Seventh Virgin

By Bel Seth

Before history was properly recorded, something happened on earth—a horrid event that could twist the tongue when described in the words of men. Humans and supernatural beings partnered together to contravene a law but were quickly bundled up and flushed into the bottomless pit and under the marine beds.

Today, the horrors of sex slavery, abduction of beautiful young virgins from different parts of the world, and a physical, coded manifestation of fallen angels have all teamed up to pull out this ancient sin from the abyss. The seventh virgin’s story written on a parchment with bloody ink extracted from the veins of snakes and rodents must be given credence, for it—together with her knowledge of Egyptian writings and hieroglyphic drawings—could be used as tools to liberate thousands of maidens locked in African jungles and Egyptian pyramids and also prevent the rebirth of the giant race!

Here comes a page-turning, supernatural, thriller novel filled with nerve-twisting suspense, heartbreak, betrayal, treachery, broken covenants, riots between terrestrial men and extraterrestrial creatures, immoral acts between a man and a deity’s bride, and pregnancies resulting from ungodly unions between virgins and supernatural beings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546237549

Book preview

Seventh Virgin

BEL SETH

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2018 BEL SETH. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/17/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-3755-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-3753-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-3754-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018904353

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Part One

The Tale Of The Seventh Virgin

1 My Story

2 My Family

3 My Journey To The Prostitution Camp

4 The Hell-Bound Godmother

5 The Two Girls And The Two Anacondas

6 The Initiation

7 Our First Lecture

8 Strange Men From Distant Lands

9 A Pregnant Virgin

10 The Mysterious Baby

11 The Midnight Visitor

12 The Pathetic Tale Of My Fellow Maidens

13 The Great Betrayal

14 My Last Few Words

Part Two

Queen Mofalabila Prostitution Camp

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Part Three

Deserts, Castles, And Pyramids

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Part Four

Turning Point

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

The Advent

One

Two

About The Author

TRANSGRESSIONS CHRONICLES

1

PART ONE

THE TALE OF THE SEVENTH VIRGIN

1

My Story

SHORTLY AFTER MY NIGHTMARE UNFOLDED like some horrible scenes from a horror movie, I started getting used to coiling up alone in my dark, humid cage of about the size of a six-feet-square tank. Now, I’m used to resting my back against its sticky, slimy wall, my eyes always moist with tears, my teeth, constantly gritting in despondence.

My troubled mind has a strange way of suggesting to me that most people in my hometown, together with those living in countries in Africa, and perhaps, all over the world, are not aware that a place like this really exists on planet earth.

A place like where? you may ask. Is this place worse than those places that we see in bad dreams, or as bad as the ancient Roman coliseum, the same arena which Emperor Nero used as a persecution ground, about two thousand years ago, torturing and killing the early Christians and slaves? Is this place as terrible as those concentration camps where Adolf Hitler’s prisoners were roasted in gas ovens, or as bad as those prisonyards concealing Idi Amin’s captives?

I will not blame anyone who begins to wonder the kind of place I’m about to describe, neither will I be surprised if my readers start wondering whether my condition is worse than some horrible situations that the sons and daughters of men had encountered in ages past.

Please do not allow your thoughts travel faster than the letters on this parchment. And don’t let your imaginations grow wilder than the content of this material, for I have not yet started my tale.

You might eventually agree with me as you sit on my canoe of stories while I paddle you along the horrible tides of my misfortune with my writing straw, the only means through which the world would feel my heartbeat, see my tears, hear my cry, and even dream my nightmares.

At the age of sixteen, I had already experienced what many adults have not and might never experience even in their entire lifetime. Therefore do not get perplexed at my level of maturity and experience, which is most likely going to reflect in my writings. I happen to be one of the best English, History, and Foreign Language students in my class currently, and that has placed me in the best position to put this work together. Pardon me if this sounds boastful.

I narrate this story with the broken heart of a young teenager who has been betrayed by her loved ones, raped by the most mysterious creature ever known to me, bought and enslaved by a fellow citizen of her country, forced into prostitution by the influence of black sorcery, and ignored by the whole world.

