Easy Motion Tourist (20 page)

‘No. I just think that maybe you should focus on bank MDs, CEOs, people like that.’

‘What is wrong with Chief Amadi?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all. He is a very rich man. I think I have his number. I can call him and tell him about the charity. I’m sure he will donate something.’

‘I want to meet him myself. Can you organise a meeting?’

‘You want to meet him? I haven’t spoken to him in a very long time, but these rich people never change their number. I’m sure I still have it.’

‘Is it too late to call him now?’

I checked the time. It was just past nine.

‘Now?’

‘Yes. I want to hit the ground running. If I can get an appointment tomorrow I would be very happy.’

I may have been wrong, but Aunty Baby seemed reluctant to arrange the appointment. Also, I’d noticed the first time Amaka mentioned his name, it gave her pause.

‘I don’t think you should go and see him,’ I said when we were in the car driving back to the island.

‘Why?’

‘He could be a murderer. What do you hope to achieve by going to his house?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I really don’t think you should go. He could be dangerous.’

‘I’ll be OK.’

‘Amaka, I can’t let you go.’

She took her eyes off the road to look at me.

‘You can’t let me go? And who are you to tell me what I can or cannot do?’

‘Amaka, please don’t be silly. You know what I mean.’

‘No, I do not know what you mean, and please, do not tell me not to be silly.’

‘This is about the club, right?’

‘This is about you telling me what to do.’ She pulled up in front of a wrought iron gate and honked twice.

‘Where are we?’

I figured she had driven straight to the party, but if that was the case, then we were first to arrive.

‘My house. My parents’ house. I need to change for the party and so do you. You are about the same height as my father. I’ll find something for you to wear.’

‘So, we are going to the party? Because you hope Chief Amadi will be there?’

‘Yes.’

I said nothing more. If we continued arguing, she might decide to go alone, which I feared would be worse.

A table and a chair were set in front of Catch-Fire’s house on the dirt road. A kerosene lantern on the table provided orange lighting. The man sitting on the chair was shouting at a crowd of men who still hadn’t managed to form a straight line in front of him. They were being manhandled by other men whose task, it appeared, was to stoke the mayhem.

Under the table was a rucksack full of money. A scrawny man in a yellow LA Lakers shirt was next in line, having fought off challenges from other thugs. He placed an old rifle on the table and folded his arms.

The seated man studied the gun. It was impressively large, but it was rusty and held together with black electrical tape.

‘E day fire?’

‘Yes. Well, well.’

‘You get bullet?’

‘Of course.’

‘Oya, sound am make I hear.’

The man picked up his gun and raised his right leg, wedging the butt of the weapon onto it to cock it. The crowd retreated. He raised his rifle into the air and fired a shot. The crowd cheered.

The man behind the table dipped into the rucksack and gave the shooter two thousand naira.

Next was a middle-aged man whose protruding belly looked like an engaged pregnancy. He had brought a cutlass, and when that elicited a ‘you-must-be-kidding-me’ look from the one doling out cash, he poured a sack of charms onto the table. He left with a thousand naira and applause from the onlookers.

Catch-Fire was watching from a window upstairs. He had sent a message to the local thugs and they responded by turning up in front of his house armed with machetes, guns, catapults, and sledge-hammers. They were pickpockets, burglars, extortionists, hired heavies, and general ne’er-do-wells. All they had to do was show a weapon and they would earn the right, and some money, to be forever known in the area as one of Catch-Fire’s bodyguards. It was an honour to serve one of their own who had done well.

By the time the money bag was exhausted, there still remained a little crowd of hopefuls, armed with sticks and guns, and even a man who had come dressed in his white, judo uniform complete with black belt. A promise was made to reward everyone in due time; the thugs were assured that this came from Catch-Fire himself.

The men took up positions around the building they had been summoned to protect. The night was, as usual, dark from a power failure. Glowing ends of joints showed the spots where each thug stood guard.

