“Since when?”
“Since last year. Prostate. The doctor said it won’t kill me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry. You don’t know what it’s like to have a son that is ashamed of you.”
His father had paid the school fees of more than sixty people in their village and they would all come for his funeral, lining up in black to show their grief, wearing dark glasses to hide their tears or their conspicuously dry eyes. There would be no surprises by the graveside, no illegitimate children rushing forward as they lowered the corpse into the ground. His father had been faithful to his mother. In that, at least, his conduct had been honorable.
“I didn’t agree with all your choices.”
“How you can reach your age and still be so like an infant? Maybe it’s because I sheltered you. I should have left you in the village like your grandmother was always asking. There are roads in that village because of me. There are graduates. There are widows who did not have to watch their children starve. And my child. My own ingrate child—”
His father’s voice cracked.
“I know, Daddy. I know.”
“Ahmed, I am old. One of my children is dead and the other is a stranger to me.”
“Come to England.”
“And join you in your fugitive life? You’re lucky these are not the days the military used to kidnap wanted men and smuggle them home. You didn’t ask me what happened when I went to prostrate.”
“Did it help?”
“That upstart from Ondo. He watched me lie flat on the floor before telling me he no longer had any clout with the presidency. That he was just a retiree living in seclusion. All the way to Akurẹ to hear such lies.”
“How is Mum?”
“She wants to go to Dubai. She wants to stay at home. She wants to come to London.”
“You should travel. Somewhere.”
“Why? I’m not the one making accusations on BBC. There’s been a car parked outside our house for days. Maybe they think you’ll show up here one evening. Stay in England.”
“You’ll think of coming. It may get dangerous.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll talk with your mother. She sends her love. The flat in London that only you stayed in for most of the year: that was my own love.”
THEY WOULD WAKE AND find him gone. Chief Sandayọ had imagined a grand farewell, a personal leave-taking with a message for each one, but it was too dangerous. They might not let him go so easily. Some hours after midnight, he stepped over Fineboy and walked into the men’s room, careful of Yẹmi’s body spread on the floor. He had once seen Chike half under the bed, rooting around for something. It could only have been his money.
He cupped the beam with his hand. It was Oma’s kitchen torch, slid into his pocket while no one was looking. The black polyethylene bag gleamed dully in the far corner. He got his head under and then his neck, then his shoulders, the ridge of the bedstead pressing into his back. Above him, Chike breathed evenly. He stretched his hands and his fingers brushed the thin plastic, then grasped it, then pulled it until both he and the money were out in the open. There was no time for counting.
“What are you doing?” Chike asked.
He turned off the flashlight.
“Rẹmi.”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think?”
He had run from his beloved wife, leaving her for duller women who did not disappear into vigils and trances. He had run from the YPC when the assassination of its leaders began; he had run from Abuja, dragging his money behind him, and now he was running again.
“On top of the wardrobe, under the kitchen sink, and in the carton by the staircase. Your phone and car keys are in that bag as well.”
“You won’t alert the others?”
“And then what? Renovate more schools? Put more principals in prison? We were going our way before you came and we’ll continue when you’re gone. That money is tainted. On your head. On your children’s heads.”
“I know you don’t believe all that.”
He worked fast but carefully, packing the money tight into Oma’s market bags. Then he went from room to room, stopping briefly by each person with some cash.
“I left something for the women with a note. I even left something for Fineboy, obnoxious fool that he is. He began things with the journalist. I’d forgotten how it felt to stand with my head stubbornly against the tide. To be you.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Accra first and then wherever I feel led. I’ll be back in a few years, maybe when this First Lady has gone. Prostrate in front of a few people and things will go back to normal.”
“The others will miss you. We worked well together.”
“And you? Let me leave you something. If you were ministry staff, you would have earned a salary for what we’ve done.”
“It’s not yours to give.”
“I await your beatification, Chike.”
His car remained as he had parked it, unchanged but for a covering of dust. When he turned the key, the engine whined and died. Perhaps it was a celestial finger pointing him back to the flat. And what good would that do, in heaven or on earth? On the sixth try, the petrol in his cylinder caught fire and the engine began to rotate, humming a single bass note.
CHIKE WAS LYING DOWN awake when Fineboy entered the room.
“Chief is gone.”
“Yes. He left not too long ago.”
“Then we can still catch him.”
“He’s driving.”
“You knew.”
“Yes, I did. Please go and wake the women and meet me in the living room. Yẹmi, get up.”
After a few minutes, they were assembled. He did not sit and neither did they. He was the colonel addressing his troops, feet at attention, no one at ease.
“Chief Sandayọ has left with his money. He’s heading to Ghana. If we call the police now, they can watch out for him at the border.”
“But he left us money,” Oma said. “He was our friend.”
“It’s not his to give. Those principals will never be released if Sandayọ is not captured.”
“He was our friend,” Oma said again.
