by Toni Kan
Arrived safely and been gisting with my mum since I got home. I sent you a gift, something to upgrade you into the 21st century. An aide will drop it off. Can you imagine; one day gone and I am in tatters. Miss you, Mr Dike.
Abel read the text a few times, then sent a reply.
The past few weeks have been heavenly because of you. Miss you more, Miss Adeyemi.
A while later, he called Santos and asked him to get the car ready for his Ikeja appointment. They left the house at 2pm. It was a bright, sunny day and Abel knew that without traffic they would be in Ikeja in an hour.
As they turned on to the Third Mainland Bridge from Osborne, Santos cursed and swerved to the right, but it was obviously too late. Abel felt the impact and then they were skidding. Santos fought to keep the BMW X5 straight. He won, bringing the car to a rest by the edge of the kerb, just.
They got out of the car to inspect the damage. A danfo bus had hit them from behind, shattering one of the tail lights. The bus was now sitting in the middle of the road, its passengers disembarking in a hurry from fear of being run into by an oncoming vehicle.
As Abel and Santos approached the bus, the passengers all pointed in the distance. Abel followed their lead and he could just make out two men, one in shorts and the other in buba and sokoto, running as if the devil was chasing them. It was the driver and his conductor.
‘They said you will arrest them,’ one of the boys who had just got off the bus said and Abel burst into laughter, the tears coursing down his face as they inspected the damage before continuing with their journey.
He knew why they were running. Where or how in God’s name would they find money to fix a BMW? Fear had given wings to their feet.
—
When they got to Ikeja, they parked at Mama Cass on Allen, and while Santos waited, Abel took an okada, the ubiquitous motorcycle taxis with demoniac riders who, because they got into nasty accidents on such a regular basis, had been designated a special ward at the orthopaedic hospital. The riders were usually young boys, always high on something, or old men with poor eyesight who drove bikes as a side gig. They weren’t the most adept or careful riders.
‘Abeg, don’t drive too fast,’ Abel said as he perched behind the driver. He had already given him the address for his rendezvous and negotiated the fare.
The driver mumbled something as he handed Abel a dirty helmet, which passengers were required to wear by law.
The location was an open-air beer parlour. Plastic chairs were arranged four to a table; all of it branded by one lager or the other. A big-screen TV hung precariously from the wall and as Abel sat down and ordered a beer, he began counting mentally to see how long it would stay up before it came crashing down.
He had counted to 560 when someone settled into the seat beside him.
‘Mr Dike? Don’t look at me, please, just pick up your glass if it’s you,’ the voice said and Abel reached for his glass.
‘You are Mayowa, right? And you said you know something about my brother?’ Abel asked, speaking with his lips hovering over his glass.
‘Yes.’
‘OK, what do you know and what do you want?’
‘I don’t want anything. I just want to help a young man like myself,’ he said. ‘I think I know the people who took your brother. I met someone who can help you find them.’
‘Why doesn’t he go to the police?’
‘Police? Why? I thought you wanted to find your brother?’ Anger and impatience crept into his voice.
‘Yes, I want to find my brother.’
‘Then why are you talking about police? I am only trying to help. I heard something that will benefit my fellow man and I decided to help.’
‘How much do you want?’ Abel asked, turning ninety degrees to look at the guy. If he was paying, he needed to see who he was paying.
He was surprised: Mayowa didn’t look like much. He was a thin man with beady eyes. His face would have been handsome but for the ravages of time and circumstance. He looked to be in his late thirties, about Abel’s age.
‘Everything is not about money,’ he said. ‘Can I order for a beer?’
‘You can order for ten,’ Abel blurted before he could stop himself. He waved the waiter over.
The guy gave Abel a look that conveyed both irritation and resignation as he asked for Gulder. He was either shameless or really in need of a drink.
‘Bros, everything is not about money,’ he repeated, his tone softening, all talk about Abel not looking at him gone. He poured his drink, took a large swig that emptied half of the glass and then smacked his lips and rubbed his palms together. He was thirsty.
