12 Hours

by L I Owugah

  As the speed of the car continued to climb, Juku swept around a sharp curve, and the vehicle's headlights illuminated a massive pothole. The pothole couldn't have been less than a foot wide but was about two feet deep. Like a chunk of road that had been ripped out by a tractor. In a bid to avert imminent disaster, Juku spun the steering wheel ninety degrees to the right and slammed his foot down on the brake pedal. A combination of actions, which, at the speed the car was travelling, was as pointless as the Titanic's attempt to avoid the iceberg.

  There was a deafening bang and the cars front right tyre smashed into the pothole. The girl in the rear seat was thrown sideways. She ricocheted off the passenger door and released a horrific scream. At the same time, the car bounced into the air, and, for a split second, tipped onto two tyres, like a flamboyant stunt from an eighties James Bond flick. Then, as the vehicle crashed back to earth, it veered violently off the motorway and illuminated another obstacle in its path. Two obstacles to be precise. Two lives, a man and a woman. The pair were elderly and were standing in a remote clearing, off the side of the road. The man was standing beside a Peugeot and seemed to be on the verge of changing a flat tyre, while the woman, standing several feet away, was punching the keypad of a mobile phone, and had her back turned. Juku's foot remained flattened against the brake pedal, an instinctive, but futile action. And he knew it. The rigid look of horror on the old man's face made it apparent he knew it too. Knew there was no escape, and death, at least for his partner, was all but guaranteed.

  Then the man did something extraordinary. With the agility of a twenty-five-year-old, he dashed over to the woman and embraced her from behind. An instinctive reaction, which appeared to be a desperate attempt to prevent her pivoting around, and witnessing what was to be a most violent end to her and now both their lives. As the vehicle collided with the couple, their bodies were thrown up against the windscreen and sent toppling over the roof of the car. At that moment, Juku realised his life had taken a dramatic and potentially irreversible turn.

  14

  JONAH

  RAMBO

  I woke up in a heavy sweat and glanced at my watch.It was two o'clock. Two in the afternoon meaning I'd been dead to the world for the better part of eight hours, and for the suffocating heat, would probably have stayed that way.

  I sat upright, wiped the perspiration off my brow with the back of my forearm, and looked around the room. There was no sign of Michael. After our brief conversation, it was clear he had made his mind up about what he was going to do and was not about to be convinced otherwise.

  Stifling a wide yawn with a clenched fist, it wasn't just the heat that was apparent, but the empty silence in place of the loud, air-conditioning unit which had greeted me upon my arrival.

  Springing to my feet, I snapped on a light switch but got no response from the single bulb that dangled from the ceiling. Then I went over to the door, yanked it open and stepped out into the corridor.

  It was dead quiet.

  Heading down to the lobby, I arrived at the front desk. A uniformed male member of staff sat there, wearing a pair of large counterfeit looking BEATS branded headphones. The man was listening to something on a tired looking smartphone. He didn't appear to hear me approach. Rapping on the desk with my knuckles, he glanced up. Startled he whipped off the headphones in the manner of a schoolboy caught napping in class.

  "Oga Welcome!" he said.

  "What happened to the power?" I asked.

  "NEPA."

  "Meaning?"

  "National Electric Power Authority. This is how they do tings here. It has been four days now."

  "Four days of what?"

  "No light!"

  "How about this morning?"

  "Na generator," he said, with what appeared to be a whiff of pride.

  "Why isn't it on now?"

  "Diesel. Diesel cost too much. But please, just manage, for now, Sah. From seven o'clock this evening, everything will be back to normal."

  "Twenty-four-hour power?"

  "The generator, Sah" he emphasized. "Management will make sure they have it running again."

  "For how long?"

  "Till about nine o'clock the following morning."

  I said nothing in return. The message was crystal. No power for the next eight hours unless the power company NEPA did something about it, and from all indications, the odds of that happening were slim to none. I glanced across the lobby and saw a room marked by a metal plated sign overhead that read DRINKS BAR. The letter D in DRINKS was missing and left only an indented impression. I sauntered over, keen on grabbing a cold drink to combat the stifling heat.

  In the centre of the room, three circular shaped wooden tables were covered in cheap looking plastic tablecloths. Tucked beneath each table were a couple of creaky looking wooden chairs. Glancing across the room, I spotted another male staff member. Seated on a stool, he was enjoying an extended nap behind a service counter, one side of his face lying flat against the counter's surface. In the background, a tall refrigerator stood beside a row of empty wall shelves. Crossing over to the man, I repeated what I had done with his colleague and rapped my knuckles on the counter.

