419

by Will Ferguson

  Car exhaust was making Laura light-headed as the city swirled around her. Parrots in hand-twisted cages. Dead rats strung up on a stick. As traffic slowed, a young boy dangled one such collection of limp rats through the window. Chief Ogun shouted at him, and the rats were quickly withdrawn.

  "They sell rats?"

  "Not rats, rat poison. They want to show you how effective their products are."

  With the car barely able to move, they were now besieged by beggars. The blind and the broken, the bandaged and the battered, the dustbinned of life, palms out, singing their sorrows. "Please for me, blessings please."

  Laura began rummaging in her pockets, but she had no coins to give, only Nigerian naira bills whose exchange rate she didn't completely understand—that, and the $100 bill folded tightly in her skirt pocket.

  "Don't," Chief Ogun said when he saw what she was doing.

  "Once you start giving, it never ends."

  The next street brought the sedan into a shadow realm of soot-stained lanes. Narrow passageways splintered off under corrugated rooftops that almost touched overhead. Smoke uncurled and new smells drifted in: tanned goatskins, burning sticks.

  "Juju, ''Chief Ogun explained. "Black magic. Older gods."

  Every mugu was driven through the juju quarter in Lagos at some point, he knew, and Chief Ogun had given his driver explicit instructions to that effect. It helped jostle the mugus minds, unravelled their judgment, made them more suggestible. More pliant.

  He watched her taking it in: the fetishes that hung in bunches like shrivelled grapes outside grimy stalls. The animal paws and accompanying heads. The reptile skins, splayed and stretched.

  The chameleons in cages, and snakes as yet unskinned. Albino boas sliding over themselves behind clouded glass. Elephant tusks.

  Leopard hides. Rows of teeth strung together.

  "Crocodile teeth. That is what they claim." He laughed.

  "But all and sundry know they're just canines taken from stray dogs. It's all good fun, madam. Potions and poisons, and what have you. Would you like to stop and get out? Purchase a souvenir of Africa?"

  Laura shook her head, was having trouble forming the sound necessary to say "no."

  Just as well. Christian though he was, and immune to such superstitions, the juju quarter unnerved him, too, and he was relieved to put it behind them.

  Ash filtered down from mounds of smouldering garbage, piled two floors high at times. But none of it seemed to settle on the people. Everyone was so tidy, so well turned out in crisp shirts and starched blouses, the women with headwraps artfully tied like the bright bows on Christmas packages. No one drooped, even in this muggy heat.

  She looked down at her own creased cotton skirt and canvas sneakers—Avoid open-toed sandals and never get into a taxi without first making sure the air-conditioning works! (Traveller's Tip #37). She felt lumpy and dishevelled, sloppy and sweaty.

  Men in impeccable white robes and women with equally impeccable smiles. And behind them: a stack of burning tires. Bucket-throws of smoke billowed up. It smelled the way blood tasted, and for a heart-skipping moment, Laura thought she saw someone inside the flames, burning, a single hand raised almost in greeting, fingers trailing smoke. When she looked again, it was gone.

  And now the acrid smell of burning tires was overpowered by something worse: the wet thick odour of human feces. Pools of urine in littered lots. Open sewage, running through drains and ditches. The reek of it folded around her, filled her mouth. She held back a reflexive gag. "Can we—can we roll up the window? Please, the smell, it's too much."

  The Chief smiled sympathetically at her discomfort. "I apologize. It is very bad. But I must say, we Africans do not produce nearly the amount of stool and waste that you do in America. You just hide yours better."

  "Please... I can't."

  "If we roll up the windows, you will melt."

  At last, they came into an open square and Chief Ogun signalled for the driver to pull over. Minarets and their ornate domes were catching the light of the late afternoon, creating a well of shadows below. "The south is Christian, but we have many Muslims also, especially here."

  He fished out his cellphone, dialled a number. Again, no one answered.

  Across from the mosque lay not a market so much as a city of shops and stalls. Women, everywhere. "The market ladies of Lagos Island," Chief Ogun said. "Very strong. Even the police are afraid of them." He redialled the number. Waited. Still no answer.

  Chief Ogun chewed on his lip. Then, with a sudden resolve, he said to the driver: "Take the Ring Road."

  He'd been buying time, Laura realized, taking them the roundabout way, trying to figure out what to do with her. And she thought to herself, more with a detached curiosity than with any real concern: Is this the last day of my life?

  CHAPTER 98

  "So," she said. "You rescue people?"

  Brisebois was still in uniform, nursing a wounded beer at the Garrison Pub in Marda Loop.

  An accident on Crowchild Trail had been wrapped up and he was now trying to make small talk with the woman next to him.

  Full lips. Hair, teased high and dyed an unnatural shade of red. A smoker from the sounds of it—and interested in him, apparently.