As Abel looked at him, he could see his life story written all over him. This was a blind mouse, like millions of others nosing their way through the underbelly of Lagos, hoping for the lucky day when they would score some cheese. Most of them came to Lagos with a vow, like Eva, to make it or die trying. Most of them died, trying.
He could see the grime around the collar of the long-sleeved shirt he had folded to the elbow, revealing gaunt arms that ended in bony fingers with dirt underneath the nails. His shoes were tucked under the table, out of sight, but Abel could guess that they were dusty from tramping through the streets, looking for the ‘hammer that would bring the Hummer’.
‘See, let’s stop beating about the bush; what do you know and what do you want for it?’ Abel asked, laying his cards on the table.
‘I met someone who knows something and he is the one who wants something too. Me, I have human sympathy. Today it is you; tomorrow it can be me. No need chopping from somebody’s bad luck.’
Abel ignored the platitude. ‘Is the person here?’
‘Yes. He is watching to make sure you came alone.’
‘So, are we going to meet him?’
‘Yes, but we have to agree first. Then I will send him a text and he will reply.’
‘So, how much?’
‘He said one million naira.’.
Abel did not betray any emotion as he turned to him and asked: ‘Have you ever seen one million naira before in your life?’
Mayowa swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. It was almost hard to believe that he was just drinking beer. He seemed to be choking on something solid.
‘Bros, it is help, I came here to help,’ he said, looking Abel in the eyes.
‘And what will he give us?’
‘He said he knows who took your brother and he knows where to find them.’
‘So, how do we do this then? Even if we could pay, I don’t have a million naira with me here.’
‘How much do you have?’ Mayowa’s eyes glinted.
‘About ten thousand naira.’
‘Hmm, I am not sure that will work o. This kind of transaction is cash and carry. The man is scared and he wants to use the money to travel.’
‘Where?’
‘Abroad. He is taking a big risk in talking to you, you know.’
Abel told him he would pay 500,000. Mayowa asked for 800,000. They haggled and though Abel waited for him to send a text message, Mayowa did not. They finally settled for 600,000.
That was the first inkling Abel had that something was not right, but his brother was missing and how could one ever be sure what was real and what was not? It was all shadows. He would rather he did something than give in to his doubts.
‘You will drop advance payment,’ Mayowa said.
‘Advance?’
‘Yes. The man has to know that you are serious.’
‘But you said I should come alone and I did. Why does he want advance payment?’
‘The man has to know that you are serious,’ Mayowa repeated as if he was talking to an idiot who wasn’t paying attention and had difficulty understanding simple things.
‘I told you; I have only ten thousand naira here and we haven’t paid for our drinks.’
‘There are ATM machines; you are a Big Boy. You must have an ATM card.’
Abel paid for their drin
ks, then walked with Mayowa to a bank on Toyin Street. He withdrew one hundred thousand naira, which was his limit and gave it to him.
‘The man would have preferred two hundred thousand naira,’ Mayowa said as he pocketed the money. Then, looking up with a smile and rubbing his palms together he asked, ‘Nothing for the boys?’
‘What?’
‘I am just a messenger. Won’t you find me something for transport?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Bros, this money is not for me. It is for the contact. I am not charging you but I spent my money to get here just to help a fellow man.’
Abel gave him five thousand naira out of what was left in his pocket.
‘I will text you at night to give you directions as to where we will meet again. God bless you.’
Abel watched him walk away, his dusty, worn shoes clinking against the macadam as he crossed the street. Then Abel flagged down an okada that took him back to Santos at Mama Cass.
When he got home, there was a package waiting from Calista. Inside was a Blackberry and an embroidered tie-dye top from The Lighthouse. There was also a card that had ‘To my Main Man’ on its cover. Inside, Calista had written, ‘A Blackberry for you, caveman. Lose that old phone.’ Abel smiled as he pulled the phone from the pack.