  He awoke with a start.

  "Afternoon Sah," he said, bolting upright.

  "Got any drinks?" I said.

  "What do you need?"

  "A large Guinness."

  "No problem."

  He bounced off his stool and yanked open the fridge. He extracted a large bottle of Guinness and slid it across the counter. The bottle looked dead dry, and as I closed my fist around it felt warm to the touch. As the bartender produced a bottle opener, I raised a palm in protest.

  "Nothing cold?" I said.

  'Oga, sorry there has been..."

  I didn't let him finish.

  "No power for four days just got the memo."

  "Memo?"

  "Information. "

  "Oh, now I get you," he said.

  He paused for a moment, and his voice dropped to a whisper. Like a person who was about to reveal some classified information.

  "But I can show you somewhere."

  "Somewhere I can get a cold drink?"

  "Yes...and..."

  He paused for another spell.

  "Anything else you might need".

  I gave him a quizzical look and noticed the smirk on his face, which was when the penny dropped. Anything else I might need. Coded language for the opposite sex.

  "Give me fifteen minutes," I said.

  Returning to the hotel room, I had a quick shower and slipped on a fresh t-shirt. The bartender who said his name was Tunde had a cab waiting outside. He was sitting in the front passenger seat and turned around as I climbed in the back.

  "Oga, I hope you don't mind if I show you the place?" he said.

  "That's fine."

  Half an hour later, the taxi cab pulled into the courtyard of a large drinking establishment. There was a huge sign above the front entrance which read Cool Breeze. As we climbed out of the car, Tunde instructed the cab driver to wait and accompanied me into the bar. A spacious venue, groups of people were seated at large circular tables, knocking back drinks and enjoying exotic looking meat and fish dishes. Afrobeat music played softly in the background, softly for now, though likely to become louder as evening approached and there was an uptake in foot traffic.

  A number of scantily clad women occupied the room. "Sex workers, " as the PC brigade would like to describe them. The bartender glanced up at me.

  "You like?" he asked.

  "Maybe after a drink,"I replied.

  He nodded and went quiet for a spell.

  I got the message, flipped out my wallet, and handed him a ten-pound note.

  His eyes lit up in gratitude.

  'God bless you Sah.'

  'Think you can pick me up later ?' I replied

  'What time ?'

  I was about to answer when I noticed a stunning looking female who was standing in a corner across the room. Wea
ring a tight-fitted outfit her demeanour was calmer than that of her peers.

  She gazed in my direction and smiled.

  "Give me a couple of hours," I said.

  "Don't worry, Sah. Long before that time, I will be here waiting for you." He shot off, and I took a seat at a nearby table. A waiter scurried over.

  "What can I get you, Oga?"

  "A cold Guinness," I said.

  "Anything else?"

  A whiff of rich, delicious smelling pastry swept across the room, and my head snapped around. A couple of tables from where I was sitting, a small group of people were being served a large tray of meat pies. I felt my mouth water and heard an empty growl from the pit of my stomach, which reminded me that I hadn't eaten for at least seven hours.

  "Got any more of those pies?" I said motioning to the table with a sideways jerk of my head.

  "Ahh, we get them plenty oh!" The waiter said, "How many shall I bring for you?"

  I shot up three fingers. He nodded and looking over my head acknowledged someone behind me.

  "Sista, welcome oh!"

  I whipped around, and the working girl I had seen earlier was standing right beside me. We traded a smile.

  "Anything else, Sah?" I heard the waiter say.

  "Whatever the lady's having," I said.

  She took a seat across from me and looked up at the waiter.

  "Just a bottle of Fanta for now, Nnamdi," she said.

  "Is that all?" I asked, granting her permission to ditch the modesty. Her smile broadened, and she looked up at the waiter again.

  "A plate of goat pepper soup."

  She turned back to me.

  "How are you?" she said.

  "Will feel a lot better once those pies are inside me. "

  "You sound like you live abroad."

  "I do."

  "America?"

  "London."

  "Oh! London," she sang. "You are very fortunate! I have one aunty who lives there. But she does not want to send for me."

  "I wouldn't take it personally."

  She looked at me with a puzzled expression.

  "I don't understand."

  "London's not all it's trumped up to be."

  I noticed a police officer, sitting alone, at the back of the room. He was short in stature and had the thick, sturdy physique, of a professional wrestler. His eyes were cold and detached, his complexion visibly uneven, making it apparent, even from a distance, that his skin had been artificially lightened.

  The officer was drinking a beer, which I found odd for a man in uniform in public, but quickly reminded myself that this was the city of Lagos, not London. I heard the voice of the waiter once again.

