The Carnivorous City Page 12

  ‘Absence makes the heart fonder,’ he told her and she laughed some more.

  ‘I leave on Monday. We should hang out.’ Abel said it was a good idea.

  ‘A friend is taking me out on Friday night. He says we should go club surfing. You want to come?’

  ‘Haven’t gone clubbing in ages, but sure. Expect you Mr Dike.’

  ‘You didn’t ask me,’ Ada said conversationally when his call ended.

  Abel turned to her. She was looking at him. Her eyes were hooded so he couldn’t see into them and he wasn’t sure whether she was upset or not.

  ‘You are …’ he began then changed tack. ‘I didn’t think you would want to.’

  ‘I am what? A married woman? A widow? Which?’

  ‘Ada, don’t be like that,’ he said, taking her hand. She let him hold her for a while, then pulled away.

  ‘We should be going.’ She drained her glass.

  He drained his, paid the young man for the tent, the drinks and the suya, then they drove home in silence.

  —

  Auntie Ekwi arrived before either of them got out of bed the next morning.

  ‘I had a dream,’ she began the moment Abel joined her and Ada in the living room upstairs.

  ‘What happened, Auntie?’ Abel asked as he sat down.

  ‘I saw Soni. Some men were chasing him. He ran and ran but they finally caught up with him, and then the person in front wasn’t even a man. It was a woman, hitting him and screaming, “You lied to me, you lied to me.” I woke up and prayed to bind all evil forces. On my way here I dropped by to see the prophet and he said we should come for prayers on Friday night.’

  ‘Friday night,’ Abel groaned. ‘I can’t make it. We have to move it forward to another date.’

  ‘Why? This is urgent,’ Auntie Ekwi said, looking from Abel to Ada.

  ‘Abel has to go out of town,’ Ada told her. ‘We will do the prayer another time.’

  ‘Oh, he is travelling. The journey can’t be postponed?’

  ‘No. It has to do with work,’ Abel said.

  ‘Work? I thought you are a teacher,’ she said as if teaching was not work.

  ‘Yes Auntie, I teach and it can’t be postponed,’ Abel said pushing the steel into his voice. ‘We will do it another time.’

  They had breakfast together and before she left with her driver, she took them upstairs and led them in prayer.

  As she prayed, Abel remembered her as a young woman who seemed incapable of getting enough sex. She slept with his father’s colleagues, their drivers and most of the men in the neighbourhood. His mother suspected for a long time that she was the one who deflowered Soni.

  ‘Once a man says boo, you throw your legs open, eh,’ he used to hear their mother berate her. ‘Can’t you say no?’

  It was close to thirty years since the night she left their house, but, he could remember it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

  At the time they’d lived in a building that comprised two bungalows sitting side by side. The other bungalow was occupied by the bursar. His wife was a vice principal in a girls’ college, so didn’t live with him. He lived, instead, with his younger brother, who was sleeping with Auntie Ekwi and who they would later catch in his mother’s bed. When his mother found out, she forbade Ekwi from ever going into that house. And so she devised other means.

  Both houses had pantries at the back. Auntie Ekwi would go into theirs and she and the bursar’s brother would make love through the bars on the window. They were at it one evening when Abel’s dad discovered them. Auntie Ekwi moved out that same night.

  Now she was a prayer warrior with three children and a husband who cruised around Lagos with the car Soni bought her, while she jumped from bus to bus. He was beginning to see a pattern – piety as a means of escape.

  Abel didn’t go out the next day. After waiting for a while and watching CNN with him, Santos asked whether he could leave. He told him he could.

  He swam laps in the pool with Ada and even though she didn’t speak much, they were civil, driving out together to go fetch Zeal from school and then to Victoria Island because Zeal kept screaming, ‘I want ice cream, I want ice cream!’ Ada took them all to an ice cream place off Idowu Taylor.

  They watched a movie together when they got back – a biopic of Frida Kahlo, the Mexican artist who lived a tragic, pain-wracked life.

  ‘Wine, anyone?’ Ada asked with fanfare as the movie ended. The movie seemed to have cheered her up considerably.

  ‘Sure,’ Abel said, bouncing Zeal on his lap – a place that had become his favourite spot.

  They sat on the balcony beside the living room upstairs and because it hadn’t been used in a while, Philo had to come sweep and dust.

