Editor’s Note: In partnership with The 2023 EIO Workshop, Isele Magazine publishes the works selected by the facilitator, Esther Ifesinachi Okonkwo. Roseline Mgbodichinma’s “Back to Base” is one of the selected works. 

Facilitator’s Note: In Mgbodichinma’s “Back to Base”, a story about a young woman who works as a costumed performer, we meet another character who refuses to go down without a fight. This story does everything right. First, of course, by giving the character a job (stories of characters without jobs leave me perplexed), and not just any job, this specific Nigerian job of a costumed performer.

Ezra made Ijeuru show up as many things.

When he felt juvenile, he handed her a simple Barney costume. When he was sad, he made her wear a Wasp ensemble: amber, faded, ill-fitting, striped. When he felt tired, he kept it simple: a frog, webbed feet, big-eyed, green. Often though, he mixed and matched as he deemed fit. She would have on a dinosaur costume on her head, a big bad bear around her torso, high-heeled crocs on her feet, and heavy suede trousers gripping her thighs. In full costume, she’d prance around from pillar to post while children tugged her tail or thumped her back, their voices resounding like cymbals in her eardrums—happy voices and mindless coos, bad for her spine, good for business. 

Ezra had twelve workers: eleven men, plus Ijeuru. Each day after work ended, Ijeuru undid her costume, while her coworkers watched. It was Ezra’s rule that any worker whose event closed early waited in the van till the driver picked up everyone. They were to return to base at the same time, except he stated otherwise. Ijeuru did not mind sitting in her Barney or Winnie the Pooh costume for the long drive back to base. The problem was the itching. It was as though her immunity failed when she stopped entertaining. Once in the van, she could suddenly feel everything: the warmth, the pinch, the hollow; her small eyes looking through the exaggerated sockets, her flat feet disguising as paws, her small head like a tiny pebble dancing around the big mascot skull, her musty breath like forbidden air; she would be breathless and full of sores by the time the van touched base. 

Ezra’s smelly, small, unfurnished bungalow was base. Although most parties began in the forenoon or in the evenings, he mandated all twelve of them to be at base before the cock crowed or forget the pay of the day. 

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A new workday: a children’s party. The sun was barely out and Ijeuru was already irritated. The Master of Ceremony was stiff, his control exaggerated and his cues, inorganic, bland. He stomped his feet to a loop of afrobeats blasting through the speakers, a set he was convinced would make everyone wreck the dance floor. The children moved around with expected glee, but Ijeuru stood still. For her, many hardships existed, but there were not many things she loathed more than low-budget MCs. Their dry jokes suffocated her more than the sticky, smelly, unwashed costumes Ezra maintained with few minutes of sunlight and miserly sprays of vinegar. The MC turned to Ijeuru, sweating, hyped at the music, eyes fixated on her big shoes.

“You people’s Mickey Mouse is boring o,” he screamed. “No moves at all.” 

The children began to chant.

“Mickey, dance. Mickey, dance!”

“Go Mickey, go Mickey, go!” the MC screamed. 

Ijeuru tapped her feet from left to right in slow motion and they began to boo at her. They wanted more energy, more footwork. When Ijeuru was younger, children, whether wealthy, middle class or wretched, were entertained by the bare minimum. A DJ with funny shades could make the children giggle. The throwing and popping of balloons sent them cracking up with laughter.  They played games that involved music, running around chairs, and spelling out names of objects. This new dynamic, where children booed at her when they got bored, clamored for more action, deeply annoyed her. 

Plus, Ijeuru was on her period and in no mood to scatter the dance floor. The hype increased, and she began to dance in a way that undid her hinges and made her breaths harsh. Everyone cheered, children and adults alike. She had generated beautiful adrenaline, but she was dizzy. As the children got on their groove and seemed to cut her some slack, she went to a corner to catch some air. She planned to sit there, away from the noise for a few minutes, and be back on the dance floor before anyone noticed. She instead, fell asleep, mouth open and breathing loudly.

