The Carnivorous City

by Toni Kan

  ‘You do not want us to worry, eh? What is a father’s job if not to worry? Chiedu, this is not good.’

  Abel apologised again, and charged him to take care of his mother, who was bawling uncontrollably in the background.

  There were more calls and text messages but Abel and Ada ignored them all. The next call he took was from DSP Umannah.

  ‘I have been trying to reach you all day,’ he said as soon as Abel answered.

  ‘It’s been crazy down here,’ Abel told him.

  ‘I know. I saw the papers. Welcome to Lagos my brother,’ Umannah laughed.

  ‘It would be funny if it wasn’t so terrible. That banker got us into this, I tell you.’

  ‘Yes, yes. She moves in the top social circles – the so called Lagos Big Girls.’ Umannah hissed. ‘But don’t worry. It’s a circus and it will soon move on. Lagos is like that. I will keep in touch.’

  Abel finally went up to shower before going down for lunch. Then he sat downstairs and read all the papers from beginning to end, astonished at the details in some and amazed at the complete falsehoods in most.

  Some of them read like fiction. Some reports said Soni’s car had been found in a ditch on Victoria Island. Others said Lekki. Most of them got the make of the car wrong and many of the papers spelt his name as Sabato Roberto. Many got Ada’s name wrong while others said he had two wives, Dr Nicole and Ada.

  By evening, Abel’s anxiety was easing and he was beginning to find the stories hilarious. There was something about them that seemed calculated to make you laugh, as if they were writing for the shock value.

  He was drinking cognac by the pool when a text message came in.

  I hv news abt ur broda’s whereabts. Reply if u want 2 c him alive.

  Who is this? Abel replied, stopping himself from calling the number only by sheer willpower he didn’t even realise he possessed.

  Mayowa Akindele, came the reply.

  And who are you?

  I am d publisher of Excel Celebrity magazine. Print and online

  And how come you know his whereabouts?

  i hv my sources

  And who are these sources?

  As a professional journalist of over 15 yrs standing, I cannot divulge d id of my sources. I am running out of credit so let me know weda u will come around.

  Where?

  The address was in a street in Ikeja off the notorious Ipodo, between Olowu and Ikeja bus stops.

  Meet me tomoro by noon. Come alone. If u come wit smbody, I will not show. I will take u 2 meet someone.

  Abel dug into the pile of papers and found Excel. Someone by the same name of Mayowa Akindele was indeed the editor and publisher, but the paper was a trashy little piece of junk. It was filled with typos, from the captions to the stories. It seemed as if the guy wrote the way he typed his text messages, without bothering about spelling or grammar.

  ‘Oga, one man say e want to see you,’ the gateman announced. Abel had given him a stern warning after his Monica Dimka slip.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘He say his name is Nnamdi.’

  Abel asked him to let his car in.

  Nnamdi was all smiles as he came out of the Prado.

  ‘Knowing that you are a poor man, I came with my own drink,’ he said waving a bottle of Courvoisier XO.

  ‘You are a true son of your father,’ Abel said as they shook hands.

  ‘I saw the papers. I knew it would be madness so I said let me come down and wipe your tears.’

  ‘God bless you.’ They settled at the pool and Abel passed a clean glass to Nnamdi.

  ‘I didn’t realise there had been some arrests,’ Nnamdi said as he sipped his drink.

  ‘Yes – that banker lady and some lowlifes. I went to Panti. It wasn’t them. They were greedy idiots but they had nothing to do with Soni going missing,’ Abel explained.

  ‘And the lady?’

  ‘The greediest of the lot. You know her right?’

  ‘Like Abraham knew Sarah.’

  ‘Looks like I am the only one who never got there. You remember the day we met at the bank?’ Nnamdi nodded. ‘I had been to see her.’

  ‘I was on my way to see her. She must love guys from our place.’

  ‘I suppose so. Anyway, we had finished talking when she just hit me with, “I know your brother is missing, but he promised me a new car for my birthday and it’s not as if he is broke.” I was completely shocked.’

