Easy Motion Tourist

by Leye Adenle

  ‘Well, thanks for that. I guess I owe you one. But why come for me?’

  ‘You work with the BBC, that’s what you told the police. You went out there for a reason. You sensed a story, didn’t you? I came to get you because you’re a journalist. What happened at Ronnie’s will happen again and nobody will do anything. You know why? Because the girls are prostitutes and the killers are powerful men. The media won’t get involved because they’re afraid of these men. The police won’t investigate this murder, or those girls who disappear daily. Why? Because they too are afraid of the big men who pay them to keep the peace and the so-called black magic they use the girls for. When I heard that a foreign journalist had witnessed it all, I had an epiphany.’

  I wanted to tell her that she was right; I had gone out there because I sensed a story, but I did not work for the BBC. She wasn’t done, and it seemed a frivolous little detail, so I let her continue.

  ‘You witnessed something terrible. You can do something about it. You can tell the world what you saw.’

  ‘I have to tell you something. I’m trained as a lawyer. This journalist thing, I’m not really that good at it.’

  ‘You’re a lawyer?’

  ‘Yes. I mean I used to be. I still am, I guess, but I always wanted to be a journalist, so now I am. But I am not John Pilger or John Simpson. I wish I were, but I’m no investigative journalist.’

  ‘I’m a lawyer too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked at me as if she’d recognised a friend, and I swear her face softened, changed, almost like she saw me in a different light. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous. All you have to do is write. I have information that I’ll give you. Names and facts. You will treat me as a source, of course. Nobody can know about me. I can give the information to any other journalist, but you’ve seen what happens with your own eyes. This is your story to tell.’

  ‘All I have to do is write?’

  ‘Yes. All you have to do is write.’

  I got that feeling you get when you still have time to back away, to make a different choice, but you can’t stop yourself making the wrong one.

  ‘And you think it’ll make a difference?’ I said.

  ‘I hope it will. It’s a start. The alternative is to do nothing. I won’t do that, and I don’t think you want to either. Someone has to tell this story. You were there, at Ronnie’s, for a reason. You went outside to see the girl, for a reason. Who better to tell this story?’

  ‘You said you have information. What kind of information?’

  She rolled her legs off the bed and sat on the edge. Barely a foot separated us.

  ‘What I’m going to tell you now, I have never told anyone. You’ll understand why, in a moment.’

  She reached for her bag on the bed then changed her mind and turned to face me.

  ‘I keep a record of men who use prostitutes in Lagos. I have their names, their addresses, their phone numbers. I know where they work, what they like, how much they pay. I know the ones who are rough, the ones who are married, the ones who beat the girls, the ones who take two girls at a time, the ones who don’t use condoms. I have their licence plate numbers, their pictures, videos of them. I know where they take the girls – you name it. I even know the ones who know each other.

  ‘I record it all to keep the girls safe. When a man wants to pick up a girl, she sends me his licence plate number. I check my records and tell her what to expect, how much she can charge him, stuff like that. I’ve been keeping the records for over two years now and the database keeps growing. There are some names I have that I tell the girls not to go with.’

  ‘The violent ones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do they do to the girls?’

  ‘What men do. What do you expect? They beat them up, refuse to pay them, rape them, make them sleep with their dogs. I don’t get it, how a man, given birth to by a woman, can be so cruel to other women. But, never mind about the beaters and the rapists; I’m taking care of that. The names I’ll give you are the names of the men who girls have gone with and then vanished.’

  ‘Those who did that to the girl tonight?’

  ‘Yes, the people who do such things. I must warn you, they are powerful men. They are well connected, rich, and influential. I see them on TV accepting awards and making speeches and I wonder what people would do if they knew what I know about them.’

  ‘Exactly what do you know?’

  ‘I know that girls have gone with some men then simply dropped off the face of the planet. A man picks up a girl, she’s never seen again, doesn’t answer her phone, doesn’t call her parents, doesn’t touch her bank account, what do you think happened to her?’

