Doing Dangerously Well (41 page)

In Washington DC, on entering his apartment, Astro led Barbara to a deck chair. “Just sit down here, Babble,” he said, helping her into the chair as if she had an ambulatory disability. “There you go. Now,” he squatted beside her, speaking softly and clearly, but with the authority of a medical professional, “I’m just going to get a blankie, okay, bud?” He searched her eyes for signs of comprehension.

She blinked.

Satisfied, he hurried off and returned a moment later. “Here we go. One blanket coming up. Now, I’m just gonna put it around you, okay, bud? That’s right, just lean forward a bit. Good work! Now, lean back.” He wrapped her like a hot dog. “Great. Now, would you like some tea?” He hovered over her with concern.

She looked up at him through her bundle of blankets, feeling like an idiot. “Astro, I’m …”

“Yes?” He crouched forward a bit, turning an expectant ear towards her mouth.

She looked at his ear, annoyed. Realizing her attendant had no clue as to the difference between depression and a deep coma, she huffed out, “Sure, thanks.”

“Okey-dokey. I’ll go to the kitchen,” he pointed to the kitchen as if she had no idea of its location, “which is just around that
corner.” He enunciated his words clearly, taking time over each vowel, each consonant, as if she had also forgotten the rudiments of the English language. “I won’t be long. If there’s anything you want, just holler. So …” he looked down, “… where am I going?”

“To the kitchen.”

“That’s right. And I’ll be back … ?”

“In a moment.”

“Good job!” He tucked a wayward edge of blanket under Barbara’s legs. He stood back and surveyed his work. Satisfied, he widened his eyes to speak to her again. “Okay, if you want something … ?”

“Just holler.”

He looked down at her, pride fanning across his face. “Atta girl!” he whispered, suppressing a crooked smile of congratulation. He hesitated, then made a decisive swivel kitchenwards.

Barbara heard him take the mugs out of the kitchen cabinet and fill the kettle with water, explaining every move, as if hosting a cookery program. She knew he thought it would help her: constant chatter is considered beneficial to comatose patients. “Okay, first warm the pot with hot water …”

Barbara unravelled herself from her winding sheet and tiptoed through his apartment, looking for signs of his girlfriend. She entered his bedroom, embraced by walls of crimson and scarlet, feeling that she had ventured back to the origin of all mystery. She neared the scattered cushions that represented his bed and gasped. A furry massage glove was wedged between his pillows—not a sexual toy she remembered having purchased. She stared at it, trying to extract its meaning. She wondered what his new girlfriend looked like. She imagined a tall woman with long fingernails, meowing through Astro’s intercom. She pictured her purring in ecstasy, back arching as Astro stroked her with the fur glove.

She burst into tears and flung herself onto the bed, burying her head under a cushion to cover her sobbing.

She sneezed. The sex toy moved. Barbara sprang back. A cat! Barbara sucked in a breath. This was worse than expected—the woman had moved in her pet, despite the fact that Astro was tending to an invalid severely reactive to dander.

She heard Astro rattling the teapot, so she rushed back to her postpartum position on the beach chair.

Astro came back, carrying a tray.

“You’ve got a cat?” Barbara asked, tears streaming down her face, choking back the sobs.

“You saw the cat?” He crouched down in front of her. “Don’t go near it, Babu. You have ‘allergies.’” He quote-marked the air. “Do you understand?”

She blinked back tears and nodded.

“Good.” He hunted around for a handkerchief. “Aw, man, I didn’t know your allergies were so bad.” He wiped her tears and held the handkerchief as she blew her nose.

Once he had settled her down, he squared the edges of the tray so they lay parallel to the table, looked at the tray again and realigned it. It overflowed with leaves, mosses and flowers, at the centre of which lay her tea and cookies.

“Whose cat is it?” she asked, tears springing to her eyes again.

“My neighbour’s. You know—the guy downstairs. Remember when he took care of my apartment? Well, believe it or not, he stole my sax.”

“So you stole his cat?”

“No. To ‘steal,’” air quotes, “means to take property. A cat is a living being, not property.” He knelt to fuss again with her blanket.

So he had kidnapped a cat. How could she have doubted him? He had only taunted a neighbour, not replaced her with a new girlfriend. She sighed. What a mystical spirit of nature!