‘You are the only thirty-seven-year old I know who doesn’t have a smartphone or a Facebook account,’ Calista had teased him that night as they left La Casa. Abel had been asking how she coped with her Blackberry beeping all the time.
He inserted the battery into the phone and plugged it in to charge. Santos would help him sort it out the next morning. For now he waited, jumping every time his old phone beeped, but he did not receive a text message from Mayowa. When he got tired of waiting and called, Mayowa did not pick up. The next time he tried, an automatic message told him the phone was switched off.
‘Maybe he has drunk himself into a stupor,’ Abel consoled himself.
He didn’t have dinner. He ate some biscuits and drank a beer. He was lying in bed and reading when Ada knocked and entered.
‘Do I put on the light?’ He said yes. ‘You didn’t eat dinner?’
‘No. I usually don’t eat dinner, actually. You are going to make me fat.’
‘Well no one would say I was not a good wife,’ she said, settling into the couch.
‘No one would say that,’ Abel agreed.
Ada noticed the Blackberry pack and reached for it.
‘So, we have a Blackberry now? I always wondered when you would ditch that phone.’
‘Calista sent it to me, but I will miss my old reliable.’ He kissed his old handset.
‘You should take it to Onikan.’
‘Why? What’s happening in Onikan?’
‘The museum. It’s an antique.’
Abel sat up. ‘Is everything OK?’ There was something about her that didn’t seem right, despite her jokes.
‘No. I’ve been having these nightmares. I thought I could sleep here tonight.’
‘Sure. I will take the couch,’ he said, getting off the bed.
‘I don’t stink, Abel.’ She rose and crossed the room to his bed.
‘Is this a good idea?’ he asked, feeling himself react. He just couldn’t help the effect she had on him.
‘Just create some space for me,’ she said as she got in. ‘It’s a large bed.’
Abel switched off the room light but left his reading light on. He had his book open but he couldn’t concentrate. Ada was lying beside him and he could hear her inhale and exhale. He had moved close to the edge of the bed to create some space between them but there was no denying the electric charge on that bed. Tired of trying to concentrate on the novel, he put off the lamp and crept under their duvet. Their feet touched and he pulled away.
Ada was asleep, her breathing even. Abel listened to her breathe, watching the rise and fall of her bosom from the light that came in from the bathroom. He was a man impaled on the flagpole of desire.
She stirred and reached out for him. ‘Don’t leave me, please,’ she whispered, and pulled him close. Abel was not sure whether she was speaking to him or lost in some dream.
—
It was already bright when she awoke in a panic. The clock said it was 6.45am.
‘Oh my God, Philo. I don’t want her to know I slept here,’ she cried as she jumped out of the bed.
‘You can take the connecting door,’ Abel told her.
‘Oh my, I hope I didn’t lock it from behind.’ She turned the key in the lock. The door yielded. She pulled it open and there on her bed, were Philo and Zeal. Abel turned around and bit into his pillow.
Ada avoided him the rest of the morning and when Philo served him his breakfast, he could have sworn she had a knowing smile playing around her lips. Or maybe he imagined it, his guilt making him paranoid. Still, he didn’t like the fact that Philo had seen Ada leave his room clad in her nightgown. Nothing had happened, he knew, but who would believe it? Even he had a hard time believing it.
Santos helped him transfer his contacts from the old phone to the new one, then helped him set up his email accounts, Blackberry Messenger, Facebook and Twitter.
‘Bros, you are now connected.’ Santos handed him the phone.
Abel thanked him and sent a text to Calista.
What’s your BB pin, darling?
Wow, someone has been upgraded, Calista replied.
Santos was out to buy fuel when Ada came downstairs to sit beside him.
‘Zeal is driving me crazy. He wants to know why he is not going to school.’
‘He can go back tomorrow.’
‘I wanted him to sit out the whole week. But yes, I will take him,’ she agreed. ‘You sorted out your Blackberry?’
