Osareme is standing in the street. She is wearing a short skirt and a light nylon blouse, revealing her almost ripe breasts. The cold making the nipples stand out against the light material of the blouse. She is not wearing a bra.
She marches up and down the street throwing inviting glances at passing vehicles and looking sexily at male passers-by. She wriggles her waist coquettishly and thrusts out her chest, emphasizing her budding breasts as she walks.
Her intentions are obvious. She is soliciting for male attention. Her profession is overt. She is a prostitute.
She has long overflowing hair. But any interested observer will easily see behind the façade of long hair and very heavy but badly applied make up that this one is not as old as she is made up to look. In fact Osareme is an adolescent. Behind all the masquerade is a fourteens year old or young girl.
There are other girls of the same trade in the street.
A car stops. Before she could gear up herself and make her move, another girl had already reached the car. Osareme stands, watching. After a brief chitchat, the girl opens the passenger’s door, gets in and the car zooms off.
Brisk business is going on around Osareme. But she is not versed enough with the speedy moves of the street to compete as it were with her competitors. Obviously Osareme is still a new kid around the block.
Another car moves up, this time quite opposite Osareme. She cannot miss this one. She moves towards it with gusto and sticks her head into the open passenger’s window.
“Hello” she greets the driver.
“Hii, replies the man, ‘How are you?”
“Fine” she replies
“I want to go home with you, how much will that cost me?” the man asks
“Short time or till morning?” she asked.
“Ehm, ehm, okay, till morning”
“That na, I mean it is Two fifty Euro”.
There was a shout from somewhere.
“Osa runoooooo!!”
She sticks out her head from the car. Two men have converged on her from opposite directions.
They flashed some cards at her
“We are Police officers, will you please enter the car”’ one of them stated flatly.
The girl’s whole system went rigid. Her eyes went wide as she throws wild glances this way and that. To her total shock, as if by magic all her colleagues in the streets have disappeared.
“Don’t do anything stupid. Just get into the car and you wouldn’t have any troubles”. The other cop advised, grabbing her biceps. With that, she panicked. She started struggling and screaming.
‘Vicky! !, comeooo, Ogbalegbe don catch meooo, I don dieooo ! !’.
‘Shut up!’ one of the cops shouted at her so harshly that she immediately clamped up.
They opened the car door and shoved her in. The other police man went round and entered from the passenger’s back seat door and both of them hedged her in. The car drives off.
The Police Interrogation Room
She is standing against a wall. A placard with numbers is hanging from her neck. A photographer with a camera pointed at Osareme is about to take a photograph.
Snap! A flash goes off.
“Turn sideways please” She stands, not moving, staring bemused at the camera. Dry tears staining her heavily made up face.
A man moves up from the shadows and turns her sideways. She responds like a zombie. Flash! !. Another photo is taken.
She is now sitting on a chair, a table between her and a policewoman sitting on the opposite side.
“What is your name?” the woman asked.
Osareme sits with her hands on her laps, looking down at the table. Her ill-fitting wig a little disheveled. A typical picture of a lost little girl caught trying to play adult games.
One could see that she is not only cold but very scared. She did not speak. She is starting to shake or shiver. Fear or cold, one could be the explanation. Or both.
Tears were slowly starting to run down her face. Despair written all over her.
The woman looked at her fixedly for some time. Then she gets up, picks up her chair and comes over to Osareme’s side. Placing her chair beside hers, she sits.
Then she placed her hand on the sad young girl’s shoulders comfortingly and starts speaking.
“Do not fear my friend. I do not wish to harm you. I am a woman like you and I am a mother. I want to help you. Just talk to me. Okay”. She continued holding her.
Osareme shivers.
The woman holds her tighter, drawing her closer to herself.
“Talk to me darling. It makes me sad to see a girl like you so unhappy. I want to help you”.
They stayed like that for some time. Then the woman asked.
“Do you want some coffee? You are cold”.
Osareme nods.
