by Leye Adenle
The two men returned bundling a slim, young, albino woman who was in her pants and bra. She struggled against their grip. One of the men had his hand over her mouth and the other around her body. The other man tried to keep hold of her ankles but a leg came free and she kicked. He dodged and caught her leg again. From the front seat, Area opened the back door of the station wagon. The men bundled the woman into the car and sat her down. She froze at the sight of Area’s pistol aimed at her head.
‘You couldn’t get her something to cover herself?’ Area said.
The two men looked at each other. One of them let go of the woman’s hand and got out of the car. He crossed the road back to the bungalow.
‘You are Yellowman’s sister?’ Area asked.
The woman did not answer.
‘You don’t remember me? They call me Area. Me and your brother used to play football in Maroko. You were little like this then. You have really grown. See your breasts.’ He reached over the seat and cradled a breast in his small hand.
She spat in his face. He wiped it off with the back of his hand, then he slapped her with the same hand.
‘I don’t want anything with you. This is just business and even your brother will understand. After me and him conclude our deal, I will release you to him and that will be all. In the meantime, you have to learn how to behave yourself and respect your elders.
‘When I give you my phone now, I want you to call him and tell him to come and meet us at the usual place at Tarkwa Bay to discuss business. OK?’
61
Naomi lay awake next to the twins who were still sleeping. She stayed on her back in the king-sized bed and she stared into the mirror that covered the ceiling. This was the first time she had slept in their room. They had taken their client, the tall white man, into this very room. They always worked together - it was what the clients wanted, and it always made Naomi wonder how it made them feel.
Instead of Malik’s ‘someone very important,’ Sisi had brought a Chinese man to Naomi. The short man’s black mask reminded her of Kato, the superhero sidekick, and since they were not allowed to know their client’s names in The Harem, she named him Kato. It always helped to give her clients names. She even had imaginary, parallel conversations with them in which they meet somewhere other than The Harem. It was always she who initiated those conversations, and she always started by introducing herself: ‘Hi, I’m Naomi. The Naomi.’
Throughout the back massage Kato asked for, Naomi kept thinking of her phone tied into a condom, submerged in water in the cistern in her room that the white girls now had. What if one of them tried to flush and checked inside to see why the toilet wasn’t flushing?
The twin on the right pulled the duvet she shared with Naomi to herself, exposing Naomi to the chill of the air conditioner. Naomi pulled it back. If only she could get her phone back. Sisi had a phone but it would be impossible to get her hands on it. She kept staring at herself in the mirror above. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and she lifted the duvet off her naked body.
Nobody in The Harem was up before midday, which was when Malik arrived. Even the workers, the few men in the boys’ quarters behind, never came to the building before then, and when they did it was only when they had been summoned by Sisi to move furniture, repair something, or tidy one of the speciality rooms or communal areas. The girls were responsible for the rooms they used and the large kitchen where they cooked their own meals.
Naomi fetched a T-shirt from her bag and pulled it over her body. She put on her glasses and opened the door, taking care not to make a sound.
The corridor was quiet and dark. She walked on tiptoes to her room where the white girls were and she opened the door. Four girls were in the bed. Another four were on the floor on duvets they had spread on the cold marble. Naomi stepped over the girls to get to the bathroom but it was shut. She looked under the door. No light. She turned the handle and opened the door. She looked behind her. The girls had not stirred. Her heart was racing. She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
The girls had arranged their toiletries all around the sink and on top of the ceramic lid of the cistern. She began to pick objects off of it one by one and place them on the ground by the bathtub until all the perfume bottles, deodorants, cleansers, and wet wipes were lined up on the bath mat.
When she stood upright her back ached. She placed her hands on either side of the lid and lifted but it scratched against the cistern and she stopped. She listened, then continued. She placed the lid on the mat next to the toiletries and dipped her hand into the water. It was icy cold. She felt around with her fingers and touched the phone, removed it, and held it up to the dull light from the window. It didn’t look like water had gotten inside.
‘What is that?’
Naomi turned round, holding up the phone inside a condom. Sisi was standing in the doorway in her black slip, hands on her hips.
62
One of Area’s men reached into the fibreglass boat to help Area climb out. All six men that had returned from Tarkwa Bay walked to their waiting Peugeot. The driver had left the engine running. They dusted sand from the bottoms of their trousers before getting in, and the last man placed a heavy sports bag in the boot; the barrel of a M16 rifle that was too long for the bag poked out from one end.
In silence they drove on the Lekki-Epe Expressway towards Victoria Island. There were hardly any cars on the road.
Police riot vehicles were parked at the tollgate. Officers in riot gear stood between lanes just outside the toll booths, holding their guns in both hands against their bulletproof vests and peering into cars as they drove through raised barriers. A white Honda was parked along the same side as the riot vans. Five young men with their hands raised above their heads were standing by their vehicle while an officer searched in their pockets and another poked around inside their car.
‘Just keep moving,’ Area said to the driver. ‘Slow down but don’t stop.’
