by Toni Kan
Lagos, named by the Portuguese after the lagoon that girded its waist, was like a river swollen with flood and every time it threw up there was chaos. That was what made it Lagos; the wild garden where men and women came to harvest dreams, some lean and some bounteous.
THE LIGHTHOUSE
Abel spent all of Saturday with Calista. They had been too tired for anything more than a kiss when Nnamdi dropped them off at about 3am after a wild time at La Casa and another bottle of cognac.
‘Your car will be here before you wake up,’ Nnamdi told them.
‘Ask for Williams at the gate. Give him the car keys,’ Calista told the driver. ‘Tell him it’s for me.’
She was up by the time he roused, pottering around in a G-string and nothing else.
‘Good morning,’ he said as he walked naked into the bathroom, preceded by an early morning erection.
‘There’s a spare toothbrush,’ she called out to him.
He could smell frying eggs by the time he had brushed and showered.
‘Eat, you need your strength,’ Calista teased as Abel came and kissed her from behind, his hands cupping her breasts.
‘This food will go cold, but you know this one is always warm, so eat.’
Abel had a huge appetite. It was always that way. Most times he didn’t realise how hungry he was until he took the first bite. He helped her clear the dishes and even though he had already had his bath, he joined her in the shower, lathering her body all over. They both fell, wet and naked, into her bed.
‘I wish I didn’t have to go, but his Excellency would be mad.’
‘His Excellency?’ Abel asked.
‘Yes, the governor. The state is subsidising my fees at Harvard. I have a scholarship but it doesn’t cover everything,’ she told him as she played with the hair on his chest.
‘And I hear you guys are an item,’ Abel said casually, looking up to catch her reaction.
‘An item? Me and the governor?’ She sat up.
‘Yes. I hear you guys are really close.’
‘I have heard that myself. You know, once you are a woman doing well, you have to be sleeping with the boss. The governor is my cousin and I am sure you remember him; he used to send me money when we were in school. I sent you to his chambers once and he gave you these crisp naira notes that you stole half of. You remember?’
Abel remembered. ‘I didn’t steal half. I exchanged half.’
‘You stole,’ she teased, hitting him with a pillow.
‘Really, that’s the governor?’ Abel said pinning her down. ‘I never made the connection.
‘It’s OK. I have heard a lot myself,’ she said and took his left nipple between her teeth.
Abel jerked at the sudden nibble. ‘That was painfully sweet,’ he said, pulling her down on him. He loved to run his fingers down the length of her body. If he had any talent for drawing, he was sure he could draw her from memory.
There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her body back in school or even now. Calista was one of those women who could eat anything and not pile on the pounds.
‘Maybe pregnancy will change all that,’ she’d told him the last time he brought it up.
‘You are a beautiful woman.’ He stopped his trip around her body to nuzzle her neck.
‘And you are my fine bobo,’ she said, straddling him. ‘How is Mr Man doing; is he asleep?’ Abel eased up to give her access. ‘Good boy.’ She inhaled deeply as she took him all in.
She had mentioned The Lighthouse a few times and that afternoon she insisted they visit before she left Nigeria. So, after lunch and another shower, they drove out of 1004 in their separate cars, Calista in front and Abel behind, down to the Ajose Adeogun roundabout and onto the street everyone now called Zenith Bank Street because of the number of Zenith Bank branches on it.
Calista made a right after the imposing glass-and-metal Zenith Bank head office building and Abel followed. They drove past the Halliburton office and made a left into Sinari Daranijo, a somnolent street.
‘That’s the club that used to be run by the lady who was murdered in 1004,’ she told Abel, pointing as they made to cross the road. ‘It used to be called Club Q.’
The Lighthouse seemed like someone’s residence. There was a long white building to the right and another at the end but in the space in between and to the left were long benches and tables set as if in a private garden. There was also a well-kept lawn.
A gaggle of men and ladies were seated around the tables and on couches made out of cane and raffia. There were also high stools on which were perched patrons smoking long cigars and drinking wine or cocktails. The whole scene reminded Abel of something out of a movie or a novel.
