SMITHEREENS OF DEATH 8 When Nightmares Become . . .

Glory's last man has just left. He is usually the last man every night. He comes when he is sure everyone has gone, when everything is silent, and dead, when all the girls have gone to their beds and the men to their wives.

He comes up soundlessly, like a breeze, and leaves quickly. He doesn't touch, just watches, in ghostly silence, and pays heavily.
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Glory is afraid of him. But she needs the money. Her father's farm needs new yam seedlings, her mother needs a new wrapper, her siblings new shoes and uniforms.

When the man leaves she doesn't think of him, she thinks of her family. He is just like the other men. Even though he is different; but he is just like them.

In some way her family is like that too – using her, getting all they can from her, because they can. She has an obligation to give all she can – to the men because they pay her, and to her family because she is the first child.

She changes the sheets, and changes into the extrlarge faded-blue JESUS IS COMING SOON polo she wears to sleep. She can't sleep.

She turns off the blue light, and waits for the nightmares.

They come in a rush, swarming into the darkness, barging into her half-sleep.

When she opens her eyes she cannot see anything in the dark, but she feels something against her arm, something cold.

It is a body.

Her screams wake the whole building; but n.o.body comes to her room. The other girls are used to her nightmares. They just hiss, curse her and change positions to re-enter the darkness of their sleep.

Her screaming drops to a whimper on the floor of her throat as she calms down.

She is staring at her last man's body. She knows this will be her last man . . . She does not know how he got back into her room, into her bed . . .

When morning's first light leaks into the room through the only square window above the bed Glory knows that this is not a nightmare and she won't wake up screaming, sweating and panting. So she draws in a ragged breath, wipes her tears, and her sight becomes clearer. She stares down at the limp body on her bed; her eyes settle on the bulge of his trouser pocket, the pocket he usually drew his thick, fat wallet out of to pay her.

Without thinking, she reaches for the pocket; the trousers are tight on his hips so she has to pull the wallet out with some effort. The naira and dollar bills in it are fresh, crisp, and they make her heart go crazy behind her breast, and her head spin.

She has to sit down to steady herself.

That's when she notices the silver watch – a Rolex Yacht Master – with bits of diamond gleaming on its black face. She pulls it off the cold wrist, squeezes it, with the bills, inside her worn purse, and rushes out of the room.

She is halfway down the street when she realizes that her feet are bare, her hair is still packed in a net and she is still wearing the oversized faded-blue JESUS IS COMING SOON polo, with nothing but her pant.

She stops, only for a second, and continues walking. There is no going back.

In Lagos, a city where everybody is mad, or nearly so, and in constant hurry, n.o.body notices little things like bare feet, or a long s.h.i.+rt on a woman. Or they notice but pay her no mind, everybody minding his own business . . . She blends in with the crowd, one destination on her mind: Cotonou.

There's no s.p.a.ce for her parents, or her siblings, in her thoughts, or even for the dead man she has just robbed. All she can think of is the freedom at her fingertips, the fresh page, in a fresh place where n.o.body knows her, where n.o.body will be able to use her...

As she rubs skin and exchanges sweat with the Oshodi throng, almost naked but for the s.h.i.+rt, she is not sure if she is mad, or not.

But she knows she is free!