The Carnivorous City

by Toni Kan

  Abel and Ada left Auntie Ekwi to handle the delivery and instructions. They also gave Stella Maris a cheque for two hundred thousand naira. Abel had wanted them to bring cash, but Ada had cautioned against it, saying she could be attacked and robbed once they left.

  Stella Maris told him that she graduated from the University of Lagos with a 2.1 in economics and had been hoping to get a bank job until a story she read about a girl she knew changed her whole life. The girl had gotten pregnant, was thrown out of the house and found dead three months later, her breasts and private parts sliced off.

  ‘I decided to do something for girls like her. So, I rented an apartment where I can house people in need. I set up that school with assistance from the Fountain of Life church so the children can, at least, learn to read and write.’

  ‘How do you raise funds for this?’ Ada asked her.

  ‘Churches, some NGOs and kind-hearted people like you.’

  Ada and Abel exchanged a glance. He made a mental note: when all this was over, he would make sure Stella Maris and the children under her care got something from them every month.

  —

  Bros, Iyawo is only a wife. Me and you are blood. Don’t let her scatter our family.

  He read the text again and again, glad to hear from Santos and happy that the tone had changed. He’d been amazed at Ada’s rage and direct attack, but the more he thought about it the more he realised that that had been the best thing to do under the circumstances.

  Santos had come ready and Abel had caved without a fight. It was Ada who saved the day. Both men were neck-deep in the Mayowa affair and if Santos squealed Ada suggested they turn the thing on him, get a good lawyer and see what happened.

  He studied the text again and sent a reply: Meet me at Terra Kulture. 2pm.

  ‘What are you going to tell him?’ Ada asked.

  He couldn’t see her expression because a young lady was braiding her hair and her face was turned to the wall.

  ‘Offer him twenty and ask him to leave Nigeria.’

  ‘Leave Nigeria and go where?’

  ‘Canada. He always dreamt about going abroad even as a child.’

  ‘Visa?’

  ‘I spoke to Nnamdi; he knows someone who can arrange it for a fee.’

  ‘Guarantees?’

  ‘Well, I am thinking of talking to Auntie Ekwi about it.’

  ‘No, don’t drag Auntie Ekwi into this.’ Ada whirled round, pushing the girl away. ‘Make Santos behave or I will fix him myself. I have suffered enough since Soni disappeared for anyone to stick his finger in my eyes. I can be respectful but I am never foolish.’

  ‘Take it easy, Ada.’

  She turned back to face the wall.

  He drove to Terra Kulture, his mind in tumult. Could Santos be trusted? Would he accept twenty million naira and disappear? Should he up the figure? Give him something more substantial, something that could buy him a house in Canada? His mind was so pre-occupied he ran into a black Toyota Avensis as he turned into Ajose Adeogun.

  ‘Oga, you no dey see?’ the uniformed driver barked as Abel stepped out of the car.

  He recalled immediately what Santos had told him once in traffic as they watched two men yell at each other after a fender bender: ‘If you hit someone and you are driving the bigger car, don’t step out. Make them come to you. If you stay in your car they will show you respect; if you step out they will insult you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, do you know who I am?’ Abel snapped, surprising himself. ‘Who do you work for? Don’t you have manners? Is that how you talk to people?’

  The driver took a closer look at Abel; the spanking white shirt, the black trousers, black leather shoes and gleaming BMW X5.

  ‘Oga, my oga won’t be happy with me,’ he said, his tone now diffident and deferential.

  Abel checked the damage. It wasn’t much – a slight dent. ‘Take it to the panel beater,’ he ordered and handed him a wad of notes.

  The man looked at the money, then up at Abel. He accepted it, bowed and drove off.

  When Abel got into the car, his hands were shaking so badly he sat there and took his time calming down. Do you know who I am? He had asked the man the question he hated the most. And he was not sure he knew who he was or had become.

  —

  Santos seemed jumpy when Abel sat beside him.

  ‘Bros, how far?’