‘Isn’t this someone’s house?’ Abel asked as a well-endowed young lady dressed in flowing boubou came up to welcome Calista.
‘We haven’t seen you in a while,’ she said after they hugged.
‘Work, travel, work,’ Calista sing-songed, and the lady laughed, her face glowing.
‘Hello, my name is Uzoma,’ she said to Abel, extending well-manicured fingers. ‘Welcome to The Lighthouse.’
‘Abel.’ He shook her hand. ‘Thank you.’
They sat on a comfortable couch. ‘You like palm wine?’ Calista asked. ‘Haven’t had it in years, even though I live in the bush,’ Abel answered. ‘Let’s have it.’
While they waited for their order, a slim, bushy haired man dressed Fela Kuti style in tight-fitting clothes wheeled out a loudspeaker. He set an iPod on top of it and, a moment later, Fela’s deep voice took over the space.
‘That’s her husband, Tayo,’ Calista told Abel and waved.
Tayo strolled over. ‘Where you dey since?’ he asked in pidgin as he and Calista hugged.
‘Busy, work.’ She pointed to Abel. ‘My good friend Abel. I brought him here to experience The Lighthouse.’
‘Tayo,’ he said with a wink at Calista as he took Abel’s hand. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘My pleasure,’ Abel said.
His grip was firm and he looked very fit.
‘Tayo does yoga. I come for sessions here sometimes. You should try one. It helps you relax.’
They drank their palm wine and Abel watched the place fill up. Smart young men and women walked in and ordered the most incredible things: garri and groundnut, zobo and asun, roasted banana and groundnut, palm wine and barbecued fish.
‘I need to buy something to travel with. Uzoma makes these beautiful designs,’ Calista said, taking him by the hand and leading him into the white building.
Inside, Abel was awed. He picked up a few of the flyers arranged on a table by the door. On one, Tayo was bent double, face buried in his knees in a yoga pose. Abel knew it was him from his hair. There were announcements for a reggae jam session the following night and something about a reading by award-winning author Sele Bature. Abel remembered reading reviews of her novel Sandflies, and making a mental note to order it so he could teach it. That thought seemed like it had occurred to him a lifetime ago.
Inside and to the left was a boutique selling everything from wristwatches to bags and clothes Calista said were from Uzoma’s labels, Cheetah and Skanking. There were flowing jersey gowns in bright colours for women, tie-dyed embroidered tops for men, as well as T-shirts and old-school skirts and tops made from lace.
Something about the place made Abel want to spend the whole night there, especially when he went to use the restroom and found a stack of books sitting on a side stool by the door.
‘Are these for sale?’ he asked the cashier at the counter.
‘No. You can sit and read while you do your business.’
Calista bought two tops and a heavily embroidered top for Abel.
They kissed for a long time at his car and he promised to take her to the airport on Monday evening.
‘First I will fly to London to spend a few days with my mom,’ she said as she got into her car.
‘Monday evening then,’ Abel said and waved.
&
nbsp; —
He spent the next day with Zeal. They played and watched cartoons together until the boy fell asleep on his chest his drool leaving a wet patch on his T-shirt.
‘You are good with children,’ Ada told him as Philo scooped up the sleeping Zeal and took him upstairs. She was dressed in her favourite denim cut-offs and a colourful Ghanaian danshiki top. She had no bra on and Abel glimpsed the side of her breast when she moved her arm.
‘Yes, I like kids,’ he said.
‘Yet you haven’t made any, or are you hiding a brood in Asaba?’ She prodded him playfully with her foot.
‘Haven’t been that lucky, my sister. Blame it on condoms.’
Two of her friends had visited while Abel had been playing with Zeal and left just as Zeal was falling asleep. ‘My friend likes you,’ she told Abel.
‘Which one?’
‘Helen. The dark, tall one.’
‘She looks like a man.’
Ada laughed so hard she fell off her seat. ‘Na wa for you. You are scared; not man enough?’ She wiped away the tears, showing skin.
