The Carnivorous City Page 5

  ‘And you never caught the Sabato bug?’

  ‘Me? Haba! I am his wife. I see him when he is not Sabato, when he sits in the loo, when he is prancing around naked, when he is goofing around with his son or fooling around in the house pretending to be Stevie Wonder on the piano. He is my baby, not Sabato.’

  There was a faraway look in her eyes as she spoke and Abel could sense that whatever it was she had had with his brother, call it love or whatever, it had been deep.

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ she said, returning to the present. ‘I told you I would show you what point and kill is. Come.’

  They walked to the right where the refrigerators were massed and the brightly liveried waiters picked up steaming bowls of pepper soup and cold drinks. Ada led him to a row of what appeared to be green glass walls, but on a closer look, Abel could see hundreds of fish swimming within.

  ‘Oya, watch that couple,’ Ada said.

  Abel watched as a lady pointed and a guy on the other side of the tank dipped a metal basket-like utensil inside the tank and scooped up a catfish. He dropped it, gulping, on the table and, with one deft move, cracked its skull with a machete. The fish flapped about without purpose for a while then went still.

  ‘You point and he kills,’ Ada laughed.

  ‘We have it in Asaba,’ Abel said as they walked back to their table. ‘But I have never seen so many fish.’

  Their drinks had arrived by the time they returned and the pepper soup was delivered soon after.

  ‘Head or tail?’ Ada asked, indicating the two steaming bowls on the tray.

  ‘You?’ She pointed to the tail.

  ‘Head it is then.’

  THE SEDUCTIVE MISTRESS

  By spending time with Ada, whether dropping Zeal off at his summer kindergarten, eating pepper soup at O’jez, watching a movie at the cinema or going swimming at Ikoyi club, Abel was beginning to see a completely different side of Lagos. While it could be a city with a huge appetite for human flesh, it was also a seductive mistress with a tender touch.

  True, the city had, like the hungry sea that bathed its haunches, opened its mouth wide and swallowed his brother whole, yet it was providing Abel with pleasures hitherto unexperienced, and it didn’t hurt that he had a beautiful, intelligent woman for company.

  On the days when he didn’t go out to meet someone or see Edgar Ofio, the investigating police officer in charge of his brother’s case, he would go to Ikoyi club with Ada. She loved to swim and even though there was a pool at the house she said she preferred to swim in the public pool.

  ‘At least if you start drowning someone can help you,’ she told him with a laugh. ‘It’s boring swimming alone.’

  Abel could swim. He wasn’t perfect but he had learnt, alongside his brother, from spending time at the village stream in his maternal homestead. That morning they had changed into their swimwear and were taking turns to stand under the tap before getting in the pool.

  Ada had on a stunning one-piece swimsuit that accentuated her curves and hugged her bosom. Standing there, watching the water course all over her, Abel felt himself stir in an embarrassing way. He turned away quickly and placed his palm over his crotch.

  They swam for a while and then he dried himself, pulled on a T-shirt, and left her at the pool to go and read the papers in the library. There, he came upon a story about a kidnap gang smashed by the police in Asaba. He was always tickled by the words journalists employed in such situations:

  Robbery gang routed

  Kidnap syndicate smashed

  Robbery kingpin nabbed

  You could almost predict the exact term, as if they had a bag of words they dipped into for certain reports.

  The story about the four-man kidnap gang in Asaba made him think about home, or what used to be his home just one month ago. School would reopen in six weeks and he was glad he had finished marking his papers before he travelled. When he was leaving Asaba he had felt he would be gone for a couple of days at most, but a month and a few days later he was in Lagos living a completely new life.

  There were luxury cars, a mansion, nice clothes, comfortable shoes, good food, a bar full of good wine and spirits – a life he couldn’t have imagined two months back.

  His brother was still missing, he knew, and even though he realised that hopes of ever finding his brother were growing dimmer with each passing day, he did not want to stop looking, aware that that was what was required of him. It was his duty as first son and older brother.

