When Trouble Sleeps

by Leye Adenle

  There were extra guards at the gate that Ojo didn’t recognise: police officers, army personnel, and thugs who openly carried unregistered shotguns and smoked their weed close to the law enforcement officers. A security guard bowed as he shook hands with Ojo and he let him through the foot gate.

  Ojo walked slowly across the cobblestone compound towards the main building; there were seven buildings in total, with the main mansion taking centre stage at the end of a long driveway.

  Standing in front of the door of the main house, Ojo considered turning round. Matilda had set him up and reported him to her father. The worst was done. Why was he here? To be told to behave himself? To be warned? To be fired as his daughter’s husband the way Otunba fired politicians who offended him? Perhaps it was time he held his middle finger up to her and to her family. What had they done for him, anyway? The old man had never sent a contract his way, introduced him to any of his powerful allies, or for that matter taken him into his confidence. If he turned back now and left, what was the worst that could happen? He had three million dollars in a bank account in the US that Matilda didn’t know about. He would survive without her family; only not in Nigeria.

  His belly didn’t feel better for considering walking away. He pressed the bell and waited.

  A servant led him through a large parlour full of men dressed in bulbous agbadas in animated exchange. Politicians. He was right, there was a political meeting going on at Peace Lodge. Perhaps he could turn back today and explain that he didn’t want to disturb the old man’s political affairs.

  The servant opened the door to Otunba’s private parlour where Ojo had first met the man almost two decades earlier. He stopped. Otunba, sitting alone at the end of the room, stared directly at him from the middle of a sofa. On either side of him sat chiefs of the ruling party that Otunba had helped form. The men stopped talking when Ojo stepped in and turned to him. Ojo’s belly felt even weaker and his heart began pounding. He took a step forward and a man stood, gathering the hem of his agbada over his shoulder. Ojo balked as the man approached him. It was Muhammad Kano, two-time governor of Taraba state and now a senator. He held out his hands to Ojo. ‘Your Excellency,’ he said, smiling as he shook Ojo’s hands. The other men and women in the room got up too and walked up to Ojo, surrounding him, and taking turns to shake his hand, each of them addressing him as Your Excellency. Ojo looked past the politicians at Otunba, the only one still seated. The old kingmaker was smiling at his son-in-law.

  12

  ‘I will make you governor,’ Otunba said, scanning his guests.

  Ojo was next to him on the sofa. Servers were carting in food and drinks for the other politicians in the room who were standing or sitting in groups, chatting and drinking, eating and politicking.

  Ojo kept his eyes on the old man as one would a coiled viper. He was confused. He had expected to feel the wrath of the kingmaker; instead he was being elevated to the echelons of power – or at least that was what was being offered.

  ‘They said they didn’t want Ishola or Michael,’ Otunba said. ‘They said I cannot nominate my own son. They forgot that I have one more son. Ishola is a senator; his brother is commissioner of works. Now you are going to be governor. I have said it.’

  Ojo’s hands were clasped over his knees, his body tilted towards the old man. He was not a politician; he wasn’t even registered with any party – that dream had died with Matilda’s brother mocking him. If he had more time to think, he would have pointed this out to Otunba, but the kingmaker had just held his son-in-law’s hand up in front of all the big names in the party and declared, ‘If this boy is fine enough for my daughter, he is fine enough for Lagos state,’ and the assembled bigwigs had cheered and clapped.

  ‘You heard about what happened to that boy?’

  ‘That boy’ was Douglas.

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s quite sad. It says a lot about the state of aviation…’

  ‘It is not sad. It is unfortunate. Are you sad? Did you know him as a friend? Me that I knew him, I am not sad. Don’t say sad. I warned the boy. I told him, ‘They no longer want you,’ what did he do? Did he listen? No. He started going on radio stations, inviting journalists, telling them this and that. That me, I gave him a list of people he must give contracts to. It is unfortunate, not sad. Say it: It is unfortunate.’