  ‘Go and give Zeal his bath,’ Ada said, but the boy refused as he played with Abel’s moustache.

  ‘Uncle, bathe me,’ he cried over and over again, until Abel had to take him to the bathroom and give him a bath.

  When he got back to the balcony Ada had already poured a drink.

  ‘You got a Chianti,’ he said, pouring for himself.

  ‘Yes. I sent for it.’ She smiled broadly. ‘I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Did I tell you how I got to know about it?’

  She nodded. ‘The movie The Silence of the Lambs’.

  ‘Ah,’ Abel cried in mock horror. ‘One of the signs of old age; you start repeating stories.’

  ‘True. Been meaning to tell you.’ When Abel looked up sharply in shock, Ada laughed. ‘Just kidding.’

  The view from the balcony was lovely. It looked out onto the waters and Abel was sure that with a pair of binoculars he could see all the way to Falomo Bridge.

  ‘I didn’t know we had such a view.’

  ‘Soni liked to sit here and read the newspapers while he drank cognac. He used to call himself a grandee and spoke about buying a boat but never got round to it.’

  Abel was silent as he took in the information, a shy smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Did I say something funny?’ Ada asked.

  ‘No. But these days when you talk about Soni, it sounds like you are talking about someone else. The Soni I knew never had time to read the newspapers. Whenever he opened one it was to read a cartoon. When we were much younger, he loved Garth in the Daily Times, and then Modesty Blaise when there was still New Nigeria.

  ‘As we got older, Soni’s taste evolved to Mr and Mrs and then Kaptain Afrika in Vanguard. Sometimes it was Obe Ess in The Guardian. He had no time for news.’

  ‘Well, he used to sit out here and read the papers. Maybe age mellowed him,’ Ada said.

  Abel nodded in agreement. ‘I would have loved to see that new man he became.’

  They lapsed into silence and Abel watched a gaggle of geese fly by in formation, their wings flapping as if synchronised.

  ‘Soni used to love birds when we were kids. He once owned an eagle called Pokey.’

  ‘Yes, he told me that. I wondered at the name – Pokey of all things.’ Ada laughed.

  ‘I guess he already knew he would poke his way through life,’ Abel told her, laughing too.

  They lapsed into silence again, each lost in what Abel supposed were recollections of what Soni had meant to them as individuals.

  ‘I have been meaning to speak with you regarding some developments on Soni’s case,’ Abel began. He had been seeking the right moment to bring her up to speed. The Bar Beach had looked like a good place but things had soured towards the end.

  ‘You have updates?’ She set her glass down.

  ‘Yes. My friend, Calista, the lady that dropped me off?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She works for the Lagos State Government.’

  ‘Wow, that was Calista Adeyemi?’ Ada exclaimed. ‘I thought she looked vaguely familiar. She is a Lagos Big Babe,’ she said and Abel marvelled all over again how everyone in Lagos just seemed to know who everyone else was. ‘I hear she is very close to the governor.’ Ada added
with wink.

  ‘Oh really? She is very close to me too,’ Abel told her and laughed.

  ‘You are a Lagos Big Boy too. So, what did she do?’

  ‘Well, when I bumped into her at Silverbird and she asked me what I was doing in Lagos, I told her about Soni.’ Abel related the chat with the CSO and the commissioner, his visit to Panti, the change of officers in charge and the arrests.

  ‘My God Abel, you can kill. You are so secretive. How come you never mentioned all these?’ she asked.

  ‘I wanted to have something concrete. I am really sorry about that.’ He told her about the man who stole Soni’s chequebook and how they were all finally arrested alongside Nicole.

  ‘My God. Dr Nicole? I knew your brother was fucking her but I liked her. She is very elegant and pretty.’

  ‘Well, that’s where we are.’ He picked up the glass she had just topped up, ignoring the remark about Dr Nicole.

  ‘Wow, we may have to tell your mum.’ Ada stared into the distance. ‘Dr Nicole is very popular among Lagos Big Girls and Boys. Once the press learns that she is at Panti, Soni’s name will be dragged into it. Jesus, I just hope the press don’t get involved because then your mother will hear.’

  —

  Nnamdi had asked that they meet at Bogobiri, on Maitama Sule, off Raymond Njoku in Ikoyi.

