Easy Motion Tourist (18 page)

Near Matori, on a street on Palm Avenue, beside stagnant black water in an open gutter, people sat on metal chairs, drinking beer and eating fish pepper soup. They were shouting to be heard over loud Fuji music playing from a speaker hung over the front door of the beer parlour.

Chucks, on his sixth bottle of Guinness, looked around, took another look at a light-skinned woman with large hips, a full back, and breasts that stretched the words STARING WON’T MAKE THEM BIGGER across the front of her t-shirt, and pointed at her.

She had been waiting for his eyes to sweep back to her. She picked her handbag, went and sat next to him and fixed her attention on men at other tables, those sitting alone and still drinking up the appetite for sex.

‘Let me see you properly,’ Chucks said.

‘You want me to stand up?’

‘No. Just uncross your hands.’

He read the words on her shirt.

‘How much?’

‘Ten k.’

‘Five.’

‘Seven.’

‘Five.’ He looked around and spotted a large woman getting off a motorcycle taxi.

‘Won’t you even buy me a drink?’

‘What do you want?’ He would deduct the cost of the drink from the five thousand.

‘Malt.’

He raised his hand for a waiter and felt his phone vibrate. It was Sergeant Saliu calling. When he had learned that the Iron Benders had been arrested, he called Saliu and asked if the boys had mentioned his name. Saliu didn’t know. He told Saliu that, if the gang members died in detention without mentioning his name he would pay two hundred thousand naira for such good news.

The girl placed her hand on his thigh. He put his hand on her crotch and tried to dig through her skirt. She took his hand away and he laughed.

‘Let me talk to my friend,’ he said.

He stood up and had to steady himself. He pulled out a wad of one thousand naira notes and plucked one off, tossing the money onto the metal table.

‘Buy whatever you want.’

He walked away from the noise.

‘Hello, Saliu, how you dey? Any better?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Why are you whispering?’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m at Palm Avenue. Wetin dey happen?’

‘Please, delete my number from your phone.’

‘What?’

‘Delete my number from your phone. From all your phones.’

‘Saliu, what is wrong?’

‘Those Iron Bender boys have sold you out. They have told the police everything. They are coming to get you now. They know where you live. They know all your hideouts.’

He stopped walking. This was not a call to warn him. Saliu was calling to protect himself.

‘You say they’re coming for me now? Why didn’t you warn me earlier?’

‘I just got the information now.’

‘Saliu, what will I do now? Where will I go?’

‘I don’t know, but please, delete my number from your phones.’

‘Saliu, if I go down you go down with me.’

‘What do you mean? Am I the one that said they should come and arrest you? There is nothing I can do, I can only advise you to leave Lagos today-today.’

‘Saliu, I’m warning you, get me out of this mess or else I’ll tell them everything that you have been doing for me.’

‘Why? Why would you do that? Am I not warning you now?’

‘You are warning me when they are already on their way. What kind of warning is that? What do you want me to do? Where do you want me to go? You said they know all my hideouts.’

‘Look, what else can I do? This is a very serious matter and they are determined to catch you tonight. Just get out of town immediately.’

‘Saliu, I will not delete your number from my phone. You must help me get out of this mess.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Saliu, you have to help me or we both go down together.’

‘What kind of talk is that? What do you want me to do?’

‘Where do you want me to go and hide now? You have to help me.’

‘Fine. Go to my house. You know the window by the door? Put your hand in the hole in the mosquito net. My key is at the bottom. When I finish my duty I’ll come and meet you. Do not let anybody see you.’

‘I should go to your house?’

‘Yes. Now. And don’t warn your boys. If they reach your shop and they don’t find anybody there to arrest they’ll know you received information. Go to my house and do not call anybody. And delete my number.’

‘OK.’

‘Do not call anybody.’

‘OK.’

Chucks turned to look at the girl. She was wrapping her lips round the neck of a bottle of Maltina. She must have bad luck and she had infected him with it. He turned and began to walk away – slowly at first, then he picked up his pace, till out of sight of the beer parlour he broke into a sprint.

