Diary of a Streetwalker

Dear Diary, I hate to be called a streetwalker. I hate to accept that I walk my way through the streets to make a living. I also hate to know that I am a disgrace to womanhood. It makes my heart skip to know that a day shall come when I will be no more and no one will know that I was here. I hate to think that I am a girl child who had sold her dignity. I hate to be called a fickle mistress. I am not proud of it.
Dear diary, today, I decided to remember how I started. I decided to take a walk into memory lane. I want to tell you all of it. It was in the streets of Oshodi. Losing my foster parents at a tender age wasn’t ill fated enough, I refused to go back to my poor and wretched parents who hardly feed twice a day and didn’t have cover over their heads in the night. I had lived with this family for some months when the cold hands of death took them away from me. They were kind and they loved me just as their own. After their death, I began hawking in the streets of Lagos, sleeping from one stall to another. At night, I jump from one eatery to another in search of food till what seemingly turned out to be luck shun on me at the age of fourteen. It was night, I had taken my sit in front of an eatery as usual when I saw two pretty young ladies smiling and walking towards the eatery, probably for dinner. I stood in my dirty dress to beg for alms, they ignored me and walked in. Few minutes, they came out and I followed them, I had this feeling that my saviour was near. Not long after they got into their car, one of them asked me a few questions, I answered and I was asked to hoop in.They drove for about an hour and arrived at a storey building. We alighted and went inside the house. They served me dinner and I was given a room to pass the night. To be honest with you, dear diary that was the best sleep I have had in so many years.
When the morning broke, I got to know the ladies, Nema and Zara. What a name, I thought. They had a good heart, they made me feel at home and they were smart. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months and I lived with them. I became their househelp. I did everything to please them. I loved them and they accepted me as a member their family. Then, one night everything changed. I had prepared dinner before they came back.I was told to hop into the car and we zoomed out. Few minutes later, we arrived at a club, that was it. Zara went to the bar, got some drinks and they chatted. The bar was full of dancers. I became uncomfortable. Way into midnight, I couldn’t find Nema and Zara. It was in my search for them that I met Brian. That was also the night Brian took my virginity. He offered to take me home but instead we ended up in his apartment. He raped me and took away my pride. I cried out but it seemed as if the ears of haven were closed. Brian left me in a pool of my own blood. After that night, I went home full of regret, hate for myself and shame. I tried talking it over with Nema and Zara and I was told that I had to roll that way if not, I would be thrown out of the house.I started hanging out in clubs and started smoking. I made targets and got them. I played my game smoothly and always win. Time after time, I had to take pills to keep life going. That was how I joined the streets. The game of blood and exchange of covenant. The game with no pride.
Dear Diary, I had opportunities to turn a new leave. I had opportunities to go home and make things right. But I was scared. I was scared of going into poverty, scared of facing my poor parents. But now, I think I am more scared than I thought I was. How can I be so wicked? Infected with HIV and still plays the game. Dear Diary, I wish no one would tell this story. If only I can turn the hands of time, I would be make things right.