AMAKA AND THE CITY OF ANGELS

Amaka spent the entire night packing her finest clothes and shoes into her mother's Ghana-must-go bag. Her mind was already set on Italy -the land of gold and sugar- and she could not bear to lose one more minute of sleep in her village. She hummed foreign tunes she had heard from the radio, as if that would prepare her for the new land she was going to. Aunty Ngozi had come from Lagos the week before to give her the best news of her life.

"I want to take Amaka with me to Italy," she had told Amaka and her parents.
"Italy? What is that?" Amaka was puzzled. She had only known of three places in existence : her village, Lagos and London, which she had heard was the city of angels. "Aunty, what is Italy?"
"Italy is a country in Europe," her aunty said, adressing the three confused faces that looked at her in wonder. "It is another place close to London. But it is finer." Amaka was shocked to hear that anything was better than the city of angels. Her aunty continued, "I want her to come and study there. She will be a very rich medical doctor by the time she returns." Thiis was enough to gain the approval of her poverty-stricken parents.
"But, are you sure it is safe?" Amaka's father asked. She knew her father would agree to her leaving for Italy, no matter the reply to this question. It was typical of him to pretend to be hard to convince.
"Of course, it is," Aunty Ngozi said breathily. Her gold bangles and earrings made colliding sounds as she moved her body about, gesticulating about how great Italy was.

Now, Amaka was ready to leave. She thought of her life in the village and was no longer satisfied with it. She had seen it as the exact state life should be, but her new lust for the paradise that was Italy suddenly made the village inferior to her. She thoughtt of her parents. Her father had never left the village and had spent his whole life waiting for the news reporters from Lagos to come and interview him so that he could beg the government to help him with his failed harvest. Her mother spent all her time sittting at home, cooking and sleeping while rolls of fat accumulated in her obese body. Amaka thought of Mama Chidi, the solitary woman that lived next to their house. Amaka had always felt theat the woman was too content with the simplicity of her life. She wondered if the woman truly had a son named Chidi or she had just faked that title to earn respect from the other village woman. Her thoughts also wandered in the direction of Dr Isaac, the only man whose house had an iron roof in the village. He claimed to be a successful doctor but she wondered why he had been using the same bicycle since she could remember. May be he spent all his money constantly polishing his iron roof which Amaka often imagnined she could see her own clear reflection in if only she had an ostcirch neck. She reflected on her school life. She would miss it for sure. She had been the best student in the whole village school even though she could barely write a legible and meaningful sentence. The schoold had two teachers, one was known as Mr Chidozie while the other was merely called "Teacher". She remembered days when the rain would beat through their unroofed classrooms and they would all rush to their houses, only to return when the violent rain had reduced to a weak slowly drizzling water downpour.

She imagined how this "Italy" would be : with gold-paved roads which one could sleep on and be transported into a world of candy-themed dreams. She imagined people with butterfly wings, flying to the sun and back. Money would literally grow on trees and there would be plenty for everyone. People would breathe rainbow and sing with nightingale voices.

Aunty Ngozi came very early the next day. She quickly hugged her brother and sister-in-law goodbye. She seemed in extreme hurry and Amaka was afraid of slowing her down. They got on the bus and Amaka saw Lagos, just as she had imagined it, with its dusty tarred roads, deafening noise pollution and metallic groaning of weary buses and cars. The airport was cold and filled with people who were sardined into an open space. She felt dizzy through out the flight and regretted missing the unusual experience. Her aunty nudged her when they reached Italy. She lazily climbed down from the plane. She saw Italy.

It was nothing like she had expected. There were no butterfly wings attached to the back of the white people she saw at the airport. The roads were gleaming and not pot-holed like the ones in Lagos but they were definitely not paved with gold either. The trees were just trees and the Italian man that spoke to them when they were filling something that seemed to her like an exam script did not breathe out rainbow or have a birdly voice. His breath smelled like he had consumed too much garlic, like the one Nike, the Yoruba lady who lived in the village often excessively added to her kunu drink. His voice was deep and rough. The house they stayed in was smaller than her house in the village. The bulbs were constantly lit and the tiles were spotless. But the house was small. There were only two rooms : the toilet and another room wich served as the bedroom, the kitchen and the living room. Aunty Ngozi told her to have a good rest. She seemed extra pleasant. It was the kind of fake pleasantness that preceeded a show of monstrousity. But Amaka ignored the unease in her stomach and slept off. When she woke up, her aunt had returned with take-out food.
"Come and eat," Aunty Ngozi said, placing the food on the dinning table which was just two feet away from the bed. Amak tasted the food and felt a creamy puke-invoking aftertaste on the back of her tongue. She dropped the fork and pushed the food towards her aunty, as if provoked by a sudden realisation of its satanic nature. Aunty Ngozi laughed until she coughed and gulped the whole youghurt drink in her cup. "You still have village tongue, nwa nwanne."

