When Trouble Sleeps

by Leye Adenle

  ‘You said there is still one box?’

  ‘’Is inside the car.’

  ‘Bring it.’

  Sule left. Ambrose and Babalola stared at each other.

  Otunba Oluawo was alone in the middle of his sofa. Everyone in the large parlour of Peace Lodge was on their feet, shaking hands, embracing, rubbing their hands in thanks to the Christian and Muslim God and to the several other gods they had prayed to and made sacrifices to. They clapped with each new set of results that came in through text messages and phone calls. Ojo was in the middle of the jubilant crowd. Shehu stood next to him. Declarations of ‘His Excellency,’ and ‘My Governor,’ preceded every handshake slapped onto Ojo’s palm by people who seemed to think it important to seize his forearm before shaking hands with him.

  Alone on his sofa, Otunba scribbled in a little notebook. A man in white buba and sokoto came up to him and told him the results of yet another ward. Otunba wrote the new figure in his notepad and looked up. In the room full of celebrations, he was the only person not celebrating.

  Sule returned carrying the INEC ballot box high over his head. Everybody watched. Sule placed the box down at Ambrose’s feet.

  ‘Open it,’ Ambrose said.

  Sule bent down, broke the INEC seal and flipped the lid over. The box was stuffed to the brim with folded ballot papers. Ambrose gestured. Sule grabbed a handful in his large palms and held them up.

  The men and women watched as Ambrose went through the papers.

  Still holding one in his hand, he looked up. ‘Where is she?’ he said. ‘Where is Amaka?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sule said.

  ‘What is the matter?’ Babalola asked. Ambrose handed him the ballot paper in his hand and took another from a new handful Sule had fetched.

  Ambrose fell to his knees behind the ballot box and began picking ballot paper after ballot paper, unfolding them and scanning them before flinging them away. Faster and faster he went through the ballot papers, his face contorting more and more. He looked up. Sule retreated.

  ‘Where is she? Who is watching her? Find her. Find her now!’

  109

  The departure hall of Murtala Muhammad International airport was full and the air-conditioning inadequate. A tall, stocky man with deep-set eyes, in the brown agbada and walking with a limp, moved through the crowd of passengers and their families. He got close to the rope barrier separating the crowd from the Air France passengers. He could have moved even closer but he would risk being spotted. He had seen her once at the house; perhaps she had seen him too and she could recognise him.

  Amaka checked the time as she leaned out of the Air France queue. There were at least forty people ahead of her, and there appeared to be two lines side-by-side heading to the same place. The official passport checks seemed to be taking longer with each sweaty, impatient traveller. There was nobody in the priority check-in section. She stepped out of the line and headed that way.

  ‘Ticket and passport, please,’ an Air France official asked. Amaka showed the man her phone screen. He squinted then looked up. ‘This line is for upper class,’ he said.

  Amaka nodded and remained where she was.

  ‘Your ticket is economy,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Amaka said. She began searching in her handbag.

  ‘Madam,’ the man said.

  Amaka retrieved a white envelope from her bag. She held it long enough for him to see the Nigerian coat of arms on it, then she removed the piece of paper inside.

  ‘It’s from the Nigerian Foreign Ministry,’ she said. ‘It says anyone reading it must treat me the same as they would diplomatic staff.’

  The man turned his head, trying to read the letter.

  ‘Can you let me through now?’ she said. ‘I need to do some shopping for my boss in duty-free.’

  The man reached for the letter just as Amaka folded it and returned it to the envelope.

  ‘Can I see your passport?’ he asked, holding out his hand.

  Amaka looked in her handbag again and produced a letter from yet another envelope. ‘Emergency travel documents,’ she said.

  ‘Please, wait,’ he said and turned to his colleague.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Amaka asked.

  ‘Please, madam,’ the man said, ‘just exercise patience.’

  ‘I will if you tell me how to.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What am I waiting for?’ She checked the time and looked around at the crowd. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed.

  Ambrose stood up, clutches of ballot papers in his hands. He opened his fingers and let the pieces of paper fall to the ground. ‘They are all for the other party,’ he said. ‘Every last one of them.’

  Sule looked at the remaining ballot papers in his own hand then he also opened one up. Other people were picking up ballot papers from the floor, inspecting them, and passing them around. Everybody looked shocked or confused. Babalola looked constipated.

  ‘What does this mean?’ Babalola asked, holding a ballot paper in his hand.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Ambrose said. Both men looked at each other and said nothing. ‘She was working for them,’ someone said.