  ‘I don’t know where that is,’ Abel told Calista when they got into his car.

  ‘It’s not hard to find. It’s a lovely place. Quiet, arty, nice food, cold drinks, lots of white journalists, and music, some days. I had an interview there once with some Kenyan journalist from the FT.’

  She was right. It was not difficult to find.

  Abel drove down Falomo Bridge, descending right as if to Bourdillon, then made a left and took the roundabout into Awolowo Road. Driving past the Church of Assumption on the right, he took the first left at Calista’s prompting and then made a right about forty metres in.

  Bogobiri was jumping. A band was set up and Nnamdi’s massive bulk filled out a semi-circular seat. He was dressed in baggy denim trousers and a big polo top that hid his paunch. He was dining with a petite woman who looked young enough to be his daughter. The girl was pretty and eager in the way Lagos girls are; overdressed and over-made-up, with wandering eyes and legs that parted easily.

  Beside Nnamdi and his guest were four white men, an elderly white lady and about four other Africans. The room was thick with cigarette smoke.

  ‘This is Calista Ade—’ Abel began but Nnamdi shushed him.

  ‘My God, what is a commissioner doing with a pauper?’ He rose and took Calista’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Senior special assistant,’ Abel corrected him.

  ‘Nonsense, what do you know? SSA is a cabinet position. She is the same rank as a commissioner. Sit, sit my dear and tell me how you met my poor cousin.’

  ‘Poor older cousin,’ Abel said as he sat down.

  ‘This poor cousin of yours is one of my best friends ever,’ Calista told him.

  ‘Wrong choice, wrong choice,’ Nnamdi muttered shaking his head. ‘That was because you hadn’t met me. Now that you have met me that mistake must be amended.’

  ‘Oh, for once I agree with you,’ Abel said raising his voice because the band had started up. ‘You are a mistake that must be amended.’

  The ladies laughed while Abel and Nnamdi slapped palms.

  ‘Would you believe it, we made bets that Abel wouldn’t live beyond secondary school and I lost,’ Nnamdi said.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Calista asked.

  ‘I was very sickly as a boy,’ Abel explained. ‘It was a running joke. No one thought I would live past secondary school.’

  The waiter arrived to take their orders and Nnamdi remembered to introduce the girl; her name was Mimi, he said.

  ‘Nimi,’ the girl corrected and Nnamdi laughed.

  ‘Old age, it happens to all of us. Nimi is with us on industrial attachment. This is part of her induction.’ He winked at Abel, who shook his head.

  They drank and ate pepper soup. At about eleven, Nnamdi said they should all go in his car.

  ‘My driver will drive. You can leave your car here. We will pick it up on our way out.’

  Abel, Calista and Nimi sat at the back while Nnamdi rode in front with his driver. The spacious Lincoln Navigator smelt new and the leather felt almost downy, like you were sinking into cotton wool.

  ‘Take us to Diablo,’ he told the driver.

  ‘This car is lovely,’ Abel complimented him.

  ‘Na for show, my brother. Don’t be deceived,’ Nnamdi said and Calista laughed.

  ‘Double N, we know your story,’ she told him.

  ‘Which story? Don’t tell me you believe all those lies in the press about one billion naira? If I see one billion naira I will faint. In short, I will go into a coma.’

  ‘But you won’t die,’ Abel jibed. ‘Greedy man.’

  ‘Die? How about you who got to heaven’s door so many times and refused to go in? Go and sit down my friend.’

  Diablo was on Awolowo Road, adjacent to Keffi Street and right beside a Diamond Bank branch. The snout of a danfo bus was sticking out of the wall on the floor above, which housed a boutique.

  It was a small, packed space with an odd assortment of patrons; banker types who still looked stiff and formal even though they had taken off their ties and jackets, and a motley crop of young boys with too much money and skinny jeans that sagged. Then there were the girls: young, nubile, scantily clad and shaking things all over the dance floor.

  They had wine and liqueur racks on both walls. Music was blasting and people were dancing around tables and in the inner space. A table was quickly arranged for them and when the waiter came by Abel asked for a shot of Hennessy.

  ‘Bottles,’ the young lady said.

  ‘I don’t need a bottle,’ Abel responded, shouting to be heard. ‘Just a shot.’

