by L I Owugah
"Find somewhere to park," I said.
Sade nodded and pulled over by the side of the bridge. I jerked open the door.
"You have to be quick,"she said. "There are plenty of area boys around here."
I gave this a second's thought and no more. Figuring that by "area boys" she meant local thugs, who, like the men I had encountered on my journey from the airport, had, frankly speaking, more to worry about the damage I could render to them, than the reverse.
I circled the jeep, raised the lid of the trunk, and hoisted the assassin's body on to my shoulder. Without hesitation, I made my way to the edge of the bridge and heaved the rug overboard.
I watched in silence.
The rug plummeted to the river below like a giant, poorly wrapped Christmas gift. There was the distant echo of a splash as it hit the water, disappearing beneath the surface, like an object consumed by the black hole of an abyss. Stepping away from the edge of the bridge, I spotted a couple of shirtless men in three-quarter shorts and flip flops hurrying towards me. From the intense looks on their faces, I didn't need to be told that these were the so-called Area boys Sade was concerned about, but I had better things to do than toss a couple of wannabe tough men into the river below.
Returning to the car, I climbed back into the front passenger seat.
"Let's go."
As we rejoined the fast-moving traffic, I shot a glance at the rear mirror and could see the area boys running towards the car, hurling abuse.
"That was close," Sade whispered.
I said nothing.
She looked at me.
"Are you always this calm?"
I didn't answer.
"Do you have this man's address?" I said.
She reached for her handset, thumbed the screen a couple of times, and handed me the device. An address was up on the screen, 74 Francis Close, Abuja City.
"I saved it on my phone after my contact called to say she was worried," Sade said.
She turned to look at me.
"The man's name is Simon Juku."
"How long would it take to get to this place?" I said.
" Half a day."
"By air or road?"
"Road."
"And if you catch a flight?"
"Probably an hour."
I nodded. "Head for the airport." I handed back the phone. "We got a plane to catch."
She looked at me in surprise. "We?" She paused a beat. "You just love to give orders don't you?" Mimicking my speech patterns in a sarcastic tone, she said, "You're driving...pull over..I'm using your beautiful rug to get rid of this man I just killed."
I flashed a look at her, positive that I didn't phrase the last bit in those words, but still said nothing.
"Wouldn't hurt to say please once in a while."
Again, I remained silent. I didn't care very much for polite speak or political correctness and wasn't about to start now. "How long before we get there?" She stared at me with a look of resignation and shook her head.
"Twenty minutes," she muttered.
24
JONAH
CAPITAL CITY
We arrived at Lagos city's domestic airport in just over twenty minutes and pulled into an outdoor parking lot. Climbing out of the car we headed into the departure terminal, which, like the international airport I'd arrived at three days earlier, felt like stepping into the confines of a heated oven. The hall was dead silent, and the passengers waiting to board the next flight were few. I was not surprised. In a country that the average family lives on an estimated five pounds a day, you didn't need a rocket scientist to determine that the preferred choice for long distance, domestic travel, was likely to be a public bus or a hired car.
Heading for an airline ticket counter, I noticed Sade was taking in short deep breaths as we approached the desk. I came to an abrupt stop.
"You okay?"
She paused for a moment, sucked in another deep breath, and blew the air out of her cheeks.
"Flying," she said.
"What about it?"
"Have a bit of a phobia."
"Know what the odds are of being in a plane crash?" I said. She didn't answer me and had her gaze fixed on the name of the airline printed across the window of the desk we were approaching.
"Aerocontractors," she whispered naming the airline.
"What about them?"
"An Abuja bound aircraft of theirs crashed a couple of years ago."
She took in another deep breath.
"Zero survivors."
"One in eleven million."
She looked at me
"What?"
"Odds of being in a crash," I said. "One in eleven million, which still makes flying the safest way to get around." A couple of hours later, we boarded an Aerocontractors flight. After sitting through a fifty-minute journey, I could tell Sade was relieved when we arrived in the nation's capital city unscathed. Contrary to what I had seen in Lagos, the city of Abuja's domestic airport had been built to international standards. It was spacious, well lit, fully air-conditioned, and equipped with all the trappings of duty-free shopping. Thirty minutes after landing we jumped into an airport taxi. As we sped along the motorway, I noticed a difference in the layout of the land. The city appeared less populated than Lagos and had roads that were clearly in better shape.