My Religious Studies lecturer had educated me on the after-life implication of suicide, Anyone who takes his or her own life becomes guilty of self-murder, which attracts an eternal jail term in the infernal region known as Gehenna, an English equivalent of the Greek word, geena, originally known by the Jewish people as gehinnom, meaning valley of Hinnom in Hebrew, parabolically interpreted as Lake of Fire, or valley of flames, he had told me privately. Some of my female classmates did not believe him, but I did, for if I had doubted him, I would have boldly and happily killed myself long ago. If you were in my situation, and you did not believe in life after death, or in the existence of hell, I’m sure you would gladly have embraced suicide.

In this camp, the safest way out seems to be self-murder.

You may be wondering why I used patches of animal skin to put together my manuscript. Are there no plain sheets of paper or exercise books where you are? you might ask. The answer is yes. However, if I were found with any, it would most likely bring me swift death in the most gruesome manner. That I feel like dying does not mean I want to be flayed alive, or thrown into the pit of mighty serpents (especially containing the green anaconda, which the Godmother imported from South America)

And no one knows I’m writing this book, not even Ejiro, my fellow prisoner, whose cell is directly opposite mine. In this camp, no one can be trusted, not even your closest friend. In fact, as you read my tale, you would see why I must not trust anybody, including you!

I really don’t know where to start, for I have so much to write and draw, all of which will require plenty of time—and the first thing I do not have is time, the second is opportunity, and of course, the third is freedom. And here, there are so many distractions, coupled with the fact that I am doing something very risky. I always hide my writing straw and leathery manuscript whenever I hear a footstep or perceive the slightest scent. If I am ever caught with any mode of communication, flesh-eating bats will be released to feast on me till I die, and then my bones would be thrown into grinding machines or given to the hyenas, leaving no traces of my existence. Is that the best way to die, even for those who want to commit suicide? I don’t think so.

One of my teachers told me something that still gives me goosebumps whenever I think about it, If someone’s physical body is burnt to ashes, or ground to a pulp by a machine, or eaten by hyenas, giant serpents, or crocodiles, that person will never reincarnate. In otherwords, the person will not return to this life or the next cycle of life, not even as a ghost, a zombie, an animal, or a tree. The person will never take part in any form of resurrection. To be honest with you, I don’t know whether this is true or false. Perhaps, Adolf Hitler had this doctrine in mind when he was roasting millions of Jews in gas ovens. Emperor Nero might have also believed this doctrine while feeding early Christians to wild beasts, for his mission was to exterminate the Christians, just as it was Hitler’s desire to completely wipe out the Jews, both in this life and in the next. Some religions say that there is nothing like reincarnation or life after death, while some say that anyone who dies simply ascends to a higher realm. Some even have said that humans return to this world either as animals or trees in their next cycle of life, and the Bible says that it is appointed unto man to die once, afterwhich he squarely faces a type of judgment that will determine whether he’ll go to heaven or hell.

Has any man ever stood by those silver lines between life and death to open the curtains separating us from the mysteries of eternity so we would know what actually happens after we’re gone from this horrible planet either in decayed, skeletal, burnt, or grinded form? Only eternity will answer this scary question.

I actually picked my writing straw (a feather that belongs to an unknown bird) from the field where our daily aerobics are done, hoping that nobody would find out what I was using it for. I would always extract my ink from the blood of lizards, frogs, rats, wild rabbits, and snakes. So far, I have killed over seventy snakes at the massive farmland where we usually go to cultivate corns, yam tubers and sweet potatoes during lunch time. I would then coil them up, take them to my cell and extract their blood. It is much easier to catch snakes than any other animal especially when they’re caught off guard.

This is what desperation can cause, for no one in his or her right senses would ever think of killing a snake and using its blood for ink. But I did it; thanks to my father who taught me how to catch snakes alive. Ensure it doesn’t see you while stalking after it from behind. Quickly grab it on the neck, very close to the head and squeeze hard. Hold it on the tail with the other hand and stretch as hard as you can, as if stretching a rubber band. And finally, twist it into locks, as if knotting a tie or twisting the hair into braids, and stretch again. No snake will survive this vicious grip, and this must be done fast, or it might coil up around your hand and plunge its fangs into your flesh. This was how my father killed snakes. My elder sisters could not learn this dangerous skill, but I was able to because I always accompanied my father to the farm, where we killed snakes every other day.

I decided to settle for animal blood because the dark-green juicy fruits in the bush could not produce quality ink. It sounds quite disgusting, doesn’t it? For the animal skin, it was easy to find carcasses here, as many plant-eating animals constantly fall prey to wild cats, which tear their flesh apart, eating everything except their bones and skin.