  Abel ignored him. ‘I will buy a small house in your name in Canada and give you ten million naira. Total will be thirty million. I will help you get the visa and buy you a ticket. The day you step foot in Nigeria is the day you die. Send me a text if you accept my offer.’

  Santos’ mouth was still hanging open as Abel returned to his car. In the vehicle, he set his head upon the steering wheel and wept like a baby.

  Back in Lekki, he crawled into the cloying darkness under the duvet, the air conditioner on full blast. He wanted to crawl deeper and deeper, to be swallowed whole, to disappear and forget it all. Three months, and everything had changed. He had crossed some invisible line and become someone he could not even recognise. There was blood on his hands and lust on his mind. He had assumed another man’s wealth; how could he not be affected?

  Days ago, he was being choked by the stench of filth in Dustbin Estate; now it was his descent into Hades occupying his thoughts. His life was gradually becoming a mad dash from things he couldn’t handle. When the running would end, he had no idea. But while he still had some control, Abel wanted to keep fighting this thing taking him over like a body-devouring virus.

  He cried, stopped and cried again. He wished he had never received that text message, that Soni had never been abducted, that the papers hadn’t gotten wind of the story, that he had never agreed to go along with Santos and make Mayowa ‘vomit that money’. He was tainted, a man for whom redemption lay only in the impossibility of retracing his steps.

  He remembered the day his father died and the stranger who had come to tell him.

  ‘I have some bad news.’ The man had made him leave halfway through his lecture. ‘There has been a death in the family. Your father was shot two days ago.’

  Abel had staggered, stunned, as if the news was a physical blow. The man reached out a hand to steady him. He said his thanks, ashamed of the fact that when the man said there had been a death in the family, his first thought had been of his mother. Later, long after he had cried and been consoled by Calista, he was finally able to appreciate the irony of the situation. He was the one for whom everyone was on an unending vigil and here he was getting ready to bury his father.

  ‘It was a policeman in Benin,’ his sister told him days later, when he got home. She had been in the car when it happened. ‘We were going to See Uncle Benny. The policeman was clearly drunk and he wouldn’t let us drive through even though the car in front had just been let through after the driver gave him a tip. Daddy had also been drinking but that day it was as if Daddy wanted the man to shoot him. Daddy said, “No, I must drive through and I won’t give you a farthing.” But the man would not listen; he just kept telling Daddy to reverse. When Daddy refused, he started deflating the tyres. That was when Daddy came down from the car. Mummy was screaming as Daddy went to stop the policeman. Daddy pushed him away and the man just turned, pointed his gun and shot Daddy in the stomach. Twice. Then he ran.’

  Their mother would never discuss it, not then, not ever.

  When Abel found Soni and told him, his brother had run off screaming ‘NO’ over and over again, as if the policeman who had shot and killed their father was hot on his heels. They would drag him back to the room many hours later in a drunken stupor.

  It was in Calista that Abel had sought comfort and lying there in the darkness under the duvet he wished he could call her and unburden his heart to her one more time but this was one secret he could not share.

  —

  The church was full. Abel and Ada had had some trouble finding a spot to park and every available space had been taken up
inside too.

  ‘It’s a special service,’ Auntie Ekwi told them, clearly elated. ‘It happens once a quarter.’

  The Prophet was in his element. He danced, he pranced around, he spoke in tongues and anointed members of the congregation with oil, many of them falling under the anointing.

  This time, the night seemed shorter, as if familiarity made the hours speed by.

  Just before 5am, the Prophet stood at the front of the church and waited for the congregation to file past. A young man was holding up a bowl of anointing oil and the Prophet would dip into the bowl and slap his open palm on the congregant’s forehead, smearing them with oil as he screamed ‘Take it, my son’ or ‘Take it, my daughter’.

  The congregation went round and round until it got to a woman kneeling in prayer at the back. Those around had let her be, but when the crowd thinned an usher went to prod her. The kneeling woman keeled over; she had died on her knees.

  Everyone ran.

