Jimmy

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

My cousin told us his phone was bad and he needed it urgently for online classes.

The family contributed money and bought him a clean Android phone.

We were all happy because we thought he was serious with school.

Two days later, he opened a betting group.
The first message he sent was:
“VIP odds loading. This phone will change our lives.”

Nobody replied.

My uncle collected the phone the next morning.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

A guy in our street begged everyone to help him with transport fare to attend a job interview.

People contributed ₦38,000 for him.
We even prayed that the job would favor him.

That evening, he posted a video from a lounge.

He was eating grilled fish and drinking something that had smoke coming out of the cup.

When we asked about the interview, he said the company postponed it.

Then he added:
“At least I used the money to calm my nerves.”

The street WhatsApp group removed him immediately

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

My friend told us his girlfriend left him because he was broke.

We felt sorry for him and started advising him to focus on himself.

One guy even sent him ₦20,000 to start something small.

Three days later, he posted a new girl.

Caption:

“God replaced what I lost.”

When we asked about the business, he said:

“Love is also an investment.”

We left him with God.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

A guy in my department said he needed money to print his project.

We all knew project printing was expensive, so people contributed.

He collected everything with tears in his eyes.

Two days later, he came to school with tinted hair.

When we asked about the project, he said:

“I wanted to look fresh for my defense first.”

The supervisor postponed his defense because he had not printed anything.

We just watched him in silence.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

My neighbor’s son said he wanted to start poultry farming.

He said he had watched many videos and was ready to become successful.

His mother gave him money to buy 50 chicks.

The next week, there were no chicks anywhere.

When she asked him, he said he bought only five first.

Then he used the balance to “study the market.”

The five chicks later died because he forgot to feed them.

Market studied him instead.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

A friend begged me to help him write his CV.

I spent the whole night arranging everything properly.

I even helped him create a clean email address.

The next day, he sent the CV to companies.

But he attached a selfie instead of the CV.

When I told him, he said:

“At least they will see I’m presentable.”

One company replied:

“Kindly send the actual document.”

He said they were rude.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

A lady in our office said she was broke and needed soft loan till salary day.

People sent her money because she looked genuinely stressed.

On salary day, she did not pay anybody.

Instead, she came to work with a new wig.

When one colleague asked for her money, she said:

“Please, I had to invest in my confidence.”

The whole office became quiet.

Even the printer stopped working.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

A man in our estate said thieves stole his gas cylinder.

Everyone felt bad because cooking with charcoal is stressful.

The estate group contributed money for a new one.

Three days later, his wife accidentally posted their kitchen.

There were three gas cylinders beside the cooker.

When people asked, he said:

“The stolen one came back spiritually.”

The chairman removed him from the welfare committee immediately

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

My friend said he wanted to stop borrowing money and become disciplined.

He created a savings group and made himself admin.

Everybody trusted him because he sounded serious.

After two months, the money entered ₦890,000.

Then he sent a long message:

“Guys, I had an emergency.”

The emergency was that he bought an iPhone.

He said:

“I needed a better phone to manage the group properly.”

The group reported him to his father.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

A guy in our class begged people to help him pay school fees.

He said he would drop out if he did not pay before Friday.

We contributed everything by Thursday evening.

On Friday, he posted from a beach.

He was holding coconut and smiling like someone who had no problems.

When we asked about school fees, he said:

“I paid, but I needed to celebrate survival.”

Later we found out he had not paid.

The school portal humbled him.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

My cousin said he wanted to start going to the gym.

He said he was tired of being mocked for being lazy.

His siblings contributed and paid for three months.

He went on the first day and took 46 pictures.

For the next two weeks, he kept posting throwbacks from that same day.

When we asked why he stopped going, he said:

“I’m building consistency mentally first.”

The gym instructor removed him from the members’ group.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

A man in our area said he wanted to contest for youth chairman.

He said he was different from other politicians.

He promised transparency, accountability, and fresh ideas.

People contributed for posters and campaign materials.

The first thing he printed was a large banner with only his face.

No manifesto.

No plan.

Just his face and the words:

“The Chosen One.”

We knew we had entered another season of suffering.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

Some men are fathers only when camera is on.

They will post baby on WhatsApp status with “my blood” and “my world,” but when it is time to buy Cerelac, their network will disappear.

They will carry child for naming ceremony picture like ambassador of fatherhood. White kaftan, dark shades, proud smile. People will say, “Aww, see responsible daddy.”

Responsible where?

The same daddy that has not priced pampers since hospital discharged us.

The same daddy that thinks sending N10,000 once in three weeks is co-parenting.

One day I asked him for money for baby food. He said, “What did you use the last one for?”

