Chronicles of a Prostitute

Short Story

Chronicles of a Prostitute

By Lawrence Kadzitche

Part 1-What is in a name?

Well, they say that when you want to kill a dog, give him bad name and then you can hang him. And that is exactly what has happened to prostitution. The blame for the spread of HIV/AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases has been put squarely on prostitutes. Consequently, there have been calls to remove prostitutes from the streets, make prostitution illegal, force prostitutes to have HIV/Aids test, blah blah and all that arrant nonsense.

Gosh, I do not for a minute believe that those of us practicing this oldest profession are the only ones responsible for spreading HIV/Aids and sexually transmitted diseases. When you meet a prostitute you know it is a business deal. There is no love involved. You want sex and we are prepared to give it at a price. The terms are negotiable. You want to use a condom, you get a better rate. You do not want to use rubbers, the price goes up. At least you know what you are getting into. But with so many bump and grind transmitted diseases around, we do not like suicide bombing therefore we insist that you use a glove.

Oh, in case you are wondering who I am, I am a prostitute. Others call us whores, hookers, harlots and other such offensive names. Others call us sweet names like queens of the night and hustlers. Locally we have only one infamous name: ‘ma ghule’ and it is derogatory in every sense of the word. Sad.

My bread and butter comes from this business of sex for cash. I use my God given nature’s treasury to make money. Now, it is these other people that refuse to wear the name ‘prostitutes’ that are very dangerous. These are wives and girlfriends. Due to the sharp focus on those of us practicing prostitution openly in bars and streets, people have forgotten this other large group of prostitutes secretly practicing the trade right in their homes and offices.

In the past it was mostly men who had sexual relationships outside marriage. Nowadays it is fast becoming fashionable for women to have secret lovers too. For the poor house wife, it is the vendor. The man comes selling some merchandise, be it charcoal, vegetables or whatever. She promises to pay him later. The woman cleverly cultivates a relationship with the seller. In the end, she settles the loan by sleeping with the man.

The wealthy house wife who is married to a rich man does it for different reasons. Her husband is usually a busy man-either a business man or a man with a big position at the office. He is usually away or comes home late and tired and can hardly satisfy his conjugal obligations. This is where the desperate house wife hires the houseboy or the security guard to do the job. And to these guys, a job like this is not a job at all.

Then we go into offices. This female employee wants to gain favours from her male boss. So she makes it plain that she fancies him rotten. As a result, a secret love affair blossoms between the two. Then there are the libertine bosses who seem to think their positions gives them a license to dip their dirty fingers into juice boxes of their female juniors.

In this manner a vicious circle is formed. The charcoal seller has a wife and so has the house boy munching the bwana’s goodies. This bwana, who is usually away, now and then finds solace in prostitutes. Let us not forget that the young ambitious lady who has been sleeping with his boss has an unsuspecting loving husband at home.

So tell me, hypocrites, why do you waste your breath blaming us prostitutes? As you can see we offer a far much better deal. Believe me, the cheapest woman is the one you pay for. A girl friend makes endless demands, wants to compete with the wife. Us? Once we get paid the agreed amount, we do not bother our customers any more. Even when we meet men who want to marry us, we never bite the bait. We are not there for long term relationships. Seriously, what is attractive about settling down with a man who as soon as he marries you will dump you at home and go out for other women? The title of Mrs.? Trusting a man is like trusting a monkey playing in a maize field never to steal maize cobs. Do not say I do not know what I am saying. My long list of customers include pastors, prophets and what society calls respectable married men.

Well, enough of the preamble. As I have said, I am a professional prostitute. I sell my pink pearl for cash. I would be lying if I told you that my name is so-so. I change my name depending on the customer I meet. If I think the customers will be wooed by a fancy name, I give them cool names like Liz, Trish or Phuxy. If it is the average type of customer, I also give them the usual names which they can easily relate with like Joyce or Mercy. If it is someone from the village, I give him a name that suits his origins. If he is from the North, I give him a Tumbuka name. ‘Ndine Vinjeru, kukaya nkhu Rumphi.” If he is from the Central Region, I will say something like, ‘Ndine Mdatha, mmachoke ko Chiwoko.’ For a customer from the South, something like ‘Ndine Nohavani, mmatochokera ku Phalombe’ does the trick. That way they think they have hooked a home girl and I find it easy to milk them of their money. Sometimes I just lie that I am a foreigner from a country like Zambia or Tanzania and bend my tongue to give it a heavy Bemba or Swahili accent. It enhances my status and I am able to charge them a high price.

