Some time back, if you had asked about my thoughts concerning sex work, especially when it comes to morality, I’d have said I didn’t care much about it, nor was there space in my head or mind to tell whether it was wrong or right. I’d have shrugged in my usual carefree manner, waving my right hand a little while saying something like, “Sex work is work and if the women feel comfortable doing it, why not?” Or, “If there was no demand for it, there would be no supply.” Yada yada yada.
I hold no grudges against sex work, nor do I feel like we are justified to hold sex workers or anyone to any moral standard. After all, where your morality ends is where another begins. I have watched documentaries about sex workers and porn stars–how they live, work, eat, shop, go about their day-to-day activities–and I have been (almost) fascinated by their lives. Almost; because while I have no iota of judgement in my bones, I have never been fascinated enough to want to be one.
When I was little, my mum and I talked about runs. The casualty with which my mum explained certain elements of life demystified them for me. For one, as a teenager, she told me some of the pickup lines men used to woo girls. She was right. When men started to woo me, they used the same words and I was so turned off. Like, what the heck? Haha.
When I was going to the university, my mum said, “I won’t say you shouldn’t do runs. Campus can sometimes be a place filled with temptations and vices. But if you must eat a toad, ensure it has lots of eggs.” I interpreted it as letting my runs fetch me good fortunes. If I must indeed eat this toad, I might as well eat a lot of eggs and sugar so I don’t puke. I barely saw toads that had enough eggs though, and to be frank, I wasn’t interested enough to search for one or eat when I did eventually find one. But what that did was I never judged people who ate toads. Through toad-eating, a friend of mine opened three businesses and got a car. She worked really hard at those businesses, grinding day and night. And, sometimes, when the business hit a major setback, she’d eat more toads to give them a boost. All I saw was a hard worker and boy! I admired her grit and resilience.
And then some ate toads to live the la vida local life; fancy cars, jewellery bags and all. If that is the life you choose, by all means.
But, one night, I asked myself if I wasn’t living in a bubble when I think of sex work and in the casual way I spoke of it. Sex work–in conversations had on social media–has been so simplified to ‘her body her choice’ so much that nuances have been lost. Indeed, women should have full autonomy over their bodies and that includes sex work, if they so please. But this country is poor and the sex workers who have this autonomy and agency are in the 1%. For many of them, it is their body, but is it truly their choice?
Once, I watched a documentary that followed the journey of American teenage pornstars. Many of them had walked into the production house with two thoughts in mind: freedom and money. And for many, the financial aspect eventually paid off. They could afford the little luxuries of life. But the most important of all? They could walk away whenever they decided they were done. In a way, that was freedom.
“On Black Sisters Street” by Chika Unigwe is a jarring contrast to this documentary. In this part of the world, sex workers with no choice and autonomy are in the majority. Here, there was no freedom. There were no choices. The only thing the sex workers had were dreams that never came to pass.
In 2019, there were reports of sex workers in Abuja who policemen reportedly raped. These policemen used pure water sachets as condoms. Picture the thickness of the sachet, compared to a condom. Picture the little to no lubrication it provides. Picture the harshness of its texture, creases and edges. And picture it being thrust into a woman’s vagina over and over, again and again.
There’s a crassness with which sex workers are regarded in this part of the world. In a video that has been circulating on X, a man patronises a sex worker and prices her services like someone described, “One would when buying meat in the market.” There’s an art to the purchase of meat. You point at it, a little frown lining your forehead. You draw one corner of your lips up and say “Oga, this meat is too small abeg, I can’t buy it for 10k. Collect 3,000 naira.” And you haggle and haggle, all while looking at the meat with a little disdain so it feels like you’re doing the seller a favour by purchasing.
The man looks at the worker, his eyes eating up her body all while insisting her buttocks are flat. He beat down her price from 50,000 naira to 15,000 naira, made her list her sex skills while telling her he’s managing her because other girls are not available. That is the reality of the majority of sex workers in Nigeria. They face marginalisation, constant human rights abuses, and violence. They are dehumanised and treated with no dignity.
In 2024, Jessica told the story of Sonia, a 41-year-old full-time sex worker, who almost drowned while being pursued and beaten up by policemen. When she was eventually caught, she was ‘beaten black and blue’. ‘‘They took videos of us and threatened to air them on television for the world to see. It was that or we paid bail. In the end, I paid N30,000 for bail.”
We might want to ask ourselves–when we talk of sex work and reduce the conversation to a woman’s body and choice–if we only see women who are successful in this industry, or if we truly see the women like Sonia, perched in corners, under bridges, exposed to danger and violence. Women who are priced down to as low as 1,000 naira. The women who save their families and loved ones from starvation through their bodies. The women in IDP camps who are forced to sleep with soldiers for a morsel of food. Those beaten by their pimps. The workers who are sexually molested and assaulted, but cannot report to the police because their rights to their bodies are no longer recognised. The workers who law enforcement agencies are raping because they believe their bodies are free for all. The ones who are being maimed and killed with no consequences because they are “sex workers.” Little teenage girls forced to grow up too quickly and fend for themselves.
Or do we sit behind our laptops, in the comfort of our homes, sipping wine, chewing one piece of popcorn after another, glamourising an industry we might never be a part of?
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Feature Image by Mikhail Nilov for Pexels