But I wasn't here for the city's optics. I was quickly reminded of what was at stake when another text message from Rambo flashed up on the screen of the assassin's mobile, which I still had in my possession. "How far?" the message said, which I figured meant, "What's the latest?"
I responded using a few words to stall for more time. "Caught up in traffic." I was about to push the send option but stopped myself.
"Caught up in traffic?"
Too British I thought. Then I remembered the expression I had frequently heard for slow traffic in the last forty-eight hours.
"Go slow."
I deleted my original line and replaced it with, "Go slow, will call when I have better reception."
We kept going for another forty-five minutes, shooting past several modest looking homes, a number of market stalls, and a few police checkpoints. Navigating through what seemed like the central part of the city, we arrived at the entry point of a road which had a prominent signboard erected on a tall steel pole that read: FRANCIS CLOSE.
"Pull over," I said to the driver.
"Oga, remain small," he said, which I interpreted as meaning we were close.
"Do it now," I demanded.
He complied, and we climbed out of the car.
As the vehicle drove into the distance, I turned to Sade. Staring at me, a mystified expression on her face, she made an open-palmed gesture with both hands, as if to say, "What now?" I glanced across the street and spotted a small restaurant, a large sign was mounted on the building out front: MAMMA TASTY. It was accompanied by a picture of a scrumptious looking traditional dish.
"Hungry?" I said.
"Lost my appetite two hours ago," she replied.
"I need a drink," I said and headed for the restaurant. She paused for a moment, seemed somewhat confused by my actions, then quickly followed. The restaurant was quiet and had a bunch of cheap looking plastic tables and chairs. It was neat, clean, and had a rotating ceiling fan. At just after seven in the evening, it was blowing cool rather than hot air.
We sat across from each other at a table. A plump looking woman, who I figured was the owner, plodded over, a welcoming smile on her face.
"What can I get you, Sah?" she said.
"A large Guinness."
She turned to Sade.
"And maa - dam?"
"Just a bottle of water," Sade said.
"You don't want to eat something?"
"Maybe later."
The woman walked off to grab our orders, and Sade gazed at me.
"I don't even know your name," she said.
"You didn't ask."
She gave me a stern look.
"Jona
h," I said.
"Okay, Jonah, you want to tell me what we are doing here?"
"Getting ready."
The lady served the drinks and popped off the Guinness lid with a rusty bottle opener.
"Thank you," I said.
"We need to find Michael," she whispered.
I emptied my bottle with three long swigs.
"Not we," I said, when I was done.
I rose to my feet.
"Me."
"Where are you going?"
"Give me an hour," I said.
"What?"
"One hour," I repeated.
With the blazing sun beginning to set on the horizon, I returned to the signboard for FRANCIS CLOSE and headed down the street. It was clearly an affluent neighbourhood with gated residences on either side of the road. However, money was no substitute for class. The poor state of the road made it apparent that the residents were not particularly concerned about the overall aesthetic of the environment in which they lived. I glanced at my watch. It was 7.30pm. Almost eight hours since I had first discovered Michael was missing, which, if statistics were anything to go by, left me with less than four hours to spare. I spotted a Mercedes Benz 600 saloon driving towards me. Rocking gently from side to side, it's large tyres dipped in and out of the potholes along the road. The car was a classic 1972 jet black model, once infamous for transporting some of the world's most ruthless dictators.
With stacked headlights, an impeccably polished exterior, and cream white leather seats, I gazed at the face of a uniformed chauffeur who sat behind the wheel. A craggy-faced Caucasian man. A dead ringer for Lady Penelopes Butler from the seventies TV show Thunderbirds."
In the back seat, his boss was perusing a newspaper. A black man kitted out in a white safari suit, and a giant white Stetson hat. Gazing up from the paper, he stared directly at me, deep tribal marks on each cheek, a deformed, bloated face, sitting upon a wire-thin neck. I took a mental note and plodded on. After five minutes there was nothing but bushes and trees on either side of the road. Shortly afterwards, about a hundred yards ahead, a large bungalow appeared. Drawing closer, I could hear music playing. I spotted a group of men who looked like they were celebrating on the patio out front.
Walking briskly towards the location, I didn't have to see the number on the gates to know whose house I was looking at. It was the home of Simon Juku, and, come hell or high water, he was going to take me to my brother.
25
THE QUIET MAN
It was late afternoon. Wearing the highest of heels, and the tiniest of mini skirts, the ladies of the brothel known as Cool Breeze were already beginning to filter out into the bar with hopes of a financially profitable evening. Sitting in his favourite spot at the back of the room, Rambo drained what was left of a large mug of beer, and turned his gaze to the attractive female, who was tucking into a combined dish of rice, beans and fried snails at the police officer's expense.