What happened the next day was not something Amaka could have even conceived of in her wildly imaginative mind. Aunty Ngozi came with two gift bags containing clothes. She handed them over to Amaka who excitedly emptied the bags. The clothes were strikingly skimpy. One of the tops had very tiny straps with an incomplete length. Amaka wore it and her fears were confirmed. It filled only the half of her upper body. Her navel was exposed and she felt naked. The jean "skirt" was only an inch longer than her pants. She looked at her aunty and expected to hear, "Chineke! Amaka, sorry. Those people packed the wrong clothes." But instead, Aunty Ngozi smiled and said, "I'm sure you'll like them," she was speaking English. "You look sexy in those."
"Sexy?" That was an immoral word to Amaka's ears. "Aunty, why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you buy sexy clothes for me?"
"You don't like it? See this girl o. I spent my money to buy this for you and you are telling me nonsense."
"I'm sorry aunty, but I feel...I feel like a prostitute," she said in English. "Prostitute" was one of the few long words she could pronounce flawlessly.
"Stupid girl!" Aunty Ngozi stormed out of the apartment. She came back with an odd smile on her face five minutes later. It looked like the kind of smile one must have spent a long time perfecting before the mirror. "I am sorry, ndo. Go and have your bath quickly."

Though perplexed, Amaka obeyed and had a second bath that day. Aunty Ngozi told her to wear the skimpy top with the tiny straps and the short skirt. She hesitated but obeyed again, out of fear of her aunty's smile vanishing. Her aunty took her on the train. She felt very uncomfortable. Prying eyes seemed stuck on her body and even the fact that there were other half-clad girls all around did not make her less shy. It was already dark. As they hopped off the train, her aunty dragged her to a quiet street which was dim-lit. There were other scantily-dressed girls who eyed her with jealousy as one would do a new rival in an already tough race. The girls were mostly dark-skinned like her. She had not seen so many black people in one place since she reached Italy. She wondered if they were all from her village or Lagos(she still did not know black people could come from anywhere but Lagos and the villages close to it). Her aunty asked her to strike a similar pose to the girls who were all waiting to be taken away. Aunty Ngozi told her to wait for her till she returned. She did not return. As expensive cars dropped by, she saw the other girls rushing to the door to show themselves off to the driver. One or two of them would then be invited into the car, much to the envy of the others who would hiss or curse out at them. This happened about three times before Amaka realised what was happening. Her aunty had dropped her off with prostitutes.

She had heard of prostitutes from her mother back in the village. While they sat around the cooking pot, her mother would tell her about the loose Lagos girls standing in the dark roads, waiting for drunk irresponsible men to pick them up. She felt light-headed. Her thoughts became a mumbo-jumbo of unconnected ideas. How could Aunty Ngozi do this? She felt worthless and gullible. She felt subhuman. She was not sure what to do. Should she run away or go back to her aunty? If she ran away, she had nowhere to go. She decided to go back to Aunty Ngozi. Just as she was thinking of how to find her way back to her Aunty's house, an exotic car covered in a black gleaming paint-coat pulled up before her. The glass rolled down and a heavily bearded man with thick dark eye brows highlighting his bright eyes appeared at the steering wheel. He looked at her like someone examining an object at the market, to make sure it worth one's money. He motioned to her to come into the car. At first, she pretended not to notice him. She turned her head in the opposite direction, hoping he would leave. But he did not seem interested in the other girls who rushed towards his car, looking at him suggestively. He ignored them and kept staring at her. Amaka felt like she was under deep scrutiny, as if she was under the gaze of God. This man had the power to decide if she was worthy or worthless, through his own lens of her attractiveness. Then it struck her. She would go with him and perhaps, he would help her get to Aunty Ngozi. But how would she communicate with him? The language was certainly different. She found herself in his car before she could answer her own question.
"Beautiful," he said to her.

