by Andrew Brown
Ifasen walked towards the stationary vehicle. The driver’s automatic window slid down and Ifasen felt a waft of cool air from the air-conditioned interior. Loud music belted out, the fast-paced base and frenetic high-pitched squeals making the air vibrate. A pair of playing dice hung from the rear-view mirror. The man leant forward and turned the volume down slightly. The tip of a tattoo showed on the back of his neck. His light hair was shaved close to his head along the sides, showing the whiteness of his scalp, but the top and fringe were floppy. He was well built, his defined chest and biceps pushing against the fabric of his shirt, and there was a disdainful confidence in the way he looked Ifasen up and down.
‘So, my man, how are you?’ the driver asked, hardly looking at him.
‘I am fine, thank you. Can I sell you one of these mobiles? They are only fifteen rand.’ Ifasen doubted that the driver was a potential customer but he nevertheless held up the hanger so that the cut-outs flicked around in the sunlight. The man did not look at them but kept staring in front of him. His face was hard and wary, making Ifasen nervous.
A long pause ensued before the man spoke again: ‘So you got any powder for me, my man?’
Ifasen heard him clearly, but he still responded in confusion: ‘Sorry, what did you say? What did you ask me?’ There was a buzzing sound in his ears. His arm, holding the mobiles up, felt weak but he kept the hanger at chest height, the feather-light pictures forming a kind of twirling barrier between them.
The man turned to him, his forehead crumpled in an annoyed frown and his eyes dark. ‘Cocaine. I said: have you got any powder for me. I am looking for cocaine. But I’ll take anything else you’ve got. Just tell me what you’ve got, okay?’
Ifasen let his mobile drop to his side. ‘I am sorry,’ he said in a strained voice. ‘But I don’t sell that … I sell these mobiles. They are fifteen rand each if you would like one. I sell these mobiles.’ He knew that he was repeating himself, but he couldn’t think of any other response.
‘Crap, man!’ The driver’s shoulder muscles tightened and stood out at the base of his neck. ‘Don’t talk crap to me. I know you’ve got some. I’m not the cops, okay, so you don’t have to play silly buggers. You’re Nigerian, right?’
Ifasen did not respond.
‘Nigerian? Yes? Well, fuck, anyone can see you are. And here you are wearing Nike shoes while you sell crappy little plastic shit on the side of the road. So don’t fuck me around; we all know what you’re doing. So just tell me what you’ve got.’
Ifasen looked down at his thin-soled shoes. ‘I don’t sell drugs,’ he said, lowering his voice. He turned away to leave, his eyes searching for his companions. The intersection was deserted.
‘No, no, no, my boy. Don’t walk away from me, china. Fucking come back here until I’m finished talking to you, okay?’
Ifasen felt his anger rise, and the skin on the sides of his neck tickled. He stopped and turned back, but kept his distance from the car. ‘Look, sir …’ He knew that his jaw was sticking out haughtily, that his shoulders had pushed back, but he couldn’t help it. ‘I don’t know who you think I am. But you’ve got the wrong man.’ He held the man’s stare as he hissed: ‘I am from the country of Nigeria. I don’t sell drugs.’ With that, he walked stiffly around the long bonnet of the car and onto the grass verge.
Ifasen heard the car door slam behind him, but he kept his back turned. He laid the delicate mobile out on the ground in front of him and bent over to untangle the knotted threads. For a few moments it was quiet as he went about his work. Then the man’s large boots appeared in his view, stopping in front of him. The left foot stepped forward and pressed down on the top strut of the mobile. Ifasen noticed how the man’s laces had been tied in a double knot and folded neatly back; for some reason the meticulousness of the knot was threatening. The man shifted his weight, slowly crushing the strut into the ground until it snapped. Ifasen stood up, his fists clenched in fury.
‘Listen, fucker,’ the man hissed. ‘I know about your drugs and your scams. I know you’ve fucking got some, so stop messing with me.’
‘Leave me alone!’ Ifasen roared back. He felt light-headed and nauseous. He wondered whether he was dehydrated. ‘Just go away and leave me alone! I haven’t asked you for anything. I didn’t ask you to stop here. Just get back in your car and go!’