“Ijeuru! Ijeuru! Ijeuru!”

Ezra was yelling at the top of his lungs. Ijeuru was not expecting to see him. He never cared to attend events. He took whatever report he received from party organizers whether lie or truth. If they said his mascots stole, then they stole; if they said they underperformed, then they underperformed. He had just agreed to a last-minute booking, he told her now, as she rubbed her eyes, dazed, waking slowly. A bonfire for first-year students in a private campus at the heart of town. They paid him handsomely to deploy one of his mascots to dance and entertain the students until daybreak. 

Whenever he got a deal like this, he took the evening off. Hired women for company and partied far away from base. His behavior the morning after would tell his workers how his night went. If he was hungover, he dashed them small money. Sobriety meant the night was bad, and so he remained as ruthless as ever. 

“You are a foolish girl,” he said, after he was done informing her about her next job. “So this is what you do at my parties?”

“No sir!”

“You dey mess with my venture, this rubbish girl!”

“Sir, please!”

“Na you get this duty. If you like reach there go sleep, na sack be that.”

“Ah! Sir, please, na my time of the month.”

Ezra simply didn’t care. He sent his workers to different parts of town at will. They covered everything from funerals to festivities. Wherever there was an occasion, Ezra made them available. He put a large furry bear costume in the van and briefed Ijeuru on his expectations for the event: how she must growl, open her mouth wide if they wanted to pour drinks into her, throw things into the fire, and play drunk if they wanted more show. Anything to make them happy because his no-refund policy was strict, and he took customer satisfaction very seriously. 

Ijeuru was supposed to finish up this birthday party, head straight to the van, change and ready herself for the all-nighter, or lose her job. She could not bear going back to the streets to job-hunt. A graduate of fishery from Federal Polytechnic Nekede, she had dropped her CV everywhere from the Ministry of Agriculture to individuals with fishponds in their backyard. Nobody had space to employ her. There was too much hardship in the country for her to lose the one job that managed to put bread on her table. 

If you asked Ijeuru, she would tell you that she went back to the dance floor immediately Ezra left and headed straight to the bonfire afterwards. She would tell you how she hated events like this, how she preferred small estate get-togethers, the ones where attendees paid her no mind and only required her presence as cool props for their celebration, or the club where she was the gorilla popping expensive bottles and raising fancy placards, anything but a school gathering where the students relieved the stress of a full academic year on her body. She would tell you that at the bonfire she nearly fainted throwing red plastic in the fire and running circles around it on their request.  She would tell you it was a long night, that she worked and made do with the measly commission Ezra paid her.  She would tell you all these things if she weren’t dreaming. 

Now, Ijeuru sprung up from her slumber, shocked to her bones. She had fallen back asleep after Ezra left. Her full bladder had woken her up. She was stained with period blood, and in pain. Save for the security guards patrolling the area with flashlights, everyone had gone home. The party arena was empty. Her phone, tied together in a rubber band to secure its battery, had died. The van had come and gone. On one hand, she was happy to miss the ride home. It meant freedom from her coworkers who scared and irritated her, and, on many occasions, even sexually harassed her.

“This your body set o,” one of them would say.

“Why you dey cover eye candy, feel free,” another would add.

“We are your big brothers in this industry. Show workings na.” 

They teased her and pinched her arm while adjusting their sitting positions, legs ajar. 

In Ezra’s van, Ijeuru was a sex symbol but at the events she was assigned, however overworked, irritated and underpaid, she was an entertainer, a character, a person, and although behind a costume, a full human being. And so she endured. 

Now Ijeuru removed her costume. Wearing nothing but a black tight and tank top, she began finding her way home. The roads were unfamiliar but by her calculations, it would take a few hours of walking to get home. Ijeuru walked and bled. She tried to flag down vehicles for a lift or ask what time it was, but no one stopped. She did not know the area but decided that finding street roads might increase her chances of finding a familiar route. Bush bars were clearing out tables and putting leftover pork meat in a cooler. There were few cars at the filling station and a handful of people on the street. Ijeuru looked newly mad. She felt the snares as she moved, saw how people crossed to the other side as she approached.  At the bar, she asked to charge her phone, but she was shooed away by the owner.

