Welcome to Lagos

by Chibundu Onuzo

  It was obvious once Fineboy said it. There was an agrarian rhythm to the gospels he had never noticed. Much about seeds and sowing, harvests and threshing, vines and branches: imagery that eluded an urban Ibadan boy like Chike.

  He had walked in his first garden when he was ten. His mother was invited to a Christmas party at her boss’s home. His mother, he later felt, had been wasted in her secretarial job, but back then he had thought her fulfilled with her shoulder pads and wavy hair, styled every weekend in a salon. At the Christmas party, he had looked at the lumpen managers’ wives and thought her the most glamorous of them all.

  Chike had tried to befriend the other children, but even then, the offspring of managers knew well not to mix with a secretary’s son. He had wandered off on his own, taking the gravel paths that wound through the grass until he came upon the iroko, a strange choice for a house garden, with its trunk many meters wide and branches that spanned an airplane’s wings, their leaves blocking out the sky. Many hours later, the search party of guests had found him cross-legged under the tree, serene as the young Buddha.

  It was an incident his mother recounted often, a favorite episode in the legend of Chike. He had walked at nine months; read by three; won prizes in his military school. He would do all that her husband had not lived to do, go where he had not gone, win what he had not won.

  By all accounts his father had been an exceptional officer marked for great things. The accident that killed him at twenty-eight had been caused by witchcraft, an evil spell that sent the bus spinning off the road. His mother was the chief suspect.

  Her in-laws had shaved her, scraping the stubble with a blade until her head was as bald and bright as a lightbulb. Her hair would never grow back as long and thick. They had put her in a room with his father’s body, badly embalmed and leaking water. She went through every funeral rite but she would not allow Chike’s uncles to touch her savings.

  “The bank let me use one of their lawyers for free. Mr. Oketade made sure the lawyer was always there when your father’s brothers came.”

  Mr. Oketade was the man whose garden he had walked in as a child, a man who oversaw five bank branches and for whom his mother typed letters and jotted down memos. It was an exceptional kindness, the gratuitous use of a company lawyer. Kindness to a widow, for merit in heaven, or kindness for favors here on earth. Later, when he was older, Chike wondered who had given his mother the bottles of European perfumes that stood like glass sculptures on her dressing table: the leaning column of Kenzo, the striped bust of Jean Paul Gaultier.

  She had vowed never to remarry. A new husband would hang Chike’s father’s pictures in the toilet. A new husband would be jealous of Chike, frightened by how deeply she placed her ambitions in him. Top 10 percent at the Nigerian Military School. Upper second-class degree from university.

  Regulating Fineboy’s radio, drawing up a dishwashing rota, monitoring Isoken’s mood, directing traffic and quarreling with other road users: that was his life now. He had fought a stranger yesterday, a brief flurry of fists and knuckles, before Yẹmi separated them. The man had been holding a woman against a wall, dousing her in water. She was gasping, screaming, struggling with her eyes closed. He had pulled the man off her and their fight began, unevenly matched, Chike at least a head taller and fifteen kilograms heavier.

  “Leave him alone,” the girl screamed until Yẹmi arrived to pull them apart. People had stopped to watch, pointing at the traffic warden disgracing himself in uniform.

  He had misread the scene. The man and the woman were together. This savage trapping against the wall, pinned like a butterfly, half drowning under a liter of Ragolis: it was a way of marking her birthday, another year commemorated with a baptism. He knew the ritual, common in military school among boys, but he had not seen it with adults, and never between a man and a woman. He apologized.

  “I thought she was in trouble,” Chike said.

  The woman turned her back to him and wiped her lover’s face. Her handkerchief came away with blood spots. Her hair dripped down her soaked T-shirt.

  “You need new work,” Yẹmi observed as they walked back to their post. It had been dangerously unmanned for those minutes. “Your mind is not here. If you dey concentrate, how your eye go reach dat side?”