Each bus took a different route towards Chucks’s shop that was also his home, and parked in side streets. As usual, a power failure had the neighbourhood in silent darkness. Hot-Temper told a swollen-eyed member of the Iron Benders gang that it was time.

The cleaned-up, battered criminal limped alone on the road. Silent shadows followed him, finding hiding places in his wake. He stopped in front of Chucks’s house and called out for his receiver of stolen goods.

‘Chucks, come out.’

‘Who is that?’

‘I want to see Chucks. Tell him to come out.’

‘Chucks has travelled.’

‘Pascal, is that you? It is me, Rotimi. Pascal, where is Chucks? Tell him to come out and meet me.’

‘Rotimi? They released you?’

‘Tell Chucks to come out and meet me.’

The boy unlocked the door, stepped out of the frame and caught someone moving out of the corner of his eye. He raised his pistol at the crouching policeman. A shot shattered the silence and found its mark between the man’s eyes. Shots cracked from the building, illuminating the previously dark windows.

The policemen returned fire. The Iron Bender’s body wriggled as bullets flew through him from both directions.

‘Hold yah fire, hold yah fire,’ Hot-Temper said.

By the last shot, plaster had been peeled off the walls, the glass had vanished where louvres had been, and the house was silenced.

‘You bastards,’ Hot-Temper said. ‘You have killed everybody.’

Chucks paced around Saliu’s studio apartment, opening drawers and looking behind seats. He lifted the cover off a pot left on a kerosene stove and sniffed at the stew inside. He squeezed his face, turned away, and replaced the lid. He wanted to call his home. Had the police come for him? He sat on the thin mattress on a narrow bed covered in a sheet that smelt of sweat. How could the Iron Benders sell him out like that, after the blood oath they had sworn? He held his phone. At least, he should warn Pascal, the son of his eldest brother. A knock on the door made him jump.

‘Saliu, is that you?’

‘Come and open the door.’

He switched on the light to undo the lock. Saliu walked in, followed by three men Chucks did not recognise.

‘What is happening? Saliu, who are these people?’

Saliu grinned, mischief in his eyes. ‘Chucks, meet my oga, Inspector Ibrahim.’

Ibrahim shook hands with Chucks. When he didn’t let go, Chucks looked up at him. Ibrahim kept a tight grip as an officer slapped a handcuff onto the criminal’s wrist. Chucks did not struggle as his other hand was pulled behind his back and secured with the rusty manacles.

‘Saliu, what is happening?’

‘You’re under arrest,’ Inspector Ibrahim said.

‘Saliu is working for me. He has been giving me information. He takes money from me.’

‘And we are very grateful for the money.’

The policemen laughed. Chucks wobbled and the men held him up. Inspector Ibrahim’s radio crackled.

‘Whisky Bravo, Whisky Bravo.’ It was Hot-Temper’s voice over the static-laden line.

‘Talk to me,’ Ibrahim said, putting the device to his ear.

‘We have recovered the car, sir. It even has blood inside it.’

‘Good. Take it back to the station.’ He returned his gaze to Chucks and smiled. ‘Now, you will tell me what you’ve been up to.’

We left Gabriel with a couple who had come to meet him in the hotel bar. He was telling them about an Arab sheikh and his Nigerian mistress when Amaka took the opportunity to say goodbye.

She took me to News Café at the Palms Shopping Mall in Lekki. The car park in front of the complex was crammed with Mercedes and BMWs. I counted six Range Rovers in the row we parked in. There was a Ferrari between a Bentley Continental and a Porsche 911. I was still looking at it when a white Rolls Royce Phantom pulled into a parking space. I had never seen so many luxury cars in one place at the same time.

The bar was on the ground floor of the mall. The front was all glass, overlooking the car park. Tables and chairs were set out in front. There, white folk mixed with the local crowd, holding champagne flutes and having animated conversations. Nigerians, I find, are very expressive when they talk. Somehow, it reminded me of standing outside my favourite bar in London, Abacus, in the City overlooking the pillars of The Royal Exchange, being locked in intense conversation with a mate over a cigarette before going back inside to join the group.

