Saturday, 5 October 2013

My Pretty Teen


Her light skin glowed beneath the reflection of the sun through the bus window, her neatly cut hair dark and thick like the tip of a horse tail, her breast so round and firm with a great esteem to admire, she was the most beautiful teen I've ever seen; probably around age 17, most likely a virgin.


Her spotless face had no make up on it, yet she had a natural blush on her cheek, but no smile on her pretty oblong face, what could be her problem? I thought aloud.
Nmmgbuwee!!! She did it again, this was the third time she would throw up into her bag, Yulk! (her puke polythene bag). It was a long ride from Portharcourt to Calabar, with two hours gone, we still had an hour 30mins left, she was sitting next to me in the bus, so I had to sympathize with her, I gave her my handkerchief to clean off the remaining puke from her cute innocent baby pink lips, and occasionally rubbed her back to ease her from her misery, but I never spoke a word to her.
My puking bus neighbour couldn't wait to get to Calabar not only because the journey was tiring and made her sick but because she was going to start a new life in Calabar which she felt would be better than the one she had left behind.
Some other passengers in the bus mumbled under their throat, I could read their silent gossips (they were gossiping about the young girl, saying she was having early pregnancy symptoms). They could have been right, but I strongly prayed and hoped that they were wrong...I prayed on her behalf that she was a virgin, road sick and nothing more.
My pretty teen (that's the name we'll call her onwards) didn't have a phone, and had never been to Calabar, she only had her cute figure, a light packed travelling bag, a polythene bag containing her puke, and a phone number scrambled on a piece of paper.
"Aunty, anom nu-uzo, anyi erube" she spoke in her local dialect (meaning I'm on the road, not there yet).
she used the driver's phone to call her aunty, and after a brief chat I heard something that sounded like "Flour Mill" Mogbe! My heart fluttered as I heard her repeat the words on the phone to be sure she got the pronunciation right. Immediately I felt uneasy, I felt something was either wrong or about to go wrong, I just couldn't place what exactly, but I knew it was a bad omen.
For those of us who don't know Calabar and places there in, Flour Mill is the Allen Avenue of Calabar; a popular sex bank where people buy and sell sex.
The other passengers in the bus didn't seem to give a hoot, but it was of great concern to me that of all the Junctions in Calabar, my pretty teen was going to drop off at FLOUR MILL junction.
"Welcome to Calabar", I saw the monument which usually gives me a relief of arrival whenever am travelling into Calabar, but not that day! I wasn't relieved seeing the monument, It only made me feel more uneasy cos I knew soonest we would be approaching "the junction that must not be mentioned", where my pretty teen will be dropping off.
The driver passed the ringing phone to my pretty teen as her "aunty" was calling again, at this point I didn't listen to their phone conversation cos my mind was roaming with weird imaginations of what could happen to this pretty creature, (please don't ask me to share, they are rated 35)
My thoughts were interrupted as the bus driver opened the door, I looked up, we were at Mobil (the closest bus stop to Flour Mill and the legal place to stop)
My pretty teen alighted from the bus and there waiting for her was her "Aunty", she was a young lady in her mid 20s, she was shabby, overdressed yet half naked, her make up was an eye sore and her unkempt Brazilian hair seemed to me more like Jamaican hair (dreads), her perfume was choking me even from a distance, Jez! Did she spray Raid or Baygon?
The "aunty" hugged her and gave her a long accessing look from head to toes, paying detailed attention to her selling points ("boobs and butt", BB).
Gosh! I was disgusted, my fears had just come to pass (just like I thought the moment I heard "the junction that must not be mentioned") my pretty teen was going to be the newest hawker in town.
As we drove away from Mobil I took a long lasting look at my pretty teen who would (in a matter of days) be turned into a sex monster.
Its over a year now, and I wonder how ugly that pretty face would have turned into with several layers of uneven cheap foundation make up, and maybe scars on that once great skin probably from fights with her co-hawkers over a customer.
I remember my pretty teen every time I pass by Flour Mill, and I feel this guilt like I could have done something to help her while we were still in the bus, I could have spoken to her, asked questions, at least ask for her name.
Now where do I start from cos I have this nudge that I need to get someone out of "Flour Mill".


5 comments:

  1. Get back to the juction and see if can recognise her.

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  2. Really touching and heart wrenching! Probably if you knew the name of the lady she went to meet then you take things up from there.

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  3. Hhhhhm, I laugh! Selah

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  4. Nice write-up U̶̲̥̅ got here dear!

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  5. Cool work @AJ
    Will come up on @CalabarBlog

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