The air is chilly but I don’t care. I am more concerned if the bouncers at the gate keep their faces contorted in exasperation on purpose.
I hate wearing heels. Maybe if I start saying I like them, I will actually like them since I am just learning that repetition plays a huge role in shaping our beliefs.
But it does not matter because now I must feign composure and stare at people without overtly staring at them.
I must pretend that I am busy by pressing my phone when in reality I just want to sleep but since I am here, I can’t. I must be present. I must live in the bloody moment.
I wonder about the criteria used in choosing strippers.
Their bodies are not ponderous. They are well-sculpted with accentuated hips and tiny pieces of clothing that snug intimately to their bodies.
The lurid intimate lights in the club flash with so much intensity, casting a meld of colours on their bodies and our faces in a way that makes everyone feel familiar with one another.
From my view, I can see a tall stripper shimmying down the stage.
Suddenly, I wish I knew her height because there is no pole on the stage to guess since a standard pole should start from 7ft upwards.
Her strip tease is weak but provocative. The gyration of her hips and arms holds attention but not for too long.
Her muscles must be lax because the dance is listless. It is now past midnight so I assume she is conserving her energy. I later find out that she is not.
Many things are disrupting my thought pattern. I can barely concentrate. First off, the wisps of smoke circling the air in front of me before disappearing is affecting my eyes and making me cough raggedly.
So I hope that maybe when I drink this overpriced water, I will feel better. I do not, mostly because the smoke does not stop dancing in the air like vestiges of these lucid memories haunting me.
Everyone here is in a haze. Except me. My chest is burning.
The strippers’ bellies are so flat like compressed pillows. I start analysing a lot of bodies trying to figure out which one is more of a BBL or not and stop after realising it involves staring at people for long so I now look like Joe Goldberg.
No no no. Not allowed. I am supposed to be in the moment.
I am seeing many people raise their phones to take snaps with their flashlights on and it makes me smile.
Actually, it does not. I don’t feel anything here.
Also, it is harder to have conversations since it involves screaming in each other's ears so I observe instead with one hand clutching my glass cup like my life depends on it.
As I keep my gaze buried on my phone screen, I see my deadlines staring at me. I opt for escapism. I stand up in an attempt to dance.
The DJ’s playlist is blaring at ear-splitting decibels but is still a terrible mix. The hype from the hype man who I can barely see is so banal that I am forced to sit down.
These people don’t know their job, I realise. But these strippers, they know their job.
If you are hesitant, they beckon on you. They do everything with intention, even their wink looks like it is practiced.
If you are still hesitant to touch them, they place your hands exactly where they want and where they think you want.
They link their delicate fingers with yours and smile at you surreptitiously yet boldly under their full dark lashes—is it volume or hybrid?
Their nails are well-tapered and glossy. Their eyes— doing all the talking. I am paying attention even while coughing.
I am staring with eternal fixity. Like the money changers are. We all are, with slaving concentration.
The money changers stand like dated statues, with many bundles of cash in their right hand, as if it is too heavy to be on both hands.
I wonder how they do not move an inch despite the sound of the music blasting the air and the walls of the club.
Maybe they know their job so they have no business dancing. Maybe they secretly want to dance but they have to do their jobs.
The air is filled with the heavy fragrance of lust, sultriness, and discomfiting colours. But it is not hot.
The lights are still flashing in an unrelenting way that I start to feel it may worsen my compound astigmatism.
For no reason, I imagine one of my lecturers in pharmacy school here, his half-smirk widening into a full one at the sight of these strippers.
He looks pleased in a way that does not surprise me.
I am trying to wonder why I can’t seem to move my limbs.
Then I remember Bob Proctor’s book and I immediately try to read the first line to see if it can hold my attention. It does not.
The club screen has shown three different names turn by turn and about seven girls dressed in blue and white cheerleading outfits are delivering the drinks in an exaggerated manner.
Their deadpan expression alongside their perfunctory delivery is making me laugh.
However, the person receiving it looks pleased with a disguised indifference, nodding his head at the cheesy caption on the placard ‘Don’t come to Bayrock on a budget o’.
I bet he is enjoying the thrill of his name on the screen and the dopamine rush following the wads of cash he has flung in the air.
The tall stripper scurries to his front, her posterior perpendicular to his fly and has now increased the intensity of her gyration.
The truth hits me slowly that there is no proof of the economic realities in Nigeria here.
It is now 4:00 am. My feet are hurting but most importantly, my chest is burning.
I need to buy the cough syrup I have been hesitant to buy for the past week.
I have no choice.
I came back to read this at half-past one am because there is a hotel/lounge/club blasting intrusive sounds disrupting my sleep and I just want to say again that you write so beautifully. So delicately enchanting.
This is such a brilliant writing , so beautiful