12 Hours

by L I Owugah

  Filling in a section for new clients, I detailed the nature of the incident and the names of the victims. I also filled in the day and estimated time of the tragedy. And my specific request, which was to have the company's private investigator locate the driver responsible for bringing the lives of Mr and Mrs Eko to a premature end. After including a mobile number for contact purposes, I clicked on SEND. After what had been an exhausting afternoon, I tipped my head back against the wall and shut my eyes. Several hours later, I was awoken by a knock at the door. It was the next morning. Just gone 7 0'clock. The laptop had died on my lap.

  Shoving it to one side, I swung both legs off the bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, sauntered over to the door and opened it. A dishevelled looking man in his mid-thirties appeared on the other side. The corridor was poorly lit, but his shell-shocked expression was as clear as day. Breathing heavily, he gasped a sigh of relief.

  "Thank God," he said.

  "Who are you?" I demanded.

  He said nothing but turned to glance over his shoulder and a towering figure stepped out of the shadows from behind him. It was a casually dressed man, 6ft 5, 250 pounds. A recently acquired scar was visible beneath his right eye, fresh grazes across his knuckles. He had on a plain t-shirt that appeared spotted with blood stains.

  It was Jonah.

  7

  JONAH

  FREE AT LAST

  Following two weeks of what the authorities deemed "Highly commendable behaviour," I was granted an early release from jail, and for the remainder of my sentence, was given a fixed date to commence a community service programme.

  The decision was something of a surprise. But the absence of any conflict during my time behind bars was easily understood. In jail, the threat of violence can never be averted by merely acting tough. You're either made of something or made of nothing. And it doesn't take much to find out which. Over the course of fourteen days, the regular perpetrators of violence, had, after staring into the cold recesses of my eyes, wisely decided that the man with the ominous reputation of putting three men and a lady in a temporary coma was better left alone.

  Dressed in a black sweatshirt, denim jeans and a pair of chocolate brown, leather Timberland boots, I arrived in Tottenham with just a sports bag slung over my right shoulder. Free at last, I emerged from Seven Sisters Station and took in the familiar sights. It was a mild morning, but the subtle autumn chill served as a distinct reminder of winter's imminent arrival.

  Just outside the train station was the small, but familiar gathering of black Muslim men in their thirties and forties. They had thick beards and were barking into loud microphones about the ills of racism and white supremacy. Passionate about their campaign, the men were also advertising a variety of magazines laid out on large tables with bold titles such as Message to the Black Man and the Final Call.

  I had just set out on what would have been a twenty-minute hike to where I lived when the quiet vibration from my mobile phone brought me to an abrupt halt. Fishing into the pocket of my jeans, I withdrew my functional, but incredibly dated Nokia handset. I recognized what looked like an international number flashing up on the screen and answered it. There was a short blast of static on the other end as I paused to hear the voice of the caller. An unusual quirk of mine. I would always wait for the caller to speak first. Technically speaking, it was they who had something to say to me. Not the reverse.

  After a brief moment, a man's voice echoed over the speaker.

  "Jonah?"

  I recognized the voice in an instant. In fact, I remembered speaking to him only six months ago during a routine call I had made to check up on my now deceased guardians.

  It was Mr Eko's younger brother Taffi, the one Michael referred to as "Uncle," and who I chose to call "Mr Taffi."

  "Speaking," I replied.

  There was another blast of static, followed by more silence.

  "What is the matter with you?" Mr Taffi said.

  I said nothing.

  "Your brother told me why you refused to attend the funeral" he continued. "You think your job is more important than paying your respects to the man who raised you?"

  For a moment I wondered what job. he was referring to. Then I figured Michael must have cooked up a story to defend my absence at the funeral

  "I'm sorry for your loss, sir."

  He said nothing in return, and I immediately understood why.

  " I am sorry for your loss"

  Sounded like the sort of thing you would expect to hear from a stranger, or an acquaintance, rather than a family member, albeit an adopted one. But for some reason, it felt right. As far as I was aware Mr Eko had been Mr Taffi's only sibling, and I was under no illusions that despite the vigour in his voice, he was probably still coming to terms with his grief in a manner, that I would never quite understand.

  "Thank you," he said, eventually. "My brother cared very much for you and Michael."

  "If there's anything I can do..."

  "There is!" he said, not letting me finish. "But not for me, for your brother."

  "Michael?"

  "Yes. He is running the streets of Lagos trying to find the driver who ran over my brother and his wife."

  "Any luck?"

  "Luck?" Mr Taffi responded in a tone of disbelief. "Do you know how many people live in this city?"