It is also important to remember that men are very stupid. When they hook up with a prostitute they think they have made a conquest. Balderdash! It is us who conquer the men. When we decide on who we want to sleep with, we use our female wiles to entice the man to approach us. That is how strong we are. Imagine we are able to take a well to do man and sleep with him in a smelly vermin infested room and charge him for that.

That evening, a towel wrapped around my waist, I walk into my bedroom from the shower. A wardrobe pregnant with my gear stares at me from one corner. Then there is a shoe rack full of every type of shoe, most of them second hand, bought at the flea market. The small dressing table is cluttered with cosmetics. A double bed takes up most of the space in the room. In our profession you need to have clothes for every occasion. Contrary to what people think, we are not nocturnal hunters only. We hunt 24 hours a day and we do not have specific hunting grounds. We may hunt at funerals, weddings and even in church so we need to have appropriate get up for each occasion. The bottom-line is to have outfits that cause eyes to pop and force the tongue to wiggle when people see you.

Turning to the wall mirror, I let the towel fall. Looking back at me is a tall naked woman with an oval face framed by tinted golden braids cascading to the shoulders. I have that body shape that is wildly popular these days: large breasts, narrow waist, wide hips and an ample behind. When my melons, with the assistance of a boned bra, stand out like hillocks, they are a devastating weapon against any man. Satisfied, I put on a red G-string that barely hides my freshly shaved coin purse. Then I put on multi-coloured beads around my waits. Never be fooled, putting on waist beads is not old fashioned. Beads have such a magical attraction to men. We use them to play peek-a-boo with men in the courting process. I walk over to the wardrobe and fish out a red shimmering maxi dress that fits me like a stocking. The dress, with a low-cut neckline flashes a good rise of my twin kahunas and accentuates my buxom behind that is a temptation to any male. I spray myself with a perfume, almost finishing the bottle. Satisfied, I blow a kiss at the image then gyrate on my high heels.

I am now tooled for the night out. I take several selfies and post them on my Instagram page. ‘Ready to roll’, the caption reads. Likes immediately start to roll in. I am a celebrity in my own right. My pictures are usually hot. My instagram name, Pussy Wagon, also helps to bring in viewers who want to see the hot slay queen. My Facebook page carry the cool name ‘Chi Mama Chachabe’, loosely translated as Big Hot Wayward Mama.

I reach for my tote bag laying on the bed. I double check that it contains everything that I need on my outing. More importantly, I make sure that my clasp knife and pepper spray are always there. Make no mistakes, prostitution is a very dangerous trade. Sometimes we meet violent and abusive men who may want to eat our fancy article for free or harm us for one reason or another. This is where the knife or pepper spray comes in handy.

The saddest thing is that we do not get protection from the authorities. The police arrest us with impunity over some fake charges of what they call rogue and vagabond or something like that. Argh, how daft are they? They say we are idling. Working in the streets, is that idling? Where do they want us to work from? Churches? It is like arresting a street vendor selling his wares in the streets to eke out an honest living on charges of idling. The double standards of this world!

Do not be quick to say we do not need protection because our business is immoral. Here we are not talking about morality but the right thing to do. Whether you like it or not but what we provide is an essential service. If it was not an important service, how come even men of God and top government officials are some of our regular customers? Which drinking joint is fun without our presence? But unfortunately our case is like that of abortion. A lot of people would rather go for secret and unsafe abortion rather than legalise abortion and have it done in a safe manner. Oh fuff, the hypocrisy of people!

You may say then why do we go into the business knowing the dangers that lurk out there? That is like asking: why do you go into marriage knowing there are some men that abuse their wives? The truth is, everything is dangerous. It is laws that keep people in check. A lot of people would like to murder each other but because they are afraid of being punished they do not do it. If there were laws protecting us, people would not do the bad things they do to us. It is the same case with domestic violence. If there was no legal protection, there would be a lot of violence and even murder in marriages. But fear of punishment keeps people in check. We need the same type of protection to keep would be abusers at bay.

More importantly, most people claim to be Christians. To me, a Christian is a person who follows the teachings of Jesus Christ in his or her daily life. Now what did Christ say when they brought the adulterous woman to him? ‘Let him who is not without sin among you throw the first stone at her.’ Here, Jesus was not condoning sin but telling us not to be judgmental towards sinners. Judgment is God’s prerogative. Our role is to offer guidance and show compassion. In response to Jesus’ words, the crowd dispersed, starting with the older ones. Sometimes I ask why the older ones? Maybe because they were wiser and more aware of their sins than the younger ones? Or to put it more directly, were they the woman’s customers? Yet these days, it is our customers who are the first to cast stones at us. Search me, where is the mercy you preach in churches?