  Or at least in the uniform.

  "I get called in after an accident," he said. "I try to figure out what happened."

  She blinked. "So... you rescue people?"

  He paid for his drink and left soon after.

  It would stay with him like an accusation: You've never rescued anybody, you've never saved anyone.

  CHAPTER 99

  It was a remarkable transformation. The city of market women and

  juju vendors had given way to one of skyscrapers and bold designs.

  Chief Ogun's driver had forced his way onto progressively wider thoroughfares until they'd finally reached the Ring Road, a broad sweep of freeway that circled Lagos the way a leopard might circle its prey. At times, the expressway left the earth, and they were suddenly suspended in mid-air over open water.

  High-rise office towers rose out of the cat's cradle of electrical wires and telephone lines that netted the city.

  "Magnificent, yes?" Chief Ogun shouted to Laura above the wind that was sweeping through the open window. As much as he hated Lagos, he loved it, too. How could you not?

  Oil company office buildings were shimmering in the half-light. An Anglican cathedral, lit up with spotlights. A stadium. A slum. Stained-glass windows and crumbling colonial buildings.

  The city flickered past like images on a Zoetrope.

  "There—do you see it? The NITEL building. Tallest in Nigeria, maybe in Africa."

  In Lagos Harbour, tankers were lining up, silhouetted in smoke. And somewhere out there in the haze, close enough that you could taste it, the sea.

  The wind tossed her hair, forced her to squint. But it didn't drown out the radio, not entirely. It was playing a jangly, uptempo tune:

  Oyibo, I'm askin'you,Who is dey mugu now?Who is dey mastah?

  And in the background, female voices rising in chorus:

  419, guyman game,

  419, all the same.

  Chief Ogun leaned forward, said something, and the driver changed the station. Coming through the static now: Highlife. The good life. Upbeat and buoyant. Laura felt as though the car might leave the elevated highway entirely, might bounce free and float upward into the evening sky.

  The feeling didn't last, though. As the road curved down, it swept the sedan in toward a bottleneck of off-ramps and intersections. The backlog of vehicles came up so quickly that their driver had to veer into oncoming traffic to avoid it, cutting back in a moment later. Only then, with great reluctance and to the accompaniment of blaring horns from all sides, did he apply his brakes.

  Chief Ogun pointed past the freeway that segregated one side of Lagos Island from the other. "It's getting dark, we have to keep moving."

  He yelled something up at the driver.


  "Awolowo Road is backed up completely, sir," the driver replied. "Perhaps we cross over to Victoria Island, come back in again on Falomo Bridge?"

  "That will add an hour at least! No, we'll fight our way into Ikoyi. Take the next ramp, we'll cross under instead. We'll take the flyover below Independence Bridge."

  "But sir, there are rascals afoot. If we get caught down there, it will be bad news for us."

  "Take the ramp. We will be fine."

  And they almost were.

  They peeled off from the rest of the traffic, with two wheels up on the sidewalk, and then sped down, past the cluttered shantytown shacks below, and came speeding in under the overpass, around a corner and—a chain. Across the road.

  They almost hit it, with the driver two-footing the brakes and Laura and Chief Ogun thrown forward, then back.

  A band of shirtless boys appeared, spiked sticks resting on their shoulders as casually as one might carry a cricket bat between pitches.

  Laura watched them approach the car. "What's going on?"

  "Area boys," Chief Ogun said. "Hoodlums and thieves. They charge a toll for crossing whichever corner of Lagos they happen to claim as their own. Please, say nothing." Then, to the driver: "Pay them off. Don't argue or negotiate, just pay."

  The driver handed a fold of naira through the window, and the boys took it with a nod. But then they saw Laura in the back seat.

  "You no say you hab' de oyibo wit' you!"

  Suddenly the toll went up tenfold, and the area boys grew belligerent, leaning in and grappling with the driver, trying to pull open the car door. Laura's mouth went dry. Even when Chief Ogun threw more money their way, they weren't appeased. They'd blocked the sedan with their bodies and bats, and were now rocking the hood.

  Laura began digging around frantically in her skirt pocket for the $100 bill. She understood none of what was being said, just that she was in danger. But then, just as she was about to thrust the bill through the window, Chief Ogun yelled something at the area boys and their demeanour changed. He repeated what he'd said, punching the air with his voice, and she saw the boys' resolve falter.

  "Area faddah, Ironsi-Egobia!" he shouted.

  The area boys stepped back, let them pass.

  Chief Ogun wiped his forehead with folded handkerchief and puffed out his cheeks in long exhalation, gave Laura a wan smile.

  He didn't look quite as handsome as he had before.

  "I apologize, Miss Scarlet," he said. "These ruffians are usually more polite than that."