  It was a rhetorical question, but after I had stumbled upon the city's population statistics during an unrelated Google search two years earlier, I had a ready answer.

  "Twenty-one million."

  He was silent for another spell, before saying. "Then you must know he is wasting his time."

  "I'm sure he will figure that out soon enough."

  "Yes, but by then the police will have finished his money."

  "He's paying for information?"

  "Not yet, but believe me, before the police will lift a finger here, he will pay through his nose!"

  "Pay through his nose." I smiled at the uniqueness of this particular phrase."And with the amount of corruption in this country, it will be a complete waste of time!" Mr Taffi continued.

  "So what are you suggesting?" I asked.

  "That you come over and talk some sense into him."

  "Come to Lagos?"

  "Of course. Are you not a Nigerian?"

  I smiled again at the comical nature of his bluntness, which reminded of the American comedian Bernie Mac, before his untimely passing.

  "You don't agree?" he said.

  I thought about it for a moment. Not the question regarding my heritage, but the notion of heading to Lagos. Michael had always been somewhat stubborn, set in his ways, so attempting to convince him to reconsider his decision was unlikely to pay any dividends. However, considering I wasn't strapped with an ankle bracelet and had ten days before I was due to start my community service assignment, I decided that a week spent in my brother's company was likely to do our frayed relationship a world of good.

  "Do you have an address?"

  "Of course," Mr Taffi replied cheerily. He gave me the address of a hotel where he said Michael was staying, pointing out that it was a twenty-minute drive from the international airport.

  "I punched the details into my ancient handset and placed the device back to my ear.

  "I'll be there."

  He went quiet for a moment, probably wanting to know the date of my arrival.

  I said nothing.

  "Call me when you get here," he said abruptly and hung up.

  I shoved the phone back into my jeans pocket and thought about the travel documentation I would need for the trip. I remembered how both Michael and I had been issued Nigerian passports when we were younger. As far as Mr Eko was concerned It was a bit of a no-brainer. With dual nationality, we would have the advantage of never having to deal with the hassle of obtaining a visa whenever we decided to visit the motherland. Reaching into my back pocket, I yanked out a wallet and folded it open. It was empty, aside from two plastic cards. The first was a full driv
er's license, the other an American Express card that I'd always kept for emergencies. Figuring I had a £3,000 credit limit, I glanced at the digital watch on my wrist. It was 4 pm.

  Time to book a flight.

  8

  JONAH

  UPPERCUT FROM HELL

  A couple of hours later I arrived at Heathrow Airport and used my American Express card to purchase an economy class British Airways ticket to Lagos City. Accessing the same card, I made a large cash machine withdrawal, boarded a flight, and arrived in the ex-capital of Nigeria the following morning.

  The city was hot as hell and made worse by an ill-equipped airport that appeared to have no air conditioning. Carrying just the single holdall over my right shoulder, I was done with immigration in record time. Departing the arrivals terminal I found myself swarmed by a bunch of local traders offering phone cards, mobile phone handsets, and black market money exchange services.

  After negotiating and eventually swapping a handful of Pound Sterling for the equivalent in Nigerian Naira, I spotted one of several men who had been approaching passengers at random. Shabbily dressed and in his fifties, he wore a pair of flip-flops and held a massive bunch of keys. He struck me as a hand to mouth taxi driver, having a characteristically rough morning. Beckoning to the man he scurried over, his face beaming with anticipation.

  "Oga, welcome!" he said in broken English. "Where you dey go?" I handed him a piece of paper with Michael's hotel address scribbled on it. He gave it a brief glance.

  "Okay, I know the place." He reached out a hand to relieve me of the bag over my shoulder. But I raised a palm in protest.

  "How much?"

  The driver glanced at the paper again, as though to confirm something he had missed first time around.

  "The place far, oh!"

  "That's not what I heard."

  He grimaced with the discomfort of a conman who had just been rumbled. He forced an apologetic smile.

  "Ok, fifteen thousand."

  Fifteen thousand Naira, the equivalent of thirty pounds. Cheap, but probably not a figure set in stone.

  "Ten," I shot back.

  "Just make it thirteen, Abeg!" he pleaded.

  "Eleven," I said beginning to enjoy the haggle.

  "Okay, twelve," he replied and before I could refuse quickly hoisted the bag off my shoulder. As he trotted in the direction of a parked car, I followed, happy to give him a break. Moments later, we were speeding through the darkened morning in a three decade old Honda. The motorway was dusty and in bad shape. But the vehicle was notably in excellent condition, and, judging by the driver's unique ability to circumvent lethal looking potholes, which appeared like hidden landmines on enemy territory, it was no secret why.

