I am standin', looking, at this heap across the street and I’m imaginnin’ that if I ever run into real quids, I’ll settle down and build ma self a heap like this, 'cause it has what is called 'style.’

I hear a strange noise, its like someone is cryin’, I open-up the blind the more, I’m lookin’ through a closed window. The security lamp outside is very bright. I see a gal just outside ma window. She’s dressed in blue SLEEVELESS SATIN. Can’t guess the age. Rain is drizzlin’ outside there. She's got no slickers, no "brella and no hat. She’s cryin’ like crazy and soaked wet. She’s lookin’ at me, cryin’. "What are you doin’ cryin' outside ma window?" I yell

She moves her lips as if talking, I can’t hear a word. Turn to the front door, I signal with ma hand. She moves.

I move to the palour and open the front door. Here she stands, pretty, yes very pretty without necessarily being beautiful. She’s at the stage of life when if you are looking to find a woman you see a child, if you talk to the child, you discover a woman. "Good evening," she says. I turn round to look at ma clock, it is 2.00 a.m. "Good evening indeed," I say.

"May I come in please?" she says. She's drizzlin’ wet, there’s a tiny pool of water just outside ma door already.

"Who are you?" I ask, "I am Edith ya neighbour’s daughter," she says.

"Go home then," I say.

"No one’s home," she says.

"May I come-in please?" she says again.

"Ma carpet will be soaked," I say.

"I’ll pull ma clothes," she says and pulls down the zipper immediately. The dress falls instantly to the floor. The top is completely naked. I’m seeing them. Yes, the apples. I’m wondering if whoever carved the acclaimed "Venus de Milo" saw anything half as good. Ma voice is gone. "Go away", I try to say, ma lips can't open, I swallow hard, no difference, she enters, pushin’ past me.

"I could use a wrap," she says.

I look at them and the face. I remember precisely the 22nd hour of 29th of September 1932 when I first touched Ruth. But that’s another story.

"Please give me a wrap, I’m catching cold," she says.

I move to the bedroom, and pick a wrap; I come out and throw it at her. "Thanks," she says and wraps up. She parks herself on ma settee.

"I’m very hungry, please have you got some food?" she asks. I can’t talk. I now remember I’m hungry maself; I go into the kitchen to warm the soup I left in the freezer.

I put the food on the table. She eats uninvited, I can’t utter a word, I can’t eat. I pour maself some brandy. She gets into the kitchen, picks a wine glass, gets back and pours herself some brandy. "Who are you?" I say surprisingly. "I’m Edith your neighbour’s daughter," she says.

"Where have your folks gone?" I ask.

"I don’t know," she says.

"Are you not living with them?" I ask.

"No," she says.

"What do you do," I ask.

"I’m a model and I dance part time too," she says.

"Very interesting," I say. "Where do you do all these?" I ask.

"At Minds Hotel. It's around Surulere," she says.

I now remember. Minds Hotel’s where most pornographic films made within the country are shot. All the Live-in girls there are readily available.

Well, if this is what this generation of ladies in our society refer to as modelling, then, I’m wise to why more and more gentlemen are becoming Reverends.

"Now, what would a girl from decent family like Mr. Kayode’s be doing living in a place like that?" I ask.

"What’s wrong with it? After-all everyone is doing it these days. If you don’t realise it even those ladies that work around those offices do come around in the evenings and weekends to get customers. Don’t you realise it’s not easy making ends meet these days?"

"How did you get into all this mess?" I know Mr. Kayode is rich, he’s comfortable and from all indications he has a lot of discipline as an individual. "Where’s ya wife," she asks.

"That’ none of your business, is it?" I say.

"Well," she starts.

"Whatever pushed you into this way of life?" I ask.

"Well," she says, getting up, she moves to ma newspaper heap and picks up one of them.

"It’s all very mysterious," she says.

She fondles with the newspaper, then starts, "please don’t interrupt till I’m through," she says. I nod.

"I never really liked school, so I left in ma second year at the University. I really wanted to be a model, so I approached a friend that was already in the business and she took me to a Lebanese living around Satellite Town. I was given an offer to appear for recording on two days of the week, for a fee. I was more than happy, other things followed. That was six years ago. Here am I now."

