The Carnivorous City Page 7

  ‘Your brother’s case is serious,’ the policeman began when he finally sat down across from Abel.

  The cramped excuse of an office reeked of sweat and deprivation. There were tattered files, cobwebbed corners, a rickety table and a chair missing a leg, but above all there was a pervasive spirit of desolation, of something irretrievably lost. Abel cursed his brother for making him go there.

  ‘It’s a case of OBT,’ the officer said, all solemn, as if he was a judge about to hand down a death sentence.

  ‘What’s OBT?’

  ‘You don’t know what OBT is?’ He went on without waiting for an answer. ‘What do you do for a living?’

  ‘I am a teacher; a lecturer.’

  ‘Where, what school?’

  ‘College of Education, Asaba.’

  ‘You are a teacher and you don’t know what OBT is, so what do you teach your students?’

  ‘English literature,’ Abel said and laughed, amused by it all. Why on earth was he supposed to know what OBT was and what did that have to do with his job or students?

  ‘You think it’s funny, abi? OK, go home and come back tomorrow.’ The officer got to his feet and headed for the door.

  ‘Haba, officer, I was just joking. No vex.’ Abel got up and stood between the policeman and the door. ‘Please sit down, OK. I don’t know what OBT is but I am sure you will help us, abeg no vex.’

  The policeman regarded Abel for a while, his brow furrowed, like a child contemplating an insect crawling vainly up a steel surface. Then he went back to his seat.

  ‘Your brother tried to obtain funds by tricks from someone,’ he said finally. ‘He was arrested and brought here. You are lucky the woman does not want to press charges, but we can’t just let him go. He has been our guest for three nights now and he has enjoyed our hospitality. Someone has to pay for that, you know?’

  ‘I understand. What are we looking at?’

  ‘Obtaining By Tricks is a major issue right now,’ the policeman began, shuffling the files again. ‘You know, 419 has messed up our image abroad so government is not taking issues of fraud lightly, even though OBT is local. With one hundred thousand naira, you can get him out,’ he said and slammed the files back on the table.

  One hundred thousand naira; that was his salary for two months, but he didn’t let on. Instead he said, ‘You know he is a first-time offender. You guys should treat him better.’

  They haggled for a while and settled for twenty-five thousand, which was all the money he had on him, save three thousand naira he kept for his fare back.

  Soni was smiling when he came out of the cell. He wore his shirt and trousers inside out.

  ‘Bros, no vex,’ he said with a giggle as he passed Abel.

  Right there, in that dank corridor with its clammy floor that sucked at your feet as if unwilling to let you go, that corridor that reeked of sweat and piss and shit and an unusual cocktail of foulness, Abel watched open-mouthed as his brother took off his trousers in front of a policewoman who was passing by them, his manhood dangling long and free as usual. He watched him turn the trousers out the right way before putting them back on.

  After he had done the same with his shirt, Abel trailed him to the counter, where Soni signed a sheet and was handed his wristwatch and bracelet.

  ‘Where is my ring?’ Soni asked, but the female police officer who had walked past them earlier just glowered at him.

  ‘Get out of here, mister man! Was it your mother that has been cleaning the toilet for you?’

  Outside, Soni said he was hungry and they walked to the far end of the station, where a wooden shack sat like an outhouse. He ordered food, asking for three pieces of meat.

  ‘I have just three thousand naira left,’ Abel told him, fighting hard to keep his temper in check, rattled as he was by his brother’s insouciant air. Soni said it was OK and settled on a bench.

  He ate with an appetite and Abel was struck by the thought that, if someone walked in and saw them, that person would assume Abel was the reason why they were at a police station. Soni did not seem to have a care.

  The meal over and paid for, Soni stood up and motioned for his brother to come with him. He hailed a cab and negotiated a fare of one thousand naira to his place on Opebi, off Salvation Road.