I stared at the phone like he had slapped me through MTN.

The last one was N15,000.

Diaper collected N8,000.

Baby food collected N5,500.

Transport to clinic collected N1,000.

The remaining N500 was still looking for its destiny.

But according to him, I was mismanaging funds.

That was the day I knew if I did not leave, I would soon start answering questions from police.

People think leaving is easy.

It is not.

Especially in Abuja where rent alone can humble your feminist agenda.

I left with one baby, two Ghana-must-go bags and the kind of courage that looks like madness from afar.

The first room I got was in a compound where the landlord’s wife counted visitors like immigration officer.

She looked at my baby and asked, “Where is the father?”

I said, “He is alive.”

She waited for more information.

I did not give her.

Because that is another reality of being a single mother in Abuja. Everybody wants report.

Landlord wants report.

Neighbours want report.

Church members want report.

Family members want report.

Even hairdresser will be parting your hair and parting your life story at the same time.

“Madam, the father no dey come?”

Aunty, face the closure.

In Abuja, being a single mother means people will pity you and judge you with the same mouth.

They will say, “You are so strong,” but they will not help you carry baby.

They will say, “God will provide,” but they will not send provision.

They will say, “You should have endured,” because Nigerian society believes a woman’s destiny is to endure nonsense until high blood pressure starts calling her mummy.

Endure what exactly?

A man who remembers he has child only on the child’s birthday?

A man who thinks school fees is suggestion?

A man who will buy new phone and say baby’s clinic money is tight?

Mba.

I did not leave because I wanted to prove a point.

I left because my peace was becoming more expensive than rent in Gwarinpa.

And being a single mother in Abuja is not beans.

Every morning, you wake up tired from yesterday.

You bath baby.

You pack baby food.

You look for socks.

You beg baby to stop crying.

You miss taxi.

You enter another one.

Driver will say, “Madam, your baby is disturbing.”

OGA SHE IS A BABY. SHOULD SHE BE RECITING constitution?

You get to daycare and they remind you payment is due.

You get to work and your boss asks why you look tired.

You want to say, “Because I am raising a human being with one hand and fighting billing with the other.”

But you smile and say, “I’m fine.”

Single mothers are always saying “I’m fine.”

Fine with eye bags.

Fine with unpaid bills.

Fine with baby sleeping on your chest while you are replying work emails.

Fine with crying quietly in the bathroom because that is the only place baby cannot follow you immediately.

The hardest part is not even money.

Money is wicked, yes. Diapers are wicked. Baby food is wicked. Daycare fees are doing ritual. Hospital bills are waiting at the corner.

But loneliness is another thing.

Not loneliness of man.

Abeg.

Loneliness of carrying every decision alone.

Should I change school?

Should I go to hospital now or wait till morning?

Should I buy drugs or foodstuff?

Should I call him and beg again or protect my dignity?

People see single mothers and think they are looking for pity.

No.

Most are looking for rest.

Just one full night of sleep without baby coughing.

One month without surprise expenses.

One support system that does not come with insult.

One man who understands that fatherhood is not surname donation.

Because baby daddy will still come around when the child starts looking fresh.

When baby begins to walk, talk, smile and say “daddy,” he will appear with biscuit and confidence.

He will say, “I miss my child.”

Your child ke?

Where were you when we were pricing nebulizer?

Where were you when I was using torchlight to check temperature at 2 a.m.?

Where were you when I was begging daycare to give me two more days?

Where were you when I was eating bread and water so baby could eat well?

But if you talk too much, people will say you are bitter.

So you keep quiet.

You learn.

You grow.

You become mother, father, accountant, nurse, teacher, security guard, prayer warrior and emergency clown.

Some days, you laugh.

Some days, you cry.

Some days, your child will hold your face with small hands and smile, and suddenly you remember why you are still standing.

That love is dangerous.

It will make you forgive life small.

I did not leave my baby daddy because I wanted my child to grow without a father.

I left because I did not want my child to grow watching her mother disappear slowly in the name of relationship.

There are worse things than being raised by a single mother.

Being raised inside constant disrespect is one of them.

So yes, I am a single mother in Abuja.

I am tired, broke sometimes, overthinking most times, and one diaper away from shouting in public.

But I have peace.

Small peace.

Expensive peace.

Peace that I paid for with tears, transport fare, rent, pride, and sleepless nights.

If you see me carrying baby, handbag, lunch flask and nylon of wipes while looking like I forgot my destiny at home, please don’t ask me where the father is.

Ask me if I have eaten.

That question is more useful.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

They want you to say he cheated.

Or he beat you.

Or his mother hated you.