I would have liked to start by describing the events that occur in this camp, the worst place anyone can ever be—that’s my opinion anyway—a world where human life has no value, a world where immoral acts are dished out like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A world where nightmare turns to reality, where myths and legends crawl into the physical realm and pull unimaginable stunts, then crawl back to the underworld. A world where the dead are summoned back to life, where the living souls are compelled to commit ancient sins, and then ushered to the grave, so they won’t have the opportunity to make their confessions to the world. But you would agree with me that whatsoever is hidden will surely be exposed someday, and I think that time has come. Let me pull you to the very spot where it actually started.

Now, my story begins.

2

My Family

It was barely dawn. The cock had not yet said good morning to its maker, as we say whenever the cock crows at dawn. Halfway between sleep and consciousness, I felt a hand pull me up from my mat. It was my father, Mr Uyi Obinyan, a tall, slender, light-complexioned, sixty-six year old farmer. He dragged me from my torn, tattered mat and made me rest my back on the dingy wall of our house.

Still slightly dark, a mixture of pale, semi-black, and inky blue clouds rolled across the sky. The day was breaking. I blinked groggily, trying to focus my gaze quite clearly. A lamp burned at one end of the parlour. Papa shook off the remaining drowsiness from my eyes with a statement that shocked me to the marrow.

Ehinome, you will be enrolled into that training school where girls are trained to become superstars in Europe and America.

Europe and America? I muttered huskily, trying to figure out what he meant by that remark.

Yes, Europe and America. You will stop your academics for now, he stressed with clenched teeth, his wrinkled face creasing.

I winced.

You will go that training school located in the camp at Araba.

What training school, Papa? I asked, sleep vanishing from my eyes completely. Papa, you mean say I go go stay for that camp wey dem dey teach girls ashewo work? I spoke in raw Pidgin English. We would always communicate in Pidgin whenever a very sensitive or a serious matter came up, and it usually was involuntary.

Ah! Where you from hear that one? No be true dem tell you. Dem don blow lie for you. Na big lie! Papa exclaimed.

My mother, Edose Obinyan, a chocolate-skinned, plump, pretty woman in her late fifties, a food-stuff trader who became a wife at sixteen, woke up in a snap and snuggled close to Papa. She yawned and then cleared her throat, ready to support Papa as usual. I had never seen any couple as in sync as my parents. She was staring at me with her big eyeballs. She must have overheard my dialogue with Papa in her subconscious.

Papa, no be lie, I dey for inside room the time wey one tall man come tell una say na me dem wan carry go. I sabi when the man give una plenty money for hand.

I was praying in my room when I overheard a certain man who had been sitting with my parents in front of our house declare that he preferred me to any of my eight sisters. As I rounded up my prayers, I peeped through the tiny hole in the window and saw the tall, dark, macho man with long hair offering them a large wad of U.S Dollars. You’ve just been sold into prostitution, a voice seemed to whisper to me. I was startled, goosebumps filling my skin.

Smiling foolishly, my parents bowed sheepishly as they accepted the money and hurriedly walked him out of the compound. They didn’t want anyone to know what had just happened. I had seen the man before. He was the agent that went from house to house knocking at people’s gates and at their doors, scouting for beautiful girls and offering their poor, wretched parents some irresistibly huge amount of money to release them to him. Many parents fell for his manipulation. Very few chased him out of their compound with cutlasses or traditional rifles.

Una don sell me abi? I said in a trembling voice, gazing at Mama and Papa with tears in my eyes, my lips twitching, my eyelids flickering.

We no sell you Ehi. We wan make you go learn as dem dey model, as dem dey catwalk for Yankee. We want you to go and learn modelling and cat-walking overseas, Papa said.

No be true! I retorted, recalling how I used to hide in some bush whenever I was sent to fetch water from the stream, to peep at the train of beautiful girls being led into a large camp surrounded with the highest fence I had ever seen. The camp had one way in and one way out, and one would have to cross three mighty gates constructed with thick iron, the type of iron used in building rail tracks. Rusty spikes of metals ran through the edge of the wall surrounding the camp. It was obvious that no captive would ever escape from that prison. I had also previously gone into that camp a few times to do cleaning jobs, serve drinks, and clean shoes after school hours just to raise money for my school fees. When I did go, I saw things that almost made me pee in my panties.