“I’m so sorry about the way I treated you, Astro. I saw such horrific things in Nigeria, and you were the only piece of innocence I had.” She stroked his hand with the back of her fingers.

He kissed her fingers, pressing his lips against them. “I’m not as innocent as you think, Bobble,” he said into her fingers, “and you’re not that tough, either.”

That night, having evicted the cat from the room, they lay in the enveloping warmth of his bed, Barbara listening contentedly to his breath: a wisp of an inhale, a hush of an exhale. These small sounds, which she had taken for granted, filled her with a sense of renewal. These sounds would provide her with the strength to finish what she had started. She turned to rest her head on his chest, so she could hear his heartbeat and return once again to the amnesia of the womb.

Within a month, Kolo’s garage decor had changed radically, with deep-pile carpets, pleasing ochre walls and fancy cornicing. An interior designer had selected the best antique furniture, above which hung giant paintings, honorary doctorates and photographs of Kolo with foreign dignitaries. In the middle of this grandeur, underneath a heavy chandelier, sat the white Mercedes-Benz. This bedroom had no windows, a bulletproof door through which the car entered, and numerous oxygen cylinders. Kolo had also installed a bathroom.

The sound of dripping had increased slightly since he had moved to the garage, but nothing as loud as the unexpected surges of gushing water in his former bedroom. He felt safer. But if, by some terrible fate, his enemies sought to flood the garage in order to drown him, he only had to open its mighty door to reach the safety of open ground.

“One of my best ideas. Apart from the security benefits, no one would think of finding me here,” he murmured to himself.

From his pyjama pocket, he took out a key and opened the trunk, then hopped inside and nestled into the bedding for an afternoon nap. The Benz had been his own private joke. The former president, semi-illiterate as far as Kolo was concerned, had been interviewed during his short presidential campaign by a newscaster whose British accent struggled to integrate Nigerian inflections.

“So, Minister, what motto will provide the direction for your presidency?”

“Enh?” The candidate responded. “White Mercedes-Benz!”

The studio went silent.

While President Mu’azu had never been able to purchase his prized motor, Kolo paraded the fact that he would never have made such a basic error.

He sniggered.

Suddenly, the garage door opened.

Kolo yelped and, with fumbling fingers, tried to close the trunk’s lid. The guard entered, flung off his sunglasses and cocked his revolver.

“It’s okay, sir. Just Mechanic.” The guard kissed his teeth and addressed himself to the intruder. “Why can’t you come through my own door? You can’t just open garage door like personal toilet. Look at your miscreant self causing confusion. Ah-ah!”

“I have to attend to car. Where am I supposed to enter-now?”

“This my own door. Right here. Come first around servant entrance. Then at least you can go through security like proper minion.”

“Okay. Next time. But I need map.”

The guard kissed his teeth long and hard. “Get at security gate. Not from Presidential Guard himself.” He flipped his sunglasses back on and slammed the door.

Kolo peeked out of the trunk. His heart beat faster. “How did you get in here?”

“Some people outside. I just dashed them some money.” He began to take off his mechanic’s clothes.

“How dare you enter the presidential bedroom! How did you even know you’d find me here?”

“The whole of Nigeria knows you sleep in garage, sir. Me, I thought you were jus’ crazy, but now I can appreciate. A presidential garage is not like a garage at all.” The man’s eyes travelled around the room, steeped in admiration.

“People know?” Greater panic clutched at Kolo’s chest and squeezed it tight.

No answer from a man still under the spell of opulence. Still in his trance, he chucked away his overalls to reveal a garish cowboy shirt, with multiple gold chains around his neck. His trousers appeared to be made from snakeskin, and his boots most definitely crocodile.

Kolo quickly scribbled notes and a quick diagram indicating new security measures to protect the garage, muttering to himself. “Typical Nigeria. Everyone has to know everyone’s business.” When he finished, he turned to the man. “I wanted Jegede dead. Where is he?”

“Still alive, sir,” Lance answered.

Kolo lowered his eyelids in a contemptuous gaze. “Is that so? And when are you planning to do your job, Mr Omeke?”

“Jus’ Lance is fine.”

“It’s been four months. I should have had you executed by now.”

“How can you execute a man you can’t find?” The man chuckled as he eased himself into an antique chair. He sat straight-legged with feet wide apart, as if parading his groin. “Anyway, I have had a few problems. Some one person paid me to ruin Jegede. This I did immediately. I’m sure you know of my work.”