The doorman recognised Amaka and smiled. It was packed inside and the music so loud you could feel it pounding through
your chest. Amaka took my hand and led me through the crowd. People stopped her to say hello. She introduced me each time by telling them my name and I in turn shook their hands and strained to hear the names they shouted back into my ear.

Without warning, Amaka started to dance and I remembered Mel. It was at a mate’s bachelor party that we met, Mel and I. At Carbon Bar. I was out with the lads and she – she confessed weeks later – was on the bride’s spy team. She came up to me and asked to dance. The track ended and we went out for a smoke. Out in the winters’ cold she admitted that it was my dancing that made her want to talk to me. We spent the rest of the night outside, talking, lending our lighters to strangers, and eventually, exchanging numbers. But I was dancing with Amaka now.

She wasn’t a bad dancer, Amaka. She turned and did a bump and grind against me, then she pressed her back into my chest and raised a hand up and round my neck. I took her hand and spun her round, then I palmed her butt, drew her into me, and went to kiss her but she dodged it. She stepped back from me, pulled me towards her and shouted in my ear: ‘Let’s go.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s go. We are going to see Aunty Baby.’

She pushed past me and didn’t look to see if I was following. I caught up with her at the car, by which time she was already seated and had started the engine.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Back there, when I tried to kiss you.’

‘Oh, is that what you were trying to do?’

‘I got carried away.’

‘We all make mistakes.’

She didn’t look at me as she said it. It wasn’t a conversation. Had what happened at the hotel ended at the hotel?

Knockout took a motorcycle taxi to Obalende, an area bordering Ikoyi, where the wealth stops and the slums begin. The okada galloped down a street where different genres of music blasted from loudspeakers in front of beer parlours, short-stay motels, and outright brothels. Teenage prostitutes lined both sides of the road, waving at cars. Behind them, sloshed men sat on rickety plastic chairs and tables that took up all of the pavement. It was a neighbourhood of cramped, decaying houses that provided the island with drivers, house girls, messengers, and handymen. Criminals, who preferred to live close to easy pickings, also lived there.

The motorbike drove through a series of alleys. Knockout tapped the rider to stop in front of a long narrow bungalow between two dilapidated apartment blocks. He waited for the driver to leave then he whistled three times and waited.

Someone whistled back, three times, from the building and Knockout whistled again.

A young man opened the door, stepped aside for Knockout to enter, and scanned the street before closing the door and locking it. A corridor ran the length of the bungalow to a door at the back. The walls and doors had been fashioned out of plywood to create six separate rooms; three on either side.

‘Kekere, long time? I’ve come to see your brothers.’

Kekere went from room to room, knocking on the doors and calling his brothers: ‘Brother One-Nation, brother One-Love, brother Oscar, brother Romeo.’

Muscular thugs emerged from each room, shirtless. Their scarred, tattooed bodies glistened with sweat. They were once a family of amateur boxers, following in the footsteps of their late father who had been a boxing trainer in the sixties. Their mother died of pneumonia long before their father passed on from not being able to afford the drugs to treat his high blood pressure. They grew up as orphans, putting their training to good use as bouncers until a local politician asked them to be his bodyguards. Over several elections, they chose their street names and amassed an arsenal of weapons provided by the campaign trail. It was because of this cache of arms that Knockout had come to see them. Catch-Fire and his girls had embarrassed him with their guns; when he returned, he wanted to impress them with his.

‘A boy messed with me today and I want to teach him a lesson,’ he said.

The brothers did not ask what the person had done or who he was. Knockout told them about the situation at Catch-Fire’s house and the thugs found it amusing that prostitutes were now being used as bodyguards. A price was agreed and Knockout didn’t even have to fetch the extra money he had hidden under his shirt.

‘When do you want the job done?’ One-Nation asked. He and his twin, One-Love, were the eldest of the brothers.

‘Today. Now.’

The man shrugged. ‘No problem. And how do we find this Catch-Fire?’

‘I will take you there. I dey come with you.’