His accent was strange. It was not like that of the angels that lived in London, the ones whose voice she had heard on her father's radio back in the village. She was sure his English was laboured. It was that of someone who only knew very few words of the entire language. She imagined him smiling and saying "Beautiful" to every girl he picked up every other night. She clenched her fist and burst into tears. He noticed this and parked. She was not even aware that they had been in motion. He smiled at her and spoke some words rapidly and she knew it was his native language. She wondered if he knew that she did not understand his language. But he rapped on with his gentle voice. When he was done talking, he brought out a wad of notes that she could guess was a lot of money. Like a reflex action, she smiled and cleared her face. He grinned victoriously and drove on. Suddenly, she felt embarrased. She had just agreed to sleep with him because of money. Or had she? She had convinced herself that seeing aso much money at once in her life was enough to make her act despite herself. But she wrestled with herself. Should she sleep with him, take the money and find her way back to her aunty?

When they reached his one-room apartment, he offered her a glass of wine. She shook her head but it was too late. He was already pouring her a full glass. She remembered Mr Chidozie telling her in class that it was wrong to pour wine to the brim of the cup. But she was too thirsty to be confused. She grabbed the cup and gulped the whole drink. He had another smile on his face as he watched her but this time, it was mischievous. She wanted to ask him what he had lurking in the dark corners of his foul mind, hidden by his bright face. But she could not express that in English, let alone Italian. She wanted to run away. She did not need money to find her aunty after all. But her eyes were getting heavy and she could barely move. She fell unconscious.

She woke up to the sight of the man putting on his clothes. He turned around and saw her watching him. His face was expressionless and not gentle and full of smiles like the day before. He dipped his hands into his pocket and threw some money at her. She had been drugged and slept with. She was not sure if it was rape. She had been unconscious but she had willingly walked into his apartment at night in the first place. She could hear her mother blaming her for this. The blame would always go to the girl. But she had a feeling of true guilt, like she had been the cause. She led him on after all. She had not time to argue with herself if this was rape. She climbed down from the bed and quietly put on her clothes. Amidst uncontrollable tears, she muttered good bye to him even though she was certain he would not comprehend. But he gestured to her to sit. She did. When he was done dressing, he took her in his car to a place that looked like a restaurant. She had learnt about restaurants from Aunty Ngozi who had shown her a picture of one in Lagos many years ago. It was already morning. The man walked fast and kept looking back to make sure she followed him. The room they went into was full of lights hanging down from the ceiling. She saw many people sitting in twos and threes at small decorated round tables. Young men in white shirts, black trousers and bow ties attended to those seated at the tables. At the centre of the large room was Aunty Ngozi. She was wearing a French lace attire with gold jewellery. She gave the man a knowing smile. They knew each other. They spoke quickly in Italian. Their conversation sounded formal, like a business transaction. Amaka was the business transaction. When the man left, Amaka stood and stared at her aunty who seemed indifferent. Amaka expected a sincere apology but Aunty Ngozi just asked her to sit. She sat and fixed a stern gaze on her aunt.
"How much did he pay you?"
"What?"
"The money he gave you," Aunty Ngozi said. "Let me see it."
"Aunty," she said calmly. "Am I a prostitute?"
"No. You only help lonely men have a good time. You are like a good samaritan and in return, you get paid."
"But aunty, my body is not for sale!"
"Who said it's on sale? You still have your body. Did he cut off your legs or take your kidney?"
"That was my first time!"
"What?! No man ever touched you before that?"
"No!"
"Wait, you are a virgin?" She laughed mockingly. "How old are you?"
"I am seventeen."
"And you're still a virgin! You village girls sha"
"You are a bad woman," Amaka startled herself with her own rudeness. "So this is what you do in Italy with all the girls you keep bringing here, abi? Your secret is out and I will expose you!"
"Don't be foolish," she said. Aunty Ngozi seemed unmoved by this new attitude. She must have gone through this sort of conversation with a million girls. "I own you here. What I want is what you'll do. Okay? So you will come home with me, shower and when it is evening you will go back there. Do you think it is cheap living here? You will work and earn money for yourself and for me. Now, hand me the money and I will give you your share, nwa nwanne."


Back in Nigeria, in a very small village, an old couple listen to the radio. They hear about a woman who came to Nigeria and took her young female cousins to Italy under the pretext of making them rich and great people, but in reality, she forced them into a life of prostitution. When they refused to continue working for her, she killed them. "This is the story of many young Nigerian girls lured to European countries only to make them sex workers," the news reporter said. The old couple panic and fear for their daughter. They pray for their Amaka who has not contacted them since she went to Italy two years ago.