Or you saw one strange lipstick on his shirt and your spirit rejected the relationship.

But sometimes, you leave because staying has turned you into an angry prayer point.

Sometimes, you leave because love has become customer care work and you are the only staff on duty.

I did not wake up one morning and decide to become a single mother in Abuja. Nobody dreams of carrying baby bag, handbag, nylon of diapers, laptop, emotional trauma and unfinished rent at the same time.

When I met him, he was sweet.

All men are sweet in the beginning. That is the free trial period.

He used to call me “my peace.”

He used to say, “I can’t wait to build a family with you.”

He used to send long messages that made me forgive his spelling mistakes.

By the time I got pregnant, “my peace” had become “why are you stressing me?”

Pregnancy will show you people.

A man can put baby inside you and still act surprised that baby needs food, hospital, clothes and responsible father.

The first scan, he said he was busy.

The second scan, he said salary had not entered.

When I started craving things, he said I was becoming expensive.

Expensive?

Ordinary suya and cold Fanta had become bride price.

I was carrying his child and still carrying the relationship on my head like gala seller inside traffic.

Any small complaint, he would say, “You women like wahala.”

Wahala?

Sir, your child is using my bladder as punching bag and you are telling me wahala.

After I gave birth, reality slapped me with both hands.

Baby cried at night, I woke up.

Baby needed food, I worried.

Baby had fever, I panicked.

Baby needed diapers, I calculated.

Baby daddy needed sleep, he slept.

That was when I knew motherhood is not the same thing as parenthood.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

One man said he does not like women who do hookup.

I asked him what he was doing on Aminu Kano at 11:48 p.m.

He said he was “just driving around.”

Driving around where? Destiny?

The hypocrisy on that road is plenty. During the day, people will insult hookup girls. At night, the same people will reduce speed and wind down glass like they are ordering shawarma.

“Fine girl, enter.”

“Baby, where are you going?”

“Can we talk?”

“Are you alone?”

No sir. I came with choir.

The worst are the ones that want girlfriend treatment with stranger budget.

They will ask your name.

They will ask where you are from.

They will ask why you are doing this.

They will ask whether you have eaten.

For one second, you will think somebody cares.

Then they will say, “I have only 15k.”

Your compassion will disappear immediately.

Some nights are funny.

Some nights are scary.

Some nights, one car will park and three men will be inside, looking at you like group assignment.

Mba.

I did not come to do cooperative society.

Some men will ask you to enter first before discussing anything.

That one is how people vanish and become prayer point on family WhatsApp group.

I learned to look at tyres, plate number, door handle, driver’s face, back seat, traffic movement and nearest exit at the same time.

You think it is only DSS that does surveillance?

A hookup babe on Aminu Kano can read danger faster than airport scanner.

One night, a man in a very clean SUV stopped. He looked like money that had done skincare.

He said, “I like you. You look different.”

That line is their national anthem.

Every man tells every girl she looks different.

Different from who? The other women you have been disappointing since 2004?

He asked why a beautiful girl like me was standing by the road.

I wanted to tell him the full story.

How rent does not care about beauty.

How foodstuff has become luxury.

How family billing has no mercy.

How Abuja can make you broke beside fine buildings.

How one mistake, one pregnancy, one job loss, one useless man, one sick mother, one landlord notice, can push a woman from “I can never” to “God abeg.”

But I just said, “Life.”

Because sometimes one word is enough.

He nodded like he understood.

He did not.

Men like to understand women in theory.

In reality, they just want discount.

By midnight, my legs were paining me. My makeup had started relocating. Powder on forehead had joined Abuja heat to form new cement. My wig was sitting like it was tired of my life choices.

Then one young man stopped.

He looked fresh. Too fresh.

I already knew he did not have money.

Fresh young men in Abuja mostly have perfume, audacity and one iPhone with cracked screen.

He said, “Baby, I like your vibe.”

I said, “Thank you.”

He said, “Can we just chill?”

Chill is the most dangerous word in Abuja.

Chill means he has no plan, no money, no room and no shame.

I told him my price.

He laughed and said, “You girls like money too much.”

I said, “And you boys like free things too much.”

He drove off angrily.

May God heal him.

There is a type of shame that comes with standing by the road. Not because of what you are doing, but because of who might see you.

Every approaching headlight becomes judgment.

You will see one car slowing down and start praying it is not your church member, your cousin, your former classmate, your mother’s friend or that aunty that used to call you “future doctor.”

Because Nigerians will not help you, but they will recognize you in your lowest moment with perfect vision.

One day, a woman selling roasted corn nearby looked at me and said, “My daughter, this life hard.”

She did not insult me.

She did not preach.

