by Leye Adenle
Amaka’s head broke the surface of the water. She wiped her face, sat up in the bathtub and listened. She reached for the towel on the rack and dried her face and ears. ‘Hello?’ she said. No answer. She waited. She sat back in the bathtub and closed her eyes. The water would soon start getting cold.
His heart racing, a pistol pressed into his back, the gateman walked along the unlit corridor. Moonlight from a window illuminated his path while behind him, four armed men and Area followed, their footsteps silent on the rug.
The gateman stopped at a door and looked at Area. The little gangster’s black trilby was tilted to the left. The pistol dangling by his side looked too big for his little hand.
Area pointed at the door. The gateman nodded. Area waved. The man was led aside, the gun still planted in his back. Two men stood either side of the door and pointed their pistols at it. Area stepped back. Holding his pistol in both hands, he levelled the weapon at the door and nodded. One of the men knocked on the door.
49
Yellowman pulled up under a mango tree by the Lagoon. Illuminated windows dotted the night sky across the water that was dark and still in the night, and across the road the mansions of Oyinkan Abayomi Drive slumbered peacefully behind tall fences topped with electrified wires.
He focused on the black gate two buildings away. The windows of the house behind the fence were dark and the floodlights in the compound were on. He imagined Amaka sleeping. The police officers attached to her ambassador father were oblivious to the danger she was in; oblivious of the man sent to protect her from it, sitting outside in a car, chewing bitter kola nuts to stay awake, ready to take a life to preserve hers.
He split another kola nut in his palms and placed one half on the passenger seat, next to his Uzi and two spare clips. He bit a chunk off the remaining half and his eyes caught a glimmer in the mirror.
Crouching by the fence, one of Area’s men watched through the gap between the fence and the gate, his pistol raised. He strained to see the face of the person in the car that had parked across the road right in front of the building.
Two headlights appeared in the distance behind Yellowman. He kept his eyes on the mirror and picked up his weapon. Watching the car approaching from behind, he cocked the sub-machine gun in his lap.
The police patrol vehicle slowed as it got closer. The officers inside looked at Yellowman’s car. Muzzles of AK-47s peeped out of their windows. Yellowman watched them. They wouldn’t see through his tinted glass. The patrol car continued before stopping a few metres away by the black gate. Keeping his eyes on the car, Yellowman lifted the Uzi from his lap and tucked it under his chair. He did the same with the spare clips from the passenger seat. The police van idled in the middle of the road, emitting dark smoke from its exhaust pipe. Yellowman lifted his shirt and pulled out a Glock 42, pulled back the slide, and tucked the pistol underneath his legs.
The police van stayed in the middle of the road. The engine revved. Black smoke shot out of the exhaust. The engine revved again and the van started moving forward.
Yellowman watched till it had disappeared out of sight. He wound down his window and listened to the diesel engine turn right onto Bourdillon Road, then looked at the house again. Something glinted on the ground in front of the gate.
He tucked his pistol under his shirt and retrieved the Uzi and spare clips. He put a clip into each pocket of his jacket, then checked both ends of the road. He got out of his car, held the weapon under his jacket, and crossed the road.
He kept his eyes on the gate as he crouched down to pick up an empty shell from the ground, and sniff it. He put it into his pocket and searched around him. His eyes fell on a spot in front of the gate. He walked over, crouched again, and touched it. It was wet. He rubbed his fingers together and sniffed them. He pulled out his Uzi and aimed it at the gate, backed up towards his car, got inside without taking his eyes off the gate, and started the engine.
The lookout behind the gate lowered his pistol. He kept close to the ground as he crept towards the house.
50
Amaka’s eyes darted towards the door.
‘Who’s that?’ she said.
The handle turned and it began to open. She sat up in the water, reached for the towel and covered herself. ‘Who’s that?’
Eyitayo entered the bathroom. She was in a blue kimono and she had a bottle of wine and two glasses in her hands. ‘It’s just me,’ she said, using her bum to shut the door behind her. Amaka returned the towel to the rack and sank back into the bathtub.
‘Here,’ Eyitayo said. She handed a glass to Amaka and filled it, then moved the candle from the toilet lid onto the edge of the washbasin and sat.
Another knock on the door.
‘Go away,’ Eyitayo said. ‘Girls talk.’
‘Can I open the door?’ Gabriel said.
‘No. She’s naked.’
‘Shebi, it is bubble bath. I won’t see anything.’
‘No it is not bubble bath and that’s not the point.’
‘OK. I’ll open it and just sit against the wall out here. So we can all talk.’
‘And who told you we want to talk to you?’
Gabriel opened the door. His eyes were covered with one hand, a bottle of Remy Martin wedged under his armpit, and a cup in the other hand.
‘Hey!’ Eyitayo said.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said. He left the door wide open and sat outside on the ground, his back against the wall next to the door.
‘Just say the word and I’ll send him to bed,’ Eyitayo said to Amaka.
‘He’s alright. We’ll let him play,’ Amaka said.
‘He can stay up late?’
