When Trouble Sleeps

by Leye Adenle

  Amaka ran her palms over her clothes before she walked towards Y-Not. The bouncer looked her over once, stared into her eyes for a few seconds then let her through. Amaka walked into the smoke-filled bar, stood at the doorway and looked around. She pushed her way through to the bar and sat facing the crowd. Most of the men inside where white, all the women were black and younger than the men, and they were younger than the women standing on the road outside, and better dressed, too. In time, as age eroded their youth, they too might end up on the sidewalk, beckoning to strange men in the night and hoping they did not wave down a killer and end up with their breasts cut off like the girl who’d been dumped in a gutter just yards from where other women now stood.

  Amaka turned her back to the waiter and concentrated on the pool tables where a group of four white men were enjoying the attention of eight girls gathered round them at a table to watch a game. One of the men was chalking up while a tall, slender, light-skinned girl in a black slip-on dress lay half across the table aiming to take a shot. The man looked up and saw Amaka watching. He smiled and winked. Amaka winked back.

  17

  Malik got down and had walked past two other cars parked on the side of the road before he turned, pointed his key at the Range Rover with Naomi inside it, and pressed a button to activate the alarm.

  At the entrance to Peace Lodge, he leaned close to a panel on the fence and spoke into the microphone. ‘My name is Malik. Baba is expecting me.’

  When he was still close to the wall, he removed a pen from the breast pocket of his black dashiki, twisted its cap until he heard a click, then replaced it, his actions hidden from the camera above the console.

  On the other side of the fence a guard considered the tall, light-complexioned man on his monitor. A call had come from the main house letting the gate know that Otunba was expecting a Malik, but no title had preceded the name, no Chief, Prince, Senator, or even Honourable, so the guards had not known what to expect. The man standing outside could be a politician or an errand boy. He looked rich in his starched outfit with an embroidered emblem over the breast pocket. Even on the small, colour monitor, his skin looked like he was used to eating good food and living in an air-conditioned house. His beard, however, shimmering with pomade, made him seem more Lagos Big Boy than Abuja Big Man. The guard buzzed the foot gate open.

  Two security guards were waiting for Malik when he stepped into the compound. One of them had a wand, the other held out a square, grey plastic tray. Three police officers holding AK-47s stood behind the guards and watched.

  The wand beeped at Malik’s trousers. Malik lowered his stretched-out arms to remove his two phones. He removed the keys to his Range Rover Sport from the other pocket, along with a wad of money in a gold clip. Everything went into the grey tray. Next, he removed his Hublot Fusion King Gold and gently placed the watch on top of the wallet already in the tray. He struggled with the clasp on his gold bracelet and the officer with the wand said, ‘No need.’

  The officer ran the wand down Malik’s sides again and to his feet, down his back, over the insides of his legs, then along each hand, the wand beeping as it went over the gold bracelet. A black pen was visible in Malik’s breast pocket. The officer waved the wand over it and it beeped. Malik removed the pen and was about to place it in the tray when the officer held out his hand for it. The officer tested its weight in his hand. He seemed fascinated by the floating star in the tip of its cap. ‘Mont Blanc,’ he said to the other officer, nodding, and returned the pen to Malik with a smile.

  One of the waiting policeman asked Malik to follow him. They walked up to the main building, then turned right onto a pathway with trimmed edges on either side. They went past the building, turned along the footpath, past the wire fence of a lit-up lawn tennis court, past a row of white plastic pool chairs, and to the pool house on the other side of the large rectangular pool.

  After fifteen minutes sitting alone in the pool house, Malik composed a message on his phone: ‘I am at Otunba Oluawo’s house. He asked me to come and see him. I don’t know why.’ He selected several contacts in his address book, many of them with the prefixes, Senator, Honourable, Chief. He sent the message to all of them, watching his screen to see the messages get delivered.

  From his armchair he could see the lit windows of the big house. He saw people walking past, stopping to talk, leaning against the window frame. It must have to do with the party’s dead candidate. He could be waiting a long time. But why had Otunba reached out to him?

  The policeman by the door, his rifle slung across his body, hands held behind his back, was probably there to keep him in place.

  Malik had been introduced to Douglas once, at a party hosted by a senator, and he had seen him a couple of times after that at other parties, but they had never as much as said hello again after that first introduction. Douglas was not a real Lagosian. His life was really in America where he made his money selling subprime mortgages. He had returned to Nigeria only five years earlier to accept an appointment as Commissioner for Works and Housing, and in that capacity he made his name by allocating small parcels of land in the recovered areas of Lekki to groups of indigenes that then sold them on and became first-time millionaires. The people loved him. But what the hell did he have to do with Malik? Why had Otunba, whom Malik had never met, called him himself and asked him if he wouldn’t mind coming to Peace Lodge immediately? Otunba Oluawo, who once kept a president of the federation waiting while he played table tennis with his grandson, and when he had time for the president, just wanted to tell him that he was invited to his only daughter’s wedding, was keeping Malik waiting, but definitely not so as to invite him to something fun.

