12 Hours

by L I Owugah

  "You didn't like my room?"

  I spun around.

  Funmi was awake. Her eyes fresh and alert, like she'd been up all along. She sat upright and crossed her legs, in a tailor like fashion.

  "Not a great deal of space," I said. "Had me feeling sort of boxed in."

  "Sorry, it's all I can afford."

  "Ever thought of doing something else?"

  "You mean like going to school?"

  "Might be a start."

  "I have a family to take care of."

  "You're married?"

  She looked at me, a baffled expression on her face.

  "Why would I be doing this work if I was married?"

  "I've seen worse."

  "God forbid!" she said, whipping her hand around the top of her head and clicking her fingers in a throwaway gesture, which I would later discover meant such a thing was nothing short of an abomination.

  "When I say family, I mean my parents and junior ones."

  "Siblings?"

  "Three brothers and one sister," she replied. "I am the first born."

  "Steep price to pay?"

  "I don't have a choice," she mumbled. "There's no money in the country. Even my rent hasn't been paid." I looked at her, convinced of two specific things. First, everyone has a choice. Second, whatever an individual elects to do or not do, is strictly down to them. However, the benign features of Funmi's face and the sadness in her eyes, told me that like most people on the face of the planet, she was simply afraid and uncertain.

  "How much?" I asked.

  With her eyes regaining their sparkle, Funmi stretched back out across the bed and faced me in a prone position. She had both feet dangling up in the air behind her, one leg crossed over the other. Cupping her chin in the palms of her hands, the points of her elbows digging into the mattress she said, "Ten thousand naira. And that's only because I like you."

  "I meant the rent."

  Funmi stared at me in disbelief.

  "Thirty thousand naira," she whispered. "I haven't paid my landlord for two months."

  I reached for my wallet on the bedside table and folded it open. Fishing out three fifties from a bunch of notes that were steadily depleting, I handed the cash to her.

  "For the roof over your head, and our time last night," I said. Returning to the cross-legged position, and trembling visibly with emotion, she accepted the money with both hands.

  "This is almost fifty thousand naira," she said, a tear of gratitude running down her cheek.

  "I'll call you a cab," I said.

  Half an hour later I accompanied Funmi through the lobby to grab a taxi. As we walked along, I noticed a man in his late sixties standing at the reception desk. He looked borderline anorexic but was communicating with a uniformed member of staff in an animated fashion. A collection of male heads, the old mans included, turned to admire Funmi's stunning physique. Ten minutes later she was on her merry way.

  I headed back through the lobby, and the staff member behind the reception desk aimed a finger at me. The old man plodded in my direction, his arms outstretched like a man on the verge of confronting a long-lost relative.

  "Jonah!" he bellowed.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  "Do I know you?" I said.

  He also stopped, probably three feet away, a look on his face that appeared to suggest he considered my question to be something of an insult. "I don't blame you," he said contemptuously, pointing an accusatory finger at me like a man chastising his son. "I don't blame you," phrased in a manner I would later learn simply meant that he thought I ought to know better.

  I scrutinised the man for a moment and concluded that this was merely a case of mistaken identity. "Nice meeting you," I said, and kept moving.

  The man said nothing. He waited as I walked past him, then shouted, "It is your Uncle Taffi!" I stopped again, pivoted back around and faced the man I had always referred to as Mr Taffi.

  Ten minutes later we were seated at a table in the bar. Mr Taffi was enjoying a giant plate of jollof rice that I had ordered from the kitchen. Jollof rice, several pieces of fried plantain, and a fat piece of fried chicken. Scooping up large mouthfuls of rice with a spoon rather than a fork, he also had a bottle of chilled water, made possible by the ever-reliable Tunde. The bartender was making good on the tip I'd given him and had the fridge loaded with cold drinks on standby.

  I sat across from Mr Taffi, knocking back a large Guinness. He stared at me. In an accusatory tone, he said "You're drinking stout for breakfast?"

  "My version of coffee."

  "It's not a good habit."

  "Does the job."

  He looked at me and shovelled another spoonful of rice into his mouth.

  "Why have you not bothered to call me since you arrived?"

  "Got caught up in a little situation," I said.

  "Of course," he said sarcastically. "Like the one that just followed you out of the hotel, abi?" He gestured with his spoon in the direction he had watched me accompany Funmi.

  "Needed to let off a bit of steam," I said.

  "What work have you done to be letting off any steam?"

  "Had to take care of a couple of hoodlums on the way in."

  A look of panic registered on Mr Taffi's face.

  "What do you mean by hoodlums?"