She just gave me one extra corn and looked away.

I almost cried.

Sometimes mercy comes from people who also know what hunger looks like.

The police are another story.

They will pass slowly, look at you, and suddenly remember public morality.

But if you give them something, morality will continue its journey.

Nigeria is a country where everybody is offended by sin until settlement enters.

One officer once asked us, “Una no get shame?”

I wanted to ask him if his salary was enough, but I still like my teeth.

So I kept quiet.

That is another lesson.

Not every insult deserves reply.

Some replies can relocate you to police station.

The saddest part is that people think hookup babes are enjoying. They imagine cash, hotels, soft life, champagne and men with Benz.

They don’t see the fear.

They don’t see the calculation.

They don’t see the cold.

They don’t see the hunger before makeup.

They don’t see the girl checking her phone every five minutes because daycare fee is due.

They don’t see the one sending money to younger siblings.

They don’t see the one who left a violent man.

They don’t see the one with degree inside bag and rejection letters inside email.

They don’t see the one who still prays before stepping out.

Not every roadside girl is lazy.

Some are just tired of begging a country that has refused to employ them.

Some are paying rent.

Some are feeding children.

Some are funding school.

Some are surviving bad decisions.

Some are surviving other people’s bad decisions.

And some are simply trying not to die poor.

I am not here to romanticize anything.

This life is not glamorous.

It is risky, lonely and humiliating in small daily doses.

You will laugh with strangers and cry inside taxi.

You will wear perfume over sadness.

You will charge phone in a bar and pretend you came to have fun.

You will smile at men you don’t like because NEPA bill is waiting at home with folded arms.

You will hear “ashawo” from people whose own sins are just better dressed.

But you keep standing.

Because Abuja does not ask if you are tired.

Rent does not ask if you are ashamed.

Hunger does not care about reputation.

By 2 a.m., Aminu Kano becomes quieter. The fine cars reduce. The serious men have gone. The unserious ones remain, doing negotiation like they are buying second-hand fridge.

Your feet hurt.

Your phone battery is low.

Your spirit is lower.

One man will still stop and say, “Baby, smile now.”

Smile?

Sir, if I smile with what is on my mind, you will call pastor.

When people ask why women do this, I always laugh.

Not because the question is funny.

Because the answer is everywhere.

It is in the rent receipt.

It is in the empty fridge.

It is in the child’s school fee.

It is in the sick mother’s drugs.

It is in the job interview that ended with “we will get back to you.”

It is in this Abuja that looks rich from outside but is quietly swallowing people.

So if you see a girl standing by Aminu Kano at night, you don’t have to clap for her.

You don’t have to insult her either.

Just know that life has many roads.

Some people are standing on theirs with heels, fear and lip gloss.

One day Nigeria go better.

Until then, if you stop by the roadside and ask me “how much” without greeting, may your AC stop working inside traffic.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

Picking a hookup girl at Wuse II is the kind of thing you do with confidence at night and regret with full chest in the morning.

Before anybody starts preaching, please sit down first.

I know.

I know what Bible says.

I know what mummy said.

I know what doctor said.

I know what common sense said.

But sometimes a man will carry his own two legs and enter trouble, then later start shouting “God abeg” like God was the one driving the car.

It was one Friday night at Wuse II.

Aminu Kano was looking like Abuja had washed its face and sprayed perfume. Fine cars. Fine lights. Fine girls. Fine lies everywhere.

I had no plan.

That is how most foolishness starts.

I was just “passing.”

Passing where? Destiny?

I had finished hanging out with some friends and was driving home jejely when I saw her standing by the road. Black dress. Small bag. Straight face. The kind of confidence that will make you forget your home training for five minutes.

I slowed down.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

My village people adjusted their seat.

She came closer and said, “Are you going?”

I said, “Where?”

She said, “Anywhere you want.”

That statement should have scared me.

Instead, my brain that studied logic in school went on annual leave.

We talked small. She entered the car. She smelled nice. Too nice. The kind of perfume that will make a man start misquoting scripture.

On the way, she was quiet.

Not shy quiet.

Tired quiet.

There is a difference.

Some people are not quiet because they have nothing to say. They are quiet because life has said too much already.

I asked her name.

She told me.

I asked where she was from.

She laughed and said, “Why? You want marry me?”

I said no.

She said, “Then don’t ask family-history questions.”

I respected myself immediately.

We got to the hotel.

Before anybody starts widening eyes, calm down. This is not confession for elders’ meeting.

I am not here to give you blue film.

I am here to tell you how ordinary night nearly turned me into motivational speaker.

Inside the room, she dropped her bag and sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at me for some seconds and said, “Before anything, I need to tell you something.”