  Steeling himself, Abel finally called their sister, Oby, and told her the bad news. While she sniffled and cried, he warned her not to tell their mother or relatives. He’d ensured that his mother’s allowance was sent promptly, and when she’d called to ask after Soni, Ada told her that he was on a long trip to China.

  Abel didn’t know how long they could keep up the charade, but he knew that time always found a way to resolve even the thorniest issues.

  He was duty-bound to do what was required of him as the first son and older sibling. He would search for his brother until it was clear that the search could no longer go on, and only then would he rest. When that time would come, however, he could not tell, and he did not know what he would do when the time came to go back to school.

  Many nights as he lay in the downy bed, his head propped up by the softest pillows he had ever touched, Abel would wonder whether he could tear himself away from all this and return to his dump in Asaba. Could he go back to the drab, spartan life he used to live, away from the comfort of his brother’s mansion, the times spent dining in nice restaurants and swimming at the club, his pocket bulging with money?

  If he decided to quit his job, there was no fear of going broke, at least not in the foreseeable future. His brother had over eight hundred million naira in cash in six different banks. He had five houses in Lagos aside from the one he lived in and Ada told him there was an apartment in Essex and two in Florida.

  ‘You know your brother can’t stand the cold, so he had to buy a house in Florida, where the sun is always out.’

  Abel’s well-ordered but frugal life had suddenly been turned round. He was living the good life but existing in a state of flux. Was he now a Lagos Big Boy? Or a mere teacher on vacation?

  These questions intruded upon him in his quiet moments. He always pushed them aside, but that morning, sitting in the small library at Ikoyi Club, Abel knew his future depended, in large part, on his ability to forget. Therein lay his dilemma: how to forget by not remembering.

  How to sleep in a man’s bed, how to get warm at the sight of his wife, how to wear his clothes, drink his wine, play with his son, spend his money and not remember that he was still missing.

  The thought insisted upon an answer and left his eyes brimming with tears.

  —

  By the time Abel woke, the sun was up and there were strong rays streaming into his bed. He covered his face with a pillow to keep out the glare but he could still feel it hot against his skin. They hadn’t got in until well past 6am, because they’d had to drop Auntie Ekwi at home. The vigil started at midnight and ran all the way to 5am. They sang and prayed; Abel, Auntie Ekwi, Ada and about a dozen prayer warriors enlisted for the vigil. The prophet and the prayer warriors spoke in tongues whenever the prophet asked them to pray in the Spirit.

  Abel had wondered how he would cope, praying all night, but somehow the five hours had passed swiftly and he was surprised when the session came to an end and the prophet said his Alleluia.

  This time, Abel was prepared with something substantial in an envelope.

  ‘God will do it, my son,’ the prophet told him as they filed out.

  When he woke up that morning after napping for a few hours, he felt something else too – a stiffening of the joints. Pushing the pillow off, he tried to make a fist. It hurt. Alarm flooded him as he got off the bed. He walked naked to the bathroom to pass water, all the while trying tentatively to make a fist and feeling the pain shoot up his arm.

  He w
as having an attack. He hadn’t had one in about four years. He knew what medication was required, had always known since he was a kid, but the thought of it and the memories that came rushing in left him anxious.

  He brushed his teeth, showered and got dressed. By the time he was done, he could hear Zeal laughing out loudly from behind the door in his mother’s room. He had the same laughter Soni had, a high-pitched cackle full of joyful abandon. Abel marvelled at how the genes transferred even the most mundane things from father to son.

  As he pulled on his socks, he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece: 10.50am.

  Downstairs, the house help was setting the table. She brought him the English breakfast Ada said Soni insisted on eating before he left the house every morning.

  ‘Most times he eats once a day,’ Ada had told him. ‘And he always said one must eat like a king at breakfast.’

  Abel had no appetite, so he drank coffee and nibbled at the toast.