A white van stopped on the other side of the road opposite the house. Moments passed then the side door slid open and two dogs sprang out, growling and racing at the men. The mob scattered.

Knockout jumped out, yelling like a beast, automatic pistols in both hands. He picked his first target: a thug keeping his position, holding his machete up, readying himself to swing it down once one of the dogs got close enough.

Knockout aimed and fired. Red mist sprayed out of the man’s head. Knockout turned to the fleeing men and ran after them, screaming and shooting.

The brothers filed out of the vehicle and spread out. They expected a response from the house they had come to raid. When it came, it would be up to them to quell it.

A girl in jean shorts and a red bra came running out of the house holding a pistol. One-Nation pumped a cartridge into his shotgun’s barrel and fired. The blast stopped the girl in her tracks, lifted her off the ground and sent her flying back into the house, arms flailing, belly exploding.

Knockout returned panting, his spent guns by his sides.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he said. ‘Let us go and burn down the bastard.’

‘We did not come to kill anyone,’ One-Love said. ‘Each life will cost you fifty thousand naira extra.’

‘So? Is that all? Kill all of them.’

Catch-Fire’s men, realising that they outnumbered the assailants, marched towards the house. A shot that missed its target brought the approaching army to the attention of Knockout and the brothers. At the same time, shots from the upper windows of the house peppered the ground around the would-be assassins. One-Nation motioned for Oscar, Romeo, and Kekere to deal with the approaching mob. The three clicked their AK-47s to automatic and opened fire. One-Nation and One-Love dealt with the building. As if impervious to bullets, they took their time to determine where the shots were coming from before bathing each hostile window in lead. They dropped spent magazines and clicked in replacements.

Knockout ran to the van planning to arm himself with a more
robust weapon from the brothers’ bag, but when he looked inside, a grenade made him smile.

‘That will cost you twenty thousand,’ One-Love said, mid-volley.

Knockout pulled the pin and hurled the bomb with all the propulsion his short hands could muster.

The intended victims must have thought he had resorted to throwing stones. They ran into the bomb’s kill zone and it exploded with an overpowering bang that sent bodies flying, pummelled by hot shrapnel. The remainder of the army lost interest in the battle.

Shots were still being fired from the dark windows. The girls knew what the gunmen would do to them if they managed to enter the house. Their single shots were followed by bursts from the gang’s machine guns. A generator roared to life. A second later, floodlights flickered on. The shots from the house became more accurate. Exposed, the gang took cover behind their van, crouching behind the tyres. Small calibre rounds pierced through the car’s panels.

‘Knockout, the money you paid does not cover all this – oh,’ One-Love said. ‘Knockout?’ He looked around. Knockout was not with them. Head down and body pressed to the ground, One-Love peered under the car. Empty shells glistened on the road.

Knockout had heard the generator and remembered the floodlights in front of Catch-Fire’s house. He ran towards the building. He went down the side, bending below the windows that had burglar-proof iron bars on them. The backdoor was made of metal, probably bulletproof. He tried the handle. It was locked. He looked up at the building and his eyes fell upon a drain pipe that ran up the wall to the first floor where perforated blocks stretched the rest of the way to the roof. He gripped the
pipe with both hands to test its strength then began to climb.

At the first floor, Knockout peeped through the holes. The passageway beyond was dark and smelt of gunfire. Placing his hands and feet into the holes and holding his breath, he continued climbing, aware that a shot could throw him off at any time. He made it to the top and hoisted himself onto the roof. He balanced by stretching out his hands and walked along a line of roof nails where there would be a strong beam beneath. Picking a spot on the asbestos roof, he leapt into the air, crashed through the ceiling, and tumbled onto the bare floor below. Debris followed him. He was bleeding from peppery cuts along his arms but he scampered to his feet, still clutching the guns in both hands.

Knockout pointed his pistols up each direction of the corridor but no one appeared. He began searching in the rooms farthest from the shooting – a coward like Catch-Fire would not be hanging out at the front line. The first door was locked. He kicked it open; it was a storeroom full of beer cartons. He moved on to the next door.