The Peugeot rolled through the barrier. An officer with his mesh visor raised over his helmet and his finger on the trigger of his weapon looked into the car. Area, in the front seat next to the driver, looked up at the man. Their eyes met, then the officer looked into the back as the car continued moving.
The Peugeot carried on to Ikoyi, to Dolphin Estate. It stopped in front of 39B Eti-Osa Street. Office of the Street Samaritans.
63
A yellow taxi that was missing all its rear lights, coughed and spluttered black smoke as the driver revved the engine to stop it from dying while the ageing car idled on Ozumba Mbadiwe in front of the gates to Fiki Marina. Ibrahim waited to collect his change before he got out. At the station he had changed into a pair of blue jeans and a black polo top he kept in a drawer in his desk. Once out of the car he stood on the side of the road, his back to the jetty, and tried not to inhale fumes from the taxi as it drove off.
He pulled his sunglasses from the V in his unbuttoned polo-top. Across the road a giant yellow banner hung from the side of one of the towers of Eko Court. To the left, almost overhead, was the flyover to Ikoyi-Akin Adesola Street that everyone called Falomo Bridge. To the right, the smell of the fish market. When he was sixteen he lived with his aunty in Port Harcourt. She was a fish farmer and he was there to learn the trade. After six months of handling fish all day he decided to join the police.
He pulled a cigarette from his pack, put it between his lips and cupped his lighter over his mouth. As he did, he turned to the marina. The tops of boats parked on trailers were visible over the fence. A few metres along it, a beggar in brown rags that looked heavy from accumulated dirt sat across the gutter, his bottom on one side and his feet on the other, straddling stagnant green water below. An aluminium bowl lay by his side and his stick rested across his lap.
A beggar was a strange sight on Ozumba Mbadiwe. Stranger still was a blind one without a seeing child announcing the beggar’s affliction to the hearts of passers-by. Ibrahim walked over to him.
The beggar’s black boots were covered in mud, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses that had white scratches in the middle; the plastic lenses too dark for anyone to see the state of the eyes behind them. Written in capital letters on the brown cardboard hanging from his neck were the words: MAY YOU NOT BE BLIND LIKE ME. His begging bowl was empty.
His eyes on the beggar, Ibrahim removed his wallet and pulled out a one thousand naira note. He held the money in front of the beggar who had not reacted to his presence. The beggar did not reach out for the charity.
Ibrahim stooped. He checked both sides of the road, then, still holding out the note he said, ‘You should have heard me in front of you.’
The beggar remained still.
‘Next time,’ Ibrahim said, ‘say something when someone is in front of you trying to give you money.’
The beggar nodded.
‘Now, take the money,’ Ibrahim said.
The beggar held out his cupped hands straight and steady.
‘Good,’ Ibrahim said. He put the money in the beggar’s hand. ‘I want that back after the operation,’ he said, then he stood up and checked both sides of the road again before walking towards the gates into Fiki Marina.
64
Amaka opened up the engine of her Bora and drove in a straight line right in the middle of Ozumba Mbadiwe. Alex had told her to drive fast.
Her phone buzzed. With one hand on the steering wheel she picked up the phone from her lap, looked at the screen, and pressed down on the brake pedal.
She stopped the car at the side of the road. The two new messages were from ‘Naomi-Harem.’ She opened the first. It was a little map with a red pin in the middle of it. The second read: ‘You are right. Florentine is dead. Come quickly.’
A car pulled up behind her. Amaka looked in the mirror. It was a military van. The door opened and two female soldiers in camouflage gear and helmets, holding their rifles with their fingers on the triggers, walked towards her.
‘Madam, any problem?’ an officer asked.
The soldier’s young face was tiny beneath her net-covered green helmet. She could have been in her twenties – or younger. Amaka smiled at her. She did not smile back.
‘There’s no problem,’ Amaka said.
‘Where are you going today?’
The young soldier looked into the empty seats of the car in turn as she spoke.
‘Is it because of the riots?’ Amaka said. ‘I’m going to Fiki Marina.’
The soldier finished her inspection of the inside of the car then their eyes met.
‘Why did you stop here?’ she asked.
Amaka still had her phone in her hand. ‘I had to take a call. You shouldn’t drive and use the phone.’ She smiled.
‘Have you finished?’ the soldier asked.
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Move along,’ she said.
Amaka watched in the mirror as they returned to their car. The van pulled out. Soldiers in battle gear in the back looked at her as they drove past. She watched till the barrels of their rifles no longer pointed at her.
She called Ibrahim. ‘I have the location of The Harem,’ she said.
‘How? Where are you?’
‘Almost there.’ Her phone beeped with another call. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she said and took the incoming call.
It was Eyitayo. ‘Chioma wants to talk to you,’ she said.
‘Tell her you can’t reach me,’ Amaka said.
‘Yes, that’s correct. Yes, she’s here with me,’ Eyitayo said.
Amaka bit her lip. ‘Is she OK?’ she asked.
‘Yemisi is fine. She’s been asking for her godmother. She wants to tell you something. Anyway, I didn’t know you were driving. Don’t let LASTMA catch you using the phone.’