  Ambrose turned to Sule. ‘What was the count at Ilupeju again?’

  Sule retrieved his phone from his trousers and began clicking away at its screen.

  ‘Show me,’ Ambrose said. ‘You have the rest?’

  Sule nodded. He scrolled down and handed the phone to Ambrose. The lights went out. In the darkness of the power failure, the glow from the phone in Ambrose’s hand illuminated his face, and as he scrolled, the deep furrows of his frown smoothed out until his face went blank. His party had lost almost every ward. The corners of his lips began to curl. His frown became a grin and then he broke into uncontrollable laughter.

  ‘He has gone mad,’ a young party member in a campaign T-shirt whispered to his mate next to him.

  Meanwhile, in the jubilant parlour in Peace Lodge, the man in white returned to Otunba with more results. He smiled as he announced the numbers of yet another ward won, then he stood and read the results to the rest of the room while Otunba wrote in his notebook.

  Otunba looked up at the jubilant crowd and shifted in his chair. He looked at his book again, then he looked up. His eyes began to bulge with panic. He struggled to get up. The man in white lent him a hand. As he stood from the sofa, the notebook and the pen fell from his hands. A sharp pain shot up his left hand. He grabbed his chest. The man in white tried to catch the old man. Otunba’s head shot upwards and his entire body curved outwards. The man in white thrust his hands around the old man. Otunba fell, still gripping his chest.

  The man in the brown agbada moved closer to Amaka. He edged his way to stand next to the rope barrier. He half turned his body away and pretended to search on his phone as he listened. She was causing trouble. It could make things easier or worse for him, depending on what he was asked to do. His phone vibrated. He brought it up to his ear and cupped his hand over his mouth.

  ‘Madam, what seems to be the problem?’ a different Air France staff member asked Amaka.

  ‘None, whatsoever,’ Amaka said, smiling. ‘The gentleman is just making sure my emergency travel documents are genuine. He’s just doing his job.’

  The man took the papers from his colleague. ‘What about your ticket?’ he said.

  Amaka fetched her phone, opened up the e-ticket and held the phone up for the man to see.

  ‘I tried to check-in online but…’

  ‘You won’t be able to do it unless you have a passport.’

  He looked at the phone again, scanning through the screen, then he returned to the documents in his hands. ‘You lost your passport?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Along with phones, money, everything in my handbag. They broke into my car.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, madam,’ he said, gesturing to his colleague to let Amaka through.

  The man unhooked the rope barrier. As Amaka stepped
through, she felt compelled to look behind her. On the other side of the rope barrier, a square-headed man in a brown agbada was staring at her. His phone was pressed to his ear. She hurried towards the only free counter, but a family beat her to it. She looked back and scanned the hall. The square-headed man was gone.

  Sule lowered the phone from his ear.

  ‘She’s at the airport,’ he said. ‘Samson is looking at her now. What do you want him to do?’

  Ambrose patted his chest to stop himself laughing, wiping tears from his face with his thumb.

  ‘Where is she going?’

  Sule relayed the question into his phone, then took the phone away from his ear again.

  ‘She’s checking in at the Air France counter. Should Samson tell customs that he has information she’s carrying cocaine in her bag?’

  The woman at the check-in counter next to Amaka placed her check-in luggage on the conveyor. Behind her, a man at the economy class queue was already stepping forward. The couple ahead of Amaka had several bags. She stepped out and stood behind the woman whose bag was being weighed.

  ‘Madam, your ticket and passport.’

  Amaka handed over her emergency travel document then unlocked her phone and presented it to the woman behind the counter.

  ‘Please place your luggage on the belt,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t have any. Only my handbag.’

  The woman looked confused. She looked at Amaka’s documents again, then to her right to catch the attention of a colleague.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Amaka asked.

  ‘No, ma,’ the lady said. She printed out a boarding pass and handed it to her. ‘Enjoy your flight.’

  110

  The man next to Amaka in her aisle seat had his head against the window, his face turned upwards, mouth open, and his eyes shut. He could be a snorer, she thought.

  She looked over the seat in front of her. A female cabin crew member was shutting the door. The seat between Amaka and the man was still empty. She moved her handbag from her lap onto the spare seat and fastened her belt.

  She slipped her hand in through the neck of her shirt and pulled out the election observer card on the lanyard around her neck, pulled it over her head, wound it round the card and tucked it behind the airline magazines in the seat pocket in front. The man beside her let out a solitary snore. She checked the time. The aircraft should have begun moving. Why was it taking so long?