Kolo contemplated, then his heart almost stopped. “The TransAqua bombing?”

The man could scarcely hide his pride. Under these lighting conditions, despite his obvious beauty, Lance possessed the insanity of detachment. “Then some other one person paid me even more to protect Jegede. This I did immediately.”

“What?”

“Enh-heh. Now you can see my problem. I cannot please both. This is dilemma for Solomon. And you never offer me anything. How can I work for free?”

“I offered you your life, you idiot! You wouldn’t be here without my authority!”

“What do you think I am? Some yeye mercenary? Some beggar, blue-collar killer? Take time, my friend. I don’t offer my class-one skills for small change.”

Kolo could hardly believe the subject of this conversation. It felt dreamlike, conjured up by a playful sorcerer. “What about the other two?”

“They work for me.”

“Christ help us. He’s set up a business. Alright, how much are you asking?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars. Just a bit more than the others, for quick service.”

Finally coming to his senses, Kolo exploded. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Probably. But those are my terms. Take or leave. If I protect Jegede, no other assassin will be able to kill him. I can smell killers.” Lance fastened an eerie gaze on Kolo, one that told of his own death should he decline this offer.

“Okay. Two hundred. But I want him dead this Thursday evening.”

“Fine. Do you have business card?”

“Why?”

“So I can put on body.” The man laughed, gold fillings sparkling in the light of the chandeliers. Once he had kicked out the tail end of his titters, he resumed. “If you want the job done well-well … time.”

“Your
client
?” Perhaps the garage air had created this hallucination. “What kind of time?”

“Three months.”

“Again? Three more months?”

“Well,” the man fiddled with the fringes on his shirt, “I had too many clients in the first three. Now I can devote time to you exclusively.”

Promising himself to personally attend this man’s execution once he had performed this one-minute task, Kolo offered 50 percent up front, the rest of the payment on delivery. “But,” he added, “if I need quicker delivery, it’s essential that I have access to immediate service. So, how can I get a message to you regarding that?”

Lance Omeke stared at the chandelier, pondering, tutting as he dismissed each new thought. Finally he murmured, “Client contact must be kept to a minimum. Wait-oh. I have an idea. Go through African Water Warriors. They have a contact for me.”

By mid-December, Barbara had recovered. The pines and firs had finally come into their own, outlasting the cocksure folly of spring blossoms, the brazen dazzle of the summer’s floral displays and the presumptuous pirouettes of autumn leaves. Now perennials stuck out like mere twigs, defiling the landscape with their nudity, while their seasonal gimmickry lay in brown tatters on the ground. In contrast, across the accepting boughs of evergreens lay a kaleidoscope of Christmas lights, strands of jewels winking at passersby. Huddled close to them, fat men in red
suits marked the time of generosity and overdrafts, joy and disappointment, acceptance and rejection.

After a stroll through the winter streets, Barbara and Astro returned to the apartment. Astro creaked open his mailbox in the lobby and a card fell out onto the floor. He picked it up and passed it to Barbara. She recognized her mother’s handwriting. Inside, a Christmas invitation.

She crumpled it up and threw it in the garbage.

“What’s up, Babs?”

“My parents want me to come for dinner to celebrate the winter solstice.”

“You gotta go, man.” He picked the card out of the garbage and flattened it out. “They’re your parents. They’re trying to build bridges.”

“No way. They’re toxic.” Barbara emphasized the last word. She had read many books on the subject. “I’ve had enough of their verbal and emotional abuse.” She had also seen a therapist.

“You don’t have to go alone, Bibble. I’ll come with. If your sister is there, maybe you can get some info. Might help you with your other problems.”

She clutched her breast, lanced by An Insight. As usual, Astro had found the key, a talent with which she had rarely credited him. She felt the euphoria of coming victory. “We can work as a team, but …”

Astro whipped around, holding on to an excited inhale.

“We won’t tell them I went to hospital. Just feeling drained, okay? All they know is I took a few days off work because of fatigue. If they hear I went to hospital, they’d try and get me committed to a psych ward in DC. Believe me, Mary would stop at nothing. Now, the quickest way to get anything from my sister is to belittle her, or praise me, which is actually the same thing. We could strategize together—”