  ‘It is unfortunate.’

  ‘Yes. Your own case will not be unfortunate.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘It is not amen. You have to make sure of it yourself. Do you know why they killed that boy?’

  ‘I thought it was a plane crash.’

  ‘What kind of plane crash is that? How can a plane carrying you crash into your own house? It is not an accident. They planned it. Someone planned it. And do you know why?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I warned him. I said, ‘the opposition have your skeletons; they will use it against you.’ You know what he said to me? He said, ‘Is it not right that we will rig the election?’ Can you imagine?’

  Ojo shook his head. Had Matilda not told her father about the picture on her phone and the stuff on the memory card? If she hadn’t, what would happen when she did? Would this dream, that he was still trying to comprehend, suddenly be snatched from him? The feeling in the pit of his stomach returned. Would he also find himself a passenger in a plane about to crash?

  Otunba continued. Ojo had missed some of what he said ‘…He is a stupid boy. When they brought him to me I said, ‘Are we sure we want this boy?’ They said he is modern. See what happened to him? Slaughtered like a fowl, and his wife too. His family wiped out like that. Only God knows whom he offended. Anyway, your own will not be like that.’

  It was obvious who he offended. The Lion of Yorubaland. The kingmaker himself. The man once referred to by a Supreme Court judge as ‘The only Nigerian you cannot take to court.’

  ‘Amen,’ Ojo said.

  ‘Not amen. It is up to you. From now on, till the party officially announces you, you must not talk to the press. You and your wife. Let them speculate. We have leaked the news to our papers this night, but you must avoid any form of statement, do you understand? It has to come from the party.

  ‘It is here in this parlour that the party chairman will come and meet you. I am going to make you the next governor of this state, but there is one thing you must first do for me. Can you do it?’

  Ojo nodded. He braced himself.

  ‘Do you have any skeletons?’

  Surely he was referring to the memory card. What had Matilda told him? Had he seen the contents of the card himself? Was the copy of it safely stored on his phone, an example of his skeletons?

  ‘Everybody has skeletons,’ Otunba said. ‘There is one thing I want you to know: right now, from this moment on, you do not have any friends. You don’t have any family. Everyone you know will try to use you. Anyone who knows your secret will control you.

  ‘I want you to go home and talk to your wife. Tell her that you are now referred to as His Excellency. It is me, Otunba, that has said it. I want you to go into your room or to any other quiet place, and I want you to get a pen and paper and write down every skeleton that you have so that we can deal with it. We must make sure that what destroyed that boy will not destroy you too.’

  13

  Her eyelids fluttered before they opened. There was a figure in front of her. It didn’t surprise or scare her; it was as if she had already felt someone staring at her and that was what woke her up. Why was she sleeping? Who was the person standing in the doorway, piercing light shining from behind them?

  Amaka brought a hand up to shield her eyes and the bed creaked. It wasn’t her bed. She wasn’t in her house.

  The hazy figure turned and left. The door closed. Darkness. Amaka opened her eyes wide, trying to focus in the dark.

  ‘She’s awake o.’

  It had to be the person in the door. It was a woman. Amaka sat up in the strange bed. It creaked. She strained to see. She began to make o
ut shapes. The bed had no headboard or footboard. Boxes and bags lined the walls. There was a sofa with folded clothes on it. A dressing table had tubes and bottles and plastic jars and picture frames. On the wall, above the mirror, a vertical row of buttons glistened dully from an outfit on a hanger. The door opened. Light. It was a ceremonial police uniform. Its hat also hung from the nail in the wall. Ibrahim walked in. A woman stood in the doorway behind him, leaned her left shoulder against the frame and clasped her finger over her right hip.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Ibrahim said.

  What was she doing in Ibrahim’s home? In his bed. He looked strange in a white singlet and blue sports pants with three stripes running down the sides.

  ‘You were hit on the head,’ he said. ‘You should have been in bed.’