  "Robbers," I said. " Armed ones."

  "Armed robbers!" He dropped his fork in his plate with a loud clatter. I quietly took another swig from my bottle.

  "Not after I was done.'

  "Jesus!... Jonah. Do you want to die here?"

  "Not if I can help it."

  "This is Lagos!"

  "So they tell me."

  He shook his head in resignation and continued eating.

  "This is not why I asked you to come?"

  I said nothing in return.

  He looked at me inquisitively.

  "Anyway, have you spoken to your brother?"

  "Briefly."

  "And?"

  "Seems pretty confident about what he's doing."

  "And you think that's okay?"

  "If he can deal with the outcome."

  "I don't get you."

  "Potential disappointment," I said.

  "This ya gramma is too much," he replied, irritably.

  He took a long, satisfying swig from his bottle of water.

  "Where is he, now?"

  I glanced over at Tunde, who was standing behind the counter, cleaning out a wine glass.

  "Seen my brother, today," I asked.

  "He left this morning?"

  Uncle Taffi's head snapped around.

  "Left!....left to where!?"

  "He did not tell me, Sah."

  The look on Tunde's face indicated he was worried he had disclosed a piece of information that may have been better left unspoken.

  "One policeman came to pick him up."

  "What time?" I asked.

  "Just after six."

  I gave him a quick, reassuring smile.

  "Thanks, Tunde."

  "Anytime, Sah."

  I turned to Mr Taffi. He had now finished his meal and was wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

  "They will finish your brother's money in this place," he said.

  "I like to think he's smarter than that," I replied.

  "Let's hope so."

  He drained the rest of his bottle.

  "How long are you staying?"

  "Haven't decided yet."

  He nodded and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "It is good you have come. But now you are here; it is only proper that we visit your parent's burial ground."

  I looked at him and realized the hand he had placed on my shoulder was intended as a comforting gesture. A human touch. A human touch during a time most people would consider to be incredibly sensitive. But I wasn't most people.

  Naturally I had my concerns about the seriousness of the current situation, but unlike your average Joe, I'd always been built of tougher stuff. />
  "Your right," I replied. "Wouldn't hurt."

  18

  MICHAEL

  ROAD TRIP

  Inspector Balogun and I set off for Abuja the next morning. We headed north, driving through several small towns, across a number of extended motorways, and stretches of road cocooned by thick forests. Shortly before the police officers prompt arrival, I had fired off a text message to Sade. After mentioning my destination, I had offered to take her out to dinner upon my return.

  I also thought about bringing Jonah up to speed about the latest development, but given he had found himself another room, and some overnight company, I thought I'd let it wait.

  The journey was long. Far longer than I had expected. But it wasn't until a low battery signal flashed up on my mobile handset that Balogun revealed to me that our destination, which I thought was another part of Lagos, happened to be an entirely different city.

  "Just see it as a free road trip," he had said, unapologetically. "At least this way you can say you did some sightseeing while you were in the country." I delivered a silent nod. Feeling physically sore and severely cramped, I was in no mood to play the happy tourist.

  "Fancy turning on the air conditioner," I said, a stream of sweat pouring off my brow.

  "There is no gas," he said. "But the breeze from outside is good." I nodded again, accepting the fact that I just had to grit my teeth and bear it.

  "So how well do you know Juku?" I asked switching subjects.

  "His father was the Governor of River State," Balogun replied.

  "Rivers state?"

  "The only part of the country that produces oil." He looked at me and said, "It's where I'm from, and a place Juku and his father helped destroy."

  "How so?"

  "Needs to be seen to be believed. Hunger, unemployment...crime."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Sorry?" A puzzled expression registered on his face. "There is only one man who needs to be sorry, and for your sake and mine, I will make sure he is." I gazed at him for a moment and realized that despite my passion for justice, it also mattered that I had proof Juku was guilty.

  "Do you think you'll be able to get all the evidence we need?"

  "Evidence?" he said with another bewildered look on his face. "You think this man might be innocent?"

  "Just want to be sure we do the right thing, that's all."

  "The man is guilty," he said abruptly.

  He paused for a spell.

  "He has always been guilty."

  I said nothing in return, not wanting to rock the boat, but equally concerned about the possibility of being complicit in some form of injustice. A short while later, I noticed changes in the motorway. Smoother surfaces, more clearly defined lanes, dual carriageways, and prominent road signs. All of which gave the familiar feeling of taking a trip down London's M25. A billboard-sized signboard: WELCOME TO ABUJA appeared by the side of the road.

