12 Hours

by L I Owugah

"Let me pack my tings."

  "I'll be outside," I said.

  I returned to the bar and walked out of the front entrance, where I found Tunde waiting. Sitting on the bonnet of the cab he had hired earlier, he was downing a beer and flirting with one of the working girls. The officer they called Rambo looked like he was having a pep talk with the two men he had physically assaulted. A remarkable turn around in relations after what had been one of the most brutal physical attacks I had ever witnessed. Each man extended a handful of bank notes to him. The officer received the cash with a smile, and patted each of the men on the shoulder, in an "All's well, that ends well" fashion. He climbed behind the wheel of a Hilux pickup truck marked POLICE and drove off. I watched the truck disappear in a cloud of dust with only one thought on my mind. The police officers in this city were more than just corrupt. They were dangerous.

  Exceedingly dangerous.

  15

  MICHAEL

  EVERYDAY FOR THE THIEF

  It took about forty minutes to reach the police station I had visited the previous day. I was told that Balogun was stuck in traffic, and ushered into his office to wait. Taking a seat at the police officers desk, I stared at the official nameplate: Inspector P. Balogun. A man who, less than twelve hours earlier, no-one seemed to have any knowledge existed.

  There was a neat stack of half a week's worth of newspapers on one end of the desk, and another organized pile of what looked like a bunch of untouched police files on the other. Unlike the rest of the police station, the office was comfortable and well maintained. There was the welcoming smell of freshly painted walls, clean wood effect laminate flooring, the pleasant feel of cold air from a wall mounted air conditioning unit, and the convenience of a small fridge in one corner of the room. Reaching across the desk, I grabbed a newspaper from the top of the pile. Today's Nigerian Observer. Dominating the front page was a bold headline: NIGERIA OIL SHORTAGE WHO TO BLAME? There was a photograph of a mass of frustrated looking people and a lengthy queue of motor vehicles outside a petrol station. Then I heard the door open, and a loud voice bellowed across the room.

  "Welcome my brother!"

  I whipped around. A man I assumed was Inspector Balogun briskly crossed the room. He was light in complexion, short in stature, built like a mini truck, and smelt like he had been swimming in a bathtub of cologne.

  He extended a hand. His grip was firm, his hand coarse and hard, which made the experience feel as though I were shaking the hand of a Gorilla.

  "You're a hard man to get hold of."

  "This is Lagos, " he replied, employing the popular phrase for justifying anything that was off kilter.

  Batting a hand, he said, "Please sit."

  I lowered myself back into the seat.

  With the smile still carved on his face, Balogun headed over to the fridge, yanked it open and extracted two bottles of beer. He clanked the bottles between the knuckles of his fingers, came back over, and planted one of them on the desk.

  With a raised hand, I declined the offer.

  "Thanks, but I'm trying to cut back."

  "It will not kill you," he said in a tone that appeared to suggest I had no choice in the matter. He produced a bunch of car keys which had a bottle opener and snapped the lid off the drink.

  Circling the desk, he took a seat across from me. He popped open his own bottle and took a swig. "You have to forgive my boys," he said, "but what they told you is true." He made an open-palmed gesture with both hands.

  "You see, I have plenty of enemies. So, for security reasons, if anyone wishes to see me, we must first exercise caution." I nodded but was unconvinced by his explanation.

  "Guess you know why I'm here, then."

  He nodded solemnly.

  "I am very sorry for your loss." He placed a palm to his chest in a heartfelt gesture. "But at the time I found your dear parents, there was nothing I could do."

  "I got a text message that morning," I said. "My mother must have sent it just before ..."

  I paused abruptly, took a deep breath.

  "Just before this bastard ran them over."

  Balogun nodded. He pulled out a drawer on his side of the desk and withdrew an item which he kept concealed in his palm. He slid the object across the table and removed his hand. It was a mobile phone with a cracked screen.

  "The mobile you called that morning," Balogun said. I picked up the handset that had belonged to my mother, and overcome with grief, cupped the phone with both hands, like a precious stone, the tears welling up in my eyes, and flowing freely down my cheeks.

  "When I heard it ring and saw your name, I was compelled to answer it," he said. I wiped away the tears with the back of my hand and stared across at him with a look of defiance.

  "Are you ready to arrest the man responsible?" I demanded.

  "Of course."

  He took another swig from his bottle.

  "But um...your cooperation is needed."

  "I don't understand."

  He nodded. "I know this must be new to you, my brother. But this is Lagos, and investigations of this nature take time, energy, and more importantly, a little bit of..." He rubbed his thumb, against his index and middle fingers in a universal gesture of hard cash.

  "Finance."