  Amaka touched the back of her head where she felt the pain.

  ‘What happened to the girl?’

  ‘It was a man. A thief. They burnt him.’

  He sat on the side of the bed. It creaked under his weight.

  She’d thought the faint smell of smoke was from the bed. Now, in her head, she saw the burning body. The flames wrapped around it. The smell.

  ‘No. There was a girl. What happened to her?’

  ‘A girl? By the time I got there, it was all over. You are lucky. They were going to kill you too. You do not interfere in a mob action. When my boys got there, some women had surrounded you so they couldn’t get to you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you take me to the hospital?’

  ‘I did. You don’t remember? We went to Wilmot Point. The doctor gave you something. He said there was a slight risk of concussion. You walked up the stairs here by yourself. You don’t remember? Maybe you have to go back and see him in the morning.’

  ‘But why didn’t you take me home?’

  ‘Have you forgotten? The plane crash. I told you. They have blocked all access to the entire area.’

  ‘Oh. I remember you mentioned it. It was close to my house?’

  ‘Yes. You know Chief Douglas?’

  ‘The gubernatorial candidate?’

  ‘Yes. His house. On Magbon Close. And it was his plane. He was in it.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘Yes. He was in the private jet that crashed into his own home. Crazy. People are saying it is the opposition. Already there are riots and…’

  ‘You don’t know what happened to the girl?’

  ‘I already told you, there was no girl. I mean, there were lots of civilians there, and of course the women who protected you, but the boy had already been set on fire and we couldn’t simply arrest all the onlookers.’

  ‘There was a girl. They were going to burn her too.’ She looked past him. ‘Is that your wife?’

  Ibrahim turned to the woman in the doorway. ‘Yes.’

  Amaka nodded at her. The woman pushed herself off the frame and crossed her hands over her chest.

  ‘What time is it?’ Amaka said.

  Ibrahim searched his bare wrist for his watch.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Abike, what time is it?’

  She unfolded her hands, and folded them again.

  ‘Where were you going, anyway?’ Ibrahim said.

  Amaka looked at him. He was staring directly into her eyes, his forehead creased with concern. She looked at his wife. Abike stared back, her face tight with loathing or anger or both. Amaka checked the time on her own watch. 11:30pm.

  ‘Where’s my phone?’

  ‘I searched for it. I called it but it just kept ringing and my officers couldn’t find it.’

  ‘I need to find it. I filmed the killers’ faces. And the girl. I got the girl as well. I got everything on video.’

  ‘Amaka, the phone is gone. Where were you going?’

  ‘My car?’

  ‘We found it there. The key was in your skirt, but we couldn’t find your bag. The door was open. Was your bag in the car?’

  ‘Shit. My passport was in that bag.’

  ‘Your international passport?’

  ‘What other type of passport is there? And my laptop, too. And my other phone. Shit. I have to get my lines back.’

  ‘You can do that in the morning, for now you really have to rest.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I have to get my lines back. The girls, they will be sending messages. I have to… Oh no.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She slammed her palm onto the mattress. The bed creaked.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There was a memory card in the bag.’

  ‘A flash drive?’

  ‘No. A micro card. Fuck.’

  ‘What is on the card?’

  She looked at him, glanced at his wife, and then back at him.

  ‘Where is my car?’

  ‘It’s downstairs. You should sleep. Are you hungry? Maybe you want to shower?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘OK. I’ll just leave you to rest now,’ Ibrahim said. ‘The doctor said you should sleep. I’ll be just outside.’

  He got up, paused to look at her, then turned to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You are welcome. Please, go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.’

  He walked past his wife. She walked up to Amaka.

  ‘Ibrahim said they did not touch you,’ Abike said.

  Amaka was thinking of the lost memory card and didn’t respond. Then she realised what Abike meant but decided it didn’t call for a response.

  ‘I’m sorry to be imposing on you,’ Amaka said.

