MANTALK: Encounter at a massage parlour

I went to a brothel. I was driving from my local bar when I saw a heavily clothed man, hood pulled over his head, hunched by the corner of a road holding up a big banner written “Massage” and an arrow pointing to the opposite direction I had come from. So I did what any self-respecting citizen who pays tax would have done; I turned around the car. It was midnight. Wet day. I’d had two doubles of whisky. [Pause] OK, I lie, I had had three doubles of whisky.

The only reason I said two is because I don’t want young people reading this to think it’s OK to drink and drive because it’s hugely irresponsible and foolish. To young persons reading this; do not drink and drive, it’s reckless and very risky and you will die a gory death on the road. That’s a promise. Use an Uber or the other one that has refused to work on my phone. Can I also mention that I live less than two minutes away from my said local, which says nothing other than it’s still foolish to drink and drive?

MYSTERIOUS HOODED MAN

Anyway, I turned my car around and followed the signs of this promised massage being offered at midnight by a mysterious hooded man. The signage led me to this compound where many swanky cars were packed. I edged my car next to a sleek three-door red Audi A1 and took time to peer into its beige leather interior until a watchman wandered over and asked me, “Iko shida, boss?” I said there was no shida, only that I liked the car. I figured it was either a 50-year old driving it or some spoilt younger man with lots of daddy’s money to spend. Either way, his car was a really good looking.

The “massage parlour” was in what looked like a restored one-storied building next to a car yard of sorts. The watchman, a mug of tea in hand, showed me the entrance and I took two stairs at a time to get up the landing, where I was met by a solid metallic door which I rapped with my knuckles.  A small window opened like in the movies and a pair of hard but beautiful female eyes stared at me. How do I know they were female eyes, you may ask? Because they had long eyelashes, silly. I didn’t suppose they were the eyes of the Audi owner.  After certifying that I was fit for admission, the door creaked open and music spilled out. Music and red lights and smell of cheap perfume. I stepped through the threshold and into the corridor and the door clanged closed behind me. I was in. To my right was another doorway that led into a red-lit bar where music was coming from. Girls sat around in themed uniform. Their eyes shone like eyes of animals stunned by headlights.

The lady was pleasant and seductive.  She was chewing gum and regarding me cooly, you know sizing me up like I was nyamachoma. Honestly I didn’t mind. I can’t remember the last time I was objectified like that. I felt sexy.  I only wished she could stop calling me “uncle.” While we stood there, a trendy looking man brushed past me in an expensive-looking leather jacket to head to what I assumed was a toilet or to change into his disposable underwear. Could be the owner of the Audi. He avoided eye contact. I asked the lady how much a massage was and she pointed with her long nail at a notice board on the wall, so I walked over and peered at the menu. They had all these hilarious names of “massages.” The cheapest was 3K. There was one particular one called Two-Bodies-on-One or something like that. Disappointingly there was no Deep Tissue.

My idea was to pay for this massage and once inside I would tell the lady: “Listen, I don’t want a massage, I want to talk. I will pay you to answer my questions.” But suddenly it didn’t seem like a great idea anymore because anything could go wrong and there was no way to escape. That steel door - the only exit - gave me the creeps. Plus I pictured police kicking in the door in a raid while I sat on the massage bed talking to a skimpily dressed woman. Nobody would believe me.

I could see a TV cameraman taking this footage and me appearing in the 9o’clock news the following day and one of my nephews and nieces pointing at the TV and saying, “Look, it’s uncle!” So I told the gum-chewing temptress that I was going to come back. She pouted disappointedly and cooed that I should at least stay for a drink. I promised her I’d be back. She led me out with her hand on my triceps. Finally, someone had recognised my hard work in the gym. Downstairs, the watchman said with a grin, “Boss, but you have finished so quickly.” Oh, fun times, I tell you.

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