The Life of a Show Boy By Chelsea Maya Victory Johnson

Chapter Eight

The chaos of the "Ashawo quarter" at Orhuwhorun Junction in Jugbale, Udu Road, was always a sensory overload, but today it felt entirely deafening. By midday, the area was already buzzing like an agitated hornets' nest. The scorching Delta sun beat down on the dusty roadside where traders yelled, commercial tricycles (Keke) honked frantically, and local boys hung around the corners smoking. Right in the thick of it all was our usual base - a vibrant, loud gathering spot for my co-workers and fellow sex workers. Babes with neon-dyed wigs and heavy makeup sat on plastic chairs chewing gum, while the show boys, dressed in tight mesh shirts with freshly tinted hair, argued loudly over the latest Afrobeats songs playing from a nearby store speaker.

It had taken me what felt like a painful eternity to drag myself away from the hotel room in Hausa Quarters, squeeze into a bumpy Keke, and make the grueling journey down to Udu Road. The physical toll was unimaginable. Every single step I took felt like walking over hot coals. My pelvic bone felt entirely unhinged, and the searing, raw friction from Jude’s endless morning rounds made it impossible to close my thighs.

As I finally stumbled into our circle, trying desperately to maintain a shred of my usual "Chelsea baby" confidence, my posture betrayed me completely. I was moving at a snail's pace, my legs swung wide apart in a ridiculous, awkward waddle just to prevent my raw skin from rubbing together.

The moment I approached, the loud chatter of the group ground to a sudden, dramatic halt. A dozen pairs of sharp, experienced eyes locked instantly onto my lower body. In our line of work, we don't hide anything from one another; we see the signs, we know the game, and we speak the truth with zero filters.

"Ewooo! Chelsea, look at you!" Abi, one of the loudest girls on the strip, clapped her hands together dramatically, her voice cutting through the roadside noise. She stood up from her plastic stool, pointing a long, acrylic nail directly at my wide-stance walk. "I warned you! I gave you a sign yesterday night at the junction not to follow that dark-skinned man, but your eyes were just glued to him! You didn't listen to me at all. Now look at you today! Are you sure you will even be able to stand on the road or work today with the way you are walking like an old man?"

The circle erupted into a mixture of mock laughter, sympathetic groans, and overlapping commentary. "This one pass escort business o!" another babe shouted from the back, laughing as she took a sip of her cold soda. "That one na pure wrestling match!"

I couldn't even fire back a witty response. I just groaned softly, gently lowering myself onto the edge of an empty plastic chair, wincing the exact moment my backside made contact with the hard surface. My pristine white-tinted hair caught the sunlight as I buried my face in my hands, completely exhausted.

Juriel, one of the top male sex workers in our crew whom everyone affectionately called JuJu, stepped forward from where he was leaning against a storefront. Unlike the girls who were busy teasing me, JuJu looked at me with genuine, professional sympathy. He had been in the business long enough to recognize a client who had pushed a worker past their breaking point.

"Chelsea, abeg leave them make them dey talk their nonsense," JuJu said, his voice dropping into a calmer, protective tone as he leaned down near my chair. "Listen to me well. Go straight inside the house now. Put water on the stove and let it boil very well. Pour it inside a wide basin and sit over the steam for some time - make the heat soothe your inside. After that, look for some pain relievers, take them with food, and sleep. Forget about the road today. Just rest, otherwise you go wound yourself permanently."

While JuJu was laying out his recovery plan, a barrage of different advice started flying in from all angles.

"No, sit inside warm salt water instead!" one person shouted.

"He needs to rub local balm on his waist!" another countered loudly.

Within minutes, the focus naturally shifted from my awkward walk to a full-blown, chaotic debrief of the previous night's hustles. The girls and show boys completely forgot about me as they began fiercely complaining about the terrible clients they had encountered. The air was filled with bitter stories of the night. One babe was cursing out a customer who kept her awake until 5:00 AM only to hand her a miserable three thousand naira and a lukewarm bottle of beer. Another guy was shouting about a group of boys from Enerhe who tried to pull a fake bank alert scam on him after a grueling session, forcing him to call the local area boys just to secure his money. Everyone was angry, frustrated, and nursing their own physical and financial wounds from the night before, lamenting how hard the business had become.

I sat there quietly in the middle of the noise, listening to them complain about receiving peanuts for their suffering. I kept my mouth tightly shut, my hand subconsciously pressing against the heavy weight of my waist pouch beneath my shirt.

None of them had any idea. They thought I had been broken for nothing, but in total, Jude had paid me well over twenty thousand naira, completely respecting the financial terms of the extra rounds. It was a massive haul for a single night's work at the junction - more than what most of them made in a three-day stretch. As the pain in my body throbbed in sync with the heavy bass of Udu Road, a small, weary smile tugged at the corner of my lips. The price had been terrifyingly high, and my body was completely on fire, but the show boy had secured his bag.

To be continued...