My heart paused.

In Nigeria, when a woman says “I need to tell you something” inside hotel room, just know peace has left the group chat.

I said, “What?”

She said, “I’m HIV positive.”

The room became bigger.

The AC became louder.

My ancestors stood up.

For five seconds, I did not hear anything again. Even my shadow shifted back small.

HIV?

Positive?

Inside Wuse II?

With me?

My first reaction was fear.

Let me not lie and form enlightened man.

Fear held me by the neck.

All the biology I learned in secondary school returned at once, but scattered. White blood cells. Virus. Blood. CD4. AIDS. Window period. Everything was doing crossover service in my head.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

She was not crying.

She was not begging.

She was not ashamed.

She just sat there like someone who had said this thing many times and was tired of watching men become statue.

I asked, “Why didn’t you say it before entering my car?”

She said, “Would you have stopped?”

I wanted to say yes.

But my conscience coughed.

Because truthfully, if she had said it by the roadside, I would have zoomed off like FRSC was chasing me.

Not because I am a bad person.

Because ignorance is fast.

Fear is even faster.

I asked, “So why are you doing this kind of work?”

She looked at me and smiled.

That smile pained me.

It was not funny smile.

It was “men ask foolish questions when they are afraid” smile.

She said, “Why are you here?”

I kept quiet.

Because sometimes the question you use to judge somebody can return to you with interest.

Why was she there?

Why was I there?

Was hunger the only thing that brought people to that road?

Was loneliness not there too?

Was irresponsibility not there?

Was bad decisions not there?

Was Abuja not there, standing with clean roads and dirty secrets?

She opened her bag and brought out her drugs.

She said she was on treatment.

She said she was careful.

She said she tells people before anything because she does not want another person to carry what she is carrying.

I sat down slowly.

My fear did not vanish, but shame joined it.

Because there I was, a grown man who came to buy secrecy, suddenly acting like morality chairman because the person in front of me had a medical condition.

I asked how long.

She said years.

I asked if her family knew.

She said only her sister.

I asked if she had a child.

She said yes.

That one entered my chest.

A child.

Somewhere in Abuja, one small child was probably sleeping while mummy stood by the roadside negotiating with men whose first question was “how much?”

Life is wicked.

We like to pretend everybody’s story is simple.

Hookup babe.

Ashawo.

Bad girl.

Spoilt girl.

Wayward.

Finished.

As if one word can carry a whole human being.

She told me she did not start like this.

Nobody starts like this.

She came to Abuja to work.

Work did not work.

Rent worked.

Hunger worked.

Family billing worked.

Men worked.

One man promised to help her and helped himself instead.

Another man gave her love and left her with shame.

By the time life finished arranging her, Aminu Kano became office.

I was listening like a fool.

The same man that had entered hotel room with bad intention had turned to counsellor by force.

I asked if she was angry.

She said, “Anger does not pay school fees.”

That line stayed with me.

Anger does not pay school fees.

Pain does not pay rent.

Shame does not buy food.

Pride does not refill gas.

Sometimes people are not living. They are just paying bills with whatever part of themselves life has not collected.

I told her I could not continue.

She said, “I know.”

No drama.

No insult.

No begging.

She stood up and started packing her bag.

I paid her.

Before you people start shouting, yes, I paid her.

Not for anything.

For wasting her time.

For making her enter my car.

For making her carry her truth into a room where I carried only hypocrisy.

She collected the money and said, “Please test regularly.”

Imagine.

The person I was afraid of was the one advising me to be responsible.

Mba.

Life will humble you.

She left.

I sat in that hotel room for almost thirty minutes, looking at the wall like the wall owed me explanation.

All my confidence had disappeared.

The same bed I entered with swagger was now looking like judgement seat.

I went home that night and could not sleep.

Every small itch became symptom.

Mosquito bit me, I said HIV.

I coughed, I said HIV.

I sneezed, I said village people.

By morning, I had searched Google until Google itself was tired of me.

“Can HIV pass through handshake?”

“Can HIV pass through fear?”

“Can HIV pass through hotel bedsheet?”

“Can HIV pass through looking at someone with regret?”

At one point, I almost searched “can foolishness reduce CD4?”

That was when I knew panic had carried me to Sambisa.

I went to hospital.

Not WhatsApp group.

Not Twitter thread.

Not one chemist beside suya spot.

Hospital.

The doctor listened to me and looked at me with the face doctors use when they want to say “you people will not kill me” but professionalism is holding their mouth.

He asked questions.

I answered like primary school student.

He explained things calmly.

He did not insult me.

That even made me feel worse.

Sometimes you need insult to balance your stupidity.

