Writers 
CHAPTER 1
The bar was full of men old, young, married, single.
The music was loud, like the speaker was about to burst. The place smelled of beer, pepper soup, and the sweat of men. Waiters moved between tables, taking orders and delivering bottles of beer and steaming bowls of catfish pepper soup.
The air was filled with different conversations and chatter, but mostly laughter—the laughter of pot-bellied men. It was a gathering of the rich and the poor. They all seemed calm yet anxious, as though they were expecting something.
Or maybe somebody.
Suddenly, the tune of the music changed, and everywhere went silent, as though it were a ritual.
The sound of a powerful African drum filled the room, beating out a sweet, danceable melody.
But no one was dancing.
Everyone had their eyes fixed on the stage.
I looked around, wondering what they were expecting, and then I saw it.
I saw her.
Tall, dark, and slender.
Her dark, full, rich afro hair was mounted like a crown on her head. Her face looked perfectly carved, with eyes so beautiful yet mysterious that they seemed to hold secrets of their own.
Her neck was adorned with multiple strands of beads. Her full bosom was covered with a piece of Ankara, though her cleavage wasn't completely spared. A slender waist decorated with traditional beads. Her legs were long and straight, and her dark skin seemed to glow differently beneath the dim lights.
The men cheered as she climbed onto the stage with slow, calculated steps.
She smiled, her lips painted a beautiful shade of red enhancing her beauty.
Then she winked and blew kisses at every table before her.
The men cheered and screamed like hungry dogs.
She didn't utter a word but still grabbed the attention of everyone in the building
Jewels and beads adorned her body, catching the light with every movement.
A beauty beyond description.
Then she started dancing.
She began to whine, her movements smooth and effortless. She moved like water and bent like the wind. Her waist moved with so much grace and ease that I was awed.
The noise was loud, but the sound of her beads was louder.
She danced, turned, twisted, and swayed with a confidence that made it seem as though her body had been created for the rhythm. That seductive smile never left her face.
It was as if the smile was permanent on her pretty face.
Whispers spread among the men as they worshipped her every move, even the very stage she danced upon. Some tossed their naira notes onto the stage, while others simply stared, completely captivated.
I looked at the man sitting beside me and asked, “Who is she?”
He smiled.
“That’s Ada. But we call her African Waist.”
I was bewildered.
“African Waist?”
Her name rolled off my tongue like it was coated in sugar.
I was drawn to her, like I had known her from somewhere before.
I wanted to know her.
This story will surely be continued
