When Trouble Sleeps

by Leye Adenle

  ‘It’s nothing I can’t handle. I need a favour.’

  ‘No more favours till you tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘I need you to get me a meeting with someone,’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I just said?’

  She stared at him as she took a sip from her mug.

  ‘Who?’ he asked.

  ‘Chief Ambrose Adepoju.’

  ‘Prince. Not Chief. And why?’

  ‘I need his help with something. Get me the meeting and I’ll explain everything.’

  It was a long walk from where Amaka parked and paid a young boy to watch her car to Oshodi market where she stopped and stood on the side of the road, amongst pedestrians and passengers waiting for buses in the congested traffic. There, between the passing cars, she could make out where the asphalt was stained from the fire. The air smelled of exhaust and fumes from burning refuse, but in it she could smell burning flesh. For the rest of her life she would smell burning flesh in smoke of any type.

  The market was human chaos as usual; thousands of people cramped into one stretch of road, ramshackle stalls next to umbrella canopies and awnings caked in dirt, goods on mats on bare ground. A moving, heaving, noisy gathering of sellers and clients, pickpockets and kids paid to carry other people’s shopping, white-robed prophets ringing bells and shouting their sermons, opportunists and traders, and among them also killers. The market was the subject of painters, many of whom captured the colourful madness from the narrow footbridge above. The market was due to be demolished, but in the mean-time it was business as usual and people even said the state government wouldn’t dare carry out the threat. Oshodi was a dangerous place, they said, a place where riots start and spread through the state. A place where you could buy anything including human body parts was not a place to mess with.

  Cars were passing over the spot where a body had been burning the day before and people were walking past it, trying to give each other space but still brushing against one another. It was as if it never happened - as if Amaka herself had not almost ended up consumed in the flames of their orgy of violence.

  Women behind a stretch of baskets spilling over with tomatoes were standing closest to the spot. Amaka hadn’t seen them yesterday – she couldn’t have seen them through the thickness of the killer mob – but they must have been there, and the day before, and the month before. Now, sat on low stools behind their baskets, they called out to Amaka, each trying to convince her that their tomatoes were ‘finer’, ‘sweeter’, ‘would make soup that your husband would love.’ Amaka picked an old woman in mismatched Ankara iro and buba. She had not spoken the loudest or employed the most convincing embellishments, but the other women close to her looked like they were in their twenties while she looked like she was old enough to have children their age.

  ‘Good evening, ma,’ Amaka said.

  The other market women shifted their attention to potential new clientele. The woman used a newspaper folded in two to stop flies landing on her tomatoes.

  ‘Five for two hundred for you, my daughter,’ the woman said.

  Amaka stopped by her basket. ‘Mama, I’m not buying today. Were you here yesterday?’

  ‘Yesterday? I was here. I’m always here.’

  ‘Did you see what happened here?’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘The man they killed.’

  The woman sighed heavily. ‘We saw, my daughter. We all saw. May God forgive his sins.’

  ‘Mama, there was a girl. They were going to do something to her as well. Did you see? Do you know what happened to her?’

  ‘The girl? Who did you say you are again?’

  ‘I was also here. I was trying to help the girl. They hit me on the head with something. Some women protected me from them until the police came.’

  ‘Police? Are you a policewoman?’

  ‘No, I’m not with the police. My name is Amaka. I am an ordinary civilian like you. I just want to know what happened to the girl.’

  ‘The girl? Who is she to you?’

  Amaka became aware of people standing around her. The other traders had come over, and with them stood men in blood-stained clothes. Amaka stood up.

  A stout man in his fifties, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a faded blue polo top, both pieces of clothing stained with brown smears of red, and holding a machete in one hand, asked the woman, ‘Mama, kíni ó bi yín?’ The lady explained that she was asking about the thief killed there yesterday.

  The man said he hoped she hadn’t told her anything. The woman shook her head and answered that she hadn’t.

  The man looked at Amaka while still speaking to the woman. He said Amaka was probably an undercover police detective or a journalist.

  The woman raised her palms and reiterated that she hadn’t said anything.

  ‘Who are you? Wetin you find come?’ the man asked Amaka.

  More men pushed through to the middle of the arc that had now formed around Amaka and the old lady. Most of them were shirtless, their lean, hard muscles glistening under their sweat-oiled skin. A lot of them held machetes.

  ‘Orukọ mi ni Amaka,’ Amaka said.

  ‘Ah, ó Yorùbá o,’ someone exclaimed.

  ‘Why are you disturbing this woman?’ the stout man asked.

  ‘I have explained to mama that I was here yesterday when it happened. I want to know what happened to the girl. She was almost killed along with the thief.’

  ‘There was no girl. We did not see any girl. The police have already questioned us and we told them what I’m telling you, that we had nothing to do with it at all.’

  More young men joined the crowd. Amaka and the old woman were enclosed.

  ‘You did not have anything to do with what happened to the girl?’