He told me what to do, what not to do, and how to stop behaving like fear is medical knowledge.

I left the hospital with drugs, instructions and the kind of humility that can make a man greet security guard first.

For weeks, I was not myself.

Not because anything happened.

But because the whole experience opened something in my head.

We joke too much with our lives.

Men especially.

A man will carry condom in wallet for decoration.

A man will meet stranger and start negotiating like he is pricing okrika.

A man will remove sense because woman is fine.

Then when reality appears, he will start calling Jesus like he did not block Jesus before entering hotel.

I started thinking of all the times I had been careless.

All the “just this once.”

All the “she looks clean.”

As if HIV has dress code.

As if infection checks whether you are fine, fresh or from good family.

As if Abuja girls come with medical report attached to eyelashes.

The truth is, I was not scared because she was wicked.

I was scared because I had been careless enough to put my peace in the hands of chance.

And that is the part men don’t like admitting.

We like blaming women for temptations we drove ourselves to meet.

She did not kidnap me.

She did not drag me.

She did not lie.

She told me the truth.

I was the one who went out looking for trouble and became surprised when trouble had medical history.

Since that day, Wuse II has not looked the same to me.

When I pass Aminu Kano at night and see girls standing by the road, I don’t just see makeup and short dresses again.

I see bills.

I see survival.

I see danger.

I see men slowing down with judgment in their mouth and desire in their pocket.

I see a country where people are forced to sell confidence under streetlight.

I see women carrying stories nobody will hear because everybody is too busy pricing them.

And I see men like me, pretending we are better because our own shame has not been announced.

I am not writing this to scare anybody from people living with HIV.

No.

In fact, that night taught me that ignorance is more dangerous than status.

Some people know their status and are responsible.

Some of us don’t know anything and are moving around with confidence.

That is the real horror movie.

If you are living anyhow, test.

If you are ashamed, test.

If you think you are too clean, test.

If you think you can know by looking at somebody, may God deliver you from foolishness.

And if someone trusts you enough to disclose their status, don’t reduce them to disease.

Respect the honesty.

Protect yourself.

Protect them too.

As for me, I learned my lesson.

Fear taught me.

Hospital completed the teaching.

Abuja billed me emotionally.

Since then, anytime my body wants to follow nonsense, my brain remembers that hotel room in Wuse II and behaves itself.

One day Nigeria go better.

Until then, may our erection not take us to where our sense cannot defend us.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

In Nigeria, when a woman says “I need to tell you something” inside hotel room, just know peace has left the group chat.

My experience with an HIV positive hookup girl

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

Picking a hookup girl at Wuse II is the kind of thing you do with confidence at night and regret with full chest in the morning.

Before anybody starts preaching, please sit down first.

I know.

I know what Bible says.

I know what mummy said.

I know what doctor said.

I know what common sense said.

But sometimes a man will carry his own two legs and enter trouble, then later start shouting “God abeg” like God was the one driving the car.

It was one Friday night at Wuse II.

Aminu Kano was looking like Abuja had washed its face and sprayed perfume. Fine cars. Fine lights. Fine girls. Fine lies everywhere.

I had no plan.

That is how most foolishness starts.

I was just “passing.”

Passing where? Destiny?

I had finished hanging out with some friends and was driving home jejely when I saw her standing by the road. Black dress. Small bag. Straight face. The kind of confidence that will make you forget your home training for five minutes.

I slowed down.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

My village people adjusted their seat.

She came closer and said, “Are you going?”

I said, “Where?”

She said, “Anywhere you want.”

That statement should have scared me.

Instead, my brain that studied logic in school went on annual leave.

We talked small. She entered the car. She smelled nice. Too nice. The kind of perfume that will make a man start misquoting scripture.

On the way, she was quiet.

Not shy quiet.

Tired quiet.

There is a difference.

Some people are not quiet because they have nothing to say. They are quiet because life has said too much already.

I asked her name.

She told me.

I asked where she was from.

She laughed and said, “Why? You want marry me?”

I said no.

She said, “Then don’t ask family-history questions.”

I respected myself immediately.

We got to the hotel.

Before anybody starts widening eyes, calm down. This is not confession for elders’ meeting.

I am not here to give you blue film.

I am here to tell you how ordinary night nearly turned me into motivational speaker.

Inside the room, she dropped her bag and sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at me for some seconds and said, “Before anything, I need to tell you something.”

My heart paused.

In Nigeria, when a woman says “I need to tell you something” inside hotel room, just know peace has left the group chat.

I said, “What?”

She said, “I’m HIV positive.”

The room became bigger.

The AC became louder.

My ancestors stood up.