  23

  The Economic and Financial Crimes Commission is offering a N10 million reward for reliable information on the whereabouts of Chief Rẹmi Sandayọ, former Minister of Education. He was last seen in Maitama, Abuja, at 5 p.m. on March 22. A recent picture is pasted below.

  —advertisement, Nigerian Journal

  OVER A MONTH LATER, everyone had settled into a groove and a rhythm. Fineboy alone was without a pattern. He stayed in the flat some days flicking through a limited range of channels. Afternoon television was dull: Nollywood and pastors. He listened to their sermons once in a while. He preferred the American-sounding preachers. They paced up and down large stages, walking kilometers as they moved from one end to the other, thundering and whispering into cordless microphones, their gesticulations framed by Italian suits, their steps encased in Italian shoes. Pastor was good business in Lagos. Certainly more lucrative than radio presenting, yet the further his dream moved from him, the more desperately he desired it. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had sat in a booth in front of a padded microphone.

  He had borrowed some money from Chike to buy a silver transistor radio. It was a small but powerful device that picked up waves far-flung as China. He took it with him wherever he went, draining the battery on his wanderings around the city. He did not like to stay in the flat for too long. He was always in Oma’s way.

  And he would not think of going to Isoken. She had begun making hair beside a supermarket in the estate. Hair Designz, the business was called. He had even made a sign for her, large colorful letters on slick laminated cardboard that drew customers. And yet he could never be sure with her. Some days she would greet him in the morning. On others he did not exist.

  He walked around the estate, stopping in front of mansions that struck him, gazing at their pillars and arches and small windows set close together. They had robbed homes like this in Bayelsa, when Godspower’s funds were running low. The guards at the estate gates knew him now and greeted him when he passed. They assumed he was a poor relative of a family who lived in the estate. Sometimes he gave them money. Very small, trifling amounts that might be useful one day. He read for free the newspapers of vendors he had made friends with, turning the pages slowly, careful not to leave any marks. He had not returned to visit the touts since they had moved underground. They were useless to him now that he had his own radio.

  The soldiers complained it disturbed their sleep at night so he had taken to listening in the parlor, falling asleep with the presenters still talking and waking to discover his battery dead. That night, he fell asleep stretched on the floor, twitching the radio to off just before he closed his eyes.

  He woke to the rasp of something heavy being dragged down the steps. He lay still, breathing evenly. To rush to the stairs was to dare his strength against someone who might be armed. To remain on the floor was to lose his surprise. Move like a snake, he heard Godspower’s voice saying to him. Keep your stomach on the ground and move like a snake.

  “THIEF!”

  Chike heard it in his sleep, the word mingling with his dream. The sound of something falling pushed him fully into consciousness. He rushed into the parlor, his hand running over the walls for the switch. He saw Fineboy bent over a man, ready to strike another blow.

  “Release him.”

  The boy stepped back and allowed the stranger to struggle to his feet.

  “You raised your hand to hit me? Who are you?” he asked Chike. “And what are you doing in my house?”

  Like a thief in the night, the owner had returned and they were at a loss. It was what they had all feared, despite Fineboy’s reassurances. The man was simply dressed in a starched cotton up-and-down. Understated but rich, down to
the slim gold chain that hung close to his thick neck.

  “I said, who are you?”

  “Nah who dey make noise,” Yẹmi said from behind Chike.

  “Who else is there?”

  “Good evening, sir,” Chike said.

  “Don’t greet me. Why are you greeting me? Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

  The man was shouting, almost hysterically. The door of the women’s room opened.

  “Don’t come out,” Chike turned and said softly, but the man heard.

  “There are more of you? What is this?”

  “Sir, if you will let me explain—”

  “Save it for the police.”

  “Please, that will not be necessary. We’ll be leaving now.”

  “No,” Fineboy said. “Let him call the police.”

  “Shut up,” Chike said. “We saw this place had been empty for a long time. We haven’t taken anything.”

  “Leave now. Just get out.”