I am just staring at her; she puts her legs up the table and reads the paper aloud. She’s mad, I think.

"General Doya says Nigeria is not yet ripe for Democracy," she reads. "Melancholia," she says. I look up this word from ma dictionary, it says "mental illness marked by depression and grounded fears." "This man is so confused," she says. I’m silent. "He is a classical example of the Frustrated Soul as described by FULTON SHEEN in his peace of Soul handbook, don’t you think so?" she says.

"Never heard of him, who’s he?" I say.

"He’s a psychoanalyst, who believes that if a frustrated soul is educated, it has a smattering of uncorrelated bits of information with no unifying philosophy. Then the frustrated soul may say to itself: “I sometimes think there are two sides of me - a living soul and a Ph.D.” that such a man projects his own mental confusion to the outside world and concludes that since he knows no truth, nobody can know, that his own scepticism which he universalises into a philosophy of life throws him back more upon those powers lurking in the dark caverns of his consciousness.

"Are you listening?" she asks. I nod.

He thinks such a soul changes his philosophy as he changes his clothes. On Monday, he lays down the tracks of materialism, on Tuesday he reads a bestseller; pulls up the old tracks and lays the new tracks of idealist; on Wednesday his new roadway is communistic; on Thursday the new rails of liberalism are laid; on Friday he hears a broadcast and decides to travel on Freudian tracks; on Saturday, he takes a long drink to forget his railroading and on Sunday ponders why people are so foolish as to go to church. Each day has a new idol, each week a new mood. His authority is public opinion, when that shifts, his frustrated soul shifts with it.’

"You really know how to criticise others, don’t you? You should be ashamed of yourself instead of going about criticising innocent people," I continue.

"Are you any better than maself?" She says.

"You have no right to talk to me that way, I’m old enough to be ya grand-dad, besides this is ma house. Now leave immediately," I yell.

She gets up, kneels on the floor and starts begging. She loosens the wrap deliberately, it falls to the ground. I see them again. Ma voice is gone. She knows and she’s moving towards me.

"Go away," I say, pushing her away from maself,

"Stop acting," she says coming closer, "you want me now. You pretend you can do without me but ya face says it all." "You can’t resist this," she says, holding up those apples.

I swallow hard. "Even Adam in the Bible needed company, he was given everything, he was not happy till Eve came. Stand up and do it now." She says.

I'm doing it. May be I’m mad. Rug. Settee. Kitchen. Bedroom. Bathroom. I wake up. She’s sleeping beside me here on the floor. I get up. I'm floating instead of walking. I draw-up the window blinds. She’s awake.

"D’ you want me to go away?" she says.

"Why not?" Don’t you realise you’re a pros..." I stop; the expression on her face is indescribable.

"What’s that you said just now?" She asks.

"Oh, I’m just asking if you’re not a 'em… professional model," I stammer, she keeps-mum and looks kinda gloomy. "There’s nothing wrong with modelling," I say as she’s still looking at me.

"We are stars if you don’t know, real stars."

Of course, I understand, real stars, yes, why not, sure, mid-night stars.

"I’m going out and I’m going out with ma key," I say, she gets up immediately.

"Where’s ma money?" She says

"What?" I yell.

"I’m talking about ma two hundred naira," she says.

"You’re not serious," I say.

"Neighbours will decide that," she screams.

Ma voice is gone, I now understand.

"You pay up or I stay, it will increase by a hundred naira every passing day," she screams. I look up the clock on the wall, it is 7.00a.m.

I’m jobless, I’m broke, I have just thirty-two naira (N32.00) in this whole world so I’m finished.

Ma neighbours can’t hear any of these. This is evil. She has already used every four-letter word I have ever heard and quite a few that are new to me. An endeavour like this is too lively for ma taste, I’m a quiet old man.

I have no choice.

Edith is expecting ma baby.

I wish I could be so sure.

Nothing can be hidden forever.

I’m a hustler from the east, stuck-on a hooker from the west.

Not an ex-hooker but a hooker.

She’s still very active. I’m too old.

With no friends, no relatives, just Jerome and the expectant confounded kid.

No use going back east. I

’m not welcome.

Maself, Lagos and superstar for now.

Every one here calls me BABA-IBADAN.

I have no choice, do I?

Midnight Stars