  ‘This is how you educated people behave, assuming that because we did not read as much as you, we have no sense in our heads. Why are you trying to put words into my mouth? Or, are you a lawyer? Did I mention any girl? I said we did not have anything to do with the area boys who set fire to the unfortunate boy.’

  ‘You are right, I’m a lawyer, but I am not trying to put words into your mouth. I just want to find the girl.’

  ‘Who are you to her?’

  ‘I do not know her. I only want to know what happened to her. Like I told mama, I was here and I was trying to save her from the area boys when they descended upon me as well. I also want to find the people who helped me, who shielded and saved me from them.’

  A young boy standing next to the man had been studying Amaka’s face.

  ‘She’s the one that was struggling with the area boys,’ he said.

  One by one other people began to recognise her.

  The stout man studied Amaka’s face. ‘It is you?’ he asked, pointing with his machete.

  ‘Yes. I was trying to save the girl,’ Amaka said, staring past his machete into his eyes.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  The younger men got behind Amaka.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Amaka asked.

  Someone pushed her from behind. ‘Just follow us,’ the young boy said when Amaka turned to look at him. His machete was in his hand by his side.

  ‘What is happening? Where are you taking me?’

  No one answered.

  23

  A thirteen-car convoy led and trailed by police vans with screaming sirens stopped in a line between the two rows of cars parked in front of Peace Lodge. Uniformed officers and stone-faced women and men in suits jumped out and looked around at the hitherto peaceful surroundings that their flashing lights and sirens had disturbed.

  Soldiers in bulletproof vests and helmets, guns at the ready, spread out across the road, their backs to Peace Lodge, and scanned the road.

  A woman in a black suit, her hand on the door handle of a black Mercedes S-Class in the middle of the convoy, looked around one last time, then pulled the door open. Other agents in suits gathered round the man who got out and they escorted him to the alre
ady open foot gate to Peace Lodge into which no cars, no matter how important the owner, were ever allowed to enter. Two police officers removed a large aluminium strong box from the boot of a black Land Cruiser in the convoy. The box received the same protection as the man that had preceded it.

  In front of the open entrance to the mansion, Otunba Oluawo stood and waited to receive the VIP who was being led up the long driveway in the cocoon of bodyguards. To Oluawo’s right, Ojo stood holding his hands behind his back, shoulder to shoulder with his close friend, Retired Navy Commodore Shehu Yaya. On Otunba’s left, stood a man in a black agbada, his eyes shielded by dark glasses; what remained visible of his face was stoic, and unsmiling. Other men and women flanked the four in the middle; they were dressed in expensive native outfits, with cowry beads around their wrists and necks. They were party bigwigs and Chiefs of the land.

  The bodyguards and soldiers stood aside and a short man in a starched, sky blue dashiki and a red hat smiled, and with hands stretched out, walked up to Otunba.

  ‘VP,’ Otunba said, taking his hand. The vice president began to prostrate before Otunba, but Otunba put his hands out to stop him. ‘Welcome home. Abuja is really treating you well. Look at your cheeks.’

  ‘Baba, it is not so rosy in FCT. Molade is the only reason the cheeks have not deflated.’

  ‘Are you sure she is the only one cooking for you in Aso Rock?’ Otunba said with a smile on his face.

  The two men laughed at their joke and the onlookers followed suit.

  ‘I brought a message from Mr. President,’ the vice president said.

  ‘It can wait until we are inside. Have you met my son-inlaw?’

  ‘No, I haven’t had the honour till today,’ the vice president said, ‘but I have heard a lot about him.’

  Ojo bowed as he shook hands with the vice president. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, Your Excellency’ the vice president said.

  ‘And Shehu, you know,’ Otunba said.

  The man in the black agbada who had been holding his hand out to shake the vice president’s, stood with his arm still outstretched.

  The vice president and Shehu embraced before slapping their hands together and snapping fingers.

  ‘Old Navy,’ the vice president said, ‘I didn’t know you were in our party.’

  ‘Well, Ojo here is my close friend,’ Shehu said.

  ‘You mean, His Excellency,’ the vice president said. All the men and the women smiled, except the man in the black agbada whose hand had been ignored and who Otunba had not bothered to introduce.

  The strong box was placed on the floor in a bedroom and its bearers left. The vice president, his aide-de-camp, Otunba, Ojo, and Shehu remained.

  ‘Open it,’ Otunba said.

  The agent stooped by the box and unlocked it. She opened the lid all the way back and stood back.

  ‘How much?’ Otunba asked.

  ‘What you asked for,’ the vice president said.

  ‘In that case I take it your boss is happy with our candidate.’

  ‘We cannot afford to lose Lagos,’ the vice president said. ‘He has faith in you to deliver the state.’

  ‘And in my son-in-law?’

  ‘He has absolute faith in your choice.’

  ‘Good. We shall meet you downstairs to make the announcement.’

  ‘What are we doing about the deputy governor?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He didn’t look happy just now. He already asked people to talk to the president.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘He thinks he should be the candidate.’

  ‘The party caucus has decided. I will deal with him if he proves stubborn. Go and wait for me downstairs.’

  The vice president and his aide left.