Make una no dey lie. I don enter inside there go see wetin dey happen for that place.

As I said this, my parents gazed at me in surprise, then at each other with an expression of she knows? on their faces.

Papa cleared his throat and shifted closer to me. My daughter, please listen and listen very attentively, he spoke in English. Although Papa was poor, he was very intelligent, and spoke good English. He was once the headmaster of one of the primary schools around, but later switched over to farming because he wanted food to always be on the table. Yet things didn’t really improve. He had become too weak and old to work in the farm. To make matters worse, my sisters would not ever follow him to the field, and his wife could not as she spent the whole day at the market selling food crops that had been harvested from the farm.

You know I love you very dearly, and I love your elder sisters too. I’m so fond of all my daughters, especially you. But you see, we are very poor and we have to find how to make sure that food is always available, even if it means sending one of you abroad for a professional job, Papa said, stammering.

Ashewo work? Professional prostitution? Shebi you be farmer, why you no dey hustle like other farmers? I asked him. Papa was silent. Even Mama couldn’t say a word.

How much una sell me? I asked them.

We no sell you, Ehiome, Papa replied.

Okay, how much the man give una? I asked again.

Ehi leave that matter first, Mama replied with a wave of her hand.

No. I just wan know how much wey una bargain with am, I insisted.

Okay, Papa cleared his throat. The man bin give us six thousand American dollars, come talk say him go give us another four thousand dollars after you don learn your work.

So una sell me for ten thousand American Dollars abi?

Ehi, you go still come back, you hear? Mama said in a pleading tone.

That instant, I began to cry like a baby, my shoulders hitching with sobs. My parents looked away, their countenance hard and determined. They had made up their minds about the case and nothing would change it, even if my tears had formed an ocean. I even thought they were going to sympathize with me when they saw the volume of tears streaming down my eyes, but that just seemed to irritate them, especially Mama. They had never seen me cry like that since I was born, yet they hardened their hearts. At that point I began to wonder if they were really my biological parents.

As I realized that I was only making a ridicule of myself by crying, I held my breath and stiffened, then glared at them and said defiantly, I nogo go! At that moment, the day finally broke, the pale cast of dawn penetrating into the hut through the window and the half-open door.

I swear I nogo go any place! I repeated defiantly. I want to continue my education, I added.

And who will pay your school fees? Mama asked.

I can pay my school fees. And I am a devout Christian. I can’t and will not travel to Europe or America to indulge in what I can’t define. Finish!

Papa’s eyes bulged out in fury. Mama’s teeth gnashed so loud that I could hear the grinding sound. I knew my remarks would cause an explosion, and it did. Papa was the first to scream at me to shut up, threatening to disown me if I disobeyed or argued with him again.

If you’re truly a devoted Christian just as you’ve claimed, then you should have faithfully observed the first verse of Ephesians 6, Papa growled. I didn’t want to remind Papa that the same portion actually says ‘Children obey your parents in the Lord;’ in other words, obey them when they teach you the right things or show you the right path, not when they want to mislead you.

I didn’t want to remind him that God also left a message for parents in the fourth verse of the same chapter: ‘Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath, but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.’ Why would I want to disobey my father if he were bringing me up in a godly way?

Mama sprang up and rushed inside the next room where my eight sisters had packed themselves together on one extra-large family-sized mat. She was going to wake them. My heart skipped. It was like going to arouse a swarm of drowsy cobras. Except for the first born, Sister Esele, Ese for short, who was twenty-nine years old at the time of the incident, my other seven sisters and I never got along well, just because of my zeal for the work of God. I always refused to tell lies even when they asked me to do so in order to cover up for their mischievous acts, which always ended up attracting disciplinary measures from our father.

Ese loved and cherished me as if I were her own daughter. She fought for me and defended me at every opportunity, having no single qualms about it and offering no apologies to anyone. We had the same religious orientation; in fact, she was the one that had convinced me to repent. She had embraced God especially because of a challenge she was facing: she had been longing for a life partner and none had come with any bride price. The few that indicated interest always took to their heels whenever they came to our house to discover our poor background. No suitor wanted to marry from a family where he would bear the financial responsibilities, except he genuinely loved the woman and was ready to pay the price.

