I see her walk at the side of the street. She comes across as someone shy, timid, in fact a zombie. Her steps are so visibly unsteady, but I think it ought not be. Some Young Women would die to have those features of hers - pretty, slender, very dark skin and a shoulder that hangs comfortably  beneath those fine neckline. I had no idea where she comes from or where she goes to. All I know is that she buys things from my store. So I dared to meet her one blissful evening that I see her sits on a gutter pavement, mumbling to herself. 

Once, I had seen her mopping at passersby, lost to any sense of reasoning. It felt like there was an invisible person by her with whom she conversed, and then she breaks into feats of laughter, only to momentarily become serious again. She hardly had a good covering on her body for the somewhat cold night, and acts like she was suffering from the effect of the weather. But what could I possible do to help her. It's not always that one plays friendly in this society. 

Still, I persisted as I summed up courage to approach her. You know how they act: they could be friendly one minute, and the next you might not predict. A few steps up to her, I beamed a warm smile, and gestured to sit on the space beside her. She nods her approval, and I took my chance. I mustn't show any fear of being uncomfortable, I warned myself. 

"You have a date tonight?" I asked casually and straight to the point. She gave a bewildering smile - sweet bitter look - I couldn't place that. "No. No date," she says. Her voice sounded musical. She began picking and throwing grains of sand in the open. "It's burning in the room. I come to sit with nature." She raised her pretty face and a sheepish smile curved her lips. A foul ooze escaped her breathe when she talked; I perceive a mixture of tobacco and rotting teeth. But I steadied my composure.

"You live here?" I said again, using my eyes to gesture round the neighborhood. There was quiet for a while. " I stay at the Center - with other girls." By this I knew she meant the brothel down the street. "I don't have a phone," she said as I pondered on what to stay next. "They took it." She looked at me as she said this, maybe to study my reaction. And just when I had thought of asking who 'they' were. "Got a cigarette?" 

I felt my pockets and shook my head. I knew there was nothing, but just to justify my inability to help here. Now as I thought hard at what to say, a car pulled up right in front of us, one of those Honda series. It was as if she was expecting someone. She rose immediately from where she sat in the last couple minutes, and strode up to the driver's side. Then she turned around and joined him on the other side. But she had told me she wasn't waiting for anyone. I felt somewhat embarrassed. Not even a farewell from her.  

The driver of the car never came down or popped his head for a pleasant courtesy. He seems to disregard whoever she was sitting with. I could teach that man a lesson if ever I took a glimpse of his face. I watched as the car made a reverse and drove off. Now it became clearer: she was a street hawker. And that man - the person behind the wheels - must be one of her regulars. But how had he located her to this spot even when she hadn't any phone? 

There are lots of them here in this estate; Young Women in their teens and twenties whose stock in trade is exchanging their bodies for some currency notes. Often times, they seem like everyone else - purposed, easy going. And in some moments of interaction, one can easily see their disfunctionality - unsteady, withdrawn or hyper, and in some cases just difficult to place. And the men? They take advantage of the vulnerability of these women because they have the money. 

The craze for flashy things drives these young ladies into desperate hands, and some of them becomes victims. These women have made a fashion of their immoral act. Sex is one thing and all things. Cash is the reward. Some of them get raped, if not killed for rituals. The stories abounds. They are always dressed in skimpies whether it was hot or cold. And they have perfected the act of luring rich targets, most of whom are syber fraudsters . 

I stood up as though to guess where they had driven to, but the narrow expanse of the street stood bare at that hour of night. No car could be seen driving in or driving out. But a loud music blared from one of the popular night club close to the security post. 

I fought hard to dispel the wave of panic that now filled my mind. Panic of rape, violent attacks, rituals, even substance abuse. These women do not know better, they are only trying hard to be absorbed in a world where only the diehards survives. I felt guilty; maybe I shouldn't have let her go. But just maybe she'd come out to wait for him after all. But she was mentally unfit, she may not stand a possible attack from him - my reasoning fought back. 

I got up and walked to my shop which was just on the opposite side. Maybe I should learn to mind my business. She certainly is making a living for herself - doing what she knows to do best. In the end she will spend the money on cigarettes, substance, and maybe some other thing I could barely imagine. I think I'm thinking too much. She's just one other story. 

Till then.

By Gloria Okezie-Okafor