Watching as the woman ate, it was no secret that generosity had never been one of Rambo's strongest attributes. But after a huge bribe, to remain silent about the accident, which had taken the lives of two elderly citizens, Rambo was, on this occasion, willing to make an allowance. Replaying the events of the last twenty hours in his head, he felt a touch of sympathy for the man from London. However, he was convinced his actions were, in the spirit of the Italian mafia, simply business and nothing personal. He smiled as he remembered the morning he and Juku's paths had crossed for the first time. A chance meeting that he had to thank for everything that followed.
A crash witnessed in the distance while he was headed home from a night patrol. A random accident. A car veering wildly off the road and colliding with what Rambo had immediately identified as two people from the manner they bounced off the vehicle, like skittles in a bowling alley. Then, like an ambulance chaser, the furious race towards the location. There he had met a frightened-looking driver, attempting to flee the scene. A giant bodyguard in the front passenger seat, a severely confused looking girl in the back. The identity of the man behind the wheel had been a surprise. A man whom Rambo had recognized as the son of Theophilus Juku. The notorious ex-Governor of Rivers State.
His trial and subsequent imprisonment for embezzlement could only mean his son had now become a sitting duck. A sitting duck who had taken the life of not just one, but two people.
The potential charges were numerous.
Aside from the smell of vodka, Juku's dilated pupils had made Rambo dead certain there had been significant drug use. Minor infractions on any other occasion, but not when there were two dead bodies to answer for. However, this was Lagos, and the opportunity at stake had been as clear as day. A hundred thousand Naira had changed hands. Payment for his silence and a brisk ride to the airport. But as luck may have it there had been more cash to come. Another forty thousand for delivering Michael to Juku at his home in Abuja. Followed by another huge offer of cash to now have Michael's source of information eliminated. A woman who ran a private detective agency known as Moonlight Investigations Lagos.
"I need proof when the job has been done," he remembered Juku saying on the phone. Proof meaning a photograph of the body, before a bank transfer would be made to his personal account. Rambo smiled to himself. He had no concerns about the job being completed and had ensured he had hired the only man he felt was qualified to make it happen. A man who had never shared his name, and insisted upon being called The Quiet Man.
A simple, unassuming looking individual, who could disappear in a crowd and strike with the swiftness of a python when the opportunity presented itself. A man whose services Rambo had first sought two years ago, to assist a council politician in wiping out his closest electoral rival. A job that had been swift, precise, and as the assassin's moniker implied, quiet. Leaving an ambitious politician, dead in the shower, his throat slashed to the bone.
Balogun tapped the smartphone, and the screen lit up. He looked at the last message from The Quiet Man, sent a couple of hours earlier.
"Will let you know when I'm done."
Balogun smiled and fired off another message, "How far?" There was a pause and then a response. A two-part response that Rambo found worrying. Not so much the first part, but definitely the second. Something was wrong he thought. Something was seriously wrong.
26
THE MALICIOUS THREE
The three men outside Juku's home were drinking beer and playing music from a cheap looking transistor radio. Jubilant and in high spirits, the men were in celebratory mode, and for good reason. They had just been rewarded a huge sum of cash from the son of an ex-Governor whose reign had kept them busy for the better part of four years. The cash amounted to a hundred thousand Naira a piece. All in British pound sterling.
Dressed in identical looking black t-shirts and denim jeans the men had been acquainted for ten years, yet were as different from one another as the proverbial chalk was from cheese. The first two men stood well over six foot. One embodied the physique of an anabolic steroid driven bodybuilder, and the other, that of a Japanese sumo wrestler. The third, of the trio, possessed neither of the dominant traits of his two partners, and at five foot two was vertically challenged.
Growing up in the poverty-riddled slums of Lagos Cities Ajegunle Town, the three men had discovered that despite their superficial differences, the one thing they all shared was an equal thirst and propensity for mind-numbing violence.
A commonality which had drawn them to a life that had begun with petty crime, graduated to armed robbery, and now, twenty years later, the men were frequently hired as enforcers for a number of ambitious politicians and unscrupulous Government officials. The muscle man of the bunch went by the nickname Simba. With the body of Schwarzenegger in his prime, he had a prominent tattoo across the base of his throat which spelt out the words GOD FIRST.