  "Finance?"

  "It costs money to investigate these things, my brother."

  He shrugged matter of factly.

  "As I said before, this is...."

  "Lagos," I interrupted. "Heard it a million times already." He leaned forward, covertly lowering his voice.

  "Listen, my brother. For the right price, I will not only find the man who committed this atrocity but make sure he pays in the worst way possible."

  Reclining back into his seat he smiled.

  "That's why they call me Rambo."

  "Rambo?"

  "Like Stallone, only a hundred times more dangerous."

  I went quiet for a moment.

  "Suppose I made this easier for you."

  He leaned forward once again, the smile returning to his face.

  "What do you have?"

  I reached into the back pocket of my jeans, produced the folded piece of paper with the name and address I'd been given, and placed it on the table. Gazing down at the paper with the look of someone who had just been insulted, Balogun straightened up in his chair. He gestured to the paper with an open hand.

  "What is this?" he demanded.

  "Information on the identity of the driver."

  He reached across picked up the paper and unfolded it. Then he stared at the details, with a blank expression on his face.

  "Where did you get this?."

  "Not at liberty to say, I'm afraid." He flattened the paper back on to the table and continued to stare at it.

  "How sure are you about this?"

  "Sure enough."

  He looked up at me. The smile returned to his face, only this time, there was a bitter edge to it.

  "You can forget the money," he said. "I'll do this one for nothing."

  I looked at him, searching his face for some indication of a catch, but couldn't find one.

  "How...when..." I stuttered.

  "We will bring him in tomorrow."

  "You and your team?"

  "No..."

  He jabbed a finger in my direction and then pointed it back to himself.

  "You and me."

  Bewildered I stared at him.

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  He didn't answer me, his attention returning to the piece of paper which he picked up once again. Then, as though delivering a battle cry he yelled out the name written on it.

  "Simon Juku!"

  His eyes shot in my direction.

  "Every day for the thief, one day for the owner!" I stared back at him, and couldn't help thinking that after his earlier spiel about having me finance the investigation, reciting a proverb about every crook receiving his comeuppance, was a definite case of the proverbial pot calling the kettle black. />
  "You want me to come with you?" I asked.

  "Of course," he said. "Come and witness why they call me Rambo."

  He rose up from the chair.

  "Where are you staying?"

  "A hotel, the other side of town."

  "Perfect. You give me the details, and I'll pick you up."

  "What time?"

  "Six o'clock."

  "Evening?"

  "Morning."

  He flashed the paper at me and pointed to a crucial part of the address which read: City of Abuja. "It will take some time for us to reach there," he said. I sprung to my feet, instantly feeling vindicated and in control.

  "Let's do it!" I roared.

  16

  THE QUEST FOR JUSTICE

  "My husband is cheating again!" Sade stared at the severely distressed woman who sat on the other side of her desk. Once again, she was faced with a client who required her services for resolving a domestic upheaval. Another routine job for which she would be expected to uncover the truth by taking a peek behind the proverbial curtain. On this occasion, judging from the vacant expression on Sade's face, it was evident she was preoccupied with thoughts of a more critical nature. The hit and run incident was her first serious investigation of note. She had now identified the man suspected of being culpable for taking the lives of her client's parents, but there were still no guarantees that justice of any kind would prevail.

  On a positive note, however, that morning, the private investigator had received a mobile text message from her client, which had left her both pleased and excited.

  The text had read:

  Hi Sade,

  Thanks a million for your help! I hope this isn't too early in the day but thought you deserved an update.

  In the next five minutes, I'll be shooting off to Abuja with the police officer who first notified me of my parents passing two weeks ago. He's given me his word that the man responsible for this crime will be arrested and has invited me along to watch him get the job done.

  I know it sounds a little nutty, but the offer was a little too good to refuse. And although the prospect of coming face to face with this man is nerve-wracking, I'm confident that the experience of witnessing him being placed in handcuffs will be well worth the effort.

  Anyhow, thanks for all your help and at the risk of sounding a bit too forward would love to take you out for dinner when it's all over and done with.

  See you later.

  Michael.

  Coming to the end of the message Sade had smiled. She was pleased the man from London had set the ball rolling. She also thought it prudent that Michael had found a police officer who was already familiar with the case to take the lead in having Juku arrested. However, she had never met a police officer, who was immune to corruption, and suspected Michael would be expected to fork out a hefty fee for such a premium service. Seeking justice, the end, in her view, more than justified the means.

