The Carnivorous City Read online

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Must have been in the afternoon … About 3pm.’

  ‘I didn’t receive the text until dawn the next morning,’ Abel told her.

  ‘Network problems, I guess. I had to go on vacation soon after and I only returned two days ago.’

  ‘Welcome back,’ he said with a smile. She nodded with a flash of beautiful teeth. ‘So, what’s the issue with the account?’

  ‘Nothing really. I just wanted us to meet and to say that if you need to access the account it can be done. I have spoken to our regional director.’

  ‘That’s good to know. We had issues with one of the banks but we finally got through. I wish you had been in town then.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I had to go on vacation.’

  ‘I understand. You and Soni were close, right? He seemed to have told you so many things.’

  ‘We were good friends, yes. And he adored you. Spoke about you all the time as if you were some big man somewhere. I could never believe you were just a teacher.’

  ‘Lecturer,’ Abel said, and they both laughed.

  ‘Well, if you need a friend to talk to or someone to hang out with, give me a buzz. I know nice places.’ She rose.

  Abel took the cue and rose too. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ He took her soft, slim fingers in his palm.

  ‘Same here,’ she said and Abel felt himself stir.

  ‘Maybe we could hang out sometime,’ he said, holding on to her hand and pushing the window a little wider.

  ‘Sure. My weekends are pretty free.’

  At the door, as Abel stepped out, he heard her say, ‘One moment, please.’

  ‘Yes?’

  What she said next stunned him.

  ‘I know this may sound callous and unfeeling but Soni promised me a new car for my birthday and it’s next week Tuesday. I know he is still missing but I really need a new car and it’s not as if he is broke. There is a lot of money in his account.’

  Abel stood by the door and looked at her. In that moment, all artifices of sophistication were stripped away and what stood out were her fangs and claws. This was a Lagos Big Girl.

  —

  ‘Who is that woman?’ Abel asked Santos as they walked to the car.

  ‘Bros, she is Sabato’s account officer,’ Santos said and something in his voice made Abel stop mid-stride.

  ‘Did she tell you about the car?’ Abel asked in Igbo, and Santos sighed in defeat. ‘Is that why you brought me here?’

  ‘Yes. She told me Sabato promised her a car.’

  ‘And how much did she promise you?’

  ‘Two hundred K.’

  ‘Santos, my brother is missing and you think I want to sleep with that shark so she can have a new car?’

  ‘No vex, bros,’ he said completely mortified. ‘We gave that manager almost six million for helping. I thought we could get rid of him and use Sista Nicole.’

  Sister Nicole! Abel opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He was getting into the car when he heard someone shouting his name.

  ‘Chiedu! Chiedu Dike!’

  He looked up. A beefy mass of a man was puffing his way towards them.

  ‘Nnamdi Nwankwo,’ Abel cried as they hugged.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ Nnamdi teased.

  ‘I thought you were in prison?’ Abel shot right back, and they both laughed. ‘O boy, how many years now?’

  ‘Six, maybe seven. I missed Sabato’s wedding. You look good.’ He took in Abel’s clothes and shoes, all taken from Soni’s wardrobe. ‘Are you in Lagos now?’

  ‘No. I came to spend time with my brother’s family. Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Soni is missing.’

  ‘Missing? No. What happened?’

  Abel wasn’t sure whether Nnamdi was faking it, but he told him the story anyway.

  ‘God forbid. I didn’t hear. What’s the police doing?’

  ‘Still searching.’

  ‘Na wa. Well, you must come and know my place. We should hang out; let me show you Lagos. You drink beer now, abi?’ Nnamdi laughed. ‘You were so fragile in those days. We used to bet you would die before we finished secondary school.’ He laughed some more.

  ‘God will punish all of you,’ Abel said, laughing too.

  ‘Ah, but you didn’t die, so we lost our bets.’

  They exchanged numbers with a promise to hang out.

  Inside the car, an excited Santos was all teeth. ‘Bros, that’s Double N. Lagos Big Boy with a capital B.’