  The place they went up to was a cute, self-contained, one-bedroom apartment with a toilet and kitchen. It was clean and furnished all in black, from the bedspread to the rug and couch.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ Soni said as Abel settled into the settee. Then he ran out to go pay the waiting taxi driver. When he returned, Abel watched him undress and step into the bathroom. ‘You can put on the TV. You can watch CNN,’ Soni shouted.

  Showered, dressed and relaxed, he sat on the bed opposite his brother. ‘Abel, I am sorry, but there was no one else to call.’

  ‘You have to stop this, Soni,’ Abel said, the frustration of the past two days, the money he had lost, the time he had wasted, the whole pot of complaints boiling over as a frothing lava of angry words. ‘Find a decent job. Look at you; what is this? You are now a common criminal. You need to find a decent job.’ Abel told him, all the pent up rage coming to the fore.

  ‘What job, Abel? Teaching? Wearing a tie to work in a bank? Is that the job you want me to find?’ Soni raged. ‘Do you know what people who don’t have godfathers do to get bank jobs? They fuck some of the girls in the toilet before the interviews. The toilet, Abel. Is that what you want from me, to sleep with old women so I can get deposits or work as a teacher and earn something that won’t be enough to rent a decent place? Is that what you want? Penury for all of us, like you?’

  Abel lashed out to slap him. Soni grabbed his hand mid-air and was throwing a punch when he stopped himself.

  ‘Next time they arrest you, don’t call me. Call your rich friends.’ Abel snatched his hand away and reached for his bag. He was at the door when Soni’s voice stayed his feet.

  ‘Bros, please don’t go. Stop, please.’ Soni reached for his brother’s bag, snapping the strap in the process.

  ‘I have no rich friends, Abel. You are all I have. See.’ He pulled up his mattress and opened a secret compartment in the bed.

  ‘I have about a million naira here. If I sent someone, I would never see the money again. If I came home with the police, they would steal it. You were the only one I could call and I thought that when you got to Area F I would tell you where I kept it. I didn’t realise you would have the money. I am sorry but you are my big brother, Abel, the only one I can run to.’

  Soni was crying now and Abel held him close, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.

  When he had calmed down, Abel helped him count the money. He took out what he had spent and told Soni to open a bank account.

  With the cash in the travel bag he had emptied, they trekked through a shortcut to Opebi road right behind the Sheraton Hotel and deposited the money in a savings account. It was Soni’s first ever bank account.

  THIS IS LAGOS

  They were on their way to Ikeja. Santos was driving and Abel was riding shotgun. They had three appointments that Monday morning and had left the house early.

  First they needed to see the lawyer, then Matthew Chu, some Chinese man in Gbagada who Santos said handled Soni’s imports from China. Finally, they had to meet with one of Soni’s account officers. She had called Santos to say she needed to talk to Abel about Soni’s account.

  The first meeting went well. The lawyer had found a co-operative judge who said he could grant a probate injunction allowing limited access to the accounts so long as Abel and Ada agreed to act as co-signatories and administrators of Soni’s estate, pending his return or proof of death.

  ‘It will take us about ten to fourteen days to prepare the document and regularise it, but after that we can have access,’ the lawyer explained as he walked them to the car.

  Matthew, the Chinese agent, wasn’t around but he called while they were waiting at his office to say that three c
ontainers had arrived from China for Soni and the customers who usually bought the goods from them were on standby.

  He invited Abel over to his club on Friday to sign some documents since his powers as next of kin had been effected. Chu said it was his treat and that he needed the documents signed because he was leaving for Taiwan the next day. Abel asked Santos where the club was and if it was a good idea to go; Santos said it was.

  ‘Bros, you can’t miss that club o. Na the best strip joint for Lagos mainland be dat o. Bros Santos dey go dia sometimes especially when e get visitors.’

  They left the Gbagada office and drove all the way down, past Charly Boy bus stop, past the Mobil filling station and on to the overpass that took them back towards Anthony Village.

  As they descended, Abel turned to Santos and pointed out the window. ‘That’s the road to Deeper Life Church, right?’

  ‘Yes, bros. You know person for that side?’