‘Thanks, Eyitayo,’ Amaka said. ‘Please, look after her till I get back. Tell her I’m taking care of everything.’
‘OK, I understand. What is that? You’ll bring suya from Polo Club when you return? Oh, thank you. That would be nice.’
‘Is that your price? You are cheap.’
‘OK, bye. Be safe, hon.’
‘Thanks Eyitayo.’
65
From his seat under one of the octagonal gazebos, a warm, untouched bottle of Star on the table in front of him, Ibrahim watched river taxis come and go, passengers alighting onto wooden docks next to anchored boats, and staff helping them out of their orange lifejackets. At the next gazebo, close to the bar overlooking the lagoon, a group of noisy passengers already in lifejackets were talking their way through doughnuts, meat pies, scotch eggs, and bottles of mineral water. Among them was a woman. She rolled up a large map, tucked it into her black backpack and placed the bag on the ground near their table. It was to her that a member of staff who had come to enquire about their journey had spoken, but one of the men in her party answered loudly enough for Ibrahim and others to hear: ‘We are still waiting for our friend.’
Ibrahim checked the time on his watch before placing his phone on the table. The same white speedboat with four men inside had just returned, this time heading east. He had timed their passage. In exactly five minutes their engine would roar past again.
Ibrahim held up his hand and waved. Amaka peered at him over her sunshades. At the table she took off the glasses.
‘Where is Alex?’ Amaka said looking around. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘We wait.’ There was some time to go before 3 o’clock.
‘I know where The Harem is,’ Amaka said.
‘You said so. How?’
Amaka unlocked her phone, opened up the message from Naomi, and showed it to Ibrahim. ‘That’s the location.’
Ibrahim read the message under the map.
‘Who is this?’
‘Someone who works at The Harem. She knew Florentine. I went to see her last night after leaving your place. She smuggled her phone there.’
‘Yesterday?’
‘Yes. I’d tried to get her to do it before, but she was afraid of what Malik would do to her if she got caught.’
‘And now she’s suddenly happy to help?’
‘I know you’re thinking it’s too good to be true, but I spoke to her. I looked into her eyes. She was at breaking point. She wants out.’
‘What changed between when you first spoke to her and now? You don’t think this is a trap?’
‘I asked myself the same thing. But if he has already set one trap for me, why would he bother with another? See what she wrote. She just confirmed Florentine is dead. That’s what she found out that made her change her mind.’
He tapped on the map to expand it. ‘This location is closer to Ibadan than Lagos.’
‘Yes. And it’s way, way off the express, just like Florentine described. I’ve got my tablet. We can check it out on Google Maps.’
‘One thing at a time,’ Ibrahim said.
The woman sitting with the men at the next gazebo had been looking at Ibrahim and Amaka from time to time. She reached down and pulled out her rolled-up map from her bag, tapped the man sitting next to her on his back as she stood up, then walked towards Amaka and Ibrahim. She stood in front of their table with the map stretched out in her hand.
‘Can you help me with a location?’ she asked.
Ibrahim moved his untouched bottle of Star out of the way and the woman spread the world map out on the table. Her finger was bent over the Horn of Africa.
‘Amaka, look here,’ Ibrahim said, his finger on the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
‘This is police superintendent Fatima Alao,’ he said. ‘Don’t look up; they might be watching us. Leave your car keys on the table and come with me.’
Amaka looked at the woman who was still staring at the map.
‘Where are we going?’ Amaka asked.
‘For a boat ride. Fatima is trained in defensive driving. When they make contact, she will pretend to receive the call, in case they’re watching. Once we spot them we’ll move in to apprehend them and she’ll m
anoeuvre out of harm’s way.’
‘There won’t be a call,’ Amaka said, ‘Florentine is dead, remember? It’ll be a message.’
Fatima spoke without looking up. ‘That won’t be a problem.’ Her voice was soft. She had dark skin like Amaka; they were about the same height – perhaps Amaka was taller.
Amaka looked at Ibrahim.
‘Keys, on table,’ he said. ‘Please.’
66
Ibrahim stood up and held his hand out for Amaka. He led her past the gazebos, past the outdoor bar, down the jetty and the moored boats, to a grey boat with NNS 455 painted on its bow. It was larger than most of the other boats including the Fiki Express boat taxis.
Ibrahim got on board at the stern. Holding the railing, he stretched his hand out to Amaka but she ignored it and climbed aboard the way he had. Ibrahim opened the cabin door and stood aside. Amaka bent down and looked into the belly of the vessel. Even from the deck she could hear the whirring of computer fans. She descended the steep, narrow steps into the cabin. There were four men inside. Two had their backs to her. They were hunched over laptops on a shelf that ran along one wall. Between them there was a foot-wide, white drone on top of a black, heavy-duty box.
Alex was at the back, sitting on a narrow bed. He nodded at Amaka. Next to him was a man in a brown Ankara, arms folded across his chest, giving a toothy grin. Amaka recognised him even out of uniform. It was Sergeant Hot-Temper. She looked for his weapon. An old AK-47 with a folded metal stock was resting on the floor of the cabin and leaning against his thigh.