  Abel ignored him.

  ‘Drive to Alausa, governor’s office.’

  Stung by the snub, Santos started the car. As he hit the road he turned to Abel and said, ‘I don’t know Ikeja very well,’

  Abel told him to drive down to Allen Avenue. They drove the length of Toyin Street, past the high-priced fashion boutiques and rows of new generation banks. Santos made a left at the roundabout and headed down Allen.

  Abel – who had sent a text to Calista to ask for directions – looked out of the window and remembered the first time he came to Allen Avenue. The place had looked like the most impressive place on earth, especially that night, with the neon lights all ablaze.

  It was the high street of the mainland with the most impressive array of shops, banks and finance houses. That was in the early to mid-nineties, before the collapse of the finance houses. Abel remembered how breathtaking it had been, then, for him to gaze upon the Oshopey Plaza at night in all its dazzling glory.

  By the time they hit the Allen roundabout, Calista’s text had come in, giving them precise directions. Abel remembered that going straight would lead to Adeniyi Jones while a 180-degree turn to the left would lead them back to the Ikeja under-bridge through Awolowo Road where the Ikeja Airport Hotel was. He remembered buying second-hand books under that bridge.

  They drove about two kilometres down, past the right turn that led to Oregun and the traffic lights that ensured there was sanity for those coming towards Allen roundabout from Agidingbi and Oregun. Abel was happy to see that there were street signs everywhere telling you what street you were on or driving into. Years back, when he spent his first extended period in Lagos, there were no street signs and people would give you directions by saying, ‘Drive into the street, turn left; you will see a water tank painted yellow. My house is second on your left.’ God help you if someone moved the water tank or changed the colour.

  Once they drove past the next roundabout at Agidingbi junction, Abel asked Santos to make a right. They drove down the road, then made a quick left. One more turn right and a left and they were flagged down at the gate. Abel identified himself and whom they had come to see.

  ‘Hold on, sah,’ the policeman said as he picked up the handset.

  ‘Mr Haybel Dike,’ he said mutilating Abel’s name. Calista must have said something because he laughed and said, ‘Madam, all na di same. Na omo ibo. Oya, go in sah,’ he said waving them on to the car park.

  Abel left Santos at the car. Calista was waiting outside the entrance.

  ‘Did you come alone?’ she asked hugging him.

  ‘My cousin drove.’

  ‘He can leave. I will drop you off at home. I am leaving early today. Did I tell you I resigned?’

  ‘No. Why? I thought you came back for this?’

  ‘Yes, but I am going for my postdoc at the Harvard School of Public Policy.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Two years.’ She led him inside, taking his handset and keys and dropping them in the tray before they passed through the metal detector.

  There was a mobile police officer manning the entrance. She was dressed in a well-starched uniform that made her look like she had just stepped off the set of some dystopian movie.

  ‘You look very sharp, my sister,’ Abel complimented her.

  ‘Be careful or I will cut you,’ she replied and laughed.

  ‘When do you leave?’ Abel asked as
Calista led him down a corridor to an office marked ‘SSA Public Policy’.

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘That’s cruel. I find you after ten years only to lose you again.’

  ‘Wrong timing, Mr Dike.’ She smiled. ‘Come to America. Come with me.’

  ‘Here you go again, always wanting to take me out of Nigeria.’

  ‘And you don’t want to leave Nigeria?’

  ‘What for? The country needs me.’ He laughed.

  ‘Give me two minutes, OK. We will go see the CSO before lunch and then you can do with me as you please.’ She threw her arms wide open, shaking her tits in his face.

  ‘Your thoughts towards me are not good, Miss Adeyemi,’ he said and kissed her.

  While she cleared up, Abel sent a BB message asking Santos to drop the car off at home and close for the day.

  The CSO was a tall, mild-mannered fellow with a slight stutter. He asked Abel a few questions, then put a call through to the commissioner of police, who directed Abel to a DCP at Panti.