  “Call the police,” Fineboy said again. “I’ve seen you in the papers. The Economic and Financial Crimes Commission will be glad to know of your whereabouts, Chief Sandayọ.”

  The effect of that name was immediate. The man grasped the handles of his checkered bags and turned to leave but he was too slow for Fineboy. The boy tore a bag from his grip, unzipped and upended it. Crisp dollar notes spilled onto the floor.

  FINEBOY SAW IN THAT moment the color of oil when it lay freshly spilled on water. It was a black that caught the sun and multicolors would appear, the white bellies of dead fish floating like stars in a rainbow constellation. Sitting low in the gunboats, speeding through deserted villages, the creeks had entered him, the grievances of those muggy torrents sloshing into him unawares. A mop leaned against the wall where Oma had left it. He took it, feeling the heft of the wooden stick in his hands.

  “Have you ever paid a visit to the Niger Delta?” Fineboy said.

  “Yes. A beautiful place. Working with government for more development. I’ll pay. How much do you want? All of you.”

  “Stand back,” Chike said to Fineboy.

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Stand back.”

  If not for men like these, Fineboy knew he would be a star, his talent recognized, his diction, his rhythm, his flow making room for him in the radio industry. But this was no country for his ability.

  “Stand back, for the last time, Fineboy.”

  He turned his back on the soldier, raising the stick to strike. Chike kicked his legs and Fineboy’s knees buckled, pitching him to the ground.

  “I give the orders in this group. Don’t forget that. Now stand up and do as I say.”

  Chike turned to face the minister.

  “How did you get here?”

  “You’re questioning me?”

  “Search him for car keys.”

  Chief Sandayọ tried to beat Fineboy’s hands away but he elbowed him and he subsided. The keys were in his left pocket along with a wallet, bulky with cash.

  “Take off your shoes and your socks,” Chike said.

  Chief Sandayọ hesitated.

  “He can do it for you.”

  The man slipped off his shoes and then one sock. He held his right foot awkwardly.

  “I have a wound there.”

  “Let us see.”

  He slid off the sock gently and showed them the bandage, wound around his foot.

  “Put your shoes back on. Yẹmi, go to the kitchen and move everything that can be used as a weapon. We are performing a citizen’s arrest. Your wallet and those two bags will be confiscated until further notice.”

  24

  “For a dream cometh through the multitude of business,” or so Solomon says in the book of Ecclesiastes. Some dreams should be binned once you wake up. Their root is last night’s supper or yesterday’s quarrel. Some dreams, on the other hand, are glimpses of eternity, of the supernatural, of the world to come. To the men and women such dreams come to, arise like King Nebuchadnezzar and seek your Daniel.

  —Pastor Kọmọlafẹ, religious page, Nigerian Journal

  THAT NIGHT, CHIKE DREAMED of his former commanding officer. The colonel was standing in a river, submerged to his knees, a cutlass in his hand, hacking at the muddy surface. There was something in the water, something bleeding each time he struck. When the river was dyed red, Benatari straightened and held out the cutlass to him.

  “Take the money.”

  It ended like cheap Nollywood cinematography: desperately in need of a sequel to join the frayed ends. To share the money among themselves would be a form of resource redistribution, a slogan chanted by every dissatisfied group in the country, including the militants to whom Fineboy had so recently belonged. And to perform a citizen’s arrest, what did that signify? He had heard the phrase in university from a law student who joked they should perform one on their vice chancellor. Now they had arrested this chief, what would they do with him? Try him? Had he become a Benatari, judge and jury? And what sentence? Death?

  He relieved Yẹmi of his watch at 4 a.m. The private was already asleep but so was the suspect, lying stretched out on his back with his fists clenched over his stomach. That was another jargon he had learned from the law undergraduates: suspect until proven guilty, even when caught in the act. He settled on the sofa and brought out his Bible.

  He soon put it away again. His mind was too restless for reading. What would they do with this Chief Sandayọ? What would they do with his money? There were many things he could think to do with money. A house aboveground and a car to move through Lagos with dignity and clothes that did not come already worn by Europeans, flakes of their skin lurking in the seams.

