Easy Motion Tourist (4 page)

Debby returned to the table and sat quietly. She ignored her champagne, kept her hands to herself, and did not join the conversation. Either she had taken out her contact lenses, or her eyes, by themselves, had gone a shade darker. Missing the absence of her attention, Chief Ojo discovered the sullen expression on her face. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘It’s my mum,’ Debby said.

‘Your mum? What’s wrong with her?’

‘She’s been in hospital since last week. She has high blood pressure. I just called my sister to ask how she’s doing and she told me they’ve discharged her.’

‘So she’s better?’

‘No. The doctors have refused to continue treating her till we pay them. The drugs are expensive and we already owe them. I have to go home.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes. She’s home alone with my little sister. I have to go and take care of her.’

Tears gathered in her eyes. Chief put his arms around her and drew her into an embrace. Her shoulders began to quiver.

Amaka felt a tinge of pity for her. After that performance, she would have offered to drive the poor girl home to her
mother herself, if she didn’t know that would mean driving to the UK. She clenched her teeth, trying not to chuckle or let her cheeks inflate.

He patted Debby’s back and rocked her in his hands. Between sobs and dabbing her face with his handkerchief, she lamented how she didn’t know what to do. Where was she going to get the money to help her mum? Why did bad things always happen to her? She had to go home straight away.

He placed his hand under her chin and lifted her face. He looked into her teary eyes and told her that everything was going to be all right.

Amaka was impressed with how she managed to cry without doing significant damage to her make-up. That was amazing.

‘I’ll take you home,’ he said and put his phone in his pocket.

‘My aunt lives close by,’ Debby said. ‘I called her and she said I should come and meet her so we can go to my house together.’

‘I’ll drop you at her place.’

‘No. She’ll be waiting for me outside. I don’t want her to see me with a man.’

‘I can drop you close to her house.’

‘It’s not far. She stays in Oniru Estate. I’ll walk. Don’t worry.’

‘You are in no condition to walk, and not at this time. I’ll take you as close to her place as I can.’

‘Don’t worry. I don’t want anyone to see you dropping me.’

‘My driver will take you. You shouldn’t be walking alone at this time. It’s not safe.’

‘I’ll get a taxi.’

‘OK. Let me see if they can arrange a taxi for you.’ He held his hand up to attract a waiter.

‘Chief, don’t worry. In the time it’ll take them to find a taxi
I would have found one myself. There are taxis waiting in the car park outside.’

She dabbed tears from her eyes before they could roll down her powdered cheeks. He ran his hand over her head and squeezed her shoulder.

From his pocket, he produced a folded bundle of one thousand naira notes held together by rubber bands. He snapped the bands off, and without counting, split the bundle in two. He took her arm and pressed one half into her palm. She did not look at the money, on account of the tears she was tending to. He closed her fingers over the cash and dismissed her attempt to thank him.

‘Keep me informed on her progress,’ he said. ‘Whatever you need, don’t hesitate to call me. Do you understand?’

She sniffed, mopped her eyes and nodded.

‘Let me get a waiter to call you a car.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’

She gathered her things and stood to leave. She seemed broken.

He got up, with much effort, and held her for a few seconds in an embrace that looked fatherly, and then Debby was on her way.

Amaka felt compelled to say something. ‘I’ll pray for your mother,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ Debby said and left.

‘Poor girl,’ he said as he dropped back into the sofa.

‘Really sad,’ Amaka said. She made a mental note of Debby’s performance – talent like that might come in useful someday.

Chief Ojo looked over Amaka’s shoulder. ‘Your lover has given up on you.’

‘What?’

‘Your boyfriend, he’s leaving empty handed.’

She turned in time to see the man’s back as he descended the stairs and made for the door. He handed the bouncer what must have been a generous tip because with it he bought an energetic salute.

Another satisfied customer, Amaka thought and smiled. ‘What a pity. I was actually considering taking him up on his offer.’

He looked at her questioningly.

‘Not for the money, of course, but after watching you and your friend touching each other up in front of me, I must confess, I’ve become quite horny.’

His eyebrows lifted. She leaned toward him and lowered her voice.

‘Let me tell you a secret. I imagined you and Debby having sex and it turned me on so much that I started fantasising about the three of us…’

She stopped mid-sentence, fixed him a look as if she was considering something, then she shook her head and withdrew into her chair.

‘What?’

‘What?’ she said, as if she had lost him.

