Easy Motion Tourist (3 page)

In the open gutter by the road, flourishing with wild vegetation and an assortment of discarded plastic bags, lay the body of a girl.

She was on her back, her head turned to the side, her eyes wide open, her mouth frozen in a gasp. One arm was above her head and the other somewhere behind her back. Her legs lay one on top of the other. Someone had covered her torso with a white shirt. It was red in the middle and the blood was slowly spreading.

I turned away, took two steps, then hot chilli from the fish pepper soup I’d tried at the hotel burnt my nostrils and I puked. The world tilted to one side.

Whatever foolishness cajoled me out of the safety of the bar at Ronnie’s vanished with what I threw up. My senses returned with a loud ringing sound. I’d never seen a dead body. What the hell was I doing here?

The ringing grew louder until it parked next to me in a flurry of red and blue flashing lights. I looked up and saw patrol vehicles spewing out police officers onto the road. They held AK-47s.

The crowd scattered as cops took charge of the scene by rounding up onlookers. Men, who a minute ago had been standing next to me, were manhandled into open-back vans. Uniformed security guards were spared, but anyone else without a valid reason to be out on the road at one in the morning was being frog-marched
into waiting police cars.

A shirtless man in white trousers and white shoes tried to protest. The dull meaty thud of a rifle’s butt striking his face made me sick all over again. He didn’t go down with the first strike. He raised his arms to defend himself but only managed to attract more officers. They rushed at him like piranhas to flesh and efficiently beat him to the ground where he curled into a protective ball. He took blows to his head from leather boots and metal butts. He was going to die.

Before I could stand upright, wipe my mouth and restore my dignity, someone pulled me up.

‘Who are you?’

The bright beam of a torch followed my gaze wherever I turned, trying to avoid it. I put my hands up to protect my eyes then I saw who had spoken; it was the muzzle of a rifle, and it spoke again: ‘Who are you?’

‘I was at the bar,’ I said, and pointed across the road to Ronnie’s. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the menacing metal cylinder.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

I was talking to a gun.

‘Geraout,’ it said, and I gratefully turned to get out of there.

‘Wait,’ a different voice said. ‘Bring him here.’

The man who had received a beating was being dragged away by his legs. His bloodied arm brushed against my ankle and I saw up-close the extent of his punishment. He was bleeding from his nose and his mouth and his ears. His face was swollen all over, and his lips had erupted into mashed-up pink flesh. He offered no resistance to the two men dragging him over the hard ground. His silence scared me.

I cursed myself for my stupidity. I cursed Ronald for not taking the Nigeria job. I cursed myself for asking for it, and I cursed the dozens of friends who said I was going to have the time of my life.

Debby had found her man for the night and she wasn’t going anywhere. With her big breasts, her long eyelashes and her hands that she wouldn’t keep to herself, she went about sabotaging Amaka, one flirtatious giggle at a time. There was also the fact that she was mixed: something that men in Nigeria could not resist and this irritated Amaka more.

From what she knew, Debby’s mother was British. She left Debby’s father and three kids when Debby, the last child, was only two years old. She lived somewhere in London, claimed she was an artist, explained to her abandoned children that their father had tried to stifle her creativity, and further alienated them by refusing to help them get British passports because, as she said, ‘You are African children. Africa is your home. England will corrupt you.’ The father married again, an African woman this time, and left the upbringing of his mixed-race kids to a childless relative in Lagos. So it was that when Debby turned looks-old-enough, she was unleashed upon the men folk of Lagos, both as manipulator and as victim.

Amaka watched as Debby laughed at something. The girl’s presence threatened everything. If only girls would learn to work together. Amaka came up with several plans, mentally played each one out, then discarded them one by one till she finally had the 
perfect strategy, and the perfect accomplice.

She sighed heavily and leaned forward. ‘Is he still there?’ she said. She had checked, seen Ian still waiting at the bar, and had blown him another secret, silent kiss.

Chief Ojo looked and grinned. ‘He won’t leave without you tonight. Maybe we should invite him over.’

She frowned.

‘I’m just joking o.’

‘Can you believe he even showed me the one thousand dollars he wants to give me?’

Debby looked across to the bar, then, catching herself, her eyes shifted back to Chief Ojo who had not noticed her reaction. She inspected her nails.