  "Your food, Sah."

  I turned in his direction. The waiter was carrying a large tray loaded with everything we had ordered. He lowered onto the table, a large plate of meat pies, and a bunch of napkins. He did the same for the girl, sliding under her nose, a hot bowl of pepper soup, with two giant pieces of goat meat. Setting a couple of tall glasses on the table, a giant, frosty bottle of Guinness and an equally chilled bottle of Fanta, he snapped open both lids and took his leave. Ignoring the glasses, I reached for the Guinness, and took a satisfying swig. Using a fork, I cut a large chunk from one of the pies and shovelled it into my mouth. The taste was awesome.

  "Better now?" I heard the girl said.

  I looked up at her. She was sipping her drink with a straw, like a teenager from the American Bandstand era.

  "Getting there," I said

  "So what's your name?" she asked.

  "Jonah...You?"

  "Funmilayo."

  "Bit of a mouthful."

  She smiled.

  "Just call me Funmi," she said.

  Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a pair of loud, angry voices from across the room. Turning in the direction of the disturbance, I clocked two inebriated men in a heated face-off. Engaged in a fiery exchange of words, the men were standing on opposite sides of a table, while a working girl, who seemed to be the subject of the dispute, made a futile effort to diffuse the chaos. In a move I figured was meant to frighten his opponent, one of the men grabbed an empty bottle from the table, and smashed it over his own head. The other man was unfazed and didn't budge an inch.

  However, someone else did. Bolting to his feet, the police officer I had observed earlier moved swiftly towards the incident. Marching straight past the men, he disappeared out of the front entrance. It was an odd response to a crisis by an officer of the law. But a reaction that appeared to be deliberate, which was confirmed when he returned with a horsewhip in his fist.

  Ambushing the men with ferocious savagery, the police officer tore into the unsuspecting pair, whaling on them at random. Howling in agony, both men threw up their hands in a defensive motion. But as the skin from their open palms was lacerated by an instrument designed to tame an animal weighing no less than a thousand pounds, the man who took pride in owning a head built for obliterating beer bottles decided to take a stand. Grabbing hold of the officer's wrist, he made a desperate attempt to halt the action. A significant error of judgement, which garnered an immediate consequence.

  Like a pit bull on steroids, the officer propelled himself forward, delivering an explosive head-butt, which split the man's forehead and left a pool of blood streaming down his face. For a brief second, I felt an overwhelming urge to intervene and bring the assault to an abrupt close, using my own brand of conflict resolution but opted not to get involved for three reasons. First, it was merely an ass kicking not a murder. Second, the neutral expressions on the faces of the other patrons, and a quiet remark from a passing waiter, who whispered "Rambo dey deal with person again," made it clear that like the power cuts from NEPA, this was not an isolated occurrence.

  The third, yet most crucial reason, I opted to "Stay in my lane", as the Americans like to phrase it, was the sight of a service pistol tucked into the holster of the officer's belt. It was a semi-automatic 9mm Beretta. A powerful firearm which I was not about to take a bullet from for sticking my nose into a matter that had nothing to do with me.

  As the officer dragged both men out of the bar, I turned to Funmi and said, "Someone, you know?"

  "Rambo," she answered.

  "Rambo?"

  "It's his nickname, like you know...the famous movie star."

  "Sly Stallone?"

  She nodded, leaned across the table, and lowered her voice.

  "But as you have just witnessed, he is nobody's hero." The next few minutes were spent in silence as we ate. Once we were finished Funmi dabbed the corners of her mouth with a serviette and looked up at me.

  "Ready for me now?" she said.

  I drained the rest of my drink and shrugged my shoulders.

  "After you," I said, waving my hand away from the table. She took me by the hand and led me across the room, and through an archway, that connected with a walkway, which led to the quarters where the women conducted their business.

  The walkway was illuminated by the crimson glow of a back street brothel. There were several rooms either side of the corridor. We walked past a few of them and Funmi stopped before the one which belonged to her.

  "My room," she whispered, reaching into her bra and producing a single key. She unlocked the door, pushed it open, and waltzed into the room. I followed her inside and closed the door behind me. She slipped out of her dress.

  "Got any protection?"

  She stopped abruptly.

  "I thought you liked me."

  "Not that much."

  She smiled. With a masterful sleight of hand, she flashed a hidden condom at me.

  "Always," she said.

  I nodded and scanned the surroundings. The room was tiny and felt like being trapped in a phone booth. "Fancy going somewhere else?" I said. She stopped once again.

  "For the night?"

  "Pretty much."

  Her face split into a broad smile.