  Abel shook his head as memories washed over him. He had walked those dusty streets many years back. He’d been spending his long vacation in Lagos with a friend, at the end of his first year at Unijos. Back then, Gbagada was not so developed. A friend’s older brother had just returned from the US and asked them to look for a befitting house for him, with the promise of a good commission. Their search had led Abel and his friend, Moses, to Obasa Street, close to a development that would, years later, become the gated community of Medina Estate. They found a lovely four-bedroom apartment, but his friend’s parents didn’t like the location. They said Gbagada was undeveloped and got him a house in Oshodi instead.

  A few years later, when Abel visited another friend in Gbagada, he was amazed at how things had changed. Gbagada had become a trendy area while Oshodi had regressed. That was a huge surprise, a lesson in how poor judgement could make all the difference when it came to real estate.

  Santos turned off the expressway into Anthony Village through an imposing gate that led past Newcastle Hotel and Sherlaton restaurant so he could avoid the traffic ahead. He meandered through the many tight corners and side streets that made up Anthony Village, a semi-upscale locale that, despite its somnolence, was or had been home to some of the hottest activists the country had known, from people’s lawyer, Gani Fawehinmi to his acolyte, Festus Keyamo as well as Beko Ransome-Kuti, the medical doctor and younger brother of Afrobeat legend Fela Kuti.

  They had just made it past the building that housed the designer Mudi, and had turned right to head towards Maryland when they ran into the traffic gridlock Santos had been trying to avoid.

  ‘Kai,’ Santos cried. ‘Lagos traffic is like evil spirit.’

  They waited for close to ten minutes before the cars in front began to move but the two directly ahead of them remained stationary. Santos tapped on his horn twice, then turned to Abel. ‘Bros, put that bag under your seat o, they may be armed robbers.’

  Santos tried to reverse but the car behind was too close. He wound down the window and motioned for the guy to ease off but the man motioned back to say there was a car right behind him.

  By now, car horns were blaring, so a passer-by went to the man in the car upfront to see what the problem was. He staggered back and began to scream.

  ‘The man is dead. E don die o.’

  Santos killed the engine and he and Abel stepped out. The man was slumped over and lying halfway into the front passenger seat, the seat belt holding him up. Santos poked him, but there was no response and by now a crowd had gathered and people were screaming and speaking all at once.

  Santos and Abel made it back to the vehicle and Santos managed to manoeuvre the car out of the jam. They rode off, past the man dead in his car, swallowed whole by Lagos, like many before him.

  At the bank, Nicole, the lady they had come to see, was not in the building but she had left a message for them to wait, so Abel and Santos sat in the banking hall.

  It was one of the new generation banks that Abel had once heard a wag describe as ‘boutique banks’. Architectural statements, their decor were always top notch and, walking into the banking halls, one had the feeling of walking into the reception area of a five-star hotel.

  Abel could still remember the days of Progress Bank and Savannah Bank, when the big banks were just First, Union and the old UBA, and their receptions looked like glorified market stalls.

  In those days, a bank was a place you went to when you were sure there was nothing urgent because you almost always ended up spending the whole day waiting to cash a cheque.

  Now, it was all different and sitting in the banking hall, looking at the pretty, well-turned-out girls in the glass booths, you didn’t feel like going anywhere in a hurry.

  When a booth was free, the pretty girl in the counter motioned at Abel. He smiled and waved to say no, I am not here to withdraw or make a deposit.

  His phone vibrated and he dug in his pocket to fish it out. It was a text message from Calista.

  Hey Mister Dike, r u still coming 2 Alausa?

  Do u want to see me?

  sure, silly, where r u @

  In ikeja. Waiting at the bank to see my brother’s account officer.

  a lady?

  Yes

  she pretty?

  Haven’t met her before. Why do you ask?

  curious.

  Curious? Remember what killed the cat?

  yes. Buzz when u r done. Got news 4 u.

  Sure

  By the time Abel put his phone off and looked up a scene was playing out.

  ‘You know me, right? Don’t you know me?’