‘You were fantasising that the three of us were doing what?’

‘I don’t want to think about it.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Well…’ she paused, like she was searching for the right words. ‘I’ve never done this before.’

‘Done what? A threesome?’

‘No. Talk to a stranger like this, you know, about sex.’

‘Well now, aren’t you the one who said she could have sex with anybody she wanted to on her own terms?’

‘I know what I said, but…that’s just talk. I’ve never really
done that kind of thing before. Oh no, this is so embarrassing. Sometimes I just open my mouth and say what’s on my mind without thinking.’ She hid her face in her palms.

‘We’re both adults. No need to feel embarrassed.’

‘You have to excuse me,’ she said and stood up.

His hand shot up to stop her. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To the ladies.’

She walked away, head down. She took her phone but left her bag so he would know she was coming back.

Outside, she walked around to get good signal strength then she dialled a number. ‘Now,’ she said. She waited for the person on the other end of the phone to say ‘OK’ then she ended the call.

Chief Ojo’s phone beeped with a new message. He saw that it was from the girl he was waiting for. He expected her to be sending him a message to let him know she was close by, but the message read ‘Cannot make it tonight. Goodnight.’

He frowned and dialled her number. Her phone was now switched off. He began to send her a message, mouthed ‘fuck’ when autocorrect didn’t detect that he was trying to type the word ‘ingrate’, then he kissed his teeth and deleted the message.

From the entrance, Amaka watched him trying the girl’s phone. Her plan was back on track. She walked over to him and picked up her bag, avoiding his eyes.

‘Are you leaving?’

He sounded desperate. She shrugged.

‘You don’t have to go. Come.’ He patted the cushion by his side on the sofa.

She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head.

‘Come, please.’

She looked up to the ceiling, held her gaze for a while then
she looked into his eyes. She dropped her bag onto the table.

‘I really don’t know about this,’ she said. She settled down next to him. ‘I’ve never…’ she let her sentence trail. He waited. She looked at him.

‘You’ve never what?’

She placed her palm under his chin and lifted his head. She tilted his face to one side then the other and held her head back to study his features.

‘Hmm.’

‘What?’

She took her hand away from his face and tried to figure out which champagne flute was hers.

‘Iyabo, talk to me. What’s on your mind? You’ve never what?’

She lifted a glass to her lips and took a sip, set the flute back down, placed two fingers on its base and pushed it to the centre of the table, then she threw her head back and watched him through slanted eyes.

‘I’ve never been this horny. I think it must be the champagne.’

‘Me too. What should we do about it?’

She motioned with her index finger and he brought his ear to her face. She leaned to whisper, pressing her breasts onto his shoulder just like Debby had done. She smelt a whiff of Christian Dior’s Fahrenheit.

She told him the things she wanted to do to him, how she would do them, and for how long. She let her lips graze his ear lobe as she spoke. His breath became shorter. He moved his hand on to his lap, just below his belly, and adjusted himself through the folds of his white outfit. She told him that her only regret was that Debby could not join them, but if tonight went well, there would be other chances to do it with the other girl.

She turned her attention to her glass of champagne and lifted it to her mouth. Her plan was working. It had to.

He looked around for a waiter.

‘Only one condition,’ she said. ‘You must not treat me like a prostitute. You must not offer me any money. If you do, you will never see me again.’

He reached for his drink. His fingers were shaking.

‘You are not a prostitute.’

He downed his glass of champagne.

‘Good. I expect that you are married and you have a wife at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘So we can’t go back to your place. I stay with friends so you can’t come back to mine.’

‘I’m staying at a hotel tonight.’

‘Which one?’

‘Eko Hotel, I’m staying in the presidential suite.’

He watched to see her reaction. She was neither impressed nor surprised. She already knew where he was staying that night, and she knew that the suite had originally been booked for a Congolese diplomat he knew and had arranged to meet. The man’s itinerary had changed at the last minute and Chief Ojo had asked what plans the diplomat had for the already paid-for hotel suite.

‘Nobody can know about this,’ she said.

‘Nobody will know.’

Our ride was a single-cab pickup truck. Its cargo bed had been rigged with a metal bench welded onto the floor. Policemen climbed in from the sides not bothering with the tailgate. I sat in front between the boss and his driver, a dark fellow who responded ‘yesha’ to everything. The smell of stale sweat radiated from him. Thankfully, the windows were down.