A king-size bed in the middle of Catch-Fire’s bedroom was draped with a glossy sheet printed with large Armani logos and above it a chandelier had a clearance of four feet. From wall to wall stretched a rug with flowers in all the primary colours – the source of the new-fabric smell in the room. Electronic appliances were stacked on a shelf against the wall connected to an extension box by a mess of entwined wires. A midsize refrigerator was constantly humming and changing tone.

Catch-Fire was in a large armchair opposite Go-Slow who sat on a stool. He was still recovering from the poison but Doctor had assured him that death had missed him and he just had to continue taking plenty of water and avoid alcohol.

‘My Brother,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about what happened here last night. It is the fault of that boy, Knockout. He cannot just come to my house like that and start talking carelessly. I had to do what I did. It was for you people’s protection. I hope you understand?’

Go-Slow nodded.

‘That man that was here with me, he is the one I am doing the spare parts business with. His name is Amadi. Chief Amadi. We have been doing the business without any problem for some time, but now he suddenly wants to kill me. Thank God that my parents are not just sleeping in Heaven but watching out for me. He did not know that ordinary poison cannot kill Catch-Fire.’ He spat into a bowl by his side. ‘As he has tried and failed, he will surely come back for me. I don’t know when, but what I know is that he cannot rest until I am dead. I know too much about his business. Right now he will be afraid that I will leak information to the police.

‘I have to eliminate him before he eliminates me. If not for this poison he has used on me that has made me weak, I would have gone to find him and finish him myself. But I am too weak. That is why I have called you here.’

Go-Slow doubted that, poisoned or not, Catch-Fire had it in him to pull a trigger in the face of another man, but he let it slide. He had come to see him for two reasons: first, he needed the money, and second, he did not need an enemy, even in the person of such a low life as Catch-Fire.

Catch-Fire continued with a rambling speech meant to convince Go-Slow to do the job, then he got up and walked to his bed, knelt down beside it and pushed the mattress up. Through a space between the wooden planks he fetched a Ghana-must-go bag and emptied the contents onto the floor at Go-Slow’s feet.

‘That is one million naira,’ Catch-Fire said. He emphasised the million as though Go-Slow might doubt it, then returned to his chair. ‘Will you do this favour for me, my brother? It must be done as soon as possible. I will give you his address but I don’t think it would be safe to do it at his house. He has a button that he can press to summon the police immediately. There is another place that would be easier.

‘We drug the people we use for the rituals then we take them to a house off Lekki Expressway, on the way to Epe. The house is very far from the road. It is the only building in the area, inside a big forest. Me, myself, I do not go inside. I just deliver the people and when he finishes, we drive back to town and he pays me. He kills them himself and does his juju with them inside the house. I am the only one that drives him to the place. Even when I don’t have anybody for him, he phones me to take him there every Sunday night around ten p.m. I think he has to do the rituals at that time. We
always go there alone. I am sure he will go there again this Sunday even if he has to drive himself. That is the best place to waylay him.

‘You cannot take a car there. You have to go during the day and hide until he comes. He is a very wicked man but he never carries any weapon; he only relies on his juju, so it should be easy. I have made this charm to protect myself.’ From his pocket he got a small object wrapped in white cloth and bound with red thread. He handed it to Go-Slow. ‘Take it with you; you will need it.’

Knockout followed the thugs to their backyard. Romeo, whose Mohican had begun to grow out of shape, opened the wooden lid on a well. He reached in, and with both hands pulled the rope till he had the large bag tied to its end. He placed the bag on the ground and unzipped it. Knockout beamed at the guns and ammunition inside.

The thugs took turns reaching in to select weapons. They had AK-47s, Uzis, pump-action shotguns, and automatic pistols to choose from. They inspected their arsenal and cleaned them, concluding their preparation by tying strings of amulets around their waists, wrists, and biceps.

Knockout stared longingly. He began to formulate a plan to get his hands on their guns once the night’s job was done.

‘Do you have transportation?’ One-Nation said.

‘No.’

‘That will cost you extra.’

‘No problem.’

He thought of Go-Slow and dialled his number but cancelled the call before it rang. He was moving up. No more carjacking for him. He was now one of the big boys. He was going to be bigger than Go-Slow.