Ese told me that if an African girl remained single after her twenty-fifth or twenty-sixth birthday, then something was wrong somewhere and the matter must be addressed spiritually. I will never forget that statement. Despite Sister Esele’s beauty, she had refused to travel across the Atlantic for prostitution like most of her school mates, who quickly escaped to Europe or U.S.A immediately after their Senior Secondary Certificate Exam. She had chosen to quietly get married to a responsible man and then raise her own children in the fear of God.

Sister Esele is my role model. Not only do we think, reason, and act alike, we also look very much alike. At this point, I am not really in the mood to start describing her physical appearance or mine. Please bear with me.

One after the other, my sisters began to file out of the room like a group of models getting ready to catwalk down the aisle, the thick choking odour of lantern smoke, stale mat straw, armpits and private parts stench, mingling together, and staying in the air. Some were snorting, some were sneezing, coughing, sniffing and clearing noses choked with mucous.

They all sat around me, expecting me to do the usual routine, which I quickly did. I stood up and greeted them. Some answered while some didn’t, and the few that answered did that through squeezed nostrils. But Sister Esele answered me well. God alone knew what Mama told them in their room before bringing them out.

I snuggled close to Ese and wept in her arms.

Papa narrated to them how a certain man had promised to fly me abroad for modelling jobs. Mama nodded in affirmation. For a while, there was silence. I could only hear the wheezing sound of people’s breath.

Papa, I’m wondering why you didn’t let us know before now, Ese said.

I’m sorry, dear, I forgot, Papa apologized.

No wahala, but have you ever seen that man before? Do you know him? Is he truly a genuine agent? Ese asked.

Em-uh-Yes. I think I can trust him. He’s a perfect gentleman, Papa stammered. It was obvious that he was totally unsure of what he was saying.

That macho man is the very agent that is in charge of recruiting girls that are taken abroad for international prostitution, I cut in.

How you take sabi? Addi, the second daughter, aged twenty-seven, asked with her deep voice. She was very tall, very dark and very slender.

But wait first. Wetin make that man talk say na Ehi him want? Ese asked. Abi him no no say Ehi still be pikin? Abi na because she get height pass her age? Ese added, sounding very cross.

Na Ehi the man say him like, Mama replied flatly.

Well, it’s Papa’s duty to investigate whether the man truly sends pretty girls abroad or not. It’s going to be unfair and unreasonable to hand Ehi over to the man just like that, Ese concluded.

There was silence again. Ese looked at the rest imploringly.

Una no wan talk? Ese asked my other sisters.

Wetin you want make we talk, eh? Addi replied arrogantly, sighing.

Wetin go come happen to Ehi and her school? Ese questioned with much concern.

She go continue when she come back, Mama replied firmly.

When that time go come be? Ese questioned again.

No reply.

Looking toward my direction, Ese asked me, Ehi, you wan go? She knew I was going to say no, and I did. My seven sisters gazed at me as if they’d set me ablaze with their ferocious glares. My parents gazed angrily at me too. Their faces looked very unfriendly. I shivered. They were all prepared to battle it out with me. I had just Ese by my side and both of us would never be able to stand them.

Why you no wan go? Osaetin the fourth daughter asked, twenty-three years old, dark-faced, short and slightly plump, brash, arrogant and very quick tempered. I didn’t say a word, for whatever reason I had was obviously not going to appeal to her no matter how plausible.

You no fit talk? Abi dem use needle and thread sew your mouth? Edna, the third daughter scolded me, her smooth, light-skinned face contorting into a mask of fury, unnecessary fury. I don’t know about now, but then she was the most erratic and short-tempered of all Uyi’s daughters, and could do anything that suddenly occurred to her when enraged. Everyone in the family avoided her trouble. At the age of twenty-five, she had been in several relationships with men from different backgrounds, but none ever lasted up to three months. Her level of tolerance was almost zero. She walked out of the last relationship after realizing that the young man had told her a lie about his age. And she had called it quits with a resounding slap to the man’s face right in front of our compound.

Edna had sworn that she would marry a perfect man: rich, handsome, godly, caring, cool, calm, collected, romantic, decent, faithful, to count a few.

I began to tremble as Edna tightened her face. She was the only person that had ever walked out on our village chief while he was speaking to her. I knew she would deal with me if I ignored her.