  She smiled at Michael's offer to take out to dinner. It had been two years since she was romantically involved with anyone. Even then, the affair had been brief. Three months to be exact. The man was the thirty-five-year-old son of an oil tycoon, who lived in the city of Port-Harcourt and made several trips to Lagos by private jet each week. The gifts were lavish and had included expensive jewellery that she had shown little interest in wearing, and envelopes loaded with hard cash, which she had frequency tuned down. Difficulties in the relationship had quickly emerged after she discovered the tycoon's son complete disregard for the less fortunate, those whom he had frequently referred to as "pathetic church rats". There were also reports of a dramatic increase in the theft of crude oil, which had triggered suspicions of the legitimacy of his father's wealth, and ultimately brought their relationship to a swift but amicable end.

  Michael, however, was different. Granted, she had only known him for five minutes, but she could tell he was a man who couldn't be bought. A man who had a strong sense of right and wrong. He also appeared smart and resourceful and didn't seem afraid to appear vulnerable. A rare, but admirable quality in a man. She thought about the non-disclosure agreement she had made him sign and wondered if she'd come across as being somewhat cold and distrusting. It wasn't the first time she had felt this way, but following a violent attack she had experienced the previous year, it was one of two precautions she had employed for her own safety.

  The incident had coincided with an unannounced visit to her office by the husband of one of her female clients. A man Sade had proved to be responsible for fathering four illegitimate children over the course of a five-year marriage. She remembered how the man had sat across from her. Ostensibly calm and collected, a quiet smile on his face. Before she could inquire about the purpose of his visit, the smile had vanished, and he was upon her, leaping across the desk with a ferocity she could never have anticipated.

  Snatching a handful of Sade's hair he had smashed his fist into her face. She had screamed and he had responded with another vicious strike. This time a backhanded slap across her cheek. Unable to loosen the man's fist from the grip on her hair, Sade's self-preservatory instincts had instantly kicked in. Grabbing a pair of scissors from the desk, she drove its pointed edge through the man's exposed palm, as he attempted to hit her with an open hand. Releasing her hair like a scorched potato, the man had howled with the intensity of a wounded animal. He had backed away, bleeding like an open faucet across her office rug, and Sade had made her escape.

  It was a crucial lesson which she had addressed with stringent protective measures. The first measure was to only establish contact with the public online and make individual appointments at her own discretion. The second involved the introduction of the mandatory non-disclosure agreement, which she figured would serve as a deterrent to anyone who might consider sharing her identity. Then the third, but most essential means of protecting herself, from a physical standpoint, was the legal acquisition of a handgun, on the advice of a family acquaintance.

  The gun was a Glock 22. Small, but lethal in capacity. A final solution that she was keen to avoid, but in a crisis, one she would rather have than not. Her mind flashed back to the text message from Michael and the phone call she had received shortly afterwards. The caller was her paid informant, Titi, who now had concerns about the friend she claimed had left the club with Juku on the morning of the accident.

  "I am worried about my friend, oh!" Titi had said. "She is not answering her phone, and her mother called last night to say she has not seen her since last week."

  "You sure she was with Juku that night?"

  "Of course! I go lie to you?"

  "Then you've got nothing to worry about," Sade had said. "My client is working towards having him arrested in the next few hours."

  "Ahh, that one go hard oh!" Titu had replied in disbelief. "Dem fit arrest big man pikin?"

  "When the big man is behind bars, I can't see why not."

  "Okay, I trust you. Call me when you hear something, I beg. Na only my friend matter wey concern me." As Sade recalled the conversation, she glanced up at a mounted wall clock. It had just gone 3 pm. Several hours since Michael's text message. It took a minimum of nine hours to reach Abuja. She didn't expect to hear anything from him until at least six in the evening. Then the sound of her client's voice finally brought her back to earth.

  "Hello!"

  Sade's eyes became alert.

  "Right, where were we?"

  "I don't know," the woman said. "It looked like you were sleeping with your eyes open. Like a witch."

  Sade smiled.

  "I'm sorry, long day. Now, back to your husband."

  17

  JONAH

  MR TAFFI

  It was the following morning, and the discomfort from the sudden rise in temperature, once again, stirred me awake. On this occasion, however, the inconvenience had been anticipated. Stripped to the waist, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I pushed both fists into the mattress. It was nice and firm, leaving me satisfied tha
t unlike the inconsistent power supply from NEPA, my request that the hotel provide a separate room, with a mattress capable of supporting the weight of a man of two hundred and fifty pounds, plus company, had been met without issue.

  I gazed at Fumi. She was asleep and appeared dead to the world. The night had been particularly satisfying, yet there was a certain intimacy in the manner Fumi performed her services which convinced me that she wasn't naturally suited to this line of work. Ready for a cold shower, I rose to my feet and heard her voice.