A Life In the Day: Sex Worker

I wake up around 5am so I can use the toilet early, while it’s still quiet.

I share it with nine other households. Each has one room about 8ft square. Although Chow Kit Road is a red-light district, families live here too, street vendors and stall workers, but most prostitutes live alone like me.

My room doesn’t smell so good because it’s next to rotting rubbish and the toilet, but it is away from the street.

I go back to sleep until 8 am. My bed is a thin mattress on a board lifted off the ground by red bricks at each corner. Under the bed are the pots I use for cooking and washing.

My dress and underclothes are strung on a wire across the small window. I have electricity, a light bulb, a fan, a black-and-white television and a suitcase.

If I’m on my own, as I mostly am, I make tea, heating the water on a kerosene stove in my doorway. If my honey — he’s like a special client, a temporary husband, you could say — is with me, I give him nasi lemak.

Then I go to the vegetable stalls outside and buy ladies’ fingers, brinjal, potatoes, tomatoes and garlic to cook later.

I put on eyeliner, powder my face, my jewelled earrings and gold bangles, and I am working the street by 10am. There are three of us who mostly go together — Alice, my best friend, and I watch for each other. I work a little strip just outside the slum beside the Mosque.

There is a disused pitch and that’s where I go with my clients. Mostly they are strangers, taxi drivers or hawkers.

Chow Kit is the cheapest red-light district, but I have to work here because I’m old now. I need to make RM50 a day; my rent is RM12 a day and I am paying off a loan to my landlord for hospital treatment. My clients don’t have much money — maybe I get RM15 a time. I try to make them wear a condom but mostly they don’t. I have been very lucky: I don’t think I have any sexual diseases. There is no free clinic around here.

When I was young I worked in Jalan Alor. I would go with men on big cars. Then I would have 10 or 12 clients a day easily, shopkeepers or truck drivers, and each would pay me RM250.

My own family in Parit Buntar has no idea if I am alive or dead. I grew up in a small village with three older brothers and a baby sister.

I was trafficked here when I was 14 by a man who married me. His real wife and children were here in Kuala Lumpur, and he brought me here. He sold me to a brothel. I was terrified, but he was my husband and I thought I had to do what he said. I did not have the guts to tell my family what had happened to me, so I never contacted them again.

If I‘m lucky I finish around 12.30am. There is a lot of waiting around now, so we drink beer. I drink it quite a lot — it helps. If I have made enough money I go home with Alice, and maybe we go to my room or her room and share some food. But if business is slow I stay out all night.

Even if I finish early, I can’t sleep until 2 in the morning. I worry about so many things. I have had six pregnancies, but I only have one child, Sheila. She’s 14 now and she lives in a girls’ home run by the Shelter Home. I visit her on the last Saturday of every month. I tell her I sweep in a hospital, and I wish I did, but no one would employ me now. She lived with me until she was seven.

She didn’t go to school and I couldn’t really look after her, but I didn’t bring men back to the room with her there. Then Shelter Home found her on the street. I wanted them to take her. If my daughter was to take up this trade, I would want to die. No mother can imagine such a thing as this. But she would have had no choice if she’d stayed here.

At night I think of my parents and my daughter. I think of what would happen to her if I died suddenly. I worry about how I got myself into this situation and what will happen to me in the future when I cannot make money any more. Around 2am I fall asleep, and then I don’t dream.