12 Hours

by L I Owugah

  The sumo wrestler-sized character of the outfit was nicknamed Swallow. Morbidly obese he was significantly more powerful than his comrades, though, as was evident from his size, he had never come across a meal he saw fit to decline. The midget of the bunch was dancing to the music with a half-empty liquor bottle in his hand. He was known as The Hammer.

  With the benign facial features of a circus clown, he projected a Ronald McDonald type charm, incongruously paired with a simmering urge for a unique brand of brutality which exceeded that of his two partners. His methods were quick, sudden and unpredictable. A knife plunged into an unsuspecting person's side, or the jagged edge of a broken bottle rammed into an individual's eye socket. Three malicious men who longed for a return to a life of crime and brutality which had not only become as addictive as money, sex, or heroin, but a narcotic of which they had been starved of since the ex Governor's unexpected arrest and imprisonment.

  Now all that remained were memories. Memories of a period when they would break a reckless reporter's jaw for asking the wrong question, or terrorize and maim the family of a rival politician, who was considered too great a threat to an upcoming campaign. Those days were gone, and would likely never return. However, out of loyalty to the ex-Governor, the men had pledged their allegiance to his son, Simon. A man who had wisely opted to move with some degree of caution...until now.

  In the last couple of weeks, they had noticed a situation evolving in real time. A chain of events that evoked a feeling similar to the rancid smell of blood in the air. A feeling which sent their pulses racing for the potential return to the cold-hearted excitement of the good old days. They had first become aware of the situation on the day Juku and Emenike had arrived at the bungalow with another girl he had picked up. The woman looked frightened, but this was nothing unusual, as Juku often preferred it that way. Nevertheless, none of them had witnessed the young woman leave, and after spotting Emenike armed with a shovel the following morning, they were now convinced she was lying in a shallow grave somewhere behind the property.

  Then came the police officer who had arrived with a worried looking man two days earlier. A man who, like the woman before him, had not emerged from the bungalow since the officer's departure. Finally, the visit from a strange looking individual, who had just left. A man in his late sixties, dressed from head to toe in white, with a large white hat to match.

  Possessing a neck as narrow as a twig, and an abnormally swollen face, the man, had the physical appearance of someone terminally ill. Arriving in a rare Mercedes Benz, driven by a white man in uniform, it was evident that not only did this man have serious money to spare, but he was probably the one responsible for the cash they had each received. Money they suspected Juku had given to buy their silence.

  But silence about what? The girl who they now suspected was dead? Or the man who had turned up the previous day and hadn't been seen since? None of the men were sure. But whatever it was, something was brewing.

  Simba, who was seated at the table, clocked something in the distance. Reaching across to the transistor radio, he snapped off the music. The Hammer spun around to face him.

  "Why, now!" he screamed in protest.

  "Who is this idiot?" Simba mumbled and rose to his feet. Both Swallow, also seated at the table, and The Hammer turned to look at who he was referring to.

  The six foot five, two hundred and fifty pound force of nature was strolling towards the gates.

  27

  JONAH

  THREE THE HARD WAY

  As I approached Juku residence, I noticed that the men on the front porch were seated at a battered looking wooden table, swigging large bottles of beer.

  Looking happy as Larry, one of them was dancing to Afrobeat music, echoing from a transistor radio that looked like something straight out of the 1970s. The radio sat on the table alongside a bunch of empty beer bottles, and three separately placed, crisp looking bundles of bank notes, which I figured had more than a little something to do with the excitement on display. The men themselves were dressed in black.

  Black t-shirts and black denim jeans. Aside from this uniformity they had the appearance of an incongruously matched gang of low rent thugs. The man dancing was barely over five feet, with the beginnings of a beer gut, while his partners were probably of a similar height to myself. One of them was fat as Hell, while the other had the muscular build of a man who had spent way too much time developing his body, and precious little his brain.

  The gym nut of the bunch glanced up and spotted me. A bewildered look registered on his face. Mumbling something under his breath, he shut off the music, to a loud verbal objection from the midget.

  Ignoring the dwarf, he rose to his feet, causing his meat headed buddies to turn and look in my direction. Within seconds, all three men were headed towards me, the big guys moved out in front, while the midget disappeared behind them. As the welcome committee approached, the sound of a bottle breaking echoed from behind them. A short distance from the gates, I stopped and waited. Waited in silence, as all three men emerged in turn from a side entrance, strolled over to where I was standing, and parked themselves before me. The little man was closest in proximity, maybe a couple of feet to my right. The musclehead stood directly across from me at a distance of about four feet, and right behind him, off to his left, stood the Michelin man.

  Their positions appeared random but were obviously a strategic attack formation of sorts. Like something they had done before, which had garnered positive results and inspired a repeat of the same formula. Glancing at the little man to my right, who had both hands in his pockets and a sickening smirk on his face, the first part of their strategy was as crystal as a summer's afternoon.