I thought ‘Bakare’ was the word for slow down, or watch out, or fuck, or something like that, until the senior officer shouted ‘Sergeant Bakare’ when we were about to clip the rear of a motorcycle ferrying three souls and a black goat slung over the neck of the rearmost passenger.

Bakare swerved with a second to spare. I’d already seen the collision in my mind. I was still pressing down on my non-existent brake when he took his hand off the steering wheel, stretched it out of the window, and spread his fingers at the startled biker zigzagging to regain balance. This apparent rude gesture earned him another ‘Bakare.’ He grinned, floored the throttle, and my body shot back into the hard seat. There were no seatbelts. He attacked a bend without slowing down. Why was he in a hurry?

Perhaps to take my mind – or his – off Bakare, the man who arrested me began to talk. ‘Do you watch EastEnders?’ he asked.

Of all the things, why that? Did he once live in England? Was
that where he got his slight London accent? Was he reminiscing? Was it a test? I told him I didn’t, and for the first time I wished that I, like eight million other zombies, followed the damn soap.

But maybe it wasn’t a test. Maybe he really wanted to talk about it, because when he looked at me, I swear, I caught a hint of regret on his face. He switched topics. I don’t recall what to but I do remember that was when Bakare used his brakes – only after the front wheels had gone over a speed bump – then he down-shifted while the truck was still bouncing, and I looked in the mirror to check on the men in the back. That was the moment when a terrifying thought crept into my mind.

You see, when my head hit the roof, and my body rolled into Bakare, and his elbow – without releasing his grip on the steering wheel – shoved me away, I remembered with horror the story a Scotsman I met in the queue at the Nigerian High Commission in London had told me. He’d once lived in Nigeria; he still had a business there: tyres. He made friends with the family of a Nigerian professor of mathematics at MIT. The professor flew home to go to his village to bury his mother and he got snatched from the funeral procession, midway between the church and the cemetery. They found him two weeks later, tied to a tree in a place his people called the Forbidden Forest. His luck was that the gang were wrong in assuming he was rich. His family, unable to raise the money demanded, reported to the American Embassy that an American citizen had been kidnapped. The police had to act and act they did. Within days they knew who the inside guy was – the professor’s young nephew studying to become a lawyer, and he, the nephew, fingered the policemen who provided the guns used for the kidnapping of his uncle.

Let’s face it, I’d got into the car with men who didn’t exactly
say they were the police, didn’t read me my rights, I hadn’t asked for ID, we were racing to God knows where, and no one knew they had me. It would be a perfect kidnap. I thought of my boss getting a ransom demand and replying with a letter telling me I’d been sacked.

In the dark cabin, I tried to see the face of the man talking to me and I listened to his voice: not to what he was saying, but to how he was saying it. Was he keeping me calm till it was time for the blindfold? Was he weighing up whether I already suspected that I was in the middle of my own abduction? I was alert like I’d never been before – the thought of being kidnapped, I discovered, does that to you. I studied him, and finding nothing on his face to interpret as a clue, I listened to what he had to say.

He told me that the dual carriageway on which we travelled, Ahmadu Bello Road, was once a beautiful beach dotted with palm trees. Bar Beach, he called it. Over many years, he said, the Atlantic Ocean crept towards the city. Man and water lived in harmony for a period, until a pyramid shaped glasshouse sprouted on the coastal road. ‘We just passed it,’ he said. The ‘sons of the soil’ warned the bank that built it but the architects and the managers had foreign degrees and qualifications, so they disregarded the hocus-pocus stories of those who knew their ocean.

When the sun rises each day, its rays reflect off the pompous building and gather in a strong beam directed at the water. This dazzles the water goddess’s eyes, the natives warned, which is why even little children know better than to play with mirrors close to the waves.

The goddess was angry. The bankers wouldn’t tear down their building or replace its splendid glass with sheets of wood. The goddess decided to take the matter into her hands.

With a regularity that could only be spiritual, the ocean began to flood its shores. Violently. The government hired engineers who called it encroachment. To stop the problem, they replaced what remained of the beach with an unsightly chain of concrete barriers. It didn’t work. Apparently, the water goddess demanded a sacrifice of appeasement, but either someone didn’t pass the message on, or they did but the people that mattered didn’t believe it.

He finished his tale and stared straight ahead. I didn’t ask if he believed it himself. It sounded like a bullshit story. Exactly the kind of bull crap stuff you’d tell someone to keep their mind off the fact that you were kidnapping them.