  I remembered the girl in the gutter; had she simply gone with the wrong person?

  ‘How did you come to be involved with all this?’

  I had imagined that her charity simply tried to get girls off the street, but now it was obvious that her operation was a lot more complex than that. She didn’t judge these women, challenge their way of life or try to change them. She only wanted to them to be safe. Was she was once one of them herself?

  ‘You mean why do I work with prostitutes? I guess it was bound to happen.’

  She got off the bed, eased out of her jacket, straightened her blouse and pushed her feet into her shoes.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I didn’t want to be left alone right then but more than that, I knew that something big had just dropped onto my lap. This wasn’t going to be a simple column or a random blog post. This was not just a scoop – it could be a detailed, thoroughly researched book. The kind that’s talked about on breakfast news. It was perhaps more than I could pull off, I mean, writing a book is not something you just wake up and do, but thinking of the possibilities filled me with excitement. I could do something big here, something important, something that could change my life and other people’s lives. Perhaps coming to Nigeria wasn’t such a mistake after all. I thought of Mel. What would she be doing right now? Probably on her way to work, or to the gym; I forget which days are her gym days.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Amaka said.

  ‘What? Oh. Yeah. I’m good.’

  ‘I need to take care of something. Go to sleep. You need to rest. I’ll be back soon, and in the morning there are some people I want you to meet.’

  23

  A band was dismantling their equipment by the poolside, watched by a red-haired woman cradling a large wine glass, and sprawled on a lounger. A tanned greying couple were hunched over a table, seemingly sharing secrets. At the far side of the pool, a black man and a white woman held hands over a burnt out candle. The only other guest was a girl in a sparkling, black evening gown. She was alone. Her clutch bag was next to an unopened bottle of water. She looked tired. Amaka did not recognise her.

  The waiter at the bar was biting the end of his pen, staring at a calculator and a notebook. Amaka walked up and asked if the bar was still open.

  ‘We’re open 24 hours ma,’ he said.

  She stepped away, out of earshot and called Chief Ojo. They had been exchanging text messages: her, assuring him that she would come and him asking her where she was. She told him that a girlfriend had hit someone’s car so she had to go to the police station to bail her out. He offered to call whoever was in charge at the station. She thanked him but said she had it under control.

  He answered on the first ring.

  ‘Iyabo, where are…’

  ‘Are you in your room?’

  ‘Yes. Where are you?’

  She ended the call.

  She asked the barman how much a bottle of Rémy Martin XO cost. She didn’t have enough cash for it and she didn’t want to pay with her MasterCard so she asked for a bottle of VSOP and a glass. He started filling the glass with ice and stopped mid-scoop when he looked up at her.

  ‘I’m sorry ma. I thought you asked for ice.’

  ‘It’s OK. Can I have another glass, please? I don’t
like to pollute my poison.’

  While he fetched a dry cup she opened the bottle. She took a long swig and their eyes met.

  ‘I’m really thirsty.’

  He nodded. She left him the change.

  The doors of the lift closed and she poured brandy into the glass and placed it on the floor then she reached into her bra and pulled out a small sealed plastic bag. In it was a generic form of Rohypnol. She had researched the drug. It was odourless, tasteless, and unlike the original medicine which had a blue dye and dissolved slower when liquid was added, it was undetectable. She poured it into the bottle.

  Getting it was simple; she had kept some of the evidence from a case in which a girl woke up bleeding in a boy’s hostel. The girl had no memory of what happened: anterograde amnesia – a side effect of the drug. The rapists, however, had made a video and sent it to their friends who sent it to their friends. When Amaka and the girl went to the dorm room with the police they discovered the rest of the supply. The medical students bragged that nothing would happen to them. A particularly ugly one asked: ‘Do you know who I am?’ Amaka didn’t, but she found out: his father was an ex-governor. She spent her own money convincing every journalist she could trust to run the story. The boy ended up disowned by the father who also used the media to set the record straight that the boy was not biologically his. The young men got life sentences: the maximum penalty for rape in Nigeria.

