by Leye Adenle
‘OK,’ I said.
‘Good.’
His phone rang. He checked who was calling and told everyone to be quiet. All eyes were on him. He answered the call.
‘Hello, sir,’ he said.
In seconds, his face dropped and a frown formed. When the call was over, he looked scary. When he spoke, he sounded dangerous.
‘Everybody, clear out,’ he said.
Everybody began to leave. I followed them.
‘Not you.’
I turned to look.
He walked past me and his shoulder brushed mine so that I had to step back to remain standing. He slammed the door. It hit its frame and bounced back. He rough-handled it again and this time it stayed closed. What the hell did that call have to do with me?
He went to his desk and picked up a remote control. He pointed it at the TV set on top of a rusty filing cabinet. A few clicks later and we were watching CNN.
I recognised the road in front of Ronnie’s and my apprehension moved up a notch. The picture was grainy, probably filmed with a mobile phone. A female voice spoke over the shaky video, reporting what I already knew: a woman had been murdered in an apparent ritual killing, organs had been taken from her body, and it happened right outside a busy nightclub in Lagos.
His face creased and contoured with every frame.
‘You people. Sergeant!’
A policeman came running into his office.
‘Lock him up. Cell B.’
13
Cell B. I didn’t like the sound of it.
The summoned officer looked at his boss. If he was worried, so was I. He stepped towards me with one hand showing the way to the door.
‘No.’
Inspector Ibrahim looked surprised. ‘What?’
I don’t know how I got the courage. Perhaps it wasn’t courage. Perhaps it was just desperate, cowardly determination? Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to walk willingly to the images of killers, violent cellmates, and brutal sodomy that filled my mind. Not that I would have physically resisted if it came to it. I still remembered the clubber who’d been beaten to silence in front of Ronnie’s, but Cell B didn’t sound like a place you simply allowed yourself to be led to.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong. What are you detaining me for?’
I considered telling him about my law degree and my past life as a solicitor but I calculated that it would only infuriate him further, and that was not the point of my outburst.
He didn’t say anything so I continued.
‘I’m a journalist. I came here to cover the presidential election and nothing more. If you want to confirm that, I’ll give you my work number. Either that or you can call the British High Commission.’
He just kept staring. What was he thinking? Was it the mention of the British High Commission? Like playing the race card, it was cheap, it was manipulative, but if it worked, what the heck.
Someone knocked. A skinny officer opened the door and stayed there.
‘What is it?’ the inspector said.
I wished CNN would go to commercials or something, anything but the images of the breaking news they kept repeating.
The little man seemed scared. ‘There is a woman here to see you, sir,’ he said. ‘She said she knows you. She said the Minister of Information sent her. She gave me her card to give to you. She’s just arrived.’ He took a step into the room and held out a business card with both hands. ‘She says it is urgent.’
‘What is her name?’
‘Amaka, sir.’
He looked at the messenger and at the same time pulled out his handkerchief.
‘She’s out there?’
He cleaned his face and the back of his neck then folded the cloth and used it again, then he straightened his collar. On the back of the business card I recognised the red eagle, black shield, and two white horses of the Nigerian coat of arms.
The inspector turned his attention to the card. ‘I thought you said she gave you her card?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘This is not her card. This is the minister’s card.’
He turned the card over and saw the handwritten note.
‘Bring her.’ He turned to me. ‘So, you think I do not have a right to arrest you?’ He stood and tended to his uniform.
‘On what grounds?’
‘You’re very funny, my friend,’ he said, smiling a smile that was neither pleasant or friendly. ‘You people think you can just come to our country and do as you like. You think you’re above the law here. So, you are a reporter, does that give you diplomatic immunity, eh?’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong and you know it. The shit that went down tonight, it had nothing to do with me. I was in a bar and I came out for a smoke, that’s all. I don’t know why you brought me here, and quite frankly, I don’t think you do either. I suggest you let me return to my hotel and we can all forget this ever happened.’
‘What shit? Do not use that kind of language here. You might be undisciplined in your own country, but over here, we have morals. And by the way, who are you to tell me what to do?’
‘I don’t mean to tell you what to do, but let’s face it, you and I both know I’m not a criminal. I did not film that shit on CNN and I sure as hell didn’t kill that girl, so what the hell am I doing here?’
I didn’t mean to be rude, but by now I was more angry than rational. What was he doing keeping me there? The thought of Cell B had triggered the fight or flight response and pumped more adrenalin into my system. I could not run – or fight – so the stimulant worked instead on the muscles that controlled my mouth. I was not thinking before talking; someone would later tell me that in Nigeria this is called ‘running your mouth’.
‘You keep using these dirty words. Perhaps a night in the cell will wash them out of you.’
‘Fuck it. Lock me up if you want to, but be ready to answer to my High Commissioner. I am a British citizen.’
I smelt her perfume before I saw her. She walked in as if she owned the place. Her long thin braids were like a mane that scattered over her shoulders, framing a slim dark brown face punctuated with slanted piercing eyes. I immediately noticed she wasn’t wearing makeup. Till this day I don’t know why I did what I did next. I got up, held out my hand, and startled her a bit.