  He drove out of the compound, his mind on Victoria Island. He was headed to a pharmacy on the ground floor of the Silverbird Galleria. Ada had taken him there once after a movie to buy Vitamin C and cold remedies for Zeal.

  ‘At least here you can be sure of what you are buying,’ Ada had said. ‘Most people die in this country not from poor care, but from fake drugs, do you know that?’ She had a way of ensuring that you responded by asking a question at the end of her comment.

  Abel said he thought so. An aunt of theirs, the one who came before his mum, had died from a fake dose. She had survived a motor accident and was prescribed an anti-tetanus injection on account of her injuries. Abel’s dad had gone to buy it because it was not stocked at the local hospital where she had been admitted. He ended up buying a fake dose. She got lockjaw and died four days later.

  ‘My father was devastated and never forgave himself. In so many ways, I felt as if he loved that woman, Auntie Ify, more than he loved my mum. It was through her that he met my mother, and her death was something he never got over. My mum told me he went to the chemist where he bought the drugs and beat up the owner. He was arrested but, according to my mum, my father would have gladly gone to the gallows just to make it right.’

  ‘Wow, Soni never told me that story.’

  ‘We were quite young. I was four or five and Soni must have been two or three. I’m sure he didn’t remember.’

  ‘Well, you know what they do to people who sell fake drugs in China?’

  Abel shook his head.

  ‘They execute them; one bullet to the head. If they did that in Lagos, many people would die.’

  ‘It’s that bad, eh?’ Despite his aunt, who had died many years ago in that remote village, he hadn’t really thought there was an epidemic of fake drugs. The ones he bought were mostly for headache or diarrhoea or they were antimalarials. They were everywhere and he had never taken any that weren’t effective. When his attacks came, he knew what cocktail to take and it had always worked from the time he was in the boarding house right through university.

  ‘It is. I remember just after Zeal was born. We were still living at Ilupeju then. I asked the driver to buy baby food and he went to a shop close by instead of the supermarket we usually bought from. That night, Zeal started stooling. It was crazy. By 5am when we eventually braved it and drove out to the hospital he was as light as a piece of paper. They had to pass a line and Soni was crying and vowing to kill somebody if his son died. I couldn’t stop teasing him afterwards but there and then, as I watched my son wither before my eyes, I could have killed someone too.

  When we got back, Soni had the driver take him there. He reported the shop to the police and got NAFDAC involved. When the man was arrested, all he kept saying was “because you have money, abi, because you have money”. He didn’t see that he had almost killed a baby. They should do the China thing here – one bullet to the head.’ She pointed a cocked finger at her temple.

  Abel’s thoughts were everywhere as he drove past the tollgate, onto Ozumba Mbadiwe, and sped past the impressive Oriental Hotel, which everyone said was owned by a past governor of Lagos state.

  He took a left turn at the Civic Centre – owned by Jim Ovia, former banker and one of Africa’s richest men – into Adetokunbo Ademola. The 1004 Estate was to his left. He remembered visiting a friend once, back when he was at university. He had been disappointed. The place was dirty, crowded and filled with cars, most of them broken down. Inside, the houses didn’t look too impressive either. There was a pervasive civil-service air about the place that spoke of neglect.

  It had been built in a fit of indulgence and excess by the federal government as residential quarters for 1004 federal legislators – hence the name. They stayed for a while and then, like all things Nigerian, it was no longer used for its true purpose. A coup took place and suddenly there were no more senators or legislators and the seat of government moved to Abuja, the new federal capital.

  So, it became an estate where lucky civil servants and even some non-civil servants who had Godfathers could live.

  It was purpose-built, well-appointed and beautifully laid out, but with time, all that changed and the estate lost its allure. Things were changing again. The government had sold the estate to private investors who had renovated it. New tenants were moving in and it was no longer as crowded as it used to be. Abel and Ada had gone there to visit a lady a few days back. There were guards at the gates and the estate looked a whole lot better than it had years ago when he first visited.