‘No, but I like my women feminine, petite. Not with more muscles than me.’
‘She has got a lovely body. You should see her naked.’
‘You really are serious?’
‘Yes. She is a widow with a son and she has a good business. Loves to read and watch movies too. You guys would be good together – now that Calista is leaving town.’
‘And you think she likes me like that?’
‘I don’t think. She told me.’
‘Really? You guys talk about such things.’
‘Really. Of course we talk about such things, silly.’
Abel was quiet for a while. What was Ada playing at? Why did she think she needed to hook him up? Had her friend really expressed interest in him?
‘Next time, she comes, introduce us,’ Abel said, looking up at Ada. ‘Maybe we could hang out. But first, I need to take you someplace this evening.’
‘Where? Not another restaurant. You will make me fat and Soni will kill you when he gets back,’ she said, then the realisation dawned and she sat back on the couch and bit down on her palm.
‘Let’s keep hope alive.’ He touched her lightly on her knee.
She didn’t say anything in response so he rose to go upstairs. ‘6pm, ok?’
She nodded and said nothing, tears falling down her cheeks.
—
The Lighthouse was packed when they walked in. A band had been set up on the concrete slab beside the lawn. Tayo was singing a Bob Marley tune and the patrons were catcalling and clapping as they walked in.
‘Ada, been a while,’ Uzoma said, hugging her.
‘Hello,’ Uzoma said to Abel, clearly trying to recall his name.
‘Abel,’ he said and she nodded with a smile.
‘Calista just left,’ she whispered and sashayed off.
‘You cheat,’ Abel said punching Ada lightly on the back. ‘Why did you act like you didn’t know this place?’ Abel asked as they found seats.
‘I didn’t want to spoil your surprise.’
It was a beautiful night. The band would play a tune and then someone from the audience would take the mike and sing. Some would stop halfway, the words lost in the labyrinthine whorls of time, and the audience would join in, everyone laughing and having a good time.
A lady went up and sang a Steel Pulse song with Tayo backing her. Then, to Abel’s amazement, Ada jumped onstage and sang Bob Marley’s Redemption Song in a beautiful voice that had everyone clapping and the band giving her a rousing drum roll.
‘We are full of surprises tonight,’ Abel told her as she returned to her perch.
‘We try to please,’ she said with a girlish laugh.
YAWA DON GAS
Lagos was in a foul mood that Monday morning. The sky was overcast and had the look of a bitter woman with a grudge. A brewing storm threatened rain.
‘I think Zeal should stay home,’ Ada said to Philo as she led a fully dressed Zeal downstairs.
‘I want to go!’ the boy cried.
‘It’s going to rain,’ Abel told him. He was watching CNN while sipping coffee.
‘I like rain,’ Zeal squealed and made a dash for the door. Philo grabbed him and dragged him, squealing and laughing, back to his uncle.
‘Let’s watch Teletubbies,’ Abel said, tickling him.
‘School!’ Zeal cried, giggling and struggling to wriggle free.
That was where they were when Santos burst in, wet from the rain. He had eight soft-sell magazines with him.
‘Bros, yawa don gas. Sabato gist is all over the papers.’
Ada cried out and dashed into the living room. Santos spread out the papers on the floor. The stories were all the same, with slight variations.
Top female banker arrested over missing businessman
Lagos Big Boy missing, top female banker nabbed
Top female banker arrested in connection with missing businessman
Sabato Rabato missing; Top female banker detained
Lagos Big Girl, Dr Nicole, in police net for fraud
Where is Lagos Big Boy, Sabato Rabato? Police seek clues
Is Sabato Rabato dead? Fear grips Lagos socialites
Sabato Rabato feared dead. Associates nabbed
‘We must contact Mama,’ Ada said. ‘Before someone tells her.’
Abel smiled his thanks. Ada always thought fast. He had been paralysed by all the stories.
‘Yes, I will call my sister right away.’
Abel called Oby and briefed her. ‘Go to Uncle Mezie. Tell him what has happened and let him go with you when you tell her. When you get to mummy, call so we can also speak to her.’