  Her phone, tucked into the back of her skirt, vibrated. She held the bottle up to check that the drug really wasn’t detectable.

  She undid a couple of buttons on her blouse, pulled her skirt up, and pushed her breasts together before she knocked. The door to the presidential suite opened as if he’d been waiting behind it. He was fully dressed, smiling like he was grateful. She sniffed and looked into the lobby. She stepped past him and walked into the lounge. It was large, like someone’s living room. There was a round dining table with six chairs next to a bar area, and there were three large sofas arranged around a large TV on a wall. She walked further. There was a separate dining area with a long dining table and ten chairs but there was no one there. She sniffed. The bedroom door was open. Inside, cigarette smoke was suspended in a slowly morphing cloud. She knew he didn’t smoke. She walked inside and found the culprit: a gaunt man in a white dashiki similar to his, in an armchair, a fat long cigar between his fingers and a bottle of Star in his other hand. Shit.

  If the stranger was his friend, Mr Malik, it could be a setup. She’d been trying to find the man called Malik, but no one seemed to have his number, or know where he stayed, or the places he visited. Apart from the girls who had told her about him, no one she had spoken to had ever heard of him, or of the secret sex club he ran.

  She had already stepped into the room and the man had seen her. It was too late. He smiled. She thought she smelt a hint of marijuana. She looked into his ashtray, in the middle of the bottles of Star and Guinness. They had been drinking for a while. The girls had told her that Malik neither drinks nor smokes. They also said he was light-skinned and had a beard; this man was dark and clean-shaven. Her initial panic abated, but was immediately replaced with disappointment. She had been looking for Malik for weeks and she was beginning to suspect that Malik was either a fake name, or he knew he was being tracked, and was hiding in the shadows, watching the hunter.

  Chief Ojo grabbed her by the waist and she jumped. He laughed and tried to kiss her on the lips. The smell of alcohol was strong on his breath. ‘Iyabo, meet my friend, retired navy commodore Shehu Yaya. Shehu, this is my babe, Iyabo.’

  ‘The one who has been keeping you waiting?’ The retired navy commodore stood up. He was at least a foot taller than the Chief and her. He grinned and held out his hand in slow motion. Amaka pulled her hand away when she felt the tip of his index finger rubbing the inside of her palm. She shot him a look. He winked. She pulled Chief Ojo to the door.

  ‘I told you nobody could know about this.’

  ‘Shehu is my good friend. We were meant to be at an important function together but it didn’t hold. He has been keeping me company till you come. Shehu, you have spooked my babe.’

  He could have just said sorry. Why did he have a ready explanation? She looked at the man. She could say she was going to get something from her car.

  Shehu pulled his cigar from his lips.

  ‘Darling, it’s OK. I’m sorry to crash in on your little soiree like this. The old boy told me he was lonely waiting for a pretty bird and I just had to see for myself who the chick was that could keep a whole chief waiting. You are right, ‘ol boy, she is absolutely stunning.’

  Chief Ojo put his arms around her.

  ‘Off-limits.’

  They both laughed.

  Or, she could tell him she had to return to the police station.

  ‘I have to go. This was a bad idea.’

  ‘Oh no, please don’t go. Shehu is leaving soon. Shehu, you are leaving soon, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ll be on my way once I finish my Star.’ He returned to his chair and sat down. ‘I never waste a good drink. Darling, you look scared. I don’t bite. Come and sit.’ He patted his lap.

  She tried to smile but only managed to stretch her lips over tightly clenched teeth. She didn’t recognise him; that was good. It meant he didn’t recognise her either, and as far as she knew, Chief Ojo wasn’t into threesomes that involved other men.

  ‘You brought a bottle.’ Chief Ojo moved to take the brandy from her. She held both the bottle and her glass away. He took the bottle anyway, and downed a large gulp.

  ‘Shehu, brandy?’

  Shehu searched the stool for an empty glass before shaking his head.