Abel nodded. ‘Santos helped out.’
‘And where is he?’
‘I asked him to fill the tank and buy me some stuff from Shoprite.’
‘OK. You need to change all your passwords, you know. I don’t trust Santos. Let me show you how.’
She helped him change them and left to make lunch.
Abel dialled Mayowa’s number for the sixth time that morning but he didn’t pick up. He sent a text: Mayowa, waiting to hear from you. What’s the next move?
He didn’t get any reply, so later that evening he sent an angry message: Mayowa, what’s going on? Suddenly, you can’t take my call because you have money in your pocket.
That elicited a response. Pls don’t insult me, Mista man, I told u I am only trying 2 help. d man said d money you dropd is 2 small and how doz he know u will pay d rest. He said I shd send u dis acct no.
Abel looked at the account number and felt like strangling someone. ‘Bastard!’ he screamed.
Ada came out asking what the problem was and as he told her the story she started laughing.
‘Abel, he has “jobbed” you,’ she said, wiping her tears on her sleeve.
‘Jobbed me how?’
‘The money is gone. He screwed you. That’s what 419 guys call local. You are his mugu.’
‘It can’t be. I will get him.’ Abel reached for his phone sent him a text.
I don’t want to pay any money into the bank. Let’s meet somewhere and I will hand over another 200,000 naira. Then when we are done, I will give him the rest.
The reply was instant. I will call u 2moro 2 let u know. Let me spk 2 d man 1st.
He didn’t call back or text that day nor the next. Seething, Abel told Santos.
‘Bros, the man has jobbed you,’ Santos told him ‘You don fall mugu.’
‘It’s not possible,’ Abel insisted. ‘He is the publisher of a magazine.’
‘Publisher?’ Santos burst into laughter. ‘Bros, that money is gone. E don go. The man don do you local,’ he said in pidgin.
Abel could not, did not, would not accept that he had fallen prey to a conman. This was a story he had read about for years; how conmen would promise a million things and deliver nothing. He never thought it could happen to
him.
‘Santos, see his office address is here in the magazine. We will go and see him tomorrow.’
‘OK. You want to go with police?’ Santos asked in Igbo.
‘Yes. I will call Umannah and tell him to send us one of his men,’ Abel said, suddenly feeling in control.
‘OK, and how much did you give him?’
‘One hundred thousand naira.’
‘And where is the receipt?’
‘Well, he didn’t … Erm, I didn’t ask for a receipt.’
‘Oh, so you will tell police that you gave him one hundred thousand naira just like that and you didn’t ask for a receipt. Who was your witness?’
‘It was just two of us at the ATM on Toyin Street. A Skye Bank ATM. I remember.’
‘Clap for yourself, bros. See, if you involve the police, they will just chop from two of you. That guy won’t even sleep in the cell for one night. That’s what police will call; your word against his. You will say you gave him one hundred thousand naira and he will say you are lying. Police will ask you for your witness, you will say it was just two of you. Police will say the onus of proof rests on you. Have you heard police quote the law before? Don’t let police quote law for you, bros. You won’t like it.’
The more he thought about it the more he began to realise that Santos was right: he had been had by the dirty, stinking conman posing as a journalist. He thought he had read him well that day as a man on a hustle but his concern over his brother had switched off his alarm system.
‘Two things you must know is this,’ Santos said, switching to English like he always did when he wanted to sound intelligent, then messing up his grammar in the process. ‘Two things can make it easy to job somebody. The first one is greediness. If a man is greedy, you can job him just like this.’ He snapped his fingers.
‘The second thing is desperation. If a person is desperate for something, just like you who wants to find his brother. You can do anything and guy man can job you just like that. It’s like a woman that is desperate for a child; any fake prophet can fuck her.’
Abel glanced at Santos for a moment, amazed at how his mind functioned and wondering why, if he was such a fount of wisdom, he was still working for Soni and earning eighty thousand naira monthly.