Dem wan carry me go Europe use me do ashewo work, I answered in a trembling voice. Except Edna, my six sisters laughed hilariously. Ese didn’t find it funny at all. Edna asked how I knew that the man was going to use me as a prostitute. I narrated to her how I went to work in that camp as a cleaner and as a waitress in bars after school hours. They all looked at me in surprise. None of them knew I was doing menial jobs and saving the money, except, of course, Sister Ese.

I narrated to them the horrible things I saw in that camp, the way girls were taught how to cock their eyebrows, how to take a seductive stance, how to twist and grind the waist while walking, how to cat-walk, how to blow a kiss in the air, how to pout a tongue and lick the lips while smiling or making gestures at a man, how to sit in such a way that the underwear would be seen and how the girls practiced different styles of sexual immorality in the innerrooms.

My parents and siblings didn’t show any sign of surprise, which meant that they were aware. So, how do you link all these to your claims of being sold into foreign prostitution? Edna asked me. And who even told you that you’d be taken to that camp and left alone? Edna asked me again. I didn’t know what to say.

The fifth daughter Alero, twenty-one years old, very dark, with a slim mango-shaped face and an aquiline nose said, The truth is that there are various departments in that camp: the departments of aspiring movie stars, dancers, singers, models, and professional prostitutes. And you have been told that you’d be trained to become a super model, not a prostitute! I expect you to be happy.

The sixth daughter named Efe, just nineteen, light-skinned, short-necked, pimple-faced, chuckled. You should count yourself lucky. Most girls will jump at this opportunity. They won’t even mind joining the so-called department of prostitutes. Whatever it will require to take them away from this godforsaken village where people live the kind of life that seems to be two hundred years backward, they’re ready to pay.

Omo the eighth daughter, my immediate senior sister, looked much more like a super model than I did, towering at a height of six feet one inch, with a twenty two inch waist and thirty four inch hips. I cannot vividly recall what her bust line was but it was almost as perfect. She also had a very lovely pair of legs. She always carried a measuring tape wherever she went, constantly measuring the curves of her body. She was very weight conscious. She had uniquely coloured eyeballs on a beautiful face. I thought she was my father’s most beautiful daughter, although most people thought otherwise, saying it was I who was most beautiful. People said she seemed to look more appealing because her body had already fully developed. I still wonder why the muscular man didn’t choose her.

She looked at my face and said, Even if you are going to become a prostitute, so what? Does a woman’s private part have a meter attached? Shebi it’s elastic. E no dey read meter now.

Sister Ese cast a very disgusting gaze at Omo, You are a potential prostitute. How could you think of a thing like that, let alone say it? Has your reprobate heart decayed to that extent?

Yes it has, Holy mother of Christ, Omo said mockingly, rolling her eyeballs and hissing.

Na only dem sabi God. Virgin Mary, Edna added, clapping twice and snorting.

Abi oo. We be Delilah, Omo sneered.

No! Jezebel, Efe said and laughed scornfully.

Abi Rahab, that ashewo for Bible, Alero said.

No! that woman wey dem wan use stone kill because dem catch am with one yeye man. Na she we be. Others be Virgin Mary, Osaetin said mockingly.

E don do abeg! Edore, the seventh daughter told her troublesome sisters. She was calm like sister Ese and I, and hated to take sides. But she was a bit timid and loved to slip out of trouble like a catfish. She had broad shoulders and thick arms, a very slim waist, flat chest and flat backside. But she had a pretty face. She looked like a beautiful man, with a very nice set of teeth and a lovely smile.

My other sisters were a bit scared of her because of her muscular physique, which she flexed occasionally, especially whenever she wanted some decorum.

Ehinome, who go come dey pay your school fees when you reach advanced level? Edore asked me.

I bin dey save small money tey tey, I replied.

You have been saving money since? Okay, go and bring it let’s see, Edna said. I refused to stand up.

I say go bring am make we see! Abi you wan make I design your face with slap? Edna shouted. I jumped to my feet, hurried into the store and returned with the wooden box. Edna took the box from me. I go keep am for you, she said flatly, glaring at me, her eyes sharp and penetrating, her upper lips twisted upward. Nobody made a single comment, not even Edore the bull. Sister Ese the eldest among us didn’t say a word either. She couldn’t defend me. They all knew that the money was gone. I gritted my teeth in agony, tears rolling down my cheeks.

Osaetin quietly stood and went inside our room, returning with my bag of clothes. I’ve arranged all your belongings in this bag. As soon as that man comes, you will follow him. I don’t want to see you in this house again. Have I made myself clear?