Go-Slow was by the window in Catch-Fire’s room. Catch-Fire was on the floor, his hands wrapped around Go-Slow’s leg. Go-Slow’s weapon was drawn but he was not wasting ammunition; he was only surveying the situation to see when it was safe to leave. Whatever mess Catch-Fire had gotten himself into was not his problem. He would take the money, kill the crook himself if he objected, or go and kill the Chief if this battle was won by the girls. But ultimately, all that mattered to him was getting out alive.

The handle on the door rattled and the key in the lock dropped. Both Go-Slow and Catch-Fire turned to look. Go- Slow repositioned himself away from the path of any shot fired through the plywood. The door flew open, shattering into splinters
at the lock. Knockout sprang in, holding both weapons up and ready. Go-Slow aimed his pistol at Knockout’s head. They both stared at one another. Catch-Fire began to cry.

Her parents’ home was a white mansion on a drive overlooking the lagoon. A policeman opened the gate and peered inside the car at me. There was an old Rolls Royce gathering dust in a corner. I wanted to see it but Amaka was already walking into the building. The policeman kept looking at me.

Inside, in a large bedroom, she measured me with her eyes then reached into a wardrobe and brought out a folded bundle of white clothing.

‘Try this on,’ she said, and left.

In the mirror over the dressing table something caught my eye. I turned to look. Next to the bed, leaning against the wall, was a double-barrelled shotgun. I heard a door close. I remembered she had gone to get dressed as well. I placed the borrowed clothes on the bed and began to unbutton my shirt.

We arrived at the party dressed alike in white, though Amaka had a huge red headscarf wrapped around her head that looked like an origami flower. She told me it was called ‘gele.’ Perhaps this meant something, the fact that she’d chosen matching outfits for us.

At the entrance of the Yoruba Tennis Club, people were showing their invitation cards to the police. Amaka put her arm in mine and pressed her phone against her ear. I hesitated when it was
our turn at the gate but she tugged my arm and we walked past the policemen unchallenged.

A huge white marquee was set up in the middle of an open field. A live band played just beyond the gigantic tent. Gabriel guided us by phone to his table. He had saved us two seats by placing his wife’s handbag on one, and a half-eaten plate of food on the other. He stood to greet us, looking theatrical in a flowing white outfit that at full spread was as large as a duvet cover. He had to keep gathering the excess fabric into folds over his shoulders. All the guests were in white outfits.

‘Where is madam?’ Amaka said, looking around.

Gabriel pointed out his wife, standing with a large woman who was fanning her face with an embroidered fan.

‘She’s with the wife of the new NDIC chairman. I told her to introduce you. You’d better run along now.’

She looked at me apologetically and I nodded that I would be fine. She held my arm and squeezed it before leaving. It felt good. Perhaps we were cool again? It occurred to me then that we’d had our first fight.

‘Won’t you sit down?’

He looked drowsy. There was a glass of wine and an empty bottle on the table. He pushed a glass towards me and poured red wine from a bottle that he brought out from under the table. I took in the crowd with my first sip. The vibrant music, the beautiful people, Amaka as my date – it all felt surreal.

‘You look good. Did you have it made here?’ Gabriel said.

‘Oh, no. It’s her father’s.’

‘The ambassador’s? She’s dressing you up in her father’s clothes now? Interesting.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘If you say so. Tell me, what’s she up to?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I know Amaka; she’s always on one project or the other. It’s either an orphanage she’s trying to rescue or a politician she’s trying to expose. What is it this time?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’

‘I’m sure you know, but she has sworn you to secrecy. Never mind, she’ll tell me herself when she wants to. Sooner or later, she tells me everything.’

‘You two seem to be very close.’

‘Yup. Like brother and sister. Nothing going on there, my man. No need to worry about me.’