The lady gets up and goes into another room. Osareme clasped her arms around her torso, staring down at the table, she unconsciously slowly started rocking herself sideways. As if from a distance in her head she started hearing a song. She rocked herself to the rhythm of this song. Then without invitation slow hot tears started again tracing their tracks down her smudged face. She rocked and sang her woeful song. Anguish and tears betraying the extent of her present misery.
The Policewoman had opened the door a crack and from behind it was watching her. Instinctively her hand went to her face as she made to wipe away a tear that was threatening to emerge.
She waited until the sobbing girl has quieted down and gained reasonable control of herself, before she made her entrance bearing two cups of coffee and smiling broadly.
‘Sorry for the delay, there was no hot water so I had to boil some. There is no sense in drinking coffee if the water is not hot enough’, she pointed out as she handed one of the cups to Osareme while she sits with the other.
She looked at the girl closely.
‘You have been crying again, oh dear dear’. The Police woman clucked like a chicken.
“Look, I don’t want you to fear nor worry. I am a Police Welfare Officer. Do you know what a Welfare Officer is?”
Osareme looks at her and shakes her head, indicating ignorance.
The woman smiles.
You see, a welfare officer’s duty is to ehm, make friends with you. She concluded dramatically, opening her arms wide for emphasis and inclining her head slightly. A comic display.
The effort paid off a little as a slight smile greased the sides of Osareme’s mouth.
The older woman then looked at the younger girl straight in the eyes.
“I mean it, I really want to be your friend”.
She sticks out her hand.
‘My name is Anja’
Osareme was surprised briefly as she stared confused at the proffered hand. Then she looks at the woman, who smiled encouragingly and warmly at her.
Slowly she brought out her hand from under the table and put it daintily into the woman’s extended palm.
The woman continued looking at her, straight in the eyes.
“And what is your name?” she asked her.
Osareme swallowed.
“Gloria, but my home name is Osareme”.
“Okay, Gloria, I can call you Gloria, can’t I?”
“I like Osareme better” she said in a small but steady voice.
The woman nodded
“Osareme” she pronounced as if trying it out in her mouth.
“I like it. It is a good name”. She smiled.
Then she placed her hands on top of the girl’s.
“Now listen Osareme, I want to help you. It is my job to help young people like you who have problems. I do not know why you do what you do, I do not know if you like doing it —” she hesitated as she noticed Osareme shake her head slightly, indicating a negative response.
“But I do know that it is wrong. I do not know also if you want to stop, but I can only help if you do want me to help you”.
She stopped speaking, but still staring at her.
Osareme nodded slightly.
“You want me to help you?” the woman asked, her voice a little louder. Osareme looked up at her.
“Yes” she said, ‘yes please ma’ she added.
“That is good” says the woman. “But Osareme you will have to help me to help you. You have to tell me a little about yourself”.
Osareme looked up at the lady again.
‘Do you want to send me back to my village’? She asked directly and bravely.
The woman was slightly taken aback.
‘Ehm, no, that is not what I mean. I said that I will help you’.
‘Because if you send me back to my village, Baba Osunde will surely kill me’ she stated flatly and with finality.
The woman was surprised.
‘Who is ehm Baba Osumonde?’.
The little girl looked down.
‘Baba Osunde, he is my husband’. She replied in a small voice.
This time the woman’s mouth fell open. Then a frown greased her face.
‘Now Osareme, tell me the truth. How old are you?
‘Ehm, ehm, I, I am —‘.
‘I said the truth’. The woman’s voice had steel in it now.
‘Fourteen’ the girl whispered.
The woman took in and let out a deep breath.
‘Fourteen years’ she repeated.
‘Tell me how come you were married at fourteen years, it is not normal’.
‘It is because my father died’.
‘Oh, sorry. Do you want to tell me about it? Was he sick?’
‘No’ the girl shakes her head. She seemed to take a deep breath.
Osareme’s story . . . to be continued