‘Hi, I’m Guy.’
‘I’m Amaka.’
As we shook, she looked at me as if she was trying to remember me.
‘Amaka, long time. Please, come and sit down. I’ll be with you in a minute,’ Ibrahim said.
She was about to say something but he placed his palm on her back to lead her to a chair.
‘Please, just wait one minute,’ he said, and to me: ‘Please, go with the officer. We’ll finish our conversation after I’ve seen my guest.’
He spoke with such a civil tone that you’d think we’d been discussing the latest Test Match at Lord’s. She stood by his desk, looking at me. I was not going to beg for my freedom in front of her. I left with the man waiting at the open door. I already had the inspector on the defensive, anyway. Cell B – bring it on.
Ibrahim held the chair for Amaka then skipped round to his, cupping a palm over his mouth to check his breath when his back was to her. He sat and pulled his chair forward until the desk bit into his belly, and then he leaned forward placing his elbows on his files, bringing his body even closer to her.
‘Madam lawyer, you have come to cause trouble for us again?’ He smiled.
‘I see you guys have been busy tonight.’
‘And you have come to bail them all, abi?’
‘There are so many tonight. Have you guys started raiding the mainland too?’
‘Very funny. Actually, there was a murder tonight. A girl’s body was dumped in front of Ronnie’s Bar.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. In fact, I just got back from the crime scene now.’
‘And so you arrested all those girls? Are they suspects?’
‘No. We only brought
them back for questioning.’
‘So, they are not under arrest?’
‘No.’
‘So, they will all be released tonight?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Without paying bail?’
‘Amaka, you have come again.’ He smiled to douse the tension.
‘They will all be released tonight?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And since they haven’t been arrested, your boys won’t harass them for bail?’
‘The boys won’t be happy with that o,’ he said, and then, seeing her unrelenting face, he added, ‘I’m just joking. You have my word: they’ll all be released tonight and nobody will harass them.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled for the first time since entering his office.
‘Are you going to give me your number now?’
‘Oga Ibrahim, I already told you, I don’t give my number to married men.’
‘You mean there is not one married man you’ve ever given your number to?’
‘Not the ones who ask to take me to dinner at Protea Hotel.’
‘Amaka, I told you before, I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘You did. Anyway, I’m here about something else.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ He picked the business card from his table and looked at the note scribbled on its back. ‘What are you doing with the Minister of Information?’
‘It’s a long story. Something to do with the charity.’
‘I see. And how do I fit in?’
‘You don’t. I actually came about someone you arrested tonight.’
‘Someone I arrested? Is the person related to the minister?’
‘No. It’s a journalist. The minister wants him to do a story on the Street Samaritans. I think it might be that man who just left.’
‘That man?’
‘Yes. Well, I can’t be sure. But it’s a white man; a reporter who was arrested by your men at Ronnie’s.’
‘That man?’
‘Like I said, I’m not sure. I don’t know what he looks like. But, that man who just left – is he a journalist?’
‘That man? He said he is.’
‘What’s his full name?’
‘He said his name is Guy Collins.’
‘Yes, that’s him, Mr Collins. I’m coming from a meeting with the minister, at the Sheraton. He sent me to go and get the man. I tracked him down to Ronnie’s. That’s where they told me he’d been arrested. I wanted to know what he did before reporting back to the minister.’
‘Nobody arrested him. He was found in the vicinity of a crime and we brought him here for questioning, that’s all.’
‘That sounds like an arrest.’
‘It’s not. I just need to take his statement and then he can go.’
She shook her head. ‘I need to tell the minister something. I can’t just return and say “the man you sent me to get is at the police station being questioned.” Why have you detained him?’
‘I told you, we have not detained him. We picked him up at Ronnie’s, and once we take his statement we’ll let him go.’
‘You picked him up? Why? Was he involved in the crime?’
‘I didn’t say so.’
‘So, why have you brought him here? You know what? It’s late and I need to go to bed. I’ll call the minister and you can explain the situation to him.’ She opened her bag and fetched her phone.
‘No, that won’t be necessary.’
The short officer, who I could easily have held in a neck choke until he stopped moving, led me to Cell B. Stale urine wafted from the darkness beyond the iron bars. I could just make out where the murderers stood waiting for me. The policeman worked the locks and pulled the heavy door. My ears ached at metal scrapping over concrete.
He waved me in and I obliged, determined not to appear scared. The plan was simple: I would promise anyone who tried to pick on me, that once I got out I would get the lawyers and staff and even the British High Commissioner himself to help them get out too. I would promise to take a personal interest in their case and to not only make sure they were released without charge, but also to help them get permanent asylum in Britain – and even get them compensation for the hardship they had suffered.
The door squeaked and clanked shut behind me and I got ready to swing a defensive punch.