‘There’s nothing between us,’ I said.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He took another sip from his glass and started people-watching. ‘You know, I know everything about these people. Every single one of them. You see that one there? The woman with the fat ass? Last month, I sold her father’s house in Monaco. The man was a civil servant all his life. Head of Service. You have to ask yourself where he got the money to buy a twelve million pounds sterling villa cash down. Her husband used to be a good friend of mine.’

‘Used to?’

‘Oh yeah, he died. Cancer. We played golf together. He always won; that’s how I got him to be my client. I’ll tell you a funny story. A few years back, he got her a gym subscription for their anniversary. He didn’t understand why she was upset. She made her point by getting him a penis enlargement kit in return. She called me in the States to buy her the stuff.’

We laughed at the story then he pointed at someone.

‘See that guy there? The tall lanky fellow? He used to be in the
Navy. He was a commander. Shehu, that’s his name. Shehu Yaya. Retired Navy Commander Shehu Yaya. He had a brilliant career. We all expected him to make CNS one day, Chief of Naval Staff, but then he got mixed up in a dirty oil bunkering deal and they quietly retired him. Guess what he does now?’

‘Oil bunkering?’

‘Nope. I never said he did it. In fact, the deal that got him the sack had nothing to do with him. His sin was actually not looking the other way, but that’s another story. What he does now, my friend, is this: he arranges young girls for his rich friends in the Force. Can you believe that? A man, who got kicked out of his job for being straight, now pimps girls the age of his daughters to the same bastards who ended his career. Now what would you call that, poetic injustice?’

I turned to watch the retired commander. He was standing in a group with four other men, all deep in conversation, except for him. He was looking at something. I followed his gaze to Amaka. She was chatting with Gabriel’s wife and an elderly woman. Her back was to him. She looked gorgeous. I noticed a few other men checking her out too.

‘What about the man she’s looking for? Is he here tonight?’

‘Who? Malik?’

‘No, Chief Amadi. Is he here?’

‘Well, I haven’t seen him. Why is she looking for him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So, why do you ask?’

‘I saw the expression on your face when she asked you about him.’

‘What expression?’

‘You seemed to disapprove. Do you know something about him?’

‘Well, you see all these people here? I know how they all made their money – it’s my job to know. I need to know who’s rich or who’s going to be rich, you understand? But that guy, Amadi, he just appeared on the scene out of nowhere. I’ve asked around and no one knows how he made his money, what he does, or for that matter how much he’s worth. I’ll tell you a secret. I have people in the banks who tell me how much any one has in their account. I need to know how much you can spend if you’re asking about a villa in the Côte d’Azur, you understand? I need to be able to weed out the time wasters. I’ve asked all my contacts about this geezer and he doesn’t have one account in any bank in the country. Not even under a false name. And yet he spends as if he prints money.’

‘Drugs?’

‘Nah. I doubt it. That racket has become too dangerous to run through Nigeria. I thought he was fronting for someone in government but that would require a registered business, at least. He doesn’t have any. I dodged him over a property he wanted to buy in Cape Town last year.’

‘Why?’

‘If I don’t know where the money is from, clean or dirty, I can’t weigh the risks.’

‘What risks?’

‘Money laundering took on a new meaning post 9/11. For all I know he may be conning some Arab nation under the guise of religious advancement in Nigeria. Using funds like that to buy properties abroad may be interpreted by a paranoid CIA agent as funding extremists – however they may arrive at that, you follow? No, thank you. I’ll stick to my corrupt politicians and dubious businessmen.’

‘What about black magic?’

‘What about it?’

‘Could that be the source of his wealth?’

He looked at me as if I just said something stupid.

‘Guy, don’t tell me you believe in that hocus-pocus bullshit. I don’t know what he does for his money but I don’t think Amaka should be messing with him. Whatever she’s up to, please stop her.’

Amaka had disappeared. I saw that a lot of the guests had gathered to dance in front of the band. Dollar bills were being thrown into the sky, or plastered onto the foreheads of female dancing partners. The ground beneath them was covered in notes and young girls were picking them up and stuffing them into empty wine boxes.