  Malik kept his eyes on the policeman while he raised his hand to his chest pocket. The officer turned to face him. Malik dropped his hand away. ‘Does he know I’ve arrived?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry?’ the officer said.

  ‘Does baba know that I have arrived?’

  ‘I think they called him when you arrived. Please be patient. He will see you soon.’

  A back door of the mansion opened and a man appeared. Malik leaned forward, then stood. The policeman also stood to attention and Malik began to walk to the door.

  ‘Please, remain here,’ the officer said, holding out his hand.

  Malik looked out the window at the old man getting closer. He looked shorter in real life than in the papers, slightly stooped, but at over eighty, it was impressive that he could still walk with such assured strides. He had no bodyguards with him. Well, it was his house, after all, but it still felt strange to see such a powerful man appear so vulnerable.

  The policeman opened the glass door for Otunba.

  ‘Malik, how are you?’ Otunba said, extending his hand.

  ‘I’m fine, sir,’ Malik said, bowing as they shook hands. ‘It is a great honour to meet you, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Sit down.’

  Their armchairs faced each other.

  ‘Leave us,’ Otunba said to the policeman. The officer left, closed the door behind him, and walked to the other side of the pool where he stopped and turned to face the pool house.

  With his hands on the armrests, Otunba began. ‘I understand that my son-in-law visits your little club in the forest,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Malik said.

  ‘No. The answer is no.’

  ‘Quite right, sir. No. I do not have a club in the forest.’

  ‘Good. I was told your business is blackmail.’

  Malik opened his mouth to talk. Otunba raised a hand to stop him.

  ‘Do not deny anything. You let your customers arrange to meet the girls outside your club. They think they are cheating you but the girls are working for you. The girls arrange even younger girls and sometimes even boys for them. You videotape them doing all sorts with the little girls and boys and you use it to extort them but they think it is the girl doing it.

  ‘They either pay the girls, or they tell you. When they do tell yo
u, you tell them you will take care of it. The girl disappears, and you give them what you claim to be the only copy of the video and they fall into your debt. They think you have killed for them and they are not sure whether you have kept a copy of the video.

  ‘Am I correct so far?’

  Malik nodded.

  ‘We know about your little games. You are a businessman and I am a politician. We both do what we have to do, I understand. Your business does not concern me, so you don’t have to be afraid. But you must do what I ask you to do or else you will become my enemy right from this night. So, now that we understand each other, tell me now, what do you have on my son-in-law?’

  18

  The girl took her shot, potted the ball in the corner, looked up at her opponent and noticed he had not being watching. He was eyeing someone behind and licking his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. Still laying flat on the table, cue still in hand, she looked to see who it was.

  Funke disturbed some balls on the cushion as she got up, then she tossed her cue stick onto the table, sending more balls in motion, and walked towards the bar.

  Amaka turned in her stool and crossed her arms on the cold marble counter. When Funke climbed onto the empty stool next to her, she looked the other way.

  ‘Aunty, what are you doing here?’ Funke said, half-whispering. From the corner of her eyes she glanced over Amaka’s clothes. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was robbed,’ Amaka said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh God. What did they take?’

  ‘My bag. The stuff inside it. Don’t worry about me. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. You mean, about him? Did it work?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Funke.’

  ‘When I didn’t hear from you, I was afraid that maybe he knew I set him up.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. Has he called you again?’

  ‘No. Not since then. He sent a message that I am an ingrate. I just ignored him, like you said. Foolish man.’

  ‘I’m so sorry I got you mixed up in all this.’

  ‘Ah, no o, aunty. With everything you have done for me? And after what he did to that girl, I swear I will do anything to make sure he gets what he deserves. Evil man.’

  ‘Thanks. If he calls you, tell him you’re out of town. Stay away from him, and warn your friends, too.’

  ‘Am I stupid? After you showed me those pictures. Maybe that is what he wanted to do to me too. You still won’t tell me what you’re planning to do with him?’

  ‘It’s better you don’t know. For your own safety. Funke, I need your help.’

  ‘What is it, aunty?’

  ‘I need a smartphone, a new SIM card, 5K credit, and thirty thousand naira.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  Funke stared at Amaka a while, then her face lit with purpose. ‘I’m coming,’ she said and she hopped off the stool.

  Amaka watched Funke walk back to the pool table. Her former opponent was racking up the balls to play a new game with another girl. Funke walked up to two girls and spoke to them, and as the two walked away, Funke walked up to another group of girls.

  Twenty minutes later Funke returned to the bar and sat next to Amaka. She had a Nokia phone and a charger, and a crumpled black cellophane bag wrapped around a little parcel. She placed the items on the bar top. The phone had a thin lateral crack curving across the screen, and the charger had a European plug. She opened the cellophane bag and brought out a bundle of notes in different denominations and handed them all to Amaka.

  ‘Forty thousand,’ she said.

  ‘I only need thirty,’ Amaka said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Funke said. She reached into the bag and fetched a new SIM pack and several airtime scratch cards. She got the SIM card out and inserted it into the phone, and held down the button to switch on the device. ‘Aunty, what are you drinking?’ She asked.