Ifasen made the mistake of putting out his hand to persuade the man to step off the mobile. He did not intend to make contact, just to direct him backwards. His hand hovered briefly between them. Then, before he could say anything more, the man grabbed his arm. He twisted it viciously, sending a searing pain across Ifasen’s shoulder joint and forcing him to drop to one knee with a gasp. The gravel grated his skin through the fabric of his trousers. The man’s knee crashed into the small of his back, centred and just below the tip of his shoulder blades. The air left Ifasen’s chest with a rush. It felt as if his lungs had flattened and would never be able to open again. He cried out in pain and tried to stand up, but his head had filled with a dark fog.
‘I’m going to fucking kill you, you fucker!’ the man screamed at him, his mouth close to Ifasen’s ear, now wet with spittle. ‘I’m going to rip your balls off and shove them down your throat until you choke.’
Tears formed in Ifasen’s eyes and his chest heaved. He sucked the air in in tiny mouthfuls, like he was sipping water. He couldn’t seem to force the air down from his throat into his burning lungs and he thought he might black out. The man was still shouting abuse in his ear, hissing and popping like a wildfire. Ifasen couldn’t understand why the man didn’t loosen his grip; he must see that his opponent was weak with exhaustion and no threat to him. Perhaps he means to kill me, he thought. Blurry spots started to play across the ground in front of him.
The brief howl of a siren and the slamming of doors filled the air. The man unexpectedly released his grip, and Ifasen collapsed onto his side, lying on top of the plastic hanger and mobiles. He could see that the strings were all twisted now and he wondered whether he would be able to fix the strut and restring the mobile. Before he could roll off it, a pair of hands grabbed hold of him and lifted him to his feet. He stayed half-bowed over, one hand holding his chest as he wheezed.
Two policemen looked down at him without sympathy. One was tall and well built and pulled Ifasen’s arms behind his back with ease. Ifasen felt the handcuffs grip closed, tight on his wrists. He started to explain what had happened, talking in breathless spurts.
‘Shut up!’ the tall policeman said.
The driver of the BMW was talking animatedly to the other policeman: ‘I wanted to buy a mobile for my niece so I stopped. But he offered me drugs instead. He said the mobile wasn’t for sale. That he only sells drugs. He asked me what I wanted. When I told him I just wanted the mobile he started swearing at me. He was abusive, you know? Then he tried to punch me. I thought he was going to damage my car. So I got out and just got hold of him to calm him down, you know? And that’s when you guys came along.’
‘Did he show you any drugs, sir?’
‘Yes … no, no,’ the BMW driver said, lighting a cigarette. ‘He said he kept them stashed here nearby. But he didn’t say where. But he was woes, you know? Like he was high on something already. I just couldn’t talk to the guy.’
‘Okay, sir, I’ll need you to come down to the station and give us a statement. You can drive behind us and follow us.’ He shouted something in Xhosa to the policeman holding Ifasen.
The man nodded in reply. He pulled Ifasen up straight, prodding him on the chest with his finger. ‘So where’re the drugs? Come on, just show them to us and maybe we can sort this out. Where are you keeping them?’
‘Please,’ Ifasen blurted out, summoning up his strength and suddenly aware of the danger of his situation. His anger had been replaced by a cold anxiety. ‘Please …’ He battled to find the breath to talk. ‘I don’t sell drugs … I have never sold drugs. I never will. I was a schoolteacher in my home country. Now I sell the
se plastic toys. That’s all I do. Please.’
‘No, that’s not right,’ the tall one said, without looking at him. ‘The gentleman here says you tried to sell him drugs. He is a citizen of this country. I am a police officer, employed to protect the citizens of our country.’ He paused, pinching Ifasen’s ear lobe and twisting it. ‘You, on the other hand, don’t even belong here. So now, you think I must just tell this man that I think he is lying and that I believe you instead. Is that what you think is going to happen?’ The policeman’s voice suddenly hardened and he slapped Ifasen on the side of his head with a flat hand. ‘You think I’m stupid?’