  ‘Get us a bottle of XO,’ Nnamdi said tapping Abel on the arm and pulling him close. ‘They only sell by the bottle.’

  ‘Really?’ Abel asked surprised. Even though he now had access to more money than he could spend, he was often surprised when it came to spending it.

  ‘Yes. You come here when you are really thirsty,’ Nnamdi joked. ‘Don’t worry, I will share the bottle with you.’

  They ate asun, peppered and barbecued goat meat that made your tongue sing and your eyes water, and while the ladies drank red wine, Abel and Nnamdi ran through the cognac. Twice, Abel got up to dance to D’banj and Tuface with Calista.

  There was an informal air to the place that made Abel feel at home. He didn’t know exactly how to describe it, but it looked like a wine shop that had been magically transformed into a nightclub.

  A squat, heavily built man wearing dark glasses that looked like a huge eye stood by the door like some modern-day Cerberus, letting people in and occasionally denying some. Abel took it all in as he sipped his cognac, wondering who was who in this wild place and what fantastic backstories they all had.

  He was speaking to Calista when Nnamdi jumped to his feet and saluted.

  ‘My general, I remain loyal.’

  ‘Double N! So somebody can see you like this without visa?’ A tall, dark-skinned man had walked in on the arms of two scantily clad girls. He hugged Nnamdi.

  They shook hands all around, Nnamdi’s introductions lost as the music came on again.

  As they sorted out their seating Nnamdi motioned to the girl who had served their drinks.

  ‘Put two bottles of Moët Rosé on his table and add it to my bill.’ He leaned in between Abel and Calista. ‘He is ex-militant. He got a huge contract last month to guard vessels and base stations. Huge contract.’

  ‘But not as huge as one billion naira?’ Calista asked with a teasing laugh.

  ‘Madam Commissioner, don’t believe rumour-mongers, I beg you,’ Nnamdi said, wagging a finger at her.

  ‘Double N, may your billions never finish,’ the general
called as the waitress set down two ice buckets with bottles of champagne in them.

  ‘Billions, where did you guys see this billion, eh?’ Nnamdi asked, and they all laughed.

  Two of the general’s men had now joined him at the table, and the waitress was setting down flutes when a young man with sagging pants bumped into her as he staggered past and upset the whole arrangement. The flutes and the two bottles hit the tiled floor and a pool of pink fluid massed.

  Nnamdi was on his feet just as one of the men reached for the boy who had caused the accident and began to throttle him. ‘No problem, no problem, get two new bottles,’ he said, freeing the boy from the grip of the ex-militant.

  ‘Money man!’ the general hailed Nnamdi as they shook hands again. ‘It is a good thing to have billions.

  When Nnamdi headed to the gents, Nimi leaned over to Abel and Calista and said, ‘Four bottles of rozay – that’s one hundred and seventy-four thousand naira in less than five minutes. People have money in this country o.’

  Nnamdi and Calista exchanged glances but said nothing.

  From Diablo, Nnamdi asked his driver to head to La Casa, which squatted by the water next to the Civic Centre, just across the street from 1004 where Calista lived. And it was on the drive there from Diablo, with Nnamdi snoring softly, that Calista told Abel the story of Nnamdi’s one-billion-naira contract.

  A fluke, everyone said, but Nnamdi had managed to propose some innovative deal to the top four GSM companies all at once on behalf of some Chinese company. The deal had sailed through and people said he got a cool 10 per cent from the ten-billion-naira deal.

  ‘He really made one billion naira?’ Abel asked a bit too loudly.

  Nnamdi woke up. ‘Don’t mind them Chiedu; it’s all rumours. If I had one billion naira wouldn’t I be the one sitting at the back with the pretty ladies?’

  Everyone laughed and then lapsed into silence as the beast of a car purred up Falomo Bridge.

  There was a police checkpoint where Nnamdi’s driver called out ‘Yellow’ as if that was the code word for the night.

  Atop the bridge, with the water stretching out on both sides and the lights shimmering on its undulating surface, it struck Abel, forcefully, that Lagos was a lovely city if only it could be quiet and clean and calm for a moment. But then he shook his head and laughed softly to himself. Make the city quiet and clean and calm and it would no longer be Lagos.