  ‘I will text him your number and he will call you, personally,’ the commissioner told him. ‘Let’s see how we can help.’

  Abel said his thanks and handed the phone back to the CSO.

  They drove out to Pearl Garden Chinese restaurant on Isaac John. After lunch, Calista said she was tired so Abel drove. Heading out down Isaac John they made a right, drove past the Country Club and on to Mobolaji Bank Anthony, past the Sheraton on the left and the Ikeja cantonment on the right. Maryland looked tight, so Abel made a right turn and took the shortcut that wound its way beside the cantonment.

  The long stretch that led from Mobolaji Bank Anthony into Ikorodu Road was called Onigbongbo, originally home to the Aworis and distinguished mostly by the fact that almost every house had a tomb outside. The residents buried their dead at home.

  ‘How come you know these roads, eh, our man from Asaba?’ Calista asked.

  ‘Long story. I had this friend who used to live with Pa Okunzua, just around this corner,’ Abel told her pointing around a bend. ‘You know Pa Okonzua?’ She nodded.

  ‘Everyone knew Pa Okonzua with his funny predictions.’ They both laughed.

  ‘Well, I came here a few times to visit my friend.’

  ‘What was his house like?’ Calista asked as they entered Ikorodu road and made a right.

  ‘Spooky, kind of, with lots of books. He used to just sit there with his glasses perched atop his nose and read newspapers or big fat books.’

  Pa Okunzua was a self-styled psychic who seemed to have had a knack for making wrong predictions, especially about public figures.

  Once, just before the 1979 elections, he predicted that the name of the winner was in the Bible. The nation had interpreted it to mean that it would either be Nnamdi Azikiwe, leader of the Nigeria People’s Party, whose name was Benjamin, or Obafemi Awolowo, leader of the Unity Party of Nigeria whose name was Jeremiah.

  Alas, Shehu Shagari – a Muslim candidate – won. Faced with a nation amused at his antics, Pa Okunzua quickly reached for the Bible and pointed to Judges 3:31, stating that Shamgar was the same as Shagari.

  Ikorodu Road was free, but as they made it onto Town Planning Way at Ilupeju to connect with the Gbagada expressway en route to the Third Mainland Bridge, a group of policemen flagged them down.

  ‘Oga, your driver’s licence,’ the policeman demanded when Abel wound down the window.

  ‘Sorry, it’s not with me in this car.’ He had left his wallet in the car they drove out with.

  ‘Park well and come down,’ the officer barked, reaching for the AK-47 that hung from his shoulder.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Calista asked, rousing herself. She had nodded off.

  ‘Driver’s licence, wahala.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will handle it,’ she said stepping out of the car.

  ‘Madam, stay in the car,’ the officer barked. ‘I asked him to come down not you.’

  ‘I want to speak to your superior officer.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to speak to you.’ He stood in front of Calista, blocking her path.

  ‘I want to speak to your superior officer,’ she repeated, but he shoved her back so hard she slipped and fell.

  Abel opened the door to help but another policeman hit him on the shoulder with the butt of his gun.

  ‘Stay inside the car,’ he barked.

  Recoiling with pain, Abel stepped back inside the car.

  ‘I tell you before; stay in the car,’ the policeman barked, prodding Calista, who was back on her feet, with the barrel of his gun.

  Cars had parked and a crowd had gathered. Calista stepped back into the car and picked up her phone. Abel heard her begin to speak as he was pulled out of the car and handcuffed. They pushed him to their patrol vehicle, which was parked right in front of a bank and asked him to step inside.

  They let Abel sit there in handcuffs for close to five minutes while they went back to the road to harass other drivers. He marvelled at how easily things shifted in Lagos, how easily it was to cross the fault lines. One minute they were cruising along in an air-conditioned SUV and the next he was sitting at the back of a smelly patrol vehicle.

  An officer was seated in the front passenger seat. He had a newspaper spread out in front of him but Abel could tell that he knew what was going on.

