ABBY
Abuja. The name sounded smooth and official when I got the offer. I imagined glass buildings, clicking heels, conference calls. Mallam Rabbu had said, “You’re smart. I got work that suits you. High-paying. Easy.” He didn’t say anything about poles or bikinis.
I got to the place. It looked like a lounge—neon glow, low thump of bass under the ground. I thought maybe it was a fancy club. Maybe I’d be working the front desk, smiling, pouring drinks. I still had hope.
But when I told the manager I was reporting for duty, he looked me up and down and handed me a plastic bag. Inside: red string bikini, barely anything.
“Go get changed,” he said.
“For what?”
“You’re on in an hour.”
“An hour? Dance? Wearing this?”
He nodded. Smiled like it was normal.
“To start with,” he said. “Eventually, you take it off.”
“Off?” I repeated. My throat closed. “What do you mean—take it off?”
He leaned in.
“My dear, this is a nude club. Girls dance naked. Just dancing. No touching. Touching gets them kicked out.”
I couldn’t speak. Just stared. He sighed like I was slow.
“You think 250k a night was for waiting tables? Mallam said you agreed. He said you signed the release.”
“I didn’t read it,” I mumbled. My legs went numb.
“Well,” he shrugged, “too late now. You run, Mallam finds you. And next time, he forces you. You don’t get paid. You don’t get a choice.”
I sat down. Couldn’t breathe.
“My advice,” he continued, like we were talking groceries, “do it for a few months. Then get a man to propose. Mallam lets girls go when they get marriage offers. But it’s got to be real—church, invites, rings, proof. He checks.”
I didn’t say anything. Just stared at the bikini like it might bite me.
“No phones allowed,” he added. “No cameras. No laptops. No CCTV. So your pictures won’t leak. Total privacy. It’s better that way.”
I didn’t believe him, but I had no more fight in me.
“Everyone’s scared at first,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”
God help me…..hmmmm
CHRIS
I remember scrubbing pots in that detention center kitchen thinking, This is temporary. This is just a pit stop.
I figured, At least I’m learning. When I get out, I’ll know how to cook, how to run a kitchen. Something useful.
Two months passed. People started leaving. Some returned. Some didn’t. No explanations.
Then, four months in, I heard my name on the tannoy. “Report to reception.”
A woman was waiting. Court-appointed lawyer, they said. Two cops with her.
“Your asylum hearing is up,” she told me.
We got in a van. Drove through the countryside. For a moment, I forgot everything. The trees. The hills. The air.
Then we hit the city—traffic, high-rises, gates, tinted glass.
They parked in an underground lot. Led me upstairs. Metal detectors. Pat-down. Then a courtroom. Bleak. White walls. Strangers staring.
I was called first.
The judge looked over his glasses.
“You haven’t given your country of origin,” he said. “You say you want asylum. Why?”
I froze. Then whispered, “Asylum.”
He frowned. “Mr., you have to give a reason for asylum. Not just repeat it like a parrot.”
I felt my ears burn. I looked to my lawyer.
He turned to her. “Does he understand English?”
She flinched. “Your Honour, I was just assigned this morning. May I have time to confer with my client?”
He waved her off. “Take all the time you need. You’ll represent him in a month.”
Banged the gavel.
“Next.”…hmmm
