African Waist

I kept going back there, but Mama Chi never allowed me to see Chioma privately.

After two weeks of watching her come and go, I began to notice things I hadn't paid attention to before. Chioma didn't perform every day. The other girls did too, but she mainly danced on Wednesday and Friday nights. Sometimes, she took private dances, disappearing with men who could afford to pay for her time.

One day, I overheard some men talking.

“She didn't come at all yesterday,” one of them said.

Something about the statement caught my attention.

I walked over to one of the bar attendants and casually asked about Chioma, but she simply shrugged.

“I don't know anything about that.”

Her answer should have ended my curiosity, but instead, it made me more curious.

The following night was Wednesday, and I found myself looking forward to seeing Chioma dance. Maybe, if I was lucky, I could catch her attention from somewhere within the crowd.

But when the music started, it wasn't Chioma who walked onto the makeshift stage.

It was another girl.

For some reason, her absence didn't sit well with me.

I couldn't explain it, but I had a feeling something was wrong. I tried to push the thought away, telling myself that she probably had somewhere else to be.

But the feeling stayed.

By the time the night grew louder and the bottles on the tables became emptier, I was disappointed enough to decide that I would drink my sorrows away.

Sweet apala music filled the bar, loud enough to drown out almost every conversation. I danced with some of the other men, allowing the alcohol and music to distract me.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her.

Chioma.

She was standing outside the bar.

I stopped dancing.

I stared at the spot for a few seconds before walking towards it.

But when I got there, no one was there.

I looked around.

Nothing.

I went to the side of the building and saw only some of the staff washing dirty plates. For a moment, I wondered if the beer had finally started playing tricks on my eyes.

I shook my head and turned around.

Then I heard my name.

“Folarin.”

The voice was soft.

Almost a whisper.

I froze.

“Folarin.”

This time, there was no mistaking it.

It was Chioma.

I followed the voice until I reached the parking space behind the bar. She was standing between two cars, almost as though she didn't want anyone to see her.

“Chioma,” I said, unable to hide the happiness in my voice.

She smiled.

It was dark, but the faint light from the building allowed me to make out her face.

“I'm so sorry about what happened the last time,” I said. “It was foolish of me to ask those questions.”

“It's fine,” she replied.

“I shouldn't have slapped you either. I was in a bad mood.”

“It's cool. Have you punished me enough now?” I asked, smiling.

For that moment, I forgot everything I had gone through because of Mama Chi. I didn't care about the embarrassment, the waiting, or the way I had been treated.

I was simply happy to be standing there with Chioma.

“Yes,” she said, a small smile appearing on her face. “I'm sorry about that.”

There was something in her voice that sounded like guilt.

“Thank you. But what's wrong with you? Why aren't you dancing tonight?”

I leaned casually against one of the cars.

“I'm not fine.”

Her voice was weak

I reached for her arm without thinking.

The moment I touched her, she winced.

I immediately pulled my hand away.

“What's wrong?”

She shook her head.

I stepped closer.

There was a small bulb a few feet away, and under its faint light, I could finally see her properly.

She was wearing a sleeveless pink top and jean shorts.

Then I saw them.

Bruises.

There were bruises on her arm and neck.

My stomach tightened.

“Who did this to you?”

She said nothing.

“Chioma, please. Talk to me. Who did this to you?”

Still nothing.

Then, without warning, she collapsed against my chest and began to cry.

I stood there, stunned.

I hadn't expected it.

I wrapped my arms around her carefully, making sure not to hurt her.

“It's okay,” I whispered. “I'm sorry.”

I didn't know what else to say.

For about three minutes, we remained there. She cried against my chest while I held her, wishing I could somehow take away whatever had caused those tears.

Eventually, she pulled away and wiped her face.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Don't be.”

I looked at her.

“But who hurt you like this?”

This time, she answered.

“A man.”

She looked away.

“Look, I'm not only a dancer,” she said quietly. “I'm also a private escort. I go out with big men and act proper, but some of them can be violent sometimes.”

She couldn't look at me as she spoke.

I was surprised.

More than surprised, actually.

But I hid it. The last thing I wanted was to make her feel ashamed.

“He's an animal for hurting you like this,” I said.

“I'm sorry.”

She nodded.

“I hope Mama Chi got him arrested.”

Chioma laughed.

It wasn't a happy laugh.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Mama Chi? Arrest one of her biggest customers?” she asked bitterly. “She can never. There's a lot you don't know about that woman.”

I stared at her.

“Isn't she your boss? She's supposed to protect you.”

She laughed again.

“Boss kwa?”

She shook her head.

“She's my mother.”

For a second, I couldn't understand what I had just heard.

“Your... mother?”

But before I could ask anything else, we heard footsteps approaching.

We immediately separated.

Neither of us said another word.

I quietly made my way back into the bar and returned to my seat.

But I wasn't really there anymore.

My mind was still in that dark parking space.

Chioma's bruised arm.

Her tears.

Her words.

She's my mother.

Mama Chi was her mother.

I stared at the bottles on the table without really seeing them.

How could a mother allow her own daughter to work in a place like this? How could she send her out with men who could hurt her and then laugh at the idea of protecting her?

The questions kept piling up.

And the more I thought about it, the less I understood.

There was something about Mama Chi that I didn't know.

Something about Chioma.

Something about the relationship between them.

I needed answers.

But I didn't know when I would see Chioma again.

For the first time since I walked into Mama Chi's bar, I realised that I had been looking at the wrong story.

Chioma wasn't just a dancer.

Mama Chi wasn't just a bar owner.

And whatever was happening behind those walls was much bigger than I had imagined.

I just didn't know yet how deep it went.