Make you no talk like that! Ehi has the right to stay in this house. You don’t have the right whatsoever to send her packing from her father’s family house. Do you hear? Ese shrieked, standing abruptly, unable to bear it any more.

Ehi must leave this house o! Osaetin said arrogantly, clapping derisively.

Make you no dey talk like that! Ese answered in a fit of rage.

The rest stood in anger.

Why she no go talk like that? Alero asked angrily, both hands on her waist.

Why she no go talk say make Ehi go, she be God? Edna growled.

Abi o! Omo chipped in.

They all surrounded Sister Esele, screaming and scolding her, as if about to pounce on her and tear her to pieces. All I could do was cry.

Sister Esele, you will have to excuse us right now! Edna said gruffly, dragging her toward the door. Just get out! Get out! Edna shouted, pushing her forward. Esele resisted, digging her feet on the floor, but Edna had the strength and temper of a beast. She pushed Ese outside, shut the door with a loud bang, then rushed towards me, pouncing on me like a lion, slapping, kicking, punching, till she started gasping for breath. I was screaming for help, shielding my face. I thought I was going to die.

Mama and Papa told her to take it easy. My other sisters asked her to stop, but she kept beating and pummelling me the way you would pound yam in a mortar.

With a tug, Edore pulled her to the wall. Staggering and then struggling to her feet, Edna dashed out of the house with pounding steps.

Shebi you don see wetin you cause? Mama yelled at me. Papa didn’t utter a word; he just stared at me expressionlessly. My sisters began to walk silently out of the room one after the other, till my parents and I were left alone.

Sobbing, I left the sitting room, walked to Sister Ese where she was sitting under the almond tree, sat close to her and threw my arms around her. She, too, held me as we wept like never before.

After that horrible morning, we all began to live like strangers. Terrible feelings of strife, bitterness, betrayal, wrath and malice crawled in and out of our hearts.

We hardly spoke to each other. Before, we all used to eat from the same tray, the same bowl, and drink from the same jug, but after that day, Ese and I had our food dished separately, while the rest still ate from the same plate. They avoided us as though we were aliens, and treated us as though we had some incurable diseases.

My family was tearing apart simply because I refused to follow a tall macho man that had destroyed the lives of many young ladies in our village.

3

My Journey To The Prostitution Camp

The following Sunday marked my fourteenth birthday. Except for Sister Ese, my siblings didn’t wish or say happy birthday to me the way they usually would do. They would surround me, singing and dancing, after which they would lift me up and wish me long life, good health and success.

My parents wished me happy birthday without giving me a smile, and did not offer me any present or pray for me like they would normally do. It was so disheartening. I was unable to go to church with Ese because my eyes were swollen and my cheeks blackened. My mouth was bulging out with a blister on the upper lip. I remained indoors and studied my Bible. My other sisters had all gathered under the almond tree with some of their depraved friends, laughing, gossiping, speaking profane words and making vulgar jokes.

As I stepped outside to fetch some water at the backyard, I saw a very tall muscular figure driving into our compound. His long hair brushed against the roof of his vehicle and his bony face bore the smirk of a terrorist. I recognized the man at once. He had come to take me away. I ran back into the house.

Get your things ready. You’d be leaving with him immediately! Papa said as I bumped into him. He must have sighted the man from the window.

Ehinome, I’m sure you know how much trouble you’ve caused in this house already. I believe you wouldn’t want to cause more trouble. Now you will be a good girl, Mama told me. I heaved as my heart thumped very fast. But-but I want to see Sister Esele before I go, I said in a faint, trembling voice.

Never mind, she will come and see you there. In fact, she will be coming from time to time, Papa said.

To pay me a visit? I asked, confused.

Yes, my baby, Mama said, patting me at the back.

Please tell her to come and visit me tomorrow, I pleaded with tears in my eyes.

I’ll surely tell her, Papa said as he held my hand and squeezed it. Mama held my hand, holding my bag with her other hand. They were breathing fast, really in a hurry to sell me off. They both led me towards the spot where the tall heavily-built man had parked his car. My sisters stopped discussing. They watched as my parents and I walked past the almond tree. I turned to gaze at them for the last time. I could read guilt on their faces. It suddenly dawned on them that they had actually teamed up to sell me away and it was too late to change it.

Alero lowered her face and wept silently. She came towards