‘A bundle of crisp hundred dollar notes,’ Amaka said. ‘I’m sure it’s counterfeit.’

Chief Ojo looked at the man and Debby followed his gaze.

‘How do you know? What if it’s real?’

‘Real or not, I don’t care. God only knows what he’ll want me to do for all that money. One thousand dollars is not small money o. That’s almost a hundred and fifty thousand naira. Just to follow him to his hotel room? I think not.’

‘I think you should go with him. I’ll be your pimp. I’ll collect the money for you and make sure it’s real.’

‘Very funny. I’ll lay my back on the bed and you’ll put the money in your pocket, abi?’

‘We’ll share it. Fifty-fifty.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Go for it. As your pimp, I say go for it.’

She swept her right hand over her head, snapping her fingers once as she did so. ‘God forbid bad thing.’

She turned to look at the man. He was still there. She winked and he blew a kiss at her.

‘Oh my God, did you see that? What will I do? I have to go and get something from my car but I’m afraid he’ll follow me if I get up.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

Debby’s hand shot to his lap.

‘I’ll be fine. If I’m not back in five minutes and if he follows me, call the police.’ She smiled and stood up.

‘Good luck.’

‘Argh.’ She shuddered and rolled her eyes then turned to leave. As she walked past Ian, she mouthed ‘Follow me.’ She continued to the door, hoping he could lip-read.

A bouncer pushed the door open and held it for her. A few seconds later, she heard footsteps behind her. She kept walking – away from the view of anyone inside the bar.

He caught up with her and touched her arm. She turned, smiling.

‘I’m so sorry I came onto you like that,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you’re a… I mean, I just wanted to buy you a drink.’

‘Listen,’ she placed an arm on his shoulder, ‘its OK. You don’t need to apologise. I really am a prostitute.’

‘But, you sound so…’

‘So educated?’

‘I guess.’

‘Too educated to sell my body?’ He looked at her suspiciously.

‘You are a little bit new at this, aren’t you?’

He nodded.

‘How long have you been in Lagos?’

‘Six months.’

‘I see. OK, listen. Let me teach you how this is done. Did you
see that girl at the table with me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think she’s more your type.’

He was about to say something but she continued. ‘Did you get a good look at her?’

He nodded.

‘Would you like to take her home tonight?’

He hesitated. She nodded to encourage him.

‘The problem is, she’s already with someone else,’ she said.

A few minutes later, Amaka was back at the table. Chief Ojo was no longer checking his phone or the time. His palm was on Debby’s lap and hers was on the back of his neck. The young girl pressed her body against his arm to whisper something into his ear that made him smile. A waitress came to the table with three champagne flutes and a bottle of Cristal in an ice bucket. ‘The gentleman at the bar sent this,’ she said. She managed to avoid knocking over the glasses on the narrow table as she set down the treat she had brought. She picked up the bottle and began peeling off the foil at its neck before anyone had accepted the gift.

Amaka gasped. ‘This guy must be super horny tonight,’ she said. ‘He tried to talk to me when I went outside. I told him you were my date, and now he sends champagne?’ Chief Ojo laughed. Debby looked back at the bar. The cork popped. ‘Oh well, what the heck. If he feels like wasting his dollars, let’s help him.’ She shrugged and waited for her glass to be poured.

The waitress filled each glass and left, but instead of returning to the bar, she walked out through the exit. Ian stood up and headed towards the spiral staircase that led to the mezzanine level. On the way, he nodded at Chief Ojo who had raised his glass to him. He waited for a couple to descend then he climbed
the stairs, looking over to Amaka as he did so. Chief Ojo’s eyes followed him.

‘I have to use the ladies,’ Debby said.

The toilets were outside the bar, just beyond the entrance. Debby picked her bag and walked out, looked back at Chief Ojo, then stepped into the toilets. A minute later, she came out with the business card that had been cupped in the waitress’s palm as she poured the champagne. She walked out to the car park and dialled the number written on the back of the card.

The voice that stopped my escape belonged to a tall officer in a uniform that looked like it had been freshly ironed. He was by the gutter, walkie-talkie in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket. The end of a pistol peeped through the bottom of a black leather holster attached to his belt. He appeared calm even though he was standing inches away from a freshly butchered corpse.