Through the whining noise in his ears, Ifasen heard the door at the back of the van screech on its hinges. It banged against the metal sides. There was something unambiguous about the sound. It reminded Ifasen of the army jeeps in Obuja, the way the doors slammed, metal on metal, as the soldiers jumped out with their rifles. Now the tall policeman took hold of his shoulder and pulled him towards the side of the van. Once there, he shoved him against the hot-plated side, pushing his face and chest against the metal. The man’s hands smacked against Ifasen’s legs and into his crotch as he searched him. Thick fingers pushed into his trouser pockets and his wallet was emptied onto the front of the car. Ifasen watched in dismay as his bus ticket flew away in the breeze, skipping playfully across the surface of the tar. A small photograph of Khalifah slid down the bonnet and out of sight. The policeman pulled out a few notes and pocketed them before tossing the wallet back to him.
‘In the back,’ he said.
Ifasen looked at him in disbelief, shaking his head. ‘I can’t …’ he mumbled. The toe of the policeman’s boot caught him just behind the knee, whipping his leg out from under him and sending him sprawling onto the tar. Pricks of blood welled up from a graze along the length of his forearm. The tar smelt of gearbox oil and old diesel.
‘I didn’t ask whether you’d like to. I said get in the back of the fucking van.’ He looked at the other policeman for support.
‘Otherwise we’ll add resisting arrest to your list of drug-dealing charges,’ the smaller of the two added.
Ifasen clambered to his feet and was immediately propelled by the two policemen into the confined space of the holding section of the van. A spare tyre rested against the bare metal bench. The door clanged shut and he heard the locks being pushed into place.
SIX
‘HELLO, MY NAME is Abayomi. Please come inside.’ She paused, smiling openly and touching the sleeve of Richard’s cotton shirt. ‘I am the pleasure of Africa.’ She closed the door behind him and the noise of the street was cut short, disturbed only by the occasional muffled tremble of a passing car. There was no sign of a reception area. The interior of the building had all the appearance of a carefully furnished home.
‘Welcome to Touch of Africa. My name means “one who is born to bring joy”. Please come with me.’
Richard concentrated on her lips, the way the firm outline of her mouth creased as she spoke, dropping soft, warm sounds into his chest. Something human and meaningful seemed to fill his torso, as if her simple words were a sermon of great profundity. He could not be sure she was the same woman who had answered the telephone when he had called to make an appointment. The telephone had conveyed none of her sultry vowels and padded consonants.
He let his eyes travel briefly across her features. Her chocolate-smooth cheeks and the sweep of her nose gave her face a clean, full look. He could not bring himself to look into her eyes, aware of the intensity of her gaze. She turned, dropping her fingers lightly into his hand. Her back swayed as she sashayed down the passage in front of him, trailing her hand behind her like a fisherman’s float behind a boat. Her bare feet left no mark on the hessian weave. She was about his height, but somehow she glided across the surface of the floor. He was aware of his big shoes clomping behind her and felt annoyed at his discomfort, at his ungainly self. He seemed to take up so much space in the passage. He wondered whether he should take off his shoes first, worried that he might be marking the crisp carpet. The walls were a light-brown Cretestone, as if the house had been cut out of soft earth, burying into the mountainside. The air was still and warm, filled with scents of cedarwood and musk. A haunting melody played from hidden speakers, a low bass hand drum mixed with African lyrics. The sound made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The front door had opened into a hallway, bedecked with African and Indonesian masks with hollow eyes and sallow cheeks. The scraggly hair stuck out at angles. The house was still and they appeared to be alone. The sense that he was in the woman’s home calmed him a little.
She led him straight up a steep staircase from the hallway, her bare legs enticingly close to his face as he followed her up the wooden steps, rounded from years of use. He watched her calves flex and relax as she took the steps one at a time. At the top of the stairs a short passage stretched away from them, with one door on either side. The entrances stood open and she directed him into a compact room on the left. The light was dim, the bulb encased in a woven shade that cast dappled shadows across the walls. The room was impeccably neat and refined. There were a few choice artefacts positioned on a shelf, but it was still uncluttered and clean. A massage table covered in beige towels filled the centre of the space, and a leather sofa stretched across one end of the room.