  SOMEBODY REMOVED THE LADDER

  DSP Umannah was looking sharp that Saturday and by the time Abel got to the restaurant, he was halfway through a bottle of red wine.

  ‘This wine is good,’ he told Abel as they shook hands. ‘I remembered it from last week,’

  ‘Yes. I remember it too.’ Something made him feel that Umannah had purposely arrived early on account of that wine.

  ‘So, you said your report is done and you have news for me,’ Abel said as soon as he had placed their order.

  ‘Yes. I have finished my report and will submit it on Monday. There are things I felt I should discuss with you, seeing that we have become quite acquainted and because your brother was good to me.’

  ‘Sure.’ Abel’s palms were clammy from anxiety. ‘What have you found out?’

  ‘When I read Ofio’s report, I had the sense that he did a good job, which is why I have merged our two reports into one. This case was reassigned to me because, in the past three years, my team and I have cracked four missing people’s cases. I will be straight with you, and this is off the record. This is what a friend will do for another. I have reasons to believe your brother was a victim of criminal rivalry.’ His eyes bored straight into Abel’s.

  ‘This is not the kind of report we give to family members, but your brother was good to me and you have been good to me. When this case started everyone was a suspect from Santos to his wife, but gradually people were eliminated.’ He paused to take a sip. ‘I am sure you know the kind of business your brother was into, right?’ Abel nodded. ‘It was high yield, high risk. There was a lot of money involved. Someone got greedy, others got pissed off and your brother disappeared. We will keep looking but I can almost tell you with certainty that he will never be found.’ He paused, but when Abel did not react, he went ahead.

  ‘I am sorry, Abel, but these kinds of people don’t bury bodies or make ransom demands. They simply disappear you to teach others a lesson. I am really sorry but that’s the case we have here.’

  Abel was silent for a long time. It was one thing to have a hunch, but a completely different ball game when you knew for certain. Here was a policeman telling him that his younger brother, a man who had a wife and a son, was gone forever. How did you digest or communicate that piece of news? How would he tell their mother?

  ‘I am really sorry Abel. I wish I had better news than this. The commissioner has requested a report and this will be my summation. But I suppose the family needs closure so I will ask you to go see this man.’ He pushed a piece of paper at Abel. ‘Call him and say you are from me. He is expecting you.’

  Abel took the paper. On it was the name ‘Walata’ – a nickname, he was sure – and a phone number.

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes, today. He lives in Ikoyi.’

  Abel thanked him and rose. ‘I will take care of the bill.’

  Outside, Abel nosed the car out of Musa Yar’adua Street, drove down Idowu Taylor to Adeola Odeku and onto Ahmadu Bello. He was in Ikoyi ten minutes later, something that would never be possible on a weekday. As he drove into Osborne, he dialled Walata’s number, praying he would be home.

  ‘Who give you this number?’

  ‘DSP Umannah.’

  ‘About Sabato?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will text you my address. I am waiting.’

  The house was on Lugard Avenue, a few hundred metres from the UNICEF office. The road was bad, waterlogged and filled with potholes. Abel’s car got snagged and he had to rev and reverse before he could continue.

  Walata was bare-chested. Tall, dark and imposing, he had a deep voice and cut the picture of a criminal who had managed the tricky transition from the mainland into the gentrified locale of old Ikoyi.

  His house was an all-white duplex that sat on huge grounds. There wasn’t much free space inside: big ceramic vases stood all over the house like sentries guarding the paintings and sculptures, most of them by stars and masters of contemporary Nigerian art.

  Abel looked around while Walata took a call. He espied an Enwonwu, a Grillo, an Onobrakpeya and two by El Anatsui. There were paintings from Gani Odutokun, Ndidi Dike, Rom Isichei, Kanebi Osanebi, Victor Ehikhamenor, Uche Edochie and others whose signatures he couldn’t read.

  ‘You really like art,’ Abel said when Walata finished his call.