  Here was the guy I wasn't supposed to pay much attention to. The midget of the bunch, who, like Joe Pesci in the movie "Good Fellas," appeared to be a minor threat, but was typically the most dangerous. A man whose sole intention was to get close enough to launch a vicious and often crippling attack. Spotting a bulge in the man's right pocket, and remembering the sound of breaking glass upon the gang's approach, it didn't much to determine what he was concealing. Reverting my attention to the two men across from me, I happily stored the dwarf in my peripheral vision, good and ready for what he had coming.

  "Simon Juku in there?" I asked the two big men, motioning to the bungalow with a forward jerk of my chin. The big men exchanged a humorous glance. Then the muscle head turned to me and in a contemptuous tone said, "Simon who?"

  Then it was the Michelin Man's turn.

  He spoke in broken English.

  "You no dey fear?!"

  Like a well-rehearsed double act, the muscle head delivered the next line, which was also in broken English.

  "Abi craze dey worry you?"

  Followed once again by the Michelin man.

  "You dey call my Oga name, like say 'im be ya mate?"

  And now the muscle head. This time, he slammed the flat of his palm across his chest, like an enraged military dictator.

  "In my presence!"

  I looked at both men, with as much regard as one would have for a pair of clowns reenacting a Laurel and Hardy slapstick routine. I didn't understand every word of what had been said. But the general gist of what was being communicated was pretty obvious. I looked at my watch. Timewise I was still in the black, but I wasn't about to be held up.

  I stared at both men.

  "I have a proposition for you all," I said.

  The Michelin Man was visibly enraged.

  "You dey mad!"

  I ignored him.

  "We can do this the hard way or the easy way, I'd leave it to the three of you to decide. But make no mistake, one way or another, in the next couple of minutes, I'm walking through those gates."

  The musclehead and the fat boy looked at one another once again. Shaking their heads and chuckling to themselves in disbelief, they bunched up their fists, and cracked their knuckles, as though to say "Let's get it on."

  Turn
ing back to me the gym nut said, "You get sharp mouth. But by the time we finish with you, all this ya America gramma go stop."

  It was a line I found somewhat hilarious, but a significant part of my attention was still focused on the midget to my right, whose smile had disappeared. Whipping the jagged edge of a broken bottle from the pocket of his jeans, he leapt at me. However, having suffered the physical scar of a bottle attack two months earlier, there wasn't a snowball's chance of it happening again.

  Least of all from a man who, next to me, looked like an elf. Springing to one side with panther-like reflexes, I smashed a tremendous right hook into the midget's temple, taking him down like a bullet from a sniper. Unconscious before he hit the ground, I flew across his flailing body and delivered a straight punch to the throat of the steroid nut, who appeared startled at the speed at which events were unfolding before him.

  Doubling over, the muscle head clutched his throat with both hands like Kennedy in Dallas.But there was more to come. Springing off the ball of my right foot, I vaulted into the air, and, in the style of a prime Anderson Silva, drove the point of my left knee into his chin, and shattered his jawbone like a fragile piece of porcelain. It sent him crashing to the ground, eyes rolling up into the back of his head. Like an unstoppable freight train, I danced over to the fat man. Frozen like a deer in the proverbial headlights, I snapped back his head with a vicious uppercut. Stumbling backward on elephant sized legs, I was surprised how well he weathered the punch. With blood streaming from inside of his mouth, he forced a smile. But I'd been in this game too long to be conned.

  He was hurt, and we both knew it. Throwing up both fists and leading with his right foot in a southpaw stance, the fat man began circling ponderously to his left.

  "I will deal with you!" he gasped, his breathing already laboured. Judging from his size and movement, it was clear he was out of shape. But with a rock solid chin, it was also evident he could take a punch, meaning I was going to need more than one to get the job done. I did nothing for a moment. Just waited. Waited for the right time and ideal combination to put him to sleep. Then the moment arrived. Letting out a yell, he rushed at me, arms outstretched, hands reaching desperately to rip away at my limbs.

  "I will kill you!"

  Hopping off to one side, I brought his advance to a devastating halt with a crippling right hook to his chin, sending his head ricocheting to his left. I jumped back in front of him and smashed a left hook into the other side of his jaw, sending his head swivelling once more, this time back in the opposite direction. A ruthless combination, which did the job, or a significant part of it. Crashing to one knee, and gasping like a man on the verge of a coronary, the fat man's head flopped forward.

  Still conscious - still upright - rock solid chin confirmed.

  "He dey inside!" he gasped not looking up but pointing desperately in the direction of the bungalow. I turned to leave, then glancing over at his pals on the ground, who were still somewhere out in Kansas, I thought it was only fair that the Fatman got to join them. Whipping back around, I shut out his lights with another Silva inspired knee to the forehead.