The upper door clanged open. They thought it was Sandayọ, returned to find them plotting his downfall. Then a rush of footsteps and the first policeman stepped into the parlor, followed by another and another, in their black plastic hats, pouring in like a swarm of beetles.
“Where is the Chief?”
Their guns were new, their boots gleaming, their faces a stern rictus. As long as you were in khaki, the police were nothing to be afraid of.
“Which chief?”
“Don’t be foolish. We have photographs of Chief Rẹmi Sandayọ entering this building.”
“He has gone.”
“Where to?”
“We don’t know. He left yesterday.”
“All of you. Your hands behind your head. Search this place,” the unit leader said. They were a disciplined squad. They fanned into the rooms with precision, kicking open each door, then jumping to the side, waiting for the onslaught of bullets that never came.
“Who are you people?”
“We are just squatters. The man you call Chief Sandayọ found us here and left us. He didn’t tell us his name. He didn’t stay long.”
“Why are you the only one answering? The rest of you, are you dumb? You. Yes, you. Why did he leave?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t stay long,” Oma said.
“Why did he come here, then?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
He rammed the butt of his rifle into her shoulder and she staggered back.
“Look, there’s no need for that,” Chike said, moving towards their leader. The point of the gun swung into his cheek.
“No need for what?”
The man’s hands were shaking. He could feel the tremor traveling down the barrel and
onto his face. It was some sort of medical condition, a palsy of his nerves, not fear. This man would shoot him and have no recollection of it tomorrow.
“Stop that rubbish,” Chief Sandayọ said from the stairs.
HE HAD REACHED THE express when he saw the swirling red and blue of a siren convoy. From his protest days, he knew the terror of a line of black vans, the police inside them sullen and trigger-happy, teargas canisters dangling from their fingers. He had seen things from the other side in Abuja, when he had inherited a convoy with darkened windows and grown used to whizzing anonymously through the city. He parked and kept his head down. Police escorts were banned in Ojodo Estate. It was one of the reasons he had chosen it. Yet this one had driven up to the gates and was now being let in. He drove back to the estate.
“Hey, who let those police in? As a member of the Estate Committee I demand to know why that escort was allowed in. Who is responsible?”
“Sorry, sah. They are not escorting anybody. They came with special warrant. We cannot stop them,” the guard said.
“Where were they going?”
“Macaulay Street, sah.”
“Open this gate.”
They checked the resident sticker he had peeled off a car that morning and waved him in.
On Macaulay Street, the vans were parked and empty. For the first time since his wife’s illness, Chief Sandayọ began to pray. His cynicism and disbelief crumbled, like they had fallen apart at the sight of Funkẹ on a hospital bed, wires running through her, feeding, cleaning, monitoring her faltering heartbeat. He had joined her prayers then, cobbling scripture from memory, saying amen to her rambles, much to his wife’s amusement and disbelief. That she would see him pray as she lay dying, it was the sort of fatalistic joy that hymns were penned to.
“God of heaven,” a location of no use to the Chief now, “and of earth,” too vast for his purposes, “and of Ojodo Estate, please save them all. Do not let them be punished for Christ’s sake. Amen.” It was the bargain Funkẹ had always used when petitioning for things.
He waited, the gear stick on reverse.
Do not let them be punished for your sake.
It was almost audible, the voice. He was too old to be listening to phantasms in his brain, his fears amplified, his conscience expanded until it brushed against his eardrums. The voice was feminine, reminiscent of his wife. It would be like Funkẹ to leave her eternal work of psalm singing and harp playing to trouble him at this moment. Where was her spirit when he had said yes to a ministerial position that had brought him nothing but shame? Where was she when he had filled those bags, stacking the money like bricks, building towers of greed? Why had her ghost not stayed his hand then?
In the YPC, they had never subscribed to European codes of conduct. The chivalry of “all for one” was impractical in their situation. They had long agreed that if any of the committee were arrested, the rest would disperse and regroup. No one was to make himself a sacrifice. He switched off his engine and began to make his way towards the building, bags trailing behind him, arguing with himself all the way.
“ARREST HIM,” THEIR COMMANDING officer said. “Arrest them all.” The man was short and stocky, a Colonel Benatari in proportions, his face and hands a crosshatch of scars and near misses. He was not used to being challenged. Chike could see he was growing impatient with these interruptions to his authority. Handcuffs were unhooked from belts and stretched wide to receive their wrists. They would be separated in prison, into male and female. The guards might take a liking to the women. Isoken would not survive such an ordeal again.
“Wait,” Sandayọ said, struggling to regain control of the arm that had been seized.
Why had the Chief come back? It was too absurd to believe that this man who had stolen millions would turn inches from escape and fly back into the fowler’s net. Unless the Chief had begun to believe the image of himself he had fashioned for the BBC, the burnished idol of Rẹmi Sandayọ.
“Wait. I have something to say. Step back. I have an offer for you. How much did they say I stole? Answer me. How much are you to recover? Ten million dollars, isn’t it? There’s at least nine million here. Nine million dollars right here but nobody knows that except the people in this room.”