  ‘They are investments.’ His voice was gruff, his English flailing as he explained what he meant. ‘A white man tell me once, art works can be a store of value. I don’t know who the artists are but I get this Lebanese woman who help me to buy and she say if I ever need money she can help me sell. And she say, if the artist die I will get more money. So, maybe if I need money and I want to sell something, I will kill the artist first.’ Abel began to laugh before he realised the man wasn’t joking.

  ‘Let’s go to the garden. What do you want to drink? I have single malt whisky. Glenlivet. Very nice. Hot drink that feel like ice cream in your mouth.’

  Abel accepted the drink. He set it down on the table and waited for Walata to drink before he followed suit. The drink was smooth, going down with the slightest burn. The brute was right – a hot drink that felt like ice cream.

  ‘I know your brother well. I work with Sabato Rabato. We make money together. He is a good guy but he have one problem.’ Walata said as he refilled his glass.

  Sitting down, his huge belly hung in massive folds. He had three tattoos, one on each bicep and another on his chest. The one on his chest was in old text and, sitting close, Abel eventually made out the word ‘ekun’.

  Yoruba for ‘tiger’.

  ‘See, I tell you we have made money. Plenty. But there is one thing I can never forget: everybody must bow to somebody. Pope bow to Jesus, Jesus bow to God, even Devil sef, bow to God. But Sabato don’t believe in that kind of thing. He used to call himself a self-made man, but I don’t think so. You cannot make yourself. After God has created us somebody will make us. There is difference between creating and making, I tell you.’

  He paused to take a call, during which he issued threats. Abel shuddered: the way Walata sounded on the phone was the way he must have sounded to Santos.

  Walata took a sip, smacked his lips and turned back to Abel. ‘See, this is how I see life. Everybody need ladder to climb up and sometimes that ladder is a human being. You understand?’ Abel nodded. ‘So, that is what happened to Sabato. I think after he climb up somebody remove the ladder.’

  Abel inhaled deeply and let it out slowly.

  Here he was drinking, without doubt, the best Scotch he had ever tasted, with a rich thug who may have killed his brother, or given the order, and he was powerless to do anything.

  Steeling himself, he downed the drink in his glass and rose to his feet.

  ‘Walata, tell me, did you kill my brother?’

  ‘Me?’ He looked insulted. ‘My brother, I have done many, many bad things in my life but Sabato was my friend. He was foolish and stubborn but he was my friend. But you see, in this world there is nobody you like mor
e than yourself. I did not kill Sabato, but I did not stop them from removing the ladder.’

  He rose to his full height, dwarfing Abel.

  ‘This is Lagos, my brother and good and bad things happen at once.’

  —

  Abel cried all the way home, the tears streaming down his face as he drove. From the moment he got the text that morning in Asaba, he had known this wasn’t going to end well, yet that could not lessen the blow from Walata. As the man led him to the gate of his huge property, Abel had asked him one last question.

  ‘Do you know who removed the ladder?’

  There was a long pause. Walata tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘My brother, this thing we do is like war. When a soldier fall down in the war front, how can you know which of the bullet killed him?’

  Abel’s tears were for their mother, their sister Oby, for Ada and for Zeal. He cried for himself, for the brother he hadn’t really known, for the love he didn’t fully acknowledge.

  He tried to remember the last time he had seen Soni. It was about eight months before he disappeared. Soni had dropped by to see him at school. Abel was supervising a continuous assessment test and had only had time for a handshake before Soni left with his friends to Enugu State where a business partner was getting married.

  Abel wished he had had more time, and that instead of a handshake he had given his brother a hug. It was those fleeting goodbyes that haunted you, those half-realised farewells that remained forever in abeyance.

  —

  Later that night, many hours after he had returned, the harbinger of bad tidings, he lay in bed, cowering under the duvet as he listened to her sobs. When he could take it no longer, he turned the key and opened the door that connected their rooms.

  She was kneeling at her bed as if she had been praying, naked from the waist up, her gown bunched around her.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said pulling her up and enfolding her in his embrace, her breasts against his bare chest.