  ‘Ojo, bring one bundle,’ Otunba said.

  Ojo gathered his agbada and held it to his body, then bent down and retrieved a cellophane-wrapped brick of hundred-dollar bills and handed it to Otunba who tore away the transparent wrapping. Some of the bundles fell on to the rest of the bricks in the box. He handed one bundle back to Ojo, and gave the rest to Shehu who began to arrange the money back in the box as neatly as he could.

  ‘That is for the journalists,’ Otunba said to Ojo who was holding the money in both hands awaiting instructions. ‘They are having lunch in the big dining room. It is important they receive their money before they finish, but you must not be the one to give it to them. Tell Lasaki to put five hundred in one envelope each, then go to the dining room and greet them. Shake hands with each of them, ask them if they are enjoying their meal, if they need anything, if there is anything you can get for them, and if they are comfortable. Then when you leave, Lasaki will enter and give them their envelopes. Do not answer any questions if they ask you. Just smile and tell them to enjoy their meals first.’

  Ojo put the money into his pocket and left. Shehu turned to leave with him.

  ‘You wait,’ Otunba said.

  When Ojo had closed the door behind him, Otunba, looking down at the money, waved his hand over it.

  bí owó ò sí,’ he said. ‘There is no spirit like money. There is enough here to buy private jets, entire estates in Osborne, and still have enough change for hundreds and hundreds of Mercedes cars. And if you stand in front of those things and look at them, you will not feel anything. But when you stand in front of money like this, if your heart is not strong enough you can run mad. That is because of the spirit that lives inside money. Money is power, and yet it is just paper.’

  Shehu had been looking at Otunba the entire time. Otunba turned to him.

  ‘You are his friend. He talks very well of you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You supply girls to your rich friends.’

  ‘No, sir. I run a catering service. I supply ushers.’

  ‘Call it whatever you want to call it. A man like you deserves more than the chicken change they pay you. Do you want inside or outside?’

  ‘I don’t follow, sir.’

  ‘Inside is government position. Outside is government contractor. You know he’s going to be the next governor and all this is mere formality. Our party cannot lose in this state; you have heard it from the VP - that is from the president himself. We have already won. When he enters the government house, what position do you want? Deputy governor is off the table, as are all the juicy commissions, but we can still find something for you. You know, here in Lagos state is the only place in Nigeria that you would find an Igbo man in the cabinet. You are from the north but we can still find you something. You follow now?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t give me your answer now. Go and think about it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘There is one thing I want you to do for me. From now on, wherever he goes, you go. Whatever he hears, you hear. Whatever he sees, you see. You never leave his side. You understand?’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Good. And this is between us.’

  24

  Blood-stained men with machetes surrounded Amaka and led her through the market. They marched her past suits and wedding gowns dangling from hangers, past heaps of second-hand women’s underwear heaped on mats on the ground, past stalls of smoked fish, huge smoked rodents, and wood-shack shops selling car stereos. They marched straight through the crowd and people moved out of their path.

  They arrived at a section where beasts and meat of different cuts were on display on wooden tables criss-crossed with knife marks and stained with blackened blood. The air smelt of butchered beef. Green bottle flies buzzed from table to table.

  The men led Amaka behind the stalls and into a two-storey building with a doorless frame. They took her through a dark corridor that ran the length of the building to a paved backyard that sloped to one side. There, young men in shorts and rolled-up trousers used broomsticks and water from pails to wash coagulated blood into a gutter that was now foaming red. On
the other side there were wooden benches smoothed with use, and metal poles with circular cement weights of varying thickness. The men stopped their work to look at Amaka.

  Benches were brought out and Amaka was led to sit alone on one. The stout man sat on another, facing her, and the men gathered around.

  ‘My name is Ajani,’ the stout man said. ‘I am the president of Oshodi Market Butchers’ Association, chapter 111. You say you are the one who tried to save that girl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you risk your life to save her?’

  ‘She is a woman like me.’

  ‘You mean you did not know her before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I was on my way somewhere when I saw what was happening. I was in my car.’

  ‘OK. The women that surrounded you are from this market. When we got to the road, it was too late to save the boy. Nobody in this market had anything to do with it. Did you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you,’ Amaka said.

  ‘Those area boys are always causing trouble for us. They have given Oshodi a bad name. Look at us; can you say any of us here we are criminals? In this market, we have Ebira people, Edo people, Igbo, Hausa, Yoruba. We even have people from Lomé, and we are all one: no difference among us, no fighting, no palaver. This market is our home. Why would we want any trouble here? But these boys, they keep making problems for us, and now, government that already wants to bulldozer our shops and chase us from this place will use this chance to drive us away, even though our hands are clean in this matter.

  ‘You said you are a lawyer. Before now we have joined hands and contributed money to hire a lawyer to help us stop the government from destroying this market, but we did not know that the man we got is just a lousy somebody who drinks paraga early in the morning before coming to court. He has messed up the whole case for us. Government has given us a date that they will come here with bulldozers and demolish everything. What can you do to help us?’