  ‘Why were you shocked? In Lagos the hustle never sleeps. To her, Sabato is missing and so what? She also told me about her birthday when I went up. It’s a hustle my brother.’

  Abel digested the information slowly. It made sense, even if in an amoral kind of way. Everyone knew how Soni had made his money and he was sure everyone felt they had a right to some, if only they could find a way to get their hands on it.

  Had he got in on the hustle too? Was that what he was doing by entrenching himself in Lagos and digging deep into Soni’s wealth and home? There he was, lying in a lounge chair by the pool, sipping fine cognac. Was he not feeding off Soni’s hustle by sleeping in his bed, driving his cars, wearing his clothes, enjoying the company of his wife? What made him different from Dr Nicole? Soni was missing, yes, but the party was still in full swing.

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ Abel asked. Lost in his thoughts, he had missed the question Nnamdi asked.

  ‘I said, have you guys told your mum? She will hear now that it is all over the papers. Your mother and father loved to read papers. I remember, whenever I came to your house, your father would ask me to sit and read the newspapers while someone went to fetch you. I hated those moments, especially when you didn’t come out immediately.’

  Abel said his mother had been informed and that Oby was keeping an eye on her.

  Ada came out then to greet Nnamdi.

  ‘Our fine wife, how are you?’

  ‘Fine bros.’ She curtsied. ‘You abandoned us.’

  ‘How can I? How is the boy? I haven’t been here since his naming ceremony. Lagos swallows you.’

  ‘Is it Lagos? Or have you been busy counting your money?’ Ada teased. ‘We heard stories o.’

  ‘Rumours. All rumours.’

  Ada asked after his wife and kids then told them to have fun.

  ‘How are your parents?’ Abel asked him. ‘Your mum was a very pretty woman but she was wicked, o. Her flogging was something else.’ He recalled Nnamdi’s mother, who had taught them geography and wielded a mean cane.

  ‘She is fine. She and my dad are in India. She was having issues with her waist so they went for surgery. My sister Nkechi is with them too.’

  ‘Money is good.’

  Nnamdi sat up with a smile. ‘You know, I still remember the slap my father gave me when I came home with my first car, a Peugeot 505. “No son of mine will be a 419 criminal,” he spat and threw me out. Remember, it was in your house I spent that Christmas. I went legit because 419 almost destroyed our generation. I got into telecoms the moment I saw the opportunity. Soni couldn’t drag himself away.’ There was something that sounded like regret in his voice. ‘We always envied you, you know. How you stayed away and didn’t even come to Lagos. Did I tell you what happened when I got to Lagos? I wrote to Eva. You remember short Eva with the big head?’

  ‘Yes, I remember Eva. Where is he now?’

  ‘Dead. He was beheaded in Saudi Arabia. When things went bad here and money ran low, he got into the drug trade.’ Nnamdi refilled his glass. ‘Anyway, I sent word to him that I was coming to Lagos and could I stay with him? You know Eva couldn’t say no to anybody. He said sure, so I came. Big mistake. There were five other boys from our set staying with him. It was a tight space. At night we would talk and argue and some people would quote Karl Marx and Adam Smith, Frantz Fanon, Steve Biko, Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre. Imagine us all: white-collar criminals spouting revolutionary rhetoric. It was funny. But Eva always had the last word. After we had all poured out our frustrations with revolutionary
quotes as footnotes, he would unroll his thin mattress, and as he stretched out for the night he would say, “I will make it in this Lagos like Malcolm X said, ‘by any means necessary.’” And every time he said that, someone, I think Ralph, would say, “You know, it was actually Jean-Paul Sartre who coined that phrase,” and then everyone would shout him down with, “Shut up, you told us before.”