  While the waiter fetched Amaka a glass of neat Remy Martin VSOP, Funke began to tear open each scratch card packet, using her long red nail to scratch off the panel and review the code, and load the airtime credit onto the phone.

  Amaka memorised the new phone number on the back of the SIM pack. Funke handed her the phone and she handed the SIM pack to the girl.

  ‘This is the new number to use,’ Amaka said. ‘Tell the girls and tell them to tell their friends. The old number doesn’t work anymore. At least not tonight.’

  Funke nodded.

  Amaka placed a hand on Funke’s shoulder. ‘Thank you again, Funke. For this and for everything else.’

  Funke looked away as her eyes clouded over. She leaned forward and put her arms round Amaka. The two women hugged in silence while Wizkid serenaded the crowd around them.

  19

  Yet another car crawled past, searching for a place to park. It was the third since Malik left her alone in his car. The engine was off and the windows up, and he had taken his keys with him. He said he wouldn’t be long but he’d been gone over thirty minutes. The residual coolness from the AC was gone and she was beginning to feel damp under her armpits.

  She looked at the three soldiers a few metres away passing a joint among them. What if she tried to open the door and the alarm went off? She was in a pair of bum shorts and a tube top. Better to stay in the car and endure the growing heat.

  Malik had only told her he had a quick business thing to attend to. She knew better than to ask him what, but from the large number of cars parked outside what looked like the largest compound in Osborne Estate, it had to be a party. It made sense. Some big shot was having a party and Malik was arranging girls for it. Was he planning to hand her over to someone here? Someone rich and important? Someone important enough not to have the time to make the trip to The Harem? Even though no one had ever suggested it, she was sure The Harem was not the only business he had going. The man dealt in sex, period. She had met him at one such party, and like this one, it was probably being thrown by a member of The Harem and they had contracted the pussy to him.

  At first he had simply introduced himself as Malik, then he was interested in her plan to study maritime law. He mentioned the University of Dundee before she said it. He seemed to know what he was talking about. They spent most of the evening together. He seemed to know everyone; the governors, the bodyguards, the businessmen, the young, pretty girls – his staff, maybe. But at the time she had just assumed he was a guest; a rich man like the other men, but a handsome one at that – and one with manners, who actually wanted to talk about other things than what he did, how much he was worth, how he was going to take care of her. He asked for her number, after they’d spoken for hours about things she could not even remember, and she gave it to him. When she had asked for his, he smiled and said he would call her tomorrow. He didn’t try to take her back to his hotel room or his guesthouse or his home. No flirting, no suggestion that he wanted to sleep with her. It was confusing. He was confusing.

  He did call her the next day as he promised, and he invited her to lunch at Double Four. After steak and wine, he took her to the Polo Club. It was the first time she ever entered the grounds of the club, and there, over more wine, he told her about this business he ran that could earn her millions in no time.

  The soldiers up the road were excited over something. A joke, perhaps. One of them was bent over laughing. Another tried not to get his fingers burnt on the joint. They began moving away, walking towards the party. Naomi watched them disappear round the bend. She waited. She was alone. She looked back; no cars approaching. She looked ahead. Malik had been gone a while. Could he be returning soon? She checked both sides of the road again, her heart rate rising with her plan. She placed her fingers on the glove compartment and looked ahead. She pulled the lever. It was locked. Her hand snapped back to her lap and she checked the road again. Her hands were shaking and her heart was beating fast. It had become too hot in the car. She was looking straight ahead and she saw when he strode out of the gate onto the road. For the first time she realised she was afraid o
f him. She had always been afraid of him.

  Malik opened the door and the inside of the car lit up. He had something in his hand. Naomi had to wait for him to close the door and place the object down between the two seats before she knew what it was: a metal detector – the type used at airports.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked.

  He held up the wand. The interior light had gone off. He switched it back on. Like a child showing off his new toy, he grinned as he said, ‘I bought it. Just now. From a policeman.’ He nodded towards the gate. ‘They had a spare one. Guess how much I paid for it.’

  Her mouth was dry. ‘How much?’

  ‘Guess?’

  ‘Twenty thousand.’

  ‘Fifty.’ He was holding the wand up, inspecting it.

  She had to appear normal. ‘Do you even know how to use it?’

  He looked around. His eyes fell on her bag in the footwell. He swept the wand over it. Beep, beep, beep. He swept it over his watch. He looked at her. Her large earrings looked metallic. She retreated as he raised the wand to her face. Beep.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’ she asked. He ran the wand over the steering wheel then across the dashboard. Beep, beep, beep.

  The guesthouse was in Ikeja. Outside, it was an unassuming bungalow, albeit one that sat in the middle of a one-acre compound. Inside, however, it was like all the other guesthouses: cold from 24-hour AC, good furniture, 42-inch flat-screen TV, a full bar, and a uniformed maid to welcome guests and stand over them. Naomi sat on an armchair and put her arms around herself. Goosebumps spread over her skin. As usual there were other girls. Two. The women exchanged nods and kept to themselves. Two police officers sat at the dining table eating pounded yam with their bare hands. In front of them, bottles of Guinness dripped condensation onto the table.