Pulse racing, I surveyed my new digs. Something was wrong. I had not attracted the attention of all the hoodlums in Lagos. They were silent. They were not looking at me. I dared to look at their faces. They were all huddled on one side of the cell, looking down at the other side. I followed their gaze, and as my eyes adjusted to the poor light, I discovered a heap of battered bodies bleeding onto the bare concrete floor.
Just like the rest of my cellmates, a fearful silence entered my spirit. The bodies on the ground, writhing with pain, looked broken – blood, mixed with sweat, covered them in a sickening slime. Fresh bullet wounds on limbs, necks, and torsos were still flowing red.
I felt like I was going to be sick again. Then a noisy party arrived at our cell. It was Hot-Temper with his brothers-in-arms and a woman who looked thoroughly roughed-up and in bare feet. The policeman who’d locked me up was frantically working to unlock the door, hurried on by Hot-Temper.
‘We have arrested a lot of criminals today,’ Hot-Temper said, stepping into the cell.
We all retreated, squeezing into each other. The rest of his party followed him in. They did not pay us any attention, thank God. They had come to show off what remained of the Iron Benders gang.
‘Which one of them robbed you?’ he said and waved at the dying bodies.
The woman placed her palms one on top of the other to cover her nose and mouth. Her bulging eyes showed she was petrified. She took one look at the bodies and turned away. Poor woman.
‘Madam, is it this one?’ He stooped down by the wounded men and held their heads up one after the other for her to see. She shook her head each time.
He stood up, and with his foot, pushed the barely breathing criminals apart. He reached down and scooped up the head of a dead man.
‘Abi na this one?’
The woman turned away. Tears rolled down the fingers covering her face.
‘You mean, out of all these criminals we have arrested tonight you cannot identify the crooks that robbed you of your car?’
The woman shook her head.
‘You must be a criminal yourself. You have come to waste police time. Oya, join them. I will lock you up with them now-now.’
He swung his assault rifle round and held it in a battle stance, waving the nozzle at her to join the other detainees in the cell. His face had transformed into an uncompromising violent glare.
One of his comrades patted his shoulder. ‘Let her take another look,’ the man said. He turned to the women. ‘Madam, are you sure you can’t identify the boys who snatched your car? These boys here are very notorious; they have snatched many cars this night before we caught them. Take another look.’
She shook her head at the officer. Her eyes, now flowing with tears, pleaded with him.
‘She is a criminal. Let her join them,’ Hot-Temper said. His weapon, held at waist level, was pointed at her belly.
‘Give her some time. Madam, please, identify the boys who hijacked your car.’
Tears kept rolling from the woman’s eyes. She trembled as if she was going into a fit but she managed to take one hand away from her mouth and without looking, point at one of the gang members on the ground.
In a swift motion, Hot-Temper swung his gun up to point at the ceiling, cocked it in a flash, brought it down to his waist, and fired a single deafening shot into the head of the fingered man.
The smell of gunpowder filled the air. The woman let out a scream and collapsed. Someone shouted ‘Jesus.’ My cellmates moved closer to the wall. I stood, open-mouthed, unable to believe what I’d just witnessed. I think I shouted ‘fuck’ over and over again, but I couldn’t hear a thing; I was temp
orarily deaf from the bang. Hot-Temper was holding his gun aimed at his victim and quivering with laughter as if he had just played a practical joke. But it was no joke. The fellow’s head was splattered all over the cell floor: brain, blood and bits of skull.
‘What was that?’ Amaka said. She was crouched by Ibrahim’s desk. He was on the floor on his side. He stood up with his pistol in his hand.
‘Stay here,’ he said. Amaka followed him. Other officers were moving towards the sound of the shot, guns pointing the way. He entered the cell behind a bare-chested officer holding an AK-47 in a shooting pose.
‘What the fuck happened here?’ Inspector Ibrahim said, looking at Hot-Temper, the obvious culprit.
Hot-Temper, still sniggering, lost in his own delirium, said, ‘This boy is the one that robbed this woman today.’
‘And you shot him? Here? Why?’ He aimed at Hot-Temper’s head.
Hot-Temper stood grinning. Ibrahim kept the pistol pointed at his head, and with his other hand, he took the sergeant’s weapon.
‘Take him away.’
Amaka made her move. ‘I think Mr Collins should come with me now.’
Overwhelmed, he said, ‘OK.’
14
The woman took my hand. ‘Please, come with me.’
Who was she? Why was she was talking to me?
‘Mr Collins, I was sent to get you. We have to leave now.’ She tugged at my hand.
‘Stop,’ a voice commanded.
I walked even faster.
‘Stop.’
She stopped. The men in the corridor parted as he walked up to us, taking his time. Her grip tightened. The inspector came close until our eyes locked in contest: the hunter and the hunted, suddenly on the precipice. I would give in to the rage that had replaced my fear, at this moment. I would punch him, and Hot-Temper would use his gun on me. If I hit him hard enough, on the neck like my mate Roger had shown me in school, it would be worth it.
He placed his head beside mine. ‘This is not over,’ he said, just loud enough for only me to hear. ‘Try to mind your own business and perhaps we won’t have to meet again. Understand?’