  ‘What’s wrong with your woman?’ the policeman who had pushed Calista down asked as he sauntered up to Abel. ‘Once they go to school abroad they won’t have respect for men again.’ He paused and Abel sensed that he wanted him to say something. When Abel didn’t speak he gazed out at Calista, who was working the phone frantically, and said, ‘It is men like you who are the ones spoiling them.’

  The officer called out and the policeman went up to him. They conversed in low tones and then the policeman walked back to Abel.

  ‘Driving without a licence and resisting arrest are serious offences. Wetin you wan do?’ he asked, switching to pidgin, in negotiation mode.

  ‘Wetin you want?’ Abel asked, playing along.

  He knew Calista would have contacted the CSO and commissioner of police. Help was on its way.

  ‘Forty thousand and we can forget everything.’ The policeman looked away. ‘Person wey dey waka with Americanah must get money or e no go dey break the laws of Nigeria.’

  ‘You still want money after putting me in handcuffs?’ Abel asked. ‘No, let’s go to the station.’

  The policeman clearly didn’t expect that. He gazed at Abel for a while as if he was seeing him for the first time, then he hissed and went back to the officer. They conversed again before the policeman came back to Abel.

  ‘You want to play hardball,’ he said in a fake American accent. ‘Co’pl, let’s drive this bagger to the station.’

  And that was when it all changed.

  Tyres screeched, and six heavily armed, neatly dressed policemen jumped out of their van with guns drawn.

  ‘Drop your weapons,’ their leader barked. One of the policemen, the one at the farthest end, dropped his weapon and ran.

  Abel was laughing hard by the time they uncuffed him and bundled the four policemen and their superior officer into the back of their patrol van.

  ‘I am so sorry madam,’ the officer apologised to Calista. ‘They were on illegal duty. They had no right to be here and they will be dealt with. The commissioner sends his apologies.’

  ‘He already called,’ Calista said and spat straight in the face of the policeman who had pushed her down.

  —

  Abel didn’t want them to incur unnecessary demurrage while Matthew Chu was away, so he agreed to go to his strip joint and sign the papers.

  But it wasn’t just about the papers. Abel was curious. He had seen strippers and strip joints in movies but he had never been to one. He was curious to see what it looked like up close.

  So, at about 10pm, dressed and ready, he walked downstairs to find Santos. He wasn’t in the living room where he had left him about a
n hour earlier.

  ‘E dey sleep for guest room,’ the house help told him.

  Santos was sprawled on the bed in the guest room, the black pillowcase stained with drool, his red-booted feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Abel prodded him awake with a foot. He waited while Santos rinsed his mouth and washed his face. When he went to get the car, Abel told Philo to change the sheets and pillowcases.

  Driving in Lagos at night revealed it to be a small city with a distended belly. You could drive from Lekki to the airport in less than thirty minutes if you had a voracious appetite for speed, but in the daytime, Lagos was sluggish like a python that had swallowed something huge.

  The traffic was the something huge clogging the gut of the city. The roads were bad and the arteries few, so once one was clogged the others would be too, causing a gridlock.

  The roads were free that night but the streets were active. Coming into Ikeja from Mobolaji Bank Anthony, Santos drove into Opebi through the road that turned right beside the Sheraton Hotel. There were cars parked everywhere and if you wound down and listened you could hear fast-paced music pulsating. It was a Friday and people were actively seeking fun.

  Gently swaying men and women hung around in clusters, talking or making out, feverish hands riding up short skirts. Lagos nights could be like that, shrouded under a haze of bacchanalia.

  Allen was more animated, more in the moment.

  ‘All these girls na ashewo,’ Santos said as they drove past the Allen roundabout. ‘Give dem hundred naira, dem go give you good time.’

  Abel stole a quick look at him and wondered what Santos defined as ‘good time’.

  They made a right turn into Ogundana Street and then drove some two hundred metres before Santos finally found a stop as a Range Rover pulled out. There were luxury cars parked on both sides of the road, stretching all the way to the end. Business was good for Matthew Chu.