‘Good evening’ he said.

‘Good evening,’ I replied. We were about the same height and build, but I suspected from his exposed forearms that he worked out more.

‘What is your name and what is your business here?’

‘Guy, Guy Collins. I was at Ronnie’s.’ I pointed at the club.

‘Guy Collins. You sound British.’

I wasn’t sure if it was a question. He spoke in a casual, easy manner that was unsettling. I suspected that through this calm composure – his hand casually tucked into his pocket and his gentle voice – he was taking me very seriously, and how I responded was going to be important for me. I tried to appear as calm as him.

‘I am. I’m a reporter with the BBC,’ I lied, knowing the broadcaster was meant to be known and respected all over the world and could be my get-out free card. It seemed better than
telling him I worked for a start-up internet TV news channel that had managed to find more venture capital than talent. Or that I was one of a paltry team of twelve operating out of a tiny office in Old Street where most of the staff spent their working days sending out job applications. Even I hadn’t heard of it until I decided to give up on law and pursue my passion and it became obvious I wasn’t going to get into any of the major media houses with nothing but my winning smile and an embellished CV. Then I remembered something else the Nigerian minicab driver had said about the police in here: ‘They hate foreign journalists.’

‘A journalist,’ he said, and carried on as if we just had to get through some routine questions. Had he been brash and unruly like the rest of his men, communicating with shoves and blows, I would have known how to react: with grovelling and begging. But he was civil – too civil, and I sensed it was only a prelude to nastiness to come. ‘So, what are you doing out here?’

‘I was at the bar.’

‘Yes, you told me. But now you are here and we have this dead body. So, what are you doing out here?’

‘I came out for a smoke.’ I thought it was a clever lie until I remembered that Lagos, unlike London, had not banished its smokers outdoors.

‘You couldn’t smoke inside?’

‘I wanted fresh air.’

‘Were you drunk?’

‘What?’

‘Were you drunk?’ He pointed his walkie-talkie at the vomit on the road.

‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘But you saw the dead body?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you wish to report this on the BBC?’

‘No. I only came out to have a smoke.’ I dug into my pocket for the pack of Benson & Hedges.

‘Do you have any identification on you, Mr Collins?’

I didn’t. I’d been advised not to carry any documents or valuable stuff on me when out and about in Lagos. The pickpockets, I was assured, were as crafty as the ones in London, and more brazen, often confusing their vocation for mugging. All I had on me was the money I’d planned on getting drunk with, my phone, and the key card to my room at the hotel. I wished I were there right then, tucked under the light duvet, enduring deathly boredom and the constant hum of the air con. Or better still, back home in my flat in Fulham, doing nothing more exciting than waiting for a Chinese takeaway to arrive and trying not to be bothered by the large stained patch on the cream rug – the result of a red wine spillage that was sure to eat up my rental deposit. Suddenly, the boredom that led me out on what was meant to be a little adventure now seemed like a conspiracy of all the unpleasant forces of the universe.

‘I don’t have any ID with me – its back in the hotel,’ I explained.

‘That’s a pity, Mr Collins. I need to verify your identity before I can let you go. We need to talk to all the witnesses and take their statements. A nameless statement isn’t worth much, you understand?’

I understood that I’d gotten myself into a mess and I was at his mercy.

‘You will come with me to the station and we’ll take your statement there. Is that OK?’

I wanted to protest but I remembered the guy who had received a beating and I decided it was wise to keep schtum.

‘OK.’

‘Do you have a phone?’

Perhaps he wanted me to call someone who could tell him I was Guy Collins, reporter with eCity TV, and not the BBC.

‘Yes.’

‘Can I have it, please?’

I handed it to him. He took one look at the Samsung phone and slipped it into his breast pocket. Shit.

I watched the vans filling up with people picked off the road.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘you’ll ride with me in my car.’

I didn’t know if I should be grateful for this privilege or even more worried. Somehow, in the space of a few minutes I’d gone from watching young African girls dancing, to seeing my first brutally murdered corpse, to being questioned by the Nigerian police, to having my phone stolen or seized – I didn’t know which – and finally to being arrested.