  Yet he was no thief. He had never wanted these things enough to steal for them or even do a job he did not like for them. He had known his chances of wealth in the army were slim and yet he had served willingly in defense of Nigeria, his large, fragile country.

  And yet . . . Money answers all things, said the Bible held between his thumb and index finger.

  How to make something of yourself in Lagos?

  Money.

  How to marry a woman used to finer things?

  Money.

  To get any respect in this city?

  Money.

  It all came down to the money that Chief Sandayọ had brought into their flat.

  THE RECENTLY DEPOSED MINISTER of education, Rẹmi Sandayọ, woke and saw the face of a man, partly lit and pressed close to a book. It was the face of a bookish man, his small eyes peering at the text, his forehead wide and sloping into the shadows. It was the man who had seized his belongings.

  “What is your name?”

  “I did not know you were awake.”

  “I’m not used to sleeping on a couch. What do you want, Mr. . . . ?”

  “My name is Chike.”

  “Tell me what you want, Chike.”

  “What was the money for?”

  “I owe you no explanations. You are the ones who have broken into my house. How much? Ten percent of what is in those bags. Just give me my car keys. I will drop you anywhere you want in Lagos tonight.”

  “You think I’m desperate, Mr. Sandayọ?”

  “Chief Sandayọ.”

  Sandayọ’s year in Abuja had shown him that everyone had their price. The question was in what currency. It was his paintings that had trapped him. Collector’s items, each one. Sandayọ had driven them from Abuja to his house in Ikire. Then he had dawdled, planning his next move, reeling from the audacity of what he had done. Days of indecision passed until, switching on the television, he saw himself on the news. He had put on weight in Abuja. He could not leave until that smiling, doughnut-cheeked image of himself disappeared from the media.

  There were worse places to be a fugitive. His arrival in Ikire at night passed unnoticed. He had not been home in years. No one was expecting him. The mansion built to flaunt his success was empty and haunted by his late wife. He did not belie
ve in ghosts. Funkẹ was either in heaven or nowhere, but in this dead house they had once occupied she appeared vividly to him, in all stages of her life. Young and supple, as on their wedding night, stern and hard, as in her later years.

  It was the loneliness of the place that made him feel that she had just left when he entered a room, or even that some essence of her remained, watching him. She had spoken to him. Not audibly but as ghosts would speak if they existed, bypassing voice boxes and talking straight into the mind. “What have you gotten yourself into?” his late wife asked. When it was the young Funkẹ speaking, the question was said with a lilting mischief, and when it was the old Funkẹ, who had soaked herself in the vinegar of prayer meetings and night vigils, the question was interrogatory with the edge of a police investigation.

  He waited it out, with Funkẹ’s ghost, until news of him was stale. He switched cars, taking the newest model in his garage, and began his escape to Ghana. He could have made the trip in one go, speeding through the night until he got to Accra, but the unrelenting line of traffic had tired him. He could not go to his main house but he remembered this hideout, built in the eighties on Francis’s advice at the height of the YPC’s politicization.

  He wondered how these squatters had looked past the crumbling building and discovered his flat. No matter. He would find their price and currency. Till then, he had his phones clipped to the band of his boxers and his passport wrapped under the bandage on his foot. There was no rush. Whoever was looking for him would be searching outside the country now, Barbados, the Caymans, Dubai, scouring beaches instead of abandoned properties in Lagos.

  25

  Q. What do you call an honest Lagosian?

  A. Dead.

  —riddles and jokes page, Nigerian Journal

  CHIKE WAS HOT. UNDERGROUND, the only breeze came from the fan blades, dead since 5 a.m., when the power went out. He hated the heat and the claustrophobia of the flat, the sense of entrapment when he stood in the dark tunnel that joined the rooms, the blinding effect of sunlight as he emerged from their hole each morning like a subterranean rat.