Inside a Women’s bathroom in a nightclub in Freetown Sierra Leone

Right before Sam came in to pull me out of the women’s bathroom, I was staring in awe as a woman wiped my hands.

One thing about me (and I think most women in Salone): I don’t like to pee in public. If you see me grap for go pee, know say tin don kam pan kam.

In fact, I had drunk 3 bottles of Perrier and still was planning to hold it till I got home.

Then Sam says, “Babe, you need to go to the bathroom.”

I’m like, “How do you know?” He said, “I know you!”🫣

He took my hand. I walked behind him.

He punctured the crowd so I could keep my eyes on my feet.

I was in platform heels, four inches high, on a still-healing ankle.

We made our way to the women’s bathroom.

Skin-tight and short skirts, selfie lights. A girl comes out of a stall together with a drink in hand.

“Hi, Vickie!”

“Hiii,” I smile.

Another girl comes out of the same stall.

I’m startled because I was just about to go in there.

“Hi, Vickie!”

“Hiii,” I smile again.

For just a moment I wonder what two ladies are doing in the same stall. It’s a fleeting thought. No to me business.

I look for another stall.

It’s empty, but there’s no toilet paper.😒

I come out of the bathroom. Sam had not left his post. Since it had only been a couple minutes since I went in. He was surprised to see me. I tell him there’s no toilet paper.

Then I find an attendant and tell her, and she goes and finds the lady who works in the loo.

There was a huge roll of toilet paper the size of paper towels. They keep it to the side and ration it.

She opens one roll and hands it to me to take as much as I want.

I take enough to wipe the seat and a bit more for the post-wee-wee dab.

Just as I’m about to enter the stall, a lady walks in.

“Oh, Vickie, you’re so beautiful. I love your makeup.”

We hug. She’s sweaty, a sign she’s been having a really good time.

I smile.

“Can we take a selfie?”

We take a selfie.

Once I’ve completed my selfie duties, I make my way to the stall.

Before I pull down the long, stripper-style lace trousers covering the black pumpum shorts covering the g-string, I make sure to hike the pants all the way up so they don’t touch the floor when I have to butu and max the toilet.

As you may know, the floors of women’s bathrooms in high-traffic clubs in Freetown are always wet.

Understandably, it’s really hard to max the hole when you’ve had a few.

I don’t drink alcohol, and my quads and glutes are trained weekly so I can hold a butu and max a hole! No sweat!

I clean the seat, even though I am not sitting on it.

I wanted to leave it better than I met it for the next person.

I butu. I wee wee. I dab.

I step closer to the door, away from the part of the floor that’s covered in droplets of other women’s wee wee, before I put on my three layers.

I open the door. More short skirts and skin-tight outfits. They’re at the mirror. I can’t make out the conversation, but you know the girls are talking.

I check my hair in the mirror and then I wash my hands. I can see what looks like a hand dryer, but I can tell it’s not going to dry my hands.

I hold my hands up dripping and turn to get more paper towels from the attendant.

“You just day watch you sef,” says a voice that just entered the bathroom.

“I wasn’t. I was washing my hands,” I respond.

I found the statement a bit off-putting. Why e for comment pan wetin me day do?

I turn towards the paper towels, but she the one who just accused me of watching my reflection, refuses to let me pass.

She heads for the paper towels and tears off a couple of sheets. I stretch my hands to take them from her, but then she says no.

Instead, she proceeds to slowly start to wipe my hands. First, she takes the right, wiping it front and back. Then she takes the left, wiping it front and back.

“Aw you day baby me so now?” I ask with a smile.

For a moment I wonder, is she flirting with me? It’s a fleeting thought. Cuz us kind sensual rub down this?

She smiles. Before she finishes or starts to speak, I notice Sam entering the bathroom.

“E do so!”

He’s irritated that someone is keeping me too long.

I give him a disapproving, “you’re-not-supposed-to-be-in-here” stare. He ignores me.

I yield and leave my sensual personal hand dryer in the women’s bathroom, and I don’t look back.