My Journey Into Prostitution In Dubai

I have a job, I had a job when I flew from Ghana to Dubai to sell sex. I work in a reputable insurance companies as a sales representative. You wouldn’t know by looking at me that prostitution and I have anything in common. Over the years I’ve worked really hard to build a clientele base from whom I earn a sizeable commission monthly. My salary is good enough to give me an okay life in Accra. Not luxury just okay; I joined public transport (trotro) every morning to go to work and back home in the evening.

My cute little one bedroom self-contained apartment was rented and paid for by me. I could afford healthy meals, I had health insurance. And I could save a little for a rainy day. Every now and again, when I wanted to, I could afford myself little pleasures; an Uncle Ebow Whyte play, a small getaway from Accra to Cape Coast, Sogakope or Aburi. I wasn’t doing bad, but I wanted more.

A group of girls I knew from school were constantly posting themselves on social media, boarding airplanes and at exotic destinations. They were always so well dressed, driving good cars, and wearing all kinds of lace front wigs and clothes I knew my modest salary couldn’t afford to sustain.

One of them had been my roommate at some point in school, so I sent her a direct message on Instagram. I asked if she had found a well paying job, and if so, could she connect me? She responded and basically told me to keep my job, because her job was hard and I couldn’t do it.

But I persisted, I knew she worked at ECG, and I hoped since she was doing so well she could connect me. And also I really needed friends, I knew no one in Accra because I moved there from Western Region purposely for my job. So she invited me out one Friday day for a girls night out with her friends. They all arrived in their own cars, Toyota Camry, Corolla, Santa Fe and others. There were about seven girls, and I was the only one who arrived with a taxi. The evening was good fun, I got along well with everyone. And so it became a weekly Friday thing.

Soon I got well acquainted with all the girls and as usual kept pestering them to help me find a better job. And then one evening while we sat sipping cocktails and listening to music at the poolside of Holiday Inn, they dropped a bombshell on me, “We are sugar babies.” “Sugar what?” I asked looking from face to face, “What is a sugar baby?”

“Do you know a sugar daddy?” One of them asked. I replied in the affirmative. And then they explained a sugar baby is the sugar daddy’s special baby girl. They said theirs were older, affluent European and Asian business men who had a preference for curvy black beauties.

All I needed was one or two of these men, and I would be set. “Such guys aren’t demanding of you at all,” they told me, “they only require your presence at certain periods in the year, and they will financially take care of you.”

I had so many questions. So it wasn’t their jobs that paid for their lifestyle? Were these polished women actually prostitutes? I pulled my ex-roommate to the side and told her it felt like prostitution to me. She told me prostitutes were those girls who stood watch at Cantonments and Accra Circle and collected five cedis and twenty cedis. Sugar babies made dollars and pounds and euros. “You see all those celebrities you admire on TV, most of them do same, just be focused and get yourself out of this hand-to-mouth situation,” she said.

She said they had a contact who would arrange everything and make sure I was in safe hands. This contact was supposedly the son of an oil tycoon who had contacts in the world of multi-millionaires.

My conscience gnawed at me in the days following this revelation, and I should have listened. I should have pulled the brakes. But instead, I focused on all I stood to gain, the designer clothes, bags, perfumes I could buy, and the plush apartment I could rent. And most of all I also wanted a Sante Fe. So I romanticized the prostitution ring I was about to join. I pictured meeting an oligarch who wielded so much power and influence, one who had disposable money to throw at me. In my daydreams I thought of spending my day at sea on a yacht, sipping champagne, while he made his business deals in his office. And then when my week or two with him was over, he would send me home in business class, my purse laden with money.

That is how I convinced myself, and coaxed my mind and heart to align and agree with me. And that is how I came to call my friend to arrange a meeting with the contact who would usher me into their world of rich Europeans and Arabs.

I met the middle man in Marriot Hotel in Accra. Dino they called him. He was polished and appeared well traveled. His English was impeccable, and his manners were cutting edge. I was too blinded by the greed that had taken over my heart to see that even the poisonous black mamba is beautiful and graceful in its natural habitat.

And so I found myself agreeing to join an impending Dubai trip. He even offered to pay my airfare, accommodation and everything else, he didn’t want to me worry, he needed me to relax and enjoy the company he was going to find me.

I went to Dubai. And I quickly realized Dino was a lowlife, sneaky, slimy, sleazy pimp. And my friends weren’t there to meet regular sugar daddies, they were meeting random men day after day.

And me, I ended up with Abdal, in whose holiday home in the desert I spent a weekend. He threw a party for his friends, and I was a dish on the menu.

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