  ‘Those were crazy nights. If anyone had made some money during the day, he would buy drinks. The preferred drink was Squadron because it was cheap and gave a quick buzz. You remember Squadron, abi? Many nights, the landlord, tired of our arguments would bang on the door and tell us to shut up. “Una dey crase! Omo ibo buruku. People want to sleep o.” That was where it all started. Then we branched out and things changed and, you know, but my parents never accepted me. I would send money and they would send it back. Intact. You teachers, eh? Anyway, my mother took ill. I went to see her and, would you believe, my father wouldn’t let me into the house. My mother wouldn’t see me either. They wouldn’t accept my money. I came back to Lagos and cut off all ties with my 419 cronies. Telecoms had just started and I invested all my money. Many 419 boys invested in politics and telecoms and many lost out big time. But I was lucky and God started blessing my hustle and from there things changed. I wish Soni had done the same, you know, made a clean break, but then I suppose he had got in too deep. Your brother made serious money. He was a wealthy man and now it’s all coming to you; you who never got your hands dirty. Life is funny, my brother.’

  They sat there by the pool drinking and reminiscing until late. They recalled the old days when their parents all lived in the same compound. How Abel and Nnamdi’s fathers would play tennis together on Wednesday evenings and Saturday mornings.

  ‘I wanted to be them, in their white shorts and tops with your father’s red headband.’

  ‘But you were too skinny,’ Abel teased, and Nnamdi laughed.

  ‘And you were always at death’s door.’

  ‘But my father still took me. I played tennis.’

  ‘I played football and I also played with the girls. You, we thought you would die a virgin.’ Nnamdi poked him playfully in the ribs.

  It wasn’t until 11pm when Nnamdi was leaving and asked after Calista that Abel remembered.

  ‘Damn, she leaves tonight. I was supposed to take her to the airport. God. Drive safe, Nnamdi. I need to call her.’

  Her flight was for 10.45pm. There was no way he could meet her.

  ‘I was too upset to call. I didn’t think you would forget,’ she told Abel when she finally picked up after the sixth call, and only after he had sent a text explaining what happened.

  ‘I am really sorry but it’s been a crazy day.’

  ‘You could have called, sent a text. I would have understood.’

  ‘I am really sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. I have to board now. Our flight was delayed. Your mum knows now, right?’ Abel said she had been informed. ‘Good, she doesn’t have to hear it from the press. And someone is taking care of her?’

  ‘Yes, my sister. Oby, you remember her. She came to visit once when we were in school.’

  ‘I remember. She had lovely long hair and she caught us in bed, once. We had a good laugh afterwards. She was born-again, right, and she didn’t find it funny.’

  ‘No, she didn’t. She told me you were a Jezebel and you would lead me to hell. They caught Soni with girls all the time and said nothing, but it was me who would go to hell.’

  ‘Jezebel indeed,’ Calista said with a laugh. ‘See, I have to board now. Take care of yourself and when this is all sorted out you should come visit me. You can afford it.’

  Abel said goodbye and went upstairs. He showered, brushed his teeth and got into bed, but sleep was a distant country. He lay in bed, trying to make sense of what he was becoming. Or had become. The things Nnamdi and Calista said had unsettled him. Were they seeing things he had refused to acknowledge, the fact that he had assumed what was not really his?

  ‘You should come visit. You can afford it,’ Calista had told him. Nnamdi had said, ‘He was a wealthy man and now, it’s all coming to you; you who never got your hands dirty. Life is funny, my brother.’

  It was true; he hadn’t engineered Soni’s disappearance but he hadn’t wasted any time taking over all that Soni left behind. There was always money in his pocket now. He had spent more money in the past two months than he had ever seen or had access to in his entire life.

  As he lay there in the dark listening to the music filtering out of Ada’s room, his thoughts running in different directions, a passage from Achebe’s Things Fall Apart came to mind. He didn’t remember the lines verbatim but it had something to do with an Igbo saying about the relationship between the hero and the coward.

  Soni’s life was epic and heroic; a full book brimming with grand tales and multilayered chapters. His own, by comparison, was a mere paragraph, the words scrambling around like excited ants, trying to find their niches. His life had become, as Achebe wrote, the coward’s house from where people stood and pointed to the crumbling ruin of the dead hero’s abode as they said to their children: that was the house of a great warrior who is no more. Soni was the hero, and Abel was under no illusions who the coward was.