  ‘No thanks. At our age it’s not a good idea to mix drinks. Iyabo, come and sit.’

  Chief Ojo held her hand and led her to the bed. It had not been slept in. She climbed in and sat against the headboard. The two men carried on with their conversation. She picked the TV remote and listened while flicking channels. Shehu kept trying to make eye contact. She watched Chief Ojo. He was drinking from the bottle.

  The men were talking about a friend’s undeclared-but-well-known intention to run for governor of the state. Amaka knew the man they were talking about – not personally – but she didn’t know he had any ambitions for political office. She also knew that he liked young girls: eighteen was too old for him. Chief Ojo’s eyelids closed. Amaka pressed her foot into his side. He stirred and looked at her.

  ‘Don’t sleep.’

  He smiled and squeezed her thigh.

  ‘Shehu, let’s call it a day.’ She thought he sounded drowsy.

  Shehu didn’t seem to have heard him. He was watching the smouldering glow on the end of his cigar, as if the burning tobacco revealed something profound. He blew a jet of smoke at it. The glow brightened.

  ‘OK.’

  He stumped his cigar and stood up.

  ‘Are you seeing me off or what?’

  Chief Ojo groaned. He looked at Amaka. She rolled her eyes.

  ‘I’ll see you off to the lift.’

  He stood up and spread his arms to stop himself from stumbling. Amaka watched. She suspected his friend was watching too.

  ‘I need to use the toilet first. Give me a minute.’

  ‘Just how many bottles have you had tonight?’ she said as he stumbled towards the bathroom.

  Shehu waited for the door to shut then he turned to her.

  ‘Darling, I like you. Can I see you when you are done with this old man? My house is here on the island. He doesn’t need to know.’

  That he was so direct did not offend her as much as the fact that it didn’t bother him to have sex with her just after she had had sex with his friend. How about sparing a thought for the girl? He might as well have asked to join them in bed. She didn’t know what to say. He waited. She had to get rid of him, but what did he know about her?

  ‘So, he showed you my…’ She waited for him to finish the sentence for her.

  ‘
Your what?’

  She raised her eyebrows at him.

  ‘Your picture?’

  ‘No. Never mind.’

  ‘Can I see you later?’

  ‘Don’t tell him.’

  ‘No problem. What’s your number?’ He was holding his phone.

  She looked at the closed bathroom door. She took the phone from him and punched in her number. It was the same number she had given his friend. He was saving it when the door opened. Chief Ojo eyed them suspiciously. She shifted on the bed and concentrated on her fingernails.

  ‘Can I take a picture of your girlfriend?’ Shehu said. He pointed the lens of the phone’s camera at her face.

  She picked up a pillow and hid behind it.

  ‘Please, don’t. I don’t look good in 2D.’

  ‘Old Navy, you haven’t changed,’ Chief Ojo said. ‘What do you want my babe’s picture for?’

  He led his friend to the door and held it open for him.

  ‘Goodnight, old friend. My girlfriend and I need some privacy now.’

  They shook and winked at each other. He shut the door and secured the latch then he turned and saw Amaka unbuttoning her blouse.

  ‘Why did you show him my panties?’

  He fixed his eyes on her red bra, not wanting to miss the moment it came off.

  ‘I did not…’

  He blinked. She was out of focus. He wiped his face but she remained a blur. He took a step and felt himself falling.

  24

  As Chief Ojo dropped to his knees, he rubbed his face and shook his head. He reached for Amaka and fell forward. With his head by her feet, she slipped out of her skirt, knelt, and shook his shoulder.

  ‘Chief Ojo,’ she said, pinching his neck.

  ‘Chief.’

  She slapped his cheek and he moaned. Slapping and kicking, she made him crawl along the wooden floor of lobby, across the lounge, into the bedroom and then onto the bed. She pulled off his clothes then she took the bottle of brandy to the bathroom and poured it down the sink. She saw her reflection in the mirror, naked and sweating. She yanked the light switch. She turned the tap and cleaned the enamel bowl, finishing just as the water turned hot.