  ‘You are not imposing. Ibrahim said you are welcome, so, that’s all.’

  ‘Abike,’ Ibrahim called.

  ‘We are in the parlour,’ she said to Amaka.

  Amaka nodded.

  Abike lingered. She held her hand out, close to Amaka’s face.

  ‘Pass me my Bible under that pillow.’

  Amaka looked behind her, raised the pillow wet with her sweat, and saw the red copy of a King James Bible. She was a Christian, married to a Muslim. Amaka handed the Bible to Abike who tucked it under her armpit.

  ‘And the pillow.’

  Abike waited as Amaka handed it to her, then she left and closed the door behind her.

  Amaka sat staring at the door that Abike had left slightly ajar. She swung her feet off the bed and stepped on cold linoleum. She stood and searched around for her shoes, finding instead her car keys on a stool tucked under the dressing table. She found her shoes by the door, next to three pairs of men’s shoes, polished to a mirror shine. She took one last look around the room.

  Amaka stepped into the living room. There was a mattress on the floor in the middle of three red leather sofas that formed a U facing a console cabinet, against which were propped two flat-screen televisions side by side. On the mattress, Abike and Ibrahim were wrapped up in separate sheets with their backs to each other. Ibrahim stood up abruptly. He was shirtless, his chest covered in curly back hair. He reached for his singlet next to Abike’s nightdress on one of the sofas.

  ‘Amaka, where are you going?’ he said.

  Abike sat up on the mattress and pulled her sheet up to cover herself while with her other hands she picked up Ibrahim’s cover cloth and held it up to him. He ignored her.

  ‘I am very grateful to you for coming to help those people when I called you,’ Amaka said, ‘and I am grateful that you brought me here, but there is somewhere else I need to be. You said my car is downstairs?’

  ‘Yes. But, you are not in a condition to drive. The doctor gave you an injection.’

  ‘Probably just a mild sedative. How do I find the car?’

  14

  Ambrose stood in the middle of his floodlit compound and watched the gates open. Yellowman and Babalola were on either side of him; a dozen or so armed guards lingered around. The truck that had been rumbling on idle rolled into the compound filling the air with its diesel exhaust.

  Two men climbed into the back of the t
ruck while Ambrose and Babalola watched. It was loaded with sacks of ‘Best Quality Golden Rice.’ The two guards in the truck picked up a sack and passed it to two others waiting outside. The men placed the heavy sack on the ground in front of Ambrose and Babalola. They continued unloading the truck, taking more bags into the house.

  Yellowman reached under his jacket and pulled out a sheathed dagger. He removed the blade and stooped down by the sack, and with one motion sliced it open. Grains of rice fell onto the pavement. He dipped a hand into the rice and pulled out a brand-new AK-47 assault rifle, without its magazine, holding the gun by the barrel. The weapon was the stockless variety. He stood up, and presented the gun to Ambrose.

  Ambrose gestured to Babalola. ‘Give the gun to Doc,’ he said. ‘Let him feel it’. Yellowman flicked a grain of rice off the body of the rifle, and, still holding it by the muzzle, handed the weapon to Babalola.

  ‘What are these for?’ Babalola asked. He took the weapon, surprised at how light it was, and held it away from his body as if it posed an immediate danger.

  ‘For the election. We are no longer playing games. We have to match them naira for naira, gun for gun, bullet for bullet.’

  ‘Why are you letting me see this?’ Babalola said.

  ‘Because you have to know what it will take to get you into office. You are part of this; part of everything it takes to get you elected. Give the gun to Yellowman.’

  Babalola held the weapon out to Yellowman, who removed a folded handkerchief from his pocket and flicked it open. With the cloth covering his palm, Yellowman gripped the top of the gun’s barrel and walked away with it.

  Babalola watched him leaving.

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘Your prints are on the gun. In case you get any stupid ideas, or you are misled by anybody, that gun would be discovered next to a murdered member of the opposition.’