‘Yeah. He can stay up late. Just today.’
‘OK. But only today.’
‘Amaka,’ Gabriel said, ‘when last did you hear this?’
‘Hear what?’
‘Hold on.’
Moments later the long instrumental intro to Fela Kuti’s Trouble Sleep Yanga Wake Am began playing from the sound system in the living room. ‘It’s the most chilled out song I’ve ever heard,’ Gabriel said, humming along with the saxophone.
‘Guy called,’ Eyitayo said. ‘I’m sorry, I told him you got your phone back.’
‘I know,’ Amaka said. ‘He called me. It’s alright.’
‘Are you guys going to be OK?’
‘There is no ‘you guys’.’
‘He really likes you,’ Gabriel said from outside.
‘Shut up, nobody asked you,’ Eyitayo said.
‘Just saying,’ Gabriel said.
‘I’m really sorry about Chioma,’ Eyitayo said.
‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I should have told her what I was planning.’
‘He’s not going to implicate himself over the phone now, is he?’
‘I doubt it. I really wish I’d not lost that phone. I had them. All those bastards, I recorded their faces. I’m sure I got his face as well.’
Amaka held her glass out for Eyitayo to refill it, then sat up. Eyitayo backed away to avoid being splashed.
‘Why didn’t I think of that before?’ Amaka said. ‘I know what to do.’
51
Area opened a drawer in Amaka’s bedroom. It was full of underwear. He put his hand inside, felt around and held up a brown thong. He rolled the silk pants into a ball and put it into his pocket. He looked around the room then he hopped onto the bed. He crawled to the top, lay on his back, and crossed his hands under his head on the pillow.
The gateman stood in the open-door frame. From behind, a man pressed a pistol into his back. Another man was getting undressed, pushing his tight jeans down his legs, his shirt already on the ground by his feet.
‘What time is she coming back?’ Area asked the gateman.
‘Oga, I don’t know.’
‘I am not your oga. Did she tell you where she was going?’
‘No, sir. She just left yesterday.’
‘Since then she has not returned?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Stop calling me sir. I am not your oga.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And stop lying to me.’
‘I swear to God, I am not lying to you sir.’
Area nodded at the man behind the gateman. The thug raised his weapon and hit the back of the man’s neck with the gun. The gateman yelled and fell to his knees. The other man at the door was down to his underpants. He bent down and picked up the black trousers he had taken from one of the dead police officers and he held it up by waistband. The belt was still in the loops. Behind him the lookout entered the room.
‘Why did you leave your post?’ Area asked.
‘That one they call Yellowman, him park moto outside, come begin dey search ground. He just leave now.’
52
The doorbell started ringing again. Amaka turned over in bed and moaned into her pillow. She couldn’t understand why Eyitayo or Gabriel wouldn’t get the door. The ringing continued. She groaned as she got up, still dizzy from all the wine they’d had. She couldn’t focus.
The living room lights were off; it was still dark outside, raining and cold. Naked under the T-shirt Gabriel had lent her, she stretched out her hands to find her way to the door. As she opened it, she made a mental note to tell Eyitayo and Gabriel not to leave the key in the lock. Just then she realised she hadn’t asked who it was, but it was too late, they were already pushing the door open.
She froze. The door missed her face by an inch. Cold wind plastered the T-shirt against her body, and there, standing in the dark on the porch, his hair wet against his face, was Guy.
She gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
He stepped inside, dripping onto the carpet, wiping his face.
‘When did you return?’
He stared at her.
‘Look, Guy, you shouldn’t have come. We both know this can’t work. You live in England and I live in Nigeria. Everything happened too quickly and…’
He turned and spoke to someone outside. ‘She’s here. You can come in now.’
As if materialising out of the darkness, Mel walked in through the open door.
‘What? You brought your ex-girlfriend back with you to Nigeria? To me? Why?’
His phone began to ring again.
Amaka woke up. It was dark. She could hear the rain outside. The air conditioner was humming and the room had become too cold. She was on her back. She rolled onto her side and saw the screen on her phone fade to darkness.
She reached across to the bedside table where she had left her mother’s Rolex Datejust. It was just after 6am; she must have passed out the moment her head touched the pillow.
Her phones had been charging next to the watch. She picked up each one in turn, clicking to lighten the screen. On her personal line she had seven missed calls. She sat up and unlocked the phone. She also had an unread message.
She unplugged the phone and sat on the edge of the bed. The missed calls were all from the same number. She hadn’t saved the contact, but she recognised it. It was Ambrose. She checked the time of the calls. The earliest was 1.30am; the last was the one that woke her up.
She stayed a while on the edge of the bed with the phone in her hand, then she shook her head. The unread message. It was from Florentine.
‘Aunty I am in Lagos for a church festival. I have received all your messages. I can come and meet you later if you still want to see me.’
Amaka stood up and read the message again, then she scrolled up to read her own previous messages that Florentine had not replied to, but they were missing on the new phone. She clicked out of the messaging app, sat back on the edge of the bed, stared at the carpet, and tried to think.