  "Sure we in the same country?" I said, attempting to inject a dose of humour into what had been a seriously intense conversation.

  "It's the Chinese," Balogun said. "They are heavily involved in the reconstruction of our roads these days."

  "Must be a good thing."

  "If you're a Government contractor."

  "I meant it must be good for the people."

  "What is good for the people of this country has never been of any concern to the Government," he said. "And thanks to bastards like Juku, never will be." Looking at him again, I was horrified at the hypocrisy of a man who, despite being the absolute personification of police corruption, still felt entitled to point the finger.

  Thirty minutes later we were weaving through the city. After making several turns, like a trip through a maze, we drove into what appeared to be an affluent neighbourhood. There were several huge, gated residences, only the road was riddled with potholes. Clearly an area the Chinese had chosen to ignore.

  "Are we close?" I asked.

  "Five minutes," Balogun whispered.

  We drove through the neighbourhood, the homes eventually disappearing. We were on a small stretch of road where there was nothing in sight. Nothing but dense woodland either side. Less than a minute later, a large bungalow appeared on the passenger side of the street. The home stood behind a set of Victorian style driveway gates that served as the entrance to a spacious, pristine looking compound. Balogun slowed to a crawl and pulled over.

  Parked directly across from the bungalow, Balogun turned to look at a giant number sign fixed to the gates. He fished out, from his breast pocket, the address I had handed him earlier, and confirmed the house number was identical with the number on the gates.

  "This is the place."

  I looked at the home of the man who was the likely killer of both my parents and spotted a shabbily dressed, elderly looking security guard on the other side of the gates. Sitting on a stool, he was eating a loaf of bread and sipping a bowl of soup with a spoon. A sickening feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. I could feel my heart slamming against my chest.

  Balogun withdrew his gun, cocked it for action and looked at me.

  "You look nervous," he said.

  "Just a little bit" I replied

  He placed a weighty hand on my shoulder and with no words of comfort or reassurance simply said, "Let's go."

  Together, we climbed out of the car and hiked over to the front gates.

  Balogun marching ahead of me, pistol at the ready.

  The gateman spotted us as we approached. He abandoned his meal and scurried over.

  "Good afternoon," he said.

  "Where is your Oga?" Balogun demanded.

  "Please, what is it concerning, Sah?"

  Balogun levelled the gun at his head.

  "Open the gate, my friend!" he yelled.

  The gateman nodded obediently, dashed across to one end of the gates and yanked open a side entrance. A separate metal door for foot traffic. He led us over to the front porch, where three ominous looking men seated in a circle were playing a game of Ludo. Dressed in black, the men resembled a gang of street thugs for hire. The first guy was obese, while the second looked like a part-time bodybuilder. The third guy, who couldn't have stood an inch over five foot two, had a pair of dead eyes which could have belonged to a shark. Having spotted Balogun's gun, the men neither said nor did, anything.

  Following the gateman, we walked up to the front door which was fashioned of marble. Visibly apprehensive, the gateman reached out and opened the door, but only did this wide enough to stick his head through. He spoke to someone inside.

  "Oga, sorry to disturb you, but one policeman..."

  Before he could finish, Balogun seized him by the scruff of the neck, threw him to one side, and pushed the door open the rest of the way. As my heart raced a million beats per minute, I followed Balogun into a spacious lounge. A man in his early thirties was seated on a wide leather couch. He had the delicate build of a twelve-year-old boy and sat before a glass coffee table. The table looked expensive and had a stuffed envelope sitting on it.

  Directly across from where the man sat, a wall mounted 70-inch flat screen television was silently running a CNN report. Aside from this, there was nothing to reveal the personality of the individual who lived here. No photographs, no wall art, no personal effects. Balogun levelled the pistol at the man.

  "Simon Juku!"

  The man turned and stared at Balogun, a blank expression on his face. Then Balogun did something which caused me to breathe a sigh of relief. Lowering his gun, he walked over to Juku. A move which gave me the reassurance that justice could prevail without the threat of violence. As Balogun stepped before the man that no one had thought I would ever find, Juku looked up at him and uttered two words that sent a chill down my spine.

  "You're late."

  The words caught me like a trapped bone in the throat. My eyes went to Balogun, expecting a reaction, any reaction to convince me that what I thought I'd just heard was a mistake. He neither said nor di
d anything. Just stood there, poker-faced. Juku reached over to the coffee table, picked up the envelope and handed it to the man who had given himself the undeserved moniker of a fictional Vietnam war veteran. The envelope was open, and a stash of bank notes was plain to see. Balogun accepted the envelope with a cold smile.