  "How are you finding Nigeria?" the cabman said.

  "Only been here a couple of hours."

  He smiled. "I love this ya accent oh!" He shot a look in my direction.

  "London or Americana?"

  "London."

  "Of course, London!" He roared in excitement.

  "London big boys, ahh bi!"

  He gave me the look of a man who was about to divulge a precious secret.

  "One day, I will come and join you people over there," he whispered.

  "You're more than welcome," I said.

  "To stay with you?" He asked enthusiastically.

  "To visit the country."

  He nodded, seemingly disappointed with my answer. Then his eyes lit up once again. "You know I have one friend who can arrange Visa for me. Only the amount he is charging is too much." He paused for a beat, as though waiting for an opinion or an offer. I gave neither. He looked at me and his face split into a giant smile.

  "But with God nothing is impossible!"

  I didn't respond. But this time for a separate reason. Directly ahead of us at a distance of approximately six hundred yards, a couple of casually dressed men stood in the middle of the road. The men were armed with beaming flashlights which they pointed right at us.

  "Police?" I asked.

  "Yes, Oga!" he wailed in despair as he slowed down. "But please you go talk small, small because if they know say you from yonda. They will demand money!" I said nothing. My attention was still fixed on the two men. And something seemed out of place. Rather than wait for us to arrive, they were moving in our direction. Marching straight at us, like a pair of hired thugs with a major axe to grind.

  Then, in a split second, both men broke into a sprint and charged towards us like a pair of Leopards in pursuit of a helpless deer. One of the men whipped out a gleaming machete that was tucked into the front of his trousers, while his partner unshouldered what resembled an AK47 assault rifle, and levelled it at the motor vehicle.

  "ARMED ROBBERS!" The driver screamed.

  "Step on the gas!" I yelled.

  As the driver obeyed my command, and the vehicle lurched forward, a chain of events followed, which sent us veering off the motorway. Illuminated by the car's headlights, a long booby-trapped, flat panel of wood appeared from nowhere. The wood was layered from one end to the other with a bunch of vertically placed nine - inch nails, which, like the merciless bite from a Great White, flattened both of the cars front tyres in an instant.

  Simultaneously, the robbers split up in the shape of a V. The gun-wielding man dashed to the right of the car, while his machete-armed partner headed to the left. Seconds later, the sound of a deafening crack was followed by a spidering of the windscreen, as the blade crashed down onto the driver's side of the windshield. The taxi driver fought with the steering, and swerved wildly to the right, in an instinctive attempt to avert another vicious strike. But disoriented by the ruthless combination of shock, confusion, and sheer panic, forfeited control of the vehicle.

  Hurtling off the motorway, the car skidded into a mass of wild bushes, then crashed - nose first, into a nearby tree. A deathly silence followed, like the aftermath of a structural demolition.

  There was no smell of petrol, and no smoke emanating from the engine, leaving it safe, at least for the time being, to stay put. I turned to examine the driver who had his head in his hands and was shaking uncontrollably.

  "God help us, we are finished!" he wailed.

  "Are you hurt?" I said.

  "Oga, I have children!"

  I pivoted around and glanced out of the car's rear window.

  The men were briskly heading towards us.

  I looked back at the driver.

  "You got the keys to the trunk?"

  "Trunk?"

  "The car boot," I clarified.

  "It's on the bunch," he said, pointing to the bunch of keys dangling from the ignition of the car. I yanked the bunch out.

  "Which one?"

  He identified the key.

  "Wind up your window and lock the door," I said. He looked at me, terrified, yet puzzled. "Now!" I demanded. He obeyed immediately, wound up the window manually, and thumbed down the door lock on his side of the car.

  I whipped around, leaned across to the back seat, and did the same with the rear doors. I turned back to the front passenger seat, wound up my window, and jerked open the door. "Stay here," I ordered the taxi driver.

  "Oga..."

  I didn't let him finish.

  "Just do it."

  I thumbed down the lock on my side and climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind me. The men came to a halt as they saw me coming, maybe because they hadn't anticipated a man of my size. Or maybe they were simply unfamiliar with anyone who would meet the threat of a gun or a machete, in this case, both, with such a casual show of confidence.

  The two men were in their late twenties and had a severe case of facial acne. Wearing t-shirts, blue jeans, and cheap running shoes, they stood about six foot tall. They were, like myself, dark in skin complexion, and had the muscular builds which came from having good genetics rather than any efforts in a gymnasium. Both also looked stoned out of their heads, their eyes hollow and bloodshot.