For five seconds, I did not hear anything again. Even my shadow shifted back small.

HIV?

Positive?

Inside Wuse II?

With me?

My first reaction was fear.

Let me not lie and form enlightened man.

Fear held me by the neck.

All the biology I learned in secondary school returned at once, but scattered. White blood cells. Virus. Blood. CD4. AIDS. Window period. Everything was doing crossover service in my head.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

She was not crying.

She was not begging.

She was not ashamed.

She just sat there like someone who had said this thing many times and was tired of watching men become statue.

I asked, “Why didn’t you say it before entering my car?”

She said, “Would you have stopped?”

I wanted to say yes.

But my conscience coughed.

Because truthfully, if she had said it by the roadside, I would have zoomed off like FRSC was chasing me.

Not because I am a bad person.

Because ignorance is fast.

Fear is even faster.

I asked, “So why are you doing this kind of work?”

She looked at me and smiled.

That smile pained me.

It was not funny smile.

It was “men ask foolish questions when they are afraid” smile.

She said, “Why are you here?”

I kept quiet.

Because sometimes the question you use to judge somebody can return to you with interest.

Why was she there?

Why was I there?

Was hunger the only thing that brought people to that road?

Was loneliness not there too?

Was irresponsibility not there?

Was bad decisions not there?

Was Abuja not there, standing with clean roads and dirty secrets?

She opened her bag and brought out her drugs.

She said she was on treatment.

She said she was careful.

She said she tells people before anything because she does not want another person to carry what she is carrying.

I sat down slowly.

My fear did not vanish, but shame joined it.

Because there I was, a grown man who came to buy secrecy, suddenly acting like morality chairman because the person in front of me had a medical condition.

I asked how long.

She said years.

I asked if her family knew.

She said only her sister.

I asked if she had a child.

She said yes.

That one entered my chest.

A child.

Somewhere in Abuja, one small child was probably sleeping while mummy stood by the roadside negotiating with men whose first question was “how much?”

Life is wicked.

We like to pretend everybody’s story is simple.

Hookup babe.

Ashawo.

Bad girl.

Spoilt girl.

Wayward.

Finished.

As if one word can carry a whole human being.

She told me she did not start like this.

Nobody starts like this.

She came to Abuja to work.

Work did not work.

Rent worked.

Hunger worked.

Family billing worked.

Men worked.

One man promised to help her and helped himself instead.

Another man gave her love and left her with shame.

By the time life finished arranging her, Aminu Kano became office.

I was listening like a fool.

The same man that had entered hotel room with bad intention had turned to counsellor by force.

I asked if she was angry.

She said, “Anger does not pay school fees.”

That line stayed with me.

Anger does not pay school fees.

Pain does not pay rent.

Shame does not buy food.

Pride does not refill gas.

Sometimes people are not living. They are just paying bills with whatever part of themselves life has not collected.

I told her I could not continue.

She said, “I know.”

No drama.

No insult.

No begging.

She stood up and started packing her bag.

I paid her.

Before you people start shouting, yes, I paid her.

Not for anything.

For wasting her time.

For making her enter my car.

For making her carry her truth into a room where I carried only hypocrisy.

She collected the money and said, “Please test regularly.”

Imagine.

The person I was afraid of was the one advising me to be responsible.

Mba.

Life will humble you.

She left.

I sat in that hotel room for almost thirty minutes, looking at the wall like the wall owed me explanation.

All my confidence had disappeared.

The same bed I entered with swagger was now looking like judgement seat.

I went home that night and could not sleep.

Every small itch became symptom.

Mosquito bit me, I said HIV.

I coughed, I said HIV.

I sneezed, I said village people.

By morning, I had searched Google until Google itself was tired of me.

“Can HIV pass through handshake?”

“Can HIV pass through fear?”

“Can HIV pass through hotel bedsheet?”

“Can HIV pass through looking at someone with regret?”

At one point, I almost searched “can foolishness reduce CD4?”

That was when I knew panic had carried me to Sambisa.

I went to hospital.

Not WhatsApp group.

Not Twitter thread.

Not one chemist beside suya spot.

Hospital.

The doctor listened to me and looked at me with the face doctors use when they want to say “you people will not kill me” but professionalism is holding their mouth.

He asked questions.

I answered like primary school student.

He explained things calmly.

He did not insult me.

That even made me feel worse.

Sometimes you need insult to balance your stupidity.

He told me what to do, what not to do, and how to stop behaving like fear is medical knowledge.

I left the hospital with drugs, instructions and the kind of humility that can make a man greet security guard first.

For weeks, I was not myself.

Not because anything happened.

But because the whole experience opened something in my head.