  A thickset woman in jeans and a T-shirt with an electric air of menace around her was standing in front of the pretty custome-rcare officer. Her voice was loud and her gestures were aggressive. The girl was sitting down but there was fear in her eyes and it was obvious that she wanted to be anywhere but there.

  ‘How may I help you, ma?’ she asked again and the woman slapped her. It was a hard slap that knocked her off her seat.

  ‘You have helped me enough, ashewo. You have helped me enough by fucking my husband, you prostitute.’

  The woman was screaming now and towering over the girl, who was crying.

  ‘Security. Call security,’ someone yelled, just as Abel sprang to his feet and walked towards her.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, reaching out to touch the woman, who whirled round and gave him a withering look.

  ‘Oga, mind your business,’ she said and reached for the bag she had dropped on the table.

  Abel stepped back, thinking that it was all done. From the corner of his eye he could see two security men approaching.

  What happened next would stay imprinted on his mind forever.

  The woman picked up the bag, pulled out a yellow plastic container that had once contained custard powder, unscrewed the cap and threw the contents at the young woman, who was still struggling to get up from the floor.

  ‘Acid!’ Abel heard someone scream as the girl cried out, but it was not acid. It was something worse, something more shameful, more atavistic – a throwback to an ancient shaming ritual: she had bathed the young woman with shit.

  The banking hall was a mad house. The stink was suffocating and the security men couldn’t approach as she brandished the container like a weapon.

  It was a sight to behold. The guards shouting at her to drop it, the young girl screaming as she tore her clothes off, the woman cursing and raging with righteous indignation, her tirade punctuated with screams of ‘ashewo’, as if the epithet was the sad refrain to an angry song.

  Finally, a mobile police officer entered with a gun and threatened to shoot. That was when she let the container drop and broke down in tears.

  ‘Bros na wa o,’ Santos kept saying when he finally found his tongue. ‘That woman just mad. Kai, see what she did to that fine girl. Na too much love dey make woman crase like dis.’

  Abel looked at him and wondered whether Santos could not also see that the young girl had done something to hurt the woman. It was neither
visible nor physical but it had cut to the bone. You needed to have been pushed to your limits to plan such an audacious attack.

  ‘Anger is not a nice thing,’ Abel told him as they were herded upstairs to wait so the banking hall could be cleaned and refreshed.

  Nicole was all smiles as she walked into the waiting room to meet them.

  She was a stunner; pretty in an understated way. There wasn’t a part of her that stood out but everything added up; her pretty face, her well-cut skirt, the long legs accentuated by high heels, hips that fanned out into a nice derrière and a smile that lit up the room.

  ‘I am Dr Nicole,’ she said.

  ‘Dr Nicole?’ Abel asked, not sure he had heard right.

  ‘Yes. UBTH. Class of 2004.’ She smiled, flashing perfect rows of teeth.

  ‘So what are you doing in a bank?’ Abel asked, charmed. She was the kind of woman you didn’t want to stop talking to, the kind you didn’t want to let go her hand.

  ‘Survival. Money. Doctors don’t have it as good as they used to. Please come with me. Santos, please give us a few minutes.’

  She preceded Abel into a cubicle marked ‘Head of Operations’ and pushed a tray of sweets towards him. Abel shook his head.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she told him and Abel smiled. ‘I sent you that text,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Soni is missing.’ I knew you would come. Soni told me once that if he ever got into trouble, there was only one person he could entrust his life to.’

  ‘How did you get to use Ada’s phone?’ Abel asked immediately, aware that she was one of Soni’s lovers and wondering whether Ada knew about the different women his brother consorted with.

  ‘She came here to see me. She needed to see whether I could help her get some money from the account, but you are the next of kin. And she wouldn’t call you. She said you didn’t like her. Anyway, I got your number once from Soni when I went on a trip to Asaba and he wanted us to meet, but I knew that if I sent the text from my phone you would think it was a scam, so when she left to use the restroom, I sent the message through her phone.’