  ‘That’s where the guy landed when he jumped,’ Ada said, pointing to a concrete slab stained brown. She had been telling him a story of a murder/suicide.

  ‘What happened to that case?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Ada said, shaking her head. ‘Open and shut.’

  The story was that a young woman who ran a nightclub had been attacked by a man who worked for her and whom the tabloids said might also have been her lover.

  She was attacked viciously but had managed to call for help. By the time security guards rushed in however, the supposed lover had jumped off the sixth-floor ledge and landed on the slab.

  Abel remembered reading the story in the weekend papers back in Asaba and not hearing anything again. What he hadn’t realised was that Lagos was like that. In a city with over fifteen million people seemingly always in a mad rush to get some place fast, nothing held your attention for too long. It was that way with everything: nightclubs, schools, banks, estates, cars, scandals.

  Everything had a season.

  He drove the length of Adetokunbo Ademola, past the imposing Eko Hotel and Suites, before making a right turn at Bar Beach then driving all the way down Ahmadu Bello Way to the Silverbird Galleria. Because it was a Saturday, mothers supported by an army of house helps were herding their children into the Galleria to shop and see movies.

  Most people worked on the Island, where a lot of the companies and banks were clustered. The factories, shipping lines and other businesses engaged in production and distribution were spread out farther afield, some in Apapa (because of its proximity to the ports) but mostly on the mainland all over the Ikeja, Ilupeju, Agidingbi, Ogba and Apapa axes.

  Most of those who worked on the Island lived on the mainland and had to commute from areas as far flung as Ikorodu, Sango Ota and Egbeda. To beat the energy-sapping traffic they left home early, meaning that some parents never got to see their children awake during the week. Saturdays became days for making up and were almost as busy as the weekdays, with people shopping, going to the movies, the beach or to weddings. People tried to pack into Saturdays all the things they couldn’t do from Monday to Friday. Sundays were reserved for church services in a city that, though amoral and riddled with crime and criminals, also paraded some of the most ardent churchgoers.

  Abel parked the car and walked into the Galleria. He was stopped and searched.

  ‘What’s that beeping in your pocket?’ the guard asked, running his hand over his right thigh.

  Abel pulled back, reache
d inside and brought out the gold-plated pen he’d picked up from Soni’s dresser.

  ‘We didn’t have these searches before,’ Ada had told him the first time they came to the movies. ‘But with Boko Haram, no one is taking chances.’

  Inside, Abel found the drugs he needed. He bought a bottle of water and downed six tablets, then left the pharmacy and took the elevator upstairs. He went into the bookshop and cruised the aisles, browsing through the titles before picking up a copy of Toni Morrison’s Sula. He thought the price was a bit steep but decided to buy it anyway. He had owned a copy once, but an ex-girlfriend had borrowed and never returned it. The first day he met her, he told her she reminded him of Sula.

  ‘Who is she?’ she had asked, oblivious.

  ‘It’s a character in a book.’

  ‘I remind you of a character in a book? How is that possible? Characters in books are not real people,’ she’d said, half-amused, half-intrigued.

  ‘I will lend you the book to read and if she doesn’t remind you of yourself, you can call me a liar.’

  It was one of his best pick-up lines and he knew Soni would have been impressed. They were lovers for two years, then she left town and they lost contact.

  He paid for the book and was taking the stairs down when he heard his name.

  ‘Abel Dike!’ It was a female voice and there was some tentativeness to it.

  Abel turned round and screamed, ‘Calista Adeyemi!’

  ‘It’s a lie!’ she cried as they hugged. ‘Where did you fall out from?’

  ‘Asaba,’ he said, smiling and giddy with joy.

  ‘What are you doing in Lagos? You finally left Asaba, have you?’ She guided him downstairs to a fast-food restaurant. They found a seat and, laughing like the young girl he used to know, she took his hands in hers and whispered like a shy schoolgirl, ‘I have missed you, Mister Dike.’