It was a red-light district in Ilorin.
But not the type with neon lights and sleazy jazz music.
This one? A little darker. Grittier. Wetter.
It had just rained, and the city had emptied into silence.
Except for the sharp-eyed ladies of the night, standing like ghosts of lust across GTBank in Tanke, scanning the streets for prey.
I had driven to Ilorin for my sister’s wedding.
Needed to show face, honour blood, and keep the family legacy.
But I didn’t want the drama of relatives questioning my movement; I just wanted to flex.
Tony, my cousin – the plug for all things coded and dramatic – sorted me out with a guesthouse in the heart of Tanke. Quiet. Hidden. My type of peace.
After the engagement, the crowd thinned. Music faded. Champagne wore off.
Then, crazy thoughts came rushing in like an okada during rush hour.
I needed company. Not the emotional type.
The night was cold. Too cold for just duvet and blanket therapy.
I called the hotel manager. “Oga, abeg run some street for your guy?”
He gave me a figure that sounded like the national budget.
“Ah-ah, shey the P dey gold-plated ni?” I fired with disbelief and broke-man boldness.
“Why should I pay that kind of money and still do the heavy lifting?”
I hung up. Duvet ko, heater ni.
11 PM. Still restless. Still cold. Still alone.
I grabbed my car keys and did what every rational Naija man battling cold and hormones would do – hit the road. Destination? University of Ilorin.
The campus was dead silent. A graveyard of academic struggle.
Turns out it was exam season – books over booty. Even the ones outside clung tenaciously to their campus boyfriends like SIM cards in small phones.
I sighed. U-turn.
Next stop: Unity Road.
Where the streets never sleep, and Oloshos line up like apps on Google Playstore.
As I hit Tanke junction, I spotted them.
Scantily dressed, heavy makeup, eyes glistening under the dim streetlight.
Yeah. This was it. I turned right and stopped.
Four of them rushed like TikTok trends.
I scanned the market. Front and back. Made my pick.
She hopped in like she just won a Grammy.
“Call me Tanya,” she said, giggling.
Hairdresser by day. Olosho by night.
Single mum. Doesn’t know baby daddy – literally.
Drug addict – cocaine, tramadol, codeine, loud, the full Nigerian cocktail.
No alcohol, though. Go figure.
A gaunt face with high cheekbones, revealing a beauty fading to drugs and the street.
Once fresh skin, now sculpted by trauma and too much cheap foundation.
Legs smooth. Gown short. Teeth red – deformed by drugs, I guess.
We chatted. Her laughter was loud and sharp, with a raucous bite – all conjoined to give a Jezebelious disposition.
Still, there was something beautiful about her brokenness – a raw, almost poetic sadness.
She asked me to stop somewhere for a weed run. I ignored her.
Back at the guesthouse, we entered.
“Wetin you go take?”
“Sprite and Tramadol”, she said.
I laughed and handed her a bottle of Jameson.
She crawled into bed, body moving like smoke, lingerie whispering secrets.
I remembered I was dealing with a druggie—maybe even a thief—so I locked my wristwatch, ATM card, shoes, and anything stealable in the car. I no fit shout.
Took the room key. Put it under my pillow.
No weapon formed against me shall prosper—especially not a desperate olosho.
We smashed. Then smashed again. And slept off.
Around 3 AM, I heard a knock.
We both woke up and exchanged glances. My heart paused.
Olosho rose and told me to calm down.
Another knock.
She smiled like a seasoned villain and walked to the door to open it.
Seeing no key, she smiled.
She came back, pulled an object from her bag like an FBI agent, and opened the door.
A lady walked in. Rough. Smelt like expired skunk and cheap booze.
She looked around, dropped an envelope, and vanished.
Guess what? Olosho had ordered tramadol and sent my location to the courier!
She picked up the envelope, emptied the contents into her mouth, and washed it down with a whisky. Like holy communion.
No water, just whisky.
Then slowly, she lowered quietly to the floor and passed out.
I panicked.
I slapped her. Sprinkled water. Dragged her under the shower.
She mumbled and groaned, barely alive.
I sat by her side like a paranoid boyfriend—checking her breath, watching her chest rise, sprinkling water just to catch a twitch, a blink, anything.
She finally came back to life around 11AM.
No tantrum. No awkwardness.
She smiled, picked up her bag, gestured ‘call me’ and left.
Either she didn’t care, or the drugs wiped her memory clean—she never asked for her money.
“Call fire,” I whispered.
I changed rooms.
An hour later, she returned, banging on my former door.
Screaming about unpaid dues. The hotel manager kicked her out.
End of Tanya.
I packed my things and drove to the safety nest of my family.
That night, over some bottles of ethanol, I told Tony everything.
We laughed like madmen.
Watched as other oloshos paraded the lounge with confidence and tired seduction.
Shaking what their mama gave them.
Tony asked me to go for one.
“Mo ya look away.” Emi Omo’lomo.
Lagos didn’t kill me, no be Ilorin dem go mug me.
Lesson learnt.
Not every cold night needs warm company.
And not every fine face is a safe space.
Naija no get manual, and I just took a masterclass.