  28

  JONAH

  THE RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE

  Strolling into Juku's compound through the side entrance for the security gates, I marched up to a front door made of polished brass. Twisting open its handle, I let myself in and walked into a large, but bland looking living room. A man who I assumed was Juku was seated on a leather couch. Lounging before an expensive looking glass coffee table, he was watching a classic scene from Pacino's Scarface on a wall mounted giant flat screen. Barefoot and dressed in a white vest and blue jeans, Juku, in the tradition of the movie's character Tony Montana, had, sitting on the table, a heap of cocaine, alongside a mounted stack of fifty-pound notes and a credit card, topped with a white powdered residue. High as the proverbial kite, he gazed up at me, his face splitting into a stupid smile. Maybe it was the coke, maybe he was trying to mask the fact he was on the verge of a coronary. Or maybe, just maybe, he was simply pleased to see me.

  "Where's Michael?" I said.

  Staring at me in silence, his ridiculous smile broadened. Like an audience member at a Dave Chapelle gig, he erupted into a fit of laughter. I stared back at him. Then I fired home a message that was as succinct as my question. Turning around, I closed the front door and twisted the key I found in the lock. He stopped laughing as abruptly as he had begun, recognizing in an instant that I meant business. I heard a distant sound from outside, the sound of someone digging. With the confidence of a poker player who has just discovered an ace in the pack, the smile returned to his face.

  "Emenike!" he screamed.

  The digging sound stopped. I heard the creak of an external door open, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. Another door opened. A door located at the far end of the room. It swung back, and a mountain of a man carrying a shovel covered in dirt entered the room. Standing close to seven foot, the man was naked from the waist up. Drenched in sweat and streamlined with rock-hard muscle, he reminded me of Odd Jobfrom Goldfinger, only ten times bigger. He balanced the shovel against the wall and plodded over to where I stood. Juku, with the cavalier attitude of a lawyer in an open and shut case, climbed off the couch, waltzed over to me, and, with another twisted smile said, "Enjoy."

  He turned to Emenike, gave him a nod, and disappeared down a darkened corridor which led out of the room. I reverted my attention to the man he had called Emenike, who now stood before me. Superficially speaking, he was the quintessential picture of bone-chilling intimidation. But, for a man of my ability and experience, merely an unsophisticated, overdeveloped thug, who was likely to be slow, clunky, and predictable.

  We stared at each other in silence, as I prepared to unveil my first move.

  It was called the right-hand lead.

  A punch that Muhammad Ali had used to great effect, during his world title fight victory over George Foreman, in the historic fight known as The Rumble In The Jungle. A single, supposedly arrogant way of firing a punch, with little or no regard for your opponent's ability to hit you in a counter-reaction. A punch that was delivered with the intent of demonstrating the significant gulf in speed between yourself and a flat-footed, tortoise-paced adversary.

  And then it hit me. Literally. A right-hand lead. Only not one delivered by myself, but by the man standing before me, with cat-like reflexes. His fist smashed into my face with the force of a sledgehammer, snapped back my head like a rag doll, and sent me stumbling across the room like an afternoon drunk. Momentarily stunned, momentarily horrified, and, frankly speaking, pretty pissed off. Reaching up to my face, I could feel the blood seeping through my fingers. A ton of blood spurting from the scar previously left by Bogart's beer mug. A scar that Emenike's giant, rock-solid fist had brutally reopened, which sent an unequivocally clear message. This was no wife beater impersonating a fictional Hollywood tough man, but an elite pugilist who didn't know what it meant to lose.

  I looked up at the beast of a man who was making a speedy advance for a follow-up offensive. It was going to be a long evening.

  29

  MICHAEL

  NATURAL BORN SAVIOUR

  I was only thirteen years old when Jonah last came to my rescue. One late afternoon in Autumn, heading home from school, I turned a corner and came across three older teenagers, hovering outside a local convenience store. Aged between sixteen and eighteen they were guzzling cans of beer and smoking what my inexperienced mind told me were cigarettes. But in retrospect, must have been cannabis. Moments after I had gone past the trio, a shout echoed in my direction.

  "Oi!"

  Without turning, I shot off in a panic, tearing towards a block of flats, five hundred yards ahead. I heard a bunch of feet pounding the pavement in pursuit. Pounding feet, which closed in on me like a raging bushfire. Another deafening scream split the air.

  "Get the fuck over 'ere, you cunt!"

  The stampede ceased, and another sound sent a sud
den chill coursing through my veins. A sound similar to that of a cricket bat slamming into a slab of meat. This was followed by a squeal, a piercing squeal, which brought me to a hard stop and caused me to pivot around. A few feet from where I stood, the thugs were exchanging punches with another boy who had just arrived on the scene. Throwing punches and being battered in return by a twelve year old who was equal to them in size. But at least five years younger. A preteen, hammering three grown teenagers to the ground with near enough every punch he threw.

  I strolled towards Jonah as he conducted a systematic beating of the three boys who had been determined to render me significant harm. They were tears of pain and embarrassment in their eyes now. Astonished by the movement and rock hard power of Jonah, bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali in his prime, while delivering, punches Mike Tyson once described as being loaded with evil intentions.