Richard turned to look at the woman properly for the first time. She was stunningly beautiful. Her expression was open and warm, as if she knew him and was genuinely pleased that he was there. It was quite unnerving. Her eyes were large and defined by strong black lashes. She was wearing a simple wrap-around garment; it was not anything he had seen before. The dark material looked slightly coarse, like muslin, but still comfortable. It draped around her like a kikoi, leaving her shoulders bare. The fabric stopped just below her hips, where the smooth skin of her thighs gleamed.
‘This is your first time here, yes?’ Her words had a soft lilt, suggestive of a European accent, perhaps French. But the words were perfectly formed, round and whole sounds falling through the air. She touched him again, keeping a bond of human contact between them. Richard felt a warm glow pass across his stomach. ‘A friend recommended you here, yah?’
‘That’s right,’ he replied to both questions. Her eyes did not leave his and he smiled back nervously.
‘That will be a thousand rand.’
She said it so pleasantly that he was confused for a moment. It was said so openly, it was as if she had said something quite different, perhaps made a comment about the temperature of the room or the colour of his shirt.
‘Of course,’ he replied after a pause, fumbling in his pocket and bringing out a folded white envelope containing a wad of notes. The woman on the phone had told him the price when he had made the appointment; it seemed expensive but he had no basis for comparison and there was no one whose opinion he could ask. He had counted the notes out several times before leaving the office, but still worried that he had not included the right amount. He handed the envelope to her, suddenly feeling a surge of embarrassment. The suspicion that he had somehow got it wrong plagued him; he worried that she would be deeply offended by his expectation and accuse him of chauvinism, or worse.
But the woman was unfazed and thanked him politely, as if he had done her a chivalrous favour. Then she added: ‘Please remember that you cannot touch me; only I touch you.’ She paused and looked at him directly, holding him melted in her gaze, before continuing: ‘Until we know each other better, anyway.’ It was obvious and bawdy, a hook thrown out to catch him. And yet the startling allusion to the future was thrilling.
Richard nodded, as if touching her was the furthest thing from his mind. The woman on the telephone – he still wondered whether it was her – had advised him: ‘Please remember this is a professional massage. There is no sex.’ It seemed like a strange and premature admonishment. But he was grateful nonetheless; the clear boundaries made him feel more comfortable. Without that qualification, her familia
rity might have unsettled him. Instead he felt something hum inside him with delight.
‘Would you like a shower to warm up first?’ She held eye contact unashamedly. The simple question seemed impossibly loaded. Richard imagined that, as a lover, she would hold her partner’s gaze even as she climaxed. The thought was intimidating, not just that she must have a real lover, but that she would be satisfied by him. He hesitated, again confused by the conversational tone in her voice, and the alluring reference to temperature rather than hygiene.
‘Yes please, great,’ he answered meekly. She smiled again, as if at a compliant child, and handed him a clean towel from a pile resting on the massage table.
‘I will show you where it is. Please undress first, and I will take you. Take everything off, yes?’ She left the room, like a cat curling away from the firelight.
Richard undressed, nervously folding his trousers and positioning his jacket and shirt on the hanger behind the door. He put his socks in his shoes and dropped his underpants on top. They lay crumpled, looking at him accusingly, so he picked them up again and stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket. There was something comical about his clothing lying on the floor of this strange room, the corner of his blue underpants peeking out of his jacket pocket. He stood naked, unsure about what to do with his hands. The strange music continued, the lyrical voice lapping against the acoustic background. He rubbed his palms on his thighs, looking around the room for guidance. Then he heard a noise outside the room and the door opened. He stood exposed before her, trying to push his shoulders back to accentuate his upper torso rather than his untoned stomach. His heart was racing, but she smiled again, looking directly into his eyes, completely at ease. He felt his chest ease and warm towards her. He wrapped the towel around his waist and she led him to the end of the passage. The music was softer in the passage, which was otherwise still. The thought of being alone in the building with her provoked a nervous conspiratorial grin.
