IS JAZZ REAL? MAYBE NOT, BUT I FELT SOMETHING THAT NIGHT

“Ẹ̀gbọ́n, e be like say this girl don rub me something oh,” I told Kúnlé as we rode back to our hotel that night.

It was the evening of October 10, 2025. We had travelled from Nigeria to Accra three days earlier, on Tuesday the 7th, to attend the West African Media Excellence Conference and Awards. The sessions were over for the day. The air that Friday night carried the easy warmth of a foreign city that was not quite foreign.

Earlier, Mr Smith – a taxi driver who often ferried tourists around and whom we had met at Alisa Hotel, the conference venue – had driven Kúnlé, Ibrahim, Faruk, and me to the Accra Central Masjid for prayers. On our way back, Smith told us his story after Kúnlé, ever curious about people and documenting their stories for the Chronycles, asked him to.

In the middle of his narration, Smith mentioned that many Nigerians, especially young women, were in Ghana doing sex work. “Small small girls – 12, 14, 15. If you ask them, 80 per cent are Nigerians. Some of them are underage, seriously,” he claimed. This piqued Kúnlé’s interest. He wanted to meet one of these girls and write about her experiences. So, we requested that he take us to meet these girls. 

By evening, I called him. At 10 p.m., he drove Kúnlé and me to Osu, the part of town where the girls usually stood. He offered to wait, but we wanted to explore and told him to go. The streets were alive – music, lights, and girls scattered around in revealing outfits. We were cautious; not every woman there was a sex worker. Some were traders selling food, phone accessories, and clothes, especially to tourists.

We strolled a little and met a man named Derrick who sold wrist beads and other fashion items. After buying a few, Kúnlé mentioned we wanted to meet “Nigerian girls.” As it turned out, Derrick had a Nigerian “friend” who was into the trade. We’ll call her Cupcake. 

Derrick called Cupcake and asked her to come with a friend. She came alone, however. At first, she thought we wanted sex – as she should. But when we said we only wanted to talk, she smiled, slightly amused, and led us to a quieter corner. She confirmed what Smith had told us – that many Nigerian girls in Accra were in the trade, a lot of them very young. 

After nearly two hours of talking, around midnight, she offered to take us around. The walk was a blur of faces and lights. Most of the girls were out. As we walked through the street, some girls would shake their breasts and call out to us. I felt uneasy. My eyes darted away each time.  

“You dey shy?” Cupcake teased. 

“Look now. Look well well,” she urged. 

I laughed, trying to cover my discomfort. “I no shy oh.”

After some minutes, we stopped at a junction where Cupcake gave more details about the trade to Kúnlé while I stood a step away. There were two girls, probably under 20, behind us. One approached me. Cupcake noticed and chuckled. 

“Choose one now,” she urged. I smiled and said, “No. I dey okay.” “This your brother dey shy oh,” she said to Kúnlé. 

The girl stopped in front of me. Her perfume was faint but sweet, like something recently sprayed in haste.

“Customer, see me now,” she said, turning around for me to see her buttocks and barely covered breasts. “I am not here for sex,” I told her. “I am out to stroll and see around.”

“Make I stroll with you now,” she said seductively. I was clad in a black polo. She reached for my exposed arm. Her hand was cool. “No worry. Person don dey show us around already,” I said, gently pushing her hands away.

“I am Joy. What is your name?” she asked, smiling. “I am Musa,” I lied. “Musa,” she repeated, as though tasting the name on her tongue. “Where is your hotel? Let’s go to your hotel,” she suggested, now trying to rub my arms again. “You go enjoy me oh,” she said. 

“My hotel is far,” I replied, avoiding her hands. She rubbed my chest and attempted rubbing my beard too, her eyes carrying so much confidence.

“I came with my wife,” I lied again. “Your wife is here?” she asked, looking at Cupcake. “No. She is back at my hotel,” I replied. “Let’s go to my place then,” she offered. “No. I am not here for sex,” I repeated.

By now, I was deeply uncomfortable. Sensing it, Kúnlé ended his conversation with Cupcake and we left. We got a taxi and headed back to the hotel. A few minutes into the ride, something strange happened. My body started tingling; I felt a wave of heat and restlessness.

“Ẹ̀gbọ́n, body dey do me somehow oh,” I said from the back seat. Kúnlé laughed, thinking I was joking.  

But the feeling intensified. By the time we reached the hotel, it was overwhelming. “I dey feel like say make I go back meet Joy,” I told him as we walked down the hallway to our rooms. We were lodged beside each other. 

He laughed again. “Na fine girl she be now. I wouldn’t blame you even if you went back. Just keep me posted.”

In my room, I went straight to the shower. The cold water hit my skin, but the heat inside would not leave. The sensation grew stronger. My thoughts circled around Joy – first her touch, then her voice, and her face. It was not konji, like in the way many people would describe it. It was something else. It felt like something had gripped me, like an invisible pull dragging me toward her. It was about 1:30 a.m.

“Wetin this Joy of a girl rub me like this sef?” I texted Kúnlé on WhatsApp. “I just dey feel funny anyhow since.”  

He replied almost immediately with a laughing emoji. “She really has a charm about her. Sorry.”  

“Wallahi, Ẹ̀gbọ́n, I no fit explain how e dey go me gan,” I typed back.  

“Sha no sleepwalk go find yourself for Osu this night o,” he teased.  

I laughed, but my body didn’t. The pull grew sharper, clearer, almost physical. It was as if a thread tied my chest to wherever Joy was. I went back to shower again. This time, for about 20 minutes.

Afterwards, I tried sleeping. I could not. Joy filled every corner of my mind. It was no longer her body, smile, touch, or voice. It was her presence this time – the pull of it, the way she lingered in me like a heat after fire. I wanted to go back to her.  The urge was sharp, almost physical, like something pressing from the inside out.

I cannot exactly explain that feeling. Again, it was not lust. No. It was deeper and stranger than that. Lust ends in imagination, but this felt like a command. Think of when you crave something so intensely that it eclipses reason, when you fear that something in you might break if you don’t have it. That was how it felt. A need I didn’t understand, but could not resist either.

I stood up, got dressed again, picked up my phone and wallet – GH₵540 and $220 inside – and walked out of my room. I was ready to go back to Joy. 

Then, halfway down the corridor, I stopped. I don’t know what held me back, but something – call it grace, willpower, or fear – made me turn back. I went back inside. Another cold shower. I stayed under it for what felt like eternity. Then I wrapped myself in a duvet and collapsed onto the bed. I stared at the ceiling. I could still hear Joy’s voice. I could still feel where her hand had been on my arm and chest.

“Why didn’t you pray?” you might ask. Honestly, in that moment, all I could think of was Joy. The only remedy that made sense to me was water. And somehow, it worked.  

I fell asleep sometime past 3 a.m. The next morning, I called my mother on WhatsApp and asked her to pray for me. She didn’t ask why. She just said she had been praying already and would continue. Later that morning, Smith drove Ibrahim and me to Makola Market. I told him the whole story.

“Eh, chale, you strong oh,” he said, shaking his head. “You get spiritual protection oh. That thing na jazz.” 

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.

But that night, I felt something powerful – something that felt both human and not, a mix of desire and dread. Something I still cannot explain.