  EVERYTHING IS not ABOUT MONEY

  He woke up the next morning with a blinding headache. He hadn’t slept much and he needed painkillers. He rummaged through the dresser and cupboard. There was nothing, so he sent Ada a text. She knocked about ten minutes later and walked in with a pack of analgesics.

  ‘Good morning, my husband,’ she said as she handed him the plastic pack.

  ‘Someone is in a good mood today,’ Abel said as she fetched a bottle of water from the fridge, poured and passed it to him.

  ‘What happened? You had a fight in your sleep?’ She settled into the couch.

  ‘No. I didn’t sleep well, at all. My mind was wandering.’

  ‘I hope it didn’t wander into my room. I was stark naked.’ She laughed.

  ‘Don’t worry. It didn’t.’ He flicked the remaining drops of water in the cup at her.

  They were quiet for a while and then she spoke.

  ‘See I have been meaning to ask you something,’ she began, leaning towards him, so close he could see the top of her breasts. She must have felt his eyes on her because she leaned back again.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, it’s over three months now since Soni disappeared and I pray every morning for him to come back and be father to his son and a husband to me. But with every passing day I realise that we may never see him again. I know so many people who have been swallowed whole by this city.’ She got to her feet and began to pace. Abel had noticed that Ada liked to pace whenever she had something she felt needed to be said.

  ‘I am talking of young girls, mothers, fathers on their way to or from work and school. Abel, these were ordinary men, good people. With Soni, it’s a lot different. We know what he did, we know he had enemies and if they have kept him for this long without asking for money they will never let him go. So, I need to ask you; if Soni doesn’t come back, what happens to us? Are you going to stay on with us? Will you go back to Asaba? He has legit businesses and you can help run them. You are a smart and intelligent man. But I need to know. My family has asked me the same question and now I am asking it of myself; if my husband never comes back, what happens?’

  She had stopped mid-stride, one foot in front, the other behind, as if poised for lift-off. Her face was partly in the light and partly in shadow, framed, as it were, in a penumbra of anxiety, and it gave her a surreal aspect. She was bouncing on the toes of her right foot and breathing fist from her mouth as if the effort at speech had sapped her.

  ‘Ada, I don’t know,’ Abel began tentatively. ‘I like to make plans, but this time I have no idea what to do. I agonised over how to tell my mother but somehow, circumstances sorted it out. As to what you ask; let’s wait and see what happens, especially with the s
tory now in the papers. But just know that whatever happens I will be here for you and Zeal.’

  Ada did not speak; she just stood, her bosom heaving as she bounced on her feet. There was a knock and Abel asked the person to come in.

  ‘Good morning bros. Iyawo good morning,’ Santos greeted as he stepped into the room. He had more magazines and newspapers. ‘It’s now in the serious papers,’ he said handing them over to Abel. ‘And it is all over the internet.’

  That was when Abel remembered his appointment with the journalist, the mysterious publisher who had called from Excel magazine to say he knew where Soni’s whereabouts.

  He showered, had breakfast, listened to CNN for a while, then texted the journalist at about 10.45am.

  Just leaving Lekki now. Are we still good for noon?

  There was no reply and when it was almost 11am Abel got into the car and asked Santos to head to Ikeja. He was close to the gate when a message came in.

  Pls call me. It was the journalist.

  He told Santos to park while he made the call.

  ‘Sorry, I couldn’t call. No credit,’ he said breathlessly as if he had been running.

  ‘No problems. So, what’s up?’

  ‘We can’t do noon. I have a meeting with a client for noon. It wasn’t planned but I have been chasing this deal for a while. Let’s do 4pm.’

  ‘Same place?’

  ‘No. A different place. I will text you and remember come—’

  Abel cut him off before he finished.

  They drove back home and he watched a movie, Happy Feet, with Zeal who was home because Ada wanted to avoid what she said would be a circus at his school.

  ‘I don’t want people looking at me. You know they all read soft-sell papers and then pretend they don’t.’

  ‘Hypocrisy of the rich and famous,’ Abel said.

  ‘Well, you are one of us, now,’ she told him, and Abel felt something give way in the pit of his stomach.

  His reverie was broken by the buzz of a text from Calista.