“What a pity,” one man said, pointing at her from his table. 

She did not blame him. She was half-naked and smelled of period blood while holding a funny costume.

Another added: “This is the one she carried for herself. Small-small girls of today.” 

“You know ember month is close. They have used this one.”  

“If she stays alive long enough, she go carry belle. Mad women dey born anyhow for this area,” a random voice said, and they all burst into full-blown laughter.

Ijeuru continued bleeding and walking. A shiny Peugeot 504 stopped beside her after a short while.

“Fine girl!” he exclaimed, wounding down his glass and poking out his head. 

He was a dark man with a toothless smile. His belt was unbuttoned, and his trousers hung low on his waist.

“I will pay you good money. Let me just park so that we can get down to business.”

Ijeuru increased her pace as he drove behind her.

“Just five minutes. Since you can’t talk, you can use your mouth for other things.”

Ijeuru picked up a stone and aimed for his side mirror. She missed. He spat at her and sped off, laughing.

She continued bleeding and walking. A policeman began walking behind her as she cornered into a street. When she slowed down, he did the same. When she stopped, he stopped. Ijeuru ran and he ran, too, bobbing his flashlight behind her. She fell and he fell. She laid there, eyes closed, waiting for the bang of his gun. She had heard on the radio how women were found dead on the street, with a bullet lodged in their forehead, or their body parts missing.

“Why are you running?” the policemen said, hovering above her.

“Why you dey follow me?”

“What is a girl like you doing outside at night?”

“I dey go house”

“Where is your house?”

“Outside town.”

He snatched her costume and ruffled her, pressing her breast and hips, touching her from head to toe as though searching for something to nab her with.

“You won’t talk true before I remove your teeth,” the policeman yelled.

“I just finish work. I’m going home”

“Prostitute wey dey disguise.”

When he found nothing on her, he snatched away her Mickey Mouse costume. Ijeuru grabbed his thighs, begging and offering everything: her body, money, the mouth she nearly stoned the drunk man for requesting, anything but Ezra’s costume. How will she explain to Ezra that she missed a whole event and lost his precious Mickey Mouse costume? 

Ijeuru held him tight. She only let go when he gave her a dirty slap. Her cheeks throbbed and her eardrums echoed a painful tenor. She laid on the muddy ground for long minutes, sore as she watched the policeman walk off with the costume in hand. 

She soon stood, continued walking and bleeding. Walking had become an out-of-body experience. The pain bit deep into her wet and bruised skin. Many turns later, Ijeuru’s swollen feet arrived at her face-me-I-face-you yard. As she walked towards her door, she laid out her simple plan: she would unlock her door, slump on her bed, and then take a hot bath. In the morning, she would wake up before the cock crowed and wait for Ezra at base. She would roll and beg and ask for his forgiveness and swear to replace the costume, to work for free for two weeks.

At the door, she ruffled her pockets for the keys. Then she remembered that she’d slid the keys into her purse before heading out to the party. The purse which she’d left in Ezra’s van. Quietly, she lowered herself to the floor, blood trickling down her thighs, legs swollen, body feverish from trekking many miles.

About the Author:

Roseline Mgbodichinma is a Nigerian writer and law graduate passionate about documenting women’s stories. Her writing explores the intersection of nature, womanhood, emotion, bodies and desire, and how they exist and function in society. She is an alumni of the Library of Africa and The African Diaspora (LOATAD) West African Writers Residency programme. Her writing has been published on Isele, The Willowherb Review, Agbowo, SprinNG, Xylom and elsewhere. She blogs at www.mgbodichi.com

*Feature image by Tamara Gak on Unsplash