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign. If you haven’t already done so, please stow your carry-on luggage underneath the seat in front of you or in an overhead bin…’

  Amaka heard her phone vibrating in her bag. She fetched it but didn’t answer. Seventeen missed calls, all from an unknown number. The phone began to ring again. This time it was Ambrose. She held her breath and she answered.

  ‘Hello, Amaka, thank you for taking my call.’

  She did not reply.

  ‘Amaka, are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  She took her time to respond. ‘Would you have allowed me?’

  ‘No, no. You’re right, I wouldn’t have.’

  Silence. In the background she heard other voices. Ambrose continued: ‘Tell me, our people that were picked up by the DSS, was that you?’

  ‘Yes. But only enough to make a difference.’

  ‘You are one smart lady. I’m so glad you’re on our side. I just got word that Otunba has been rushed to the hospital. It sounds like a heart attack.’

  ‘He knows?’

  ‘I’m not sure he suspects it was us. He’ll probably blame his own over-zealous boys, but he knows the consequences anyway. The numbers are still coming in. Already they have won by double the number of registered voters in the entire Lagos state.’ Ambrose laughed. ‘It is pure genius.’

  ‘And without their votes, we had more than 250 votes in the majority of the wards?’ Amaka asked.

  ‘Yes. By the looks of it, without their votes, we have won. It is pure genius. Tell me, when did you get the idea to do this?’

  Amaka cupped her hand over her mouth and checked on the man fast asleep next to her. ‘When you told me that each ward only has 500 registered voters.’

  ‘You were listening.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Well, one of three things. Either INEC declares the elections void, or they disqualify them and we win. Unlikely. Or they declare them winners and we go to tribunal and prove they rigged. A rerun is the most likely outcome. You know, from our calculations, we would have lost even if you didn’t do what you did. Now we are in a strong position. And it is still possible that they will go to court to challenge us and INEC.’

  ‘Not if you call Ojo and tell him you have seen videos of him having sex with underage girls.’

  ‘So the videos are real.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he doesn’t know you no longer have them. Amaka, I have one word for you. Genius. You are a genius. Who else would have thought of that? Rigging the election for your opponent? I will lean on my contacts close to the INEC chairman to guarantee a favourable outcome for us. INEC will secretly talk to them, but with this information, Ojo will have to agree.

  ‘Amaka, for the first time it is really looking possible that we have won this thing. You could just have got a governor of Lagos elected. I doff my hat to you.’

  An air hostess stopped by Amaka. ‘Madam, please can I put your bag away?’

  ‘I have to go now,’ Amaka said to Ambrose.

  ‘I know. You’re running away to London. When will you be back?’

  ‘You had me followed.’

  ‘You also have to switch off your phone now,’ the hostess said.

  Amaka nodded. ‘I’ll call you when I land,’ she said and powered down her phone. She placed her bag on the floor and pushed it under the seat in front of her with her foot.

  When the hostess had moved on, Amaka leaned forward and tried to reach her handbag. She unclasped her seatbelt and fetched the bag from under the seat in front. She pulled out her phone again, switched it on and checked on the position of the cabin crew. She shut her eyes.

  ‘Hello? Guy, it’s me, Amaka. I’m on a flight to London. Do you think we can start over again?’

  The End

  Acknowledgements

  Very special thanks to Andy Russell, Naomi Beckett, Ojoma Ochai, Jide Olaniyan, Osaretin Guobadia, Mike Timbers, Bisi Ilaka, Sibilla Woods, Gabriel Gbadamosi, Ben and Adeola, Ali, Lise Belperron, Sofia Alexandrache, Steve Willis, Túbọsún, Boma Tamuno, Bibi Bakare-Yusuf, Jeremy Weate, Emma Shercliff, David Fauquemberg, Lula Verki, Ayo Onatade, Sophie Goodfellow, the lovely people at Daily Goods, Lumberjack, Mono, and Maloko - all great cafés in Camberwell, and Alex Hannaford.

  Transforming a manuscript into the book you are now reading is a team effort. Cassava Republic Press would like to thank everyone who helped in the production of When Trouble Sleeps:

  Editorial Design & Production

  Alex Hannaford Michael Salu

  Bibi Bakare-Yusuf AI’s Fingers

  Layla Mohamed

  Sales & Marketing Publicity

  Emma Shercliff Emeka Nwankwo

  Kofo Okunola Lynette Lisk

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