We joke too much with our lives.

Men especially.

A man will carry condom in wallet for decoration.

A man will meet stranger and start negotiating like he is pricing okrika.

A man will remove sense because woman is fine.

Then when reality appears, he will start calling Jesus like he did not block Jesus before entering hotel.

I started thinking of all the times I had been careless.

All the “just this once.”

All the “she looks clean.”

As if HIV has dress code.

As if infection checks whether you are fine, fresh or from good family.

As if Abuja girls come with medical report attached to eyelashes.

The truth is, I was not scared because she was wicked.

I was scared because I had been careless enough to put my peace in the hands of chance.

And that is the part men don’t like admitting.

We like blaming women for temptations we drove ourselves to meet.

She did not kidnap me.

She did not drag me.

She did not lie.

She told me the truth.

I was the one who went out looking for trouble and became surprised when trouble had medical history.

Since that day, Wuse II has not looked the same to me.

When I pass Aminu Kano at night and see girls standing by the road, I don’t just see makeup and short dresses again.

I see bills.

I see survival.

I see danger.

I see men slowing down with judgment in their mouth and desire in their pocket.

I see a country where people are forced to sell confidence under streetlight.

I see women carrying stories nobody will hear because everybody is too busy pricing them.

And I see men like me, pretending we are better because our own shame has not been announced.

I am not writing this to scare anybody from people living with HIV.

No.

In fact, that night taught me that ignorance is more dangerous than status.

Some people know their status and are responsible.

Some of us don’t know anything and are moving around with confidence.

That is the real horror movie.

If you are living anyhow, test.

If you are ashamed, test.

If you think you are too clean, test.

If you think you can know by looking at somebody, may God deliver you from foolishness.

And if someone trusts you enough to disclose their status, don’t reduce them to disease.

Respect the honesty.

Protect yourself.

Protect them too.

As for me, I learned my lesson.

Fear taught me.

Hospital completed the teaching.

Abuja billed me emotionally.

Since then, anytime my body wants to follow nonsense, my brain remembers that hotel room in Wuse II and behaves itself.

One day Nigeria go better.

Until then, may our erection not take us to where our sense cannot defend us.

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

In Nigeria, when a woman says “I need to tell you something” inside hotel room, just know peace has left the group chat.

My experience with an HIV positive hookup girl

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

In Nigeria, when a woman says “I need to tell you something” inside hotel room, just know peace has left the group chat.

My experience with an HIV positive hookup girl

[Jimmy @Drdrei09]

Nobody tells you that standing by the roadside is also a full-time job. You are customer care, security officer, accountant, negotiator, psychologist, weather forecast expert and prayer warrior at the same time.

My first night at Aminu Kano, I dressed like somebody who had confidence in Nigeria. Short dress, powder, lip gloss, one perfume I sprayed like I was trying to confuse poverty.

I stood near one corner pretending to press phone.

That is how everybody starts. Nobody wants to look too available.

You will be standing by the road for business but still forming “I am waiting for my Uber.”

A black Camry slowed down.

My heart jumped small.

The glass came down.

One man with wedding ring, big stomach and confidence asked, “Sister, do you know where I can buy suya?”

Suya?

So I wore waist bead and suffered eyeliner because of suya direction?

I pointed for him.

He said, “You are a fine girl o.”

I said thank you.

He drove off.

That was my first customer review.

By 9 p.m., Aminu Kano had changed uniform. The same road that looked normal during the day became theatre. Cars were moving slowly like they were inspecting land. Men who cannot greet their wives at home suddenly became very friendly with strangers.

One man stopped and said, “Come.”

I said, “Where?”

He said, “Just come.”

Oga, am I goat?

Even Uber gives destination.

Another one wound down and said, “How much?”

No good evening.

No hello.

No “how was your day?”

Just how much, like he was pricing fairly used generator in Apo.

I told him.

He shouted, “For what?”

For standing here with full makeup under Abuja dust while you are driving air-conditioned regret, sir.

But I smiled.

Because anger does not pay rent.

That is the first lesson the road teaches you.

You will swallow insult with lip gloss.

Some men will price you like tomatoes.

Some will ask for “short time” like they are booking hotel for mosquito.

Some will beg.

Some will threaten.

Some will start preaching after negotiating.

One man told me, “You know this life is not good.”

I said, “I know.”

He said, “God has a plan for you.”

I said, “Amen.”

Then he asked if I could follow him for 20k.

Sir, is this evangelism or invoice?

Abuja men are special.

They will come in tinted car, remove wedding ring, ask for discount, then start advising you to stop this kind of life.

The same person who came to pick sin is now doing moral studies.

Daris God o.