53
Someone knocked on the door while Amaka was standing behind it.
‘Whoa, you’re already dressed,’ Gabriel said. She was in new clothes borrowed from Eyitayo. He was in a housecoat and had an iPad in his hand.
‘I’ve got to get somewhere quick,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’
He held the iPad out to her. ‘Someone beat you to it,’ he said.
She took the tablet from him and recognised the header of the gossip blog. She didn’t bother with the story beneath the pictures. The first image was of Ojo laying on a bed, a naked woman on top of him. The second picture was also of him, on a settee, naked, a girl straddling him. The third was similar to the second: same room, same sofa, two additional girls waiting their turns by the sides of the chair. She glanced at the fourth then scrolled up.
‘That’s me,’ Amaka said, her finger on the first picture.
‘What?’ Gabriel looked at the screen.
‘That’s me.’
Gabriel took the iPad.
‘That’s you?’
‘Yes.’
He looked at her chest then back at the screen.
‘Stop it,’ she said.
‘Sorry. Did you send it to her?’ he asked.
‘Did I send a picture of my naked boobs to Gloria Mbanefo? Of course not. I don’t even know her.’
‘So, how did she get it? I know. Maybe the person who stole your bag?’
‘No. But they’re clever, whoever sent this to Gloria Mbanefo.’
‘I’m not following, Amaka.’
She took the iPad from him.
‘That is me.’ She pointed at the first picture. ‘Whoever did this is a genius.’ She scrolled to the fourth picture. ‘I don’t know who that is, but she was not in the room. See what they did? It’s the same picture I sent to his wife but they’ve Photoshopped this girl into it. I bet they’ll release the original pictures from which these other pictures were composed and they’ll easily discredit any further pictures of him that surface.’
‘Wow. You’re right. That is some really clever shit.’
‘So it has begun.’
‘They aren’t playing. This is some serious gangsta chess shit. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to get into bed with this guy. I don’t mean literally. Even though you did get in bed with him.’
‘I know what you mean. And it’s never a good idea to get into bed with a Nigerian man.’
‘Harsh.’
‘But true.’
‘What now?’
‘They’ve fired their first salvo. They did this in anticipation of my next move.’
‘What is your next move?’
‘Better you don’t know. Let’s just say, I’m going to rig the Lagos State elections.’
54
On tiptoes, Amaka and Gabriel approached Chioma’s bedroom. The sound of singing could be heard from behind the closed door. Amaka turned the handle and slowly opened it. Chioma was on her knees on the side of the bed, her back to the door, singing into the sheets. Her head was buried, her elbows deep into the bedding and her hands clasped in prayer. Her shoulders shook visibly. She raised her hands and her face to the heavens and began a heart-stirring rendition of Amazing Grace. The high notes shuddered in her powerful voice as she swayed from side to side, spreading her sorrow across the ceiling, across the room, across the building.
The sun shone in Amaka’s face as she drove to Oshodi market. There were fewer cars than usual. On her way down she had passed parked police vans with officers loitering around them as if they were bored waiting for the riots to start. Their presence seemed to be keeping the riots at bay, and fear of riots was keeping traffic away. She could transverse Lagos freely - in a way that was usually only possible in the dead of night. But now Amaka had the safety of daylight.
She parked on the side of the road and resisted looking at the spot where the fire had curled around Chioma’s brother. She walked into the market, past rows of stalls already laid out, till she got to the butchers’ section and fat flies buzzed around her face. She walked between stalls, behind them, and into the two-storey building that the butchers had taken her to.
Young men with blood smeared on their exposed torsos watched as she walked to the building. The butchers followed a sho
rt distance behind. She walked through the open doorway and down the corridor that led out back.
In the backyard, shirtless young men in shorts and rolled-up trousers were lifting weights, doing squats and bench presses, or assisting others, the sweat they worked up making their lean, muscular bodies glisten in the sun. They put down their barbells – improvised from metal rods and moulded cement discs – and gathered around Amaka.
‘I’m looking for Ajani, your president,’ she said. ‘He told me I should come and see him if I need anything.’
‘We remember you,’ said one young man. ‘Baba Ajani is not in the market today. What do you want?’
‘I need your help to catch the men who killed the brother of the girl you saved yesterday. I saw a lot of people using their phones to record what happened. Perhaps they captured the faces of the people responsible. The police can print the faces in the newspapers and declare them wanted. Nothing will happen to any of you. Nobody will know whose phone I got the pictures from. Baba Ajani told me how none of you had a hand in what happened. He told me how you tried to stop them. How you and the market women saved Chioma and me as well. Please, help me catch them. She could have been your sister. He could have been your brother. If you took any pictures or recorded any videos yesterday, I need them.’
The butchers watched her in silence. Their mates from the stalls had filled the corridor and spilled out onto the backyard as well. Then the young man who had spoken took his hand out of his pocket and looked at his phone. He clicked a few buttons. All around, other men began retrieving their phones and clicking. Then they started to step forward, one at a time, holding up their phones so she could see the pictures they had taken and videos they had recorded.