When Abel dropped the call, he replied to a text sent by Auntie Ekwi. She had a Bible passage for him as usual: God is our refuge, an ever-present help in trouble. He is our strength we shall not be moved. It is well and I will send a text to the Prophet to pray for us.
After sending his reply, Abel considered all the papers spread out in front of them on the floor. The story was all out: Dr Nicole’s arrest, the forged cheque and Soni, who some reports said had been missing for months and hadn’t been seen at any recent social events. The kicker was the one that read, Sabato Rabato’s pretty wife has been seen around town with a handsome young man and tongues are wagging.
‘“Handsome young man and tongues are wagging?”’ Abel exclaimed.
‘You are handsome and you are young, aren’t you?’ Ada said and told him to calm down. ‘Soft-sell stories are all about innuendo and speculation. At least we know who the handsome young man is. Let the tongues wag.’
Abel scanned the papers again and exhaled loudly. ‘How did they even find out in the first place?’ he asked no one in particular.
‘Soni’s girlfriend, Dr Nicole,’ Ada said as she paced. ‘If he had kept his dick in one place most of this wouldn’t have happened. Nine inches my arse!’
Abel looked up at her, considered saying something, then thought better of it. He could tell she was hurting and that was her own way of letting off steam.
‘And bros, more papers will come out tomorrow,’ Santos said. ‘Soft-sell papers come out on Mondays and Tuesdays.’
Abel growled as if in pain and placed both hands on his head. This was becoming a circus he hadn’t planned for. ‘What do we do now? Send a rejoinder, call a press conference?’
‘Press what?’ Ada stopped in front of Abel. ‘You don’t even respond. Give it one week and they move on. Someone one else will disappear. Some rich man will sleep with his daughter or a huge scandal will break out in Abuja and they will forget all about Sabato Rabato.’
‘But we won’t forget,’ Abel said, marvelling at how analytical and in control Ada appeared, as if this was something she had anticipated.
‘We will never forget,’ she said and continued pacing.
Abel’s phone rang. ‘Oby.’ he said, expecting to hear his sister’s voice, but a man answe
red.
‘Is this Mr Abel Dike?’
‘Who is this?’ He paused to look at the caller ID. He did not recognise it.
‘My name is Uzor Arinze. I am a reporter with Oui International. I am calling about your missing brother. Is it true that his account officer has been detained with regard to his disappearance? Were they lovers?’
‘Who gave you my number?’ Abel barked. ‘Do not call me again. Ever!’ He cut the call.
They were relentless. When he wouldn’t pick up, they called Ada. When neither responded, the text messages came flying in like a swarm of locusts.
About two hours later, the doorbell rang. Philo answered; a short lady with red lips and kinky dreadlocks was standing at the door.
‘My name is Monica Dimka. I write for—’
‘Shut the door, shut the door!’ Abel screamed at Philo.
He was losing it, his hands shaking badly. How had the dwarf made it past the gateman?
His phone rang just then and he was reaching out to put it off when he saw Oby’s name on the screen.
When he answered, his mum was crying and screaming: ‘I told him to stop o, I told Sunderland to stop. Chukwu nna, what am I going to do?’
The voice faded; Oby must have moved some distance away from the tumult.
‘I am with Mummy,’ she said. ‘She has been rolling on the floor since.’
‘What did you expect? Is Uncle Mezie there?’
‘Yes.’ Abel asked her to put him on.
Uncle Mezie was their mother’s brother, a no-nonsense retired teacher.
‘Chiedu, what is this that I am hearing?’ he asked in Igbo.
‘Uncle that’s what we met in Lagos,’ Abel replied in the same tongue.
‘When did this one happen?’ Abel explained quickly. ‘You people can kill o. Something like this happened and you kept it under your fingernails for over two months. Chiedu, my son, is this a good thing?’
‘Uncle, do not be offended,’ Abel placated him. ‘We did not want anyone to worry. We thought this would be sorted out quietly.’