And as it was in the days of the Bible, men are still the same. Conceited fools filled with self-importance. What makes them saints and us villains? The police arrest us for soliciting but they never do the same to the men. When they raid a joint, they will arrest the prostitutes and let the men go scot free. Lessons from the story of the adulterous woman still fail to sink into their thick heads. What Jesus meant was that both the man and the woman was supposed be treated equally. Both had sinned and if there was stoning to be done then both should be stoned together. God is fair and metes out equal punishment for an equal crime for both women and men. The law in Leviticus 20 verse 10 had required that both the man and woman should be stoned and not only the woman. This bending of the law in favour of men continue as far as what are called sexual crimes are concerned. Even in marriages, a woman is expected by the man to forgive him when he is caught committing adultery but when it is the woman who is caught it is ‘good bye marriage’. So if prostitutes are to be punished so should their customers. Fair.

A car hoots outside. It’s Joe, my usual taxi driver. The time is eight pm, time to leave. I take one final look at myself in the mirror, take a few more selfies, and then leave my humble abode.

The streets of Lilongwe are almost deserted at this time of the night so I do not have to worry about queues. If it was during the day, the 30 kilometer drive from where I stay to the Club at Biwi would have taken a least an hour and half. But in the night it takes less than 20 minutes.

The place has many bars and night clubs. Blaring music from powerful sound systems compete with each other for dominance as do the bright signs announcing each night club. My destination is the Imperial, the most prestigious Club at the place. They charge an entry fee which ensures that it is patronised only by those who have money.

The DJ is my friend and we have this arrangement where he stops playing music when I am entering the Club. This gives me all the opportunity I need to capture attention. As I enter, there is that small lull. I go in as if I am on catwalk, my high heels tapping rhythmically on the tiled floor, my traffic stoppers shoved forward while I shake my bum which is frantically trying to escape from my tight fitting dress. I have the satisfaction of noting the glances that are sent my way. Then the music starts again as I reach the bar.

I order a soft drink. As the barman goes to fetch my drink, I turn and stand against the crescent-shaped bar, one foot on the brass rail. The indirect lighting gives the room a soft ambiance. By the by, did I mention that I am a college drop out? Studied marketing. I use some of the principles that I learned in college in my current trade. This is the time that SWOT analysis comes in, analysing strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats.

First I scan the room for competition. Competition comes in the form of new girls. They always offer the toughest competition particularly from regular customers who more often than not opt for them. There are none. Not that I am afraid of them. With my looks I can compete with any girl, new or otherwise. But still it works better when the competition is non-existent. In addition, each bar has its own hostesses and outside competition is frowned upon. The usual girls are there and I have nothing to fear from these. Each of us know what type of customers are suitable for us. So, no threats.

The issue of competition sorted out, I now scan the pond for opportunities. It is full of fish. Most of the fish do not fit my bill. I discard the teenagers guzzling the cheapest available beer. They usually have no money, apart from little change stolen from their parents. Trash. Then there are the sharply dressed young men sipping ciders. These are tinhorns pretending to have money. All you will get from them are stories of how much money they have but you never see any of it. Time wasters. I note the henpecked married men, the type who are given only enough money for beer by their wives. Bores you to death with their sob stories. The stingy men do not escape my scrutiny either. They never buy any drinks for their friends or people that are close to them. You also make them out by the way they insist on receiving change from the barman.

After I have chalked off these useless patrons, I am only remaining with three people. The fat oily man whose bottom looks like a pair of balloons is already taken by Nita. You do not snatch another girl’s man unless you want to be knifed. That leaves me with two free ones. Both are of the same build and in the early fifties. I immediately rule out the first one. Two details give him away. The way he is looking at the girls in the bar and the fact that he is taking a soft drink. Such men are usually womanizers. What will a teetotaler be looking for in a bar other than a snatch? The worst thing about such men is that they bargain too much and you end up getting a raw deal.

But the second one perfectly fits the bill. Wearing a faultlessly fitting golf shirt tucked in blue jeans, he is sitting alone sipping an expensive whisky. Now and then he throws rounds beer to the three young men sitting close to him. As an icing on the cake, he is good looking too. People think we prostitutes go for any man who has money. No, we also make choices. So I make my decision; this is my customer for the night. It is time for the love games to begin!

End of Part 1