, your last one was…hmm nice but your writing needs more depth …and remember as a writer you are like a tailor, getting the right fabric is not enough, you must sew well. I am allegic to badly punctuated write-ups, that's my point." She pasted her eyes back on a piece of paper she held with her two hands like a mirror. I gave an audible thank you and a silent 'Mscheew'.
Doing an investigative report on strip clubs in Lagos was an escape route from doing a (boring) piece on how social changes that took place at the beginning of the industrial revolution in the mid-18th century shaped science fiction. Neither are events around World War II sexy enough to deserve my time.
So I chose Julius from a list of defiant friends for his unrivalled CV in waywardness. My other friends and I consult Julius on issues relating to women and wine …We call him ‘Julius the evil genius’ and nothing makes him happier so he’d respond “order is for idiots, genius can handle chaos.”
At exactly 9:47 pm, Julius showed up with his gray Toyota Carina ‘89 model. The vehicle’s bad shocker absorber made the countless potholes on my street more obvious as we bumped up and down with the car.
“Guy, what took you so long?” I asked. Julius paid me no mind; he had his upper lip gummed to the lower and his neck stretched towards the steering, trying to maneuver his way out of the bad road. He did eventually. Twenty minutes later we were already on Third Mainland Bridge. The bulk air movement from the car’s speed created a whistling and distorted sound on the car stereo – so when 50cent started sounding like Jim Reeves I dozed off. “Maybe you want to put it in the first paragraph of your article that no sane person goes to a strip club in day time.” Julius said keeping a straight face. Always cynical, he never gave a direct answer to any question. “So that justifies why you came late, right?” I asked and looked away like something more important caught my attention on the other side of the road.
A slightly long queue of mainly men stood patiently outside the gate in the most concealed location I have ever been. Three abnormally large men who share the same height – okay, maybe almost the same height – with the gate, stood with no looks or gestures to suggest they work with the customer-service unit of the club. We paid two thousand naira each to the first bouncer, the second ‘massaged’ each of us, the third swept our body with a metal detector.
Finally we got in.
Thumping beats – earsplitting but pleasurable sounds. Everyone in the dark cold hall was silhouetted except for the rotating blue luminous light that gave sparkling radiance to everything in white every time it travelled through it. Three 42” television sets hung on the wall, with uncensored music video clips taking turns. Obviously, showing a champions league game here will not only be grotesquely odd but questionable. At the centre of the hall stood a raised platform with two shiny poles where girls of different ages and sizes performed one after the other. They crawled alluringly, caressed and swung on the poles and making eye contacts simultaneously to connect with potential clients.
A man who shared the same cubicle with the DJ introduced each dancer at regular intervals and gave details of their readiness for private dance. “…and there are special dancers, strictly for the Very Indecent People… VIP.” The man announced in a deep voice.
The bar stood on the right hand corner of the hall with strangely tall chairs and tables. There were also lounge chairs filled with expectant men who sat like they were waiting for a doctor to prescribe medication for their ailments. As for me, staying at a spot was difficult because my ‘tour guide’ is as popular as the club manager so we had to pay homage to the lap dancers, the DJ, the bartenders, yes the bartenders in sexy, buy-more drinks-lingerie.
As time ran uncontrollably, We retired to the lounge chairs where a dancer’s extra effort caught my attention, she put so much dedication and dexterity to what she does in a way that questions the commitment to what I do, we exchanged smiles and at this point not only time was running too fast my heart beat followed suite and just like the proverbial fly that went on a mission to take a sip from a glass of beer, got drunk and ended up floating on frothy drink. It was 4:15am and I was still trying to get the last paragraph of my story. I got it – the police came knocking, and that definitely cannot fit in a paragraph.
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Hey, run away blogger.
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