“You can’t buy your way out of this. I’ve radioed the police commissioner to say you’ve been captured.”
“Not me. Let them go and we’ll say you only found seven million. I’ll swear to it in court. That’s two million dollars to share. More money than you will ever earn in your lifetime. Any of you.”
“You are very bold for someone under arrest.”
Chike could see the struggle in the commanding officer. There was a gold band on his wedding finger. He would have many dependents. The others were standing still, barely breathing as they watched this drama unfold. Oma’s lips were moving without sound. She must be praying.
“Make up your mind,” Chief Sandayọ said. “They’ll be waiting for us at the station.”
“Who said I have to work with you? I can take what I want and still arrest you all.”
“I’ll know. The commissioner of police will certainly wonder why nobody told him when you were sharing money.”
“Are you threatening me? I can have you killed right now.”
“You’ll explain to your superiors what happened between my capture and death.”
“You resisted arrest.”
“Shoot me, then.”
If they killed the Chief, they would kill them, too. There could be no witnesses. He had seen countless executions. No matter how brave or courageous, at the last moment the sphincter would loosen, soiling the air and tarnishing the reputation. Chike would never distinguish himself in combat, never marry, never have children, never mumble to Oma that this nervous excitement he felt around her was love, never show Isoken how to break a man’s nose, never tell Fineboy that his accent was a nuisance, never thank Yẹmi for the countless services his private had done him.
“Sir, if we’re taking this money, we must start dividing it soon.”
It was one of the subordinate officers speaking. They, too, were watching the drama tensely, calculating how and where and when they would spend their share.
“All right. Get out.”
Oma bent to pick up her scarf.
“Don’t touch anything. It’s all evidence. Just go before I change my mind.”
“Thank you,” Chike said when he passed Sandayọ.
“Maybe you’d have done the same for me, Saint Chike. Don’t worry. These are just servants. They can’t do anything without orders, and I have powerful friends. Did you hear that, Mister Man, I have powerful friends,” the Chief shouted to the commanding officer. Already things were shifting in Sandayọ’s direction. The Chief would take care of himself.
At the top of the stairs, Chike turned and saw the policemen kneeling before the money, counting and placing it in stacks. Their commanding officer watched closely, his tremulous hands rising often to stroke his beard. It was their turn to eat. Who knew when next they would be invited to the table?
61
THEY LEFT THROUGH THE hole broken in the fence, an ignoble reversal of fortune that saw them worse off than when they had arrived. They were thankful for the escape, thankful they would not be forced into a van with Chief Sandayọ, handcuffed, stifled, fearful, but already they were looking back.
“I wanted to buy a sewing machine,” Oma said. “Where am I going to find the money for that again? I left what Chief Sandayọ gave us behind.”
“I already make plans. I wan’ go Badagry, see the slave something.”
“I have to go back,” said Isoken, the least mercenary of the group. “It was what I needed for my fees. For when I pass JAMB.”
“The police might have gone. Once they’ve taken the money, what do they need the flat for?” Oma said.
Leaving would hurt Oma the most. She who had scrubbed the walls and polished the floors and bought new covers for the cushions,
how could she not look back, like Lot’s wife, turned to a pillar of salt, longing for her crockery, left on the shelves of Gomorrah.
“Anyone who wants can return, but as for me, I’m going to the bridge,” Chike said.
They stood hesitant on the roadside, late birds in a migration, unsure whether to leave the comfort of their nest. Fineboy was the first to follow him, crossing the gap with swift, decisive steps. It was a gloomy ride. No one wanted to arrive. They willed the journey to last longer, comfortable in the dark limbo of their danfo. But this night, when they would have been happy to jerk forward, keeping their place in a sea of brake lights, there was little traffic and they sped back to their old home.
The bridge was more awful in fact than in memory. Had they really lived in plain view of passersby, like animals in a zoo, their every action on display? Had they really slept in this open stink of running sewers and rotten food? First, they greeted Chairman.
“You people have come back. Where you disappear go?”
“We traveled,” Chike said.
“Welcome. The money you paid before is still valid. We don’t do things rough here. We are very organized.”
They found a space and sat huddled on the ground, shy of one another once more. Their cardboard bedding had been torn to shreds and discarded, useless in the bounty of the flat. Chike remembered now how close Oma had slept to him, her breathing keeping him awake some nights. The cement was cold and hard when he lay down, harder for his absence.
“Brother Chike.”
It was Fineboy, squatting by his head.
“Yes, what is it?”
The boy placed something rolled and cylindrical in his hand.
“What is this?”
“Money.”
From the flat, of course. If anyone had been sharp enough to keep hold of their share, it would be Fineboy.
“How much?”
“Three hundred dollars. Everything Chief gave me.”
Sandayọ had been generous in those last moments. Even to Fineboy he would have given more, Chike thought. And who was he to confront the boy? Fineboy was loyal to them, in his own strange, amoral way.
Welcome to Lagos Page 22