  Beyond the flyover, they entered the leafy avenues of Ikoyi, where the sidewalks were lined with cafes and upscale boutiques.

  Chief Ogun spoke again, trying to lighten the mood. "Lovely, don't you think? Ikoyi was once its own island. But the marshlands were filled in, and now we are attached. Like Siamese twins."

  "Attached?"

  "To the rest of Lagos Island. The working man's neighbourhood, Obalende, is just there."

  On Chief Ogun's instructions, the sedan turned off the main drag onto a side street. Up one, down the next, past small bistros and shops. They entered a warren of alleyways and narrow lanes, and Laura soon lost what little bearings she'd had. Were the driver and Chief Ogun taking precautions against a possible police tail?

  They were speaking to each other in their language, so Laura couldn't be sure. She looked behind, could see no sign they were being followed. Then she realized what was going on. They're trying to disorient me, so I won't be able to remember where we went.

  They entered a back alley and came at last to a high wall with broken glass embedded along the top and tendrils of razor wire twisted above. A heavy metal door with an intercom. Chief Ogun turned to Laura with a severe look on his face.

  "Nothing, do you understand? Nothing about who you are or why you are here. If you say so much as one word about our arrangements—one word!—the deal is dead. My parents know nothing about this. It is highly secretive, do you understand?"

  She did. "Yes, absolutely."

  "We say only hello and goodbye. Nothing more. Is that clear?

  And it is taboo to speak of my chieftainship. Instead, you must refer to me by my... conventional name."

  "Which is?"

  "Winston."

  She gave him her word. Only then did he let her out of the car.

  Laura stood to one side as Chief Ogun pressed the buzzer.

  The intercom crackled. "Hello? Who is this?"

  "Mama, is Winston."

  "So late? Something's wrong!"

  "I have a friend, please come the back way, give greetings."

  "The back? Why you aren't coming to the front, properly?"

  "Mama, please."

  "Don't move. I'll get your father. Marcus! Is Winston out back, in trouble it seems"

  Winston sighed. A moment later a light bulb in a mesh cage came on above them, a deadbolt turned, and the door opened. A small woman appeared. She had a robe pulled in around her, and her husband stood beside her in a button-down shirt. A handsome man.

  "Son?" he asked. "What is the meaning?"

  When Winstons mother saw Laura, she smiled. That same gap-toothed grin.

  "And who is this young lady?" she asked.

  "Mama, Papa. This is a colleague of mine, a businesswoman from North America, who wants quickly to say hello. And she has, and now we must go." He gripped Laura's elbow to steer her back to the sedan, but Laura pulled away, extended her hand instead.

  "It's very nice to meet you, Mrs...."

  "Balogun, Mariam. And this is my husband, Marcus."

  A round of greetings and handshakes followed, as Winston tugged more firmly on Laura's elbow.

  "So your last name is... Balogun?" Laura said. "Not Ogun?"

  "Oh no," the mother laughed. "Ogun is the Yoruba God of Iron, in folklore."

  "Really? I must have misheard. I thought Winston said Ogun.

  The God of Iron, is it?"

  "Yes, iron. And markets also. Where blacksmiths would ply their trade. Just folklore."

  Winston was growing more insistent. "Visiting is over. We have to go."

  "Winston!" His father gave him a stern look.

  "Sorry-o, Papa. But truly, we must go. Now."

  The father peered at his son, took in the flowing babban-riga robe. "Winston, why in devil's name are you dressed like that?

  Where is your white shirt and necktie?"

  But before Winston could answer, the conversation had galloped off without him. His mother was clasping Laura's hand between two palms and asking, "So, how is it you know our Winston? He has never mentioned a girl, never seems to have time to spend with ladies. Too busy, you see. It worries me." She might have been dubious, her son showing up with an oyibo woman in tow, but this wasn't some exchange teacher he'd brought home or, God forbid, a journalist doing another story on the Heartbreak of Africa. This was a proper businesswoman, even if she did dress a little, well, sloppily.

  "Do you work in international finance as well?" Winstons mother asked. "Imports and exports? That sort of thing?"

  "In a manner of speaking."

  "Mama," said Winston. "We are going now. Goodbye."

  Laura again yanked her elbow free from Winston's clasp. "He hasn't told you about me? Shame on you, Winston." And then, looking past them, into the yard: "What a beautiful garden."

  Winston's father stepped to one side so that she could better admire the view. "Just a hobby. A small garden. I have some eucalyptus, some mangoes, a small pear tree—Do you see it? There, in the corner."

  "It's beautiful. May I come in?"

  "No! She has to leave, Papa. We have no time. Maybe tomorrow."

  This drew a sharp rebuke. "Where are your manners, Winston?"

  "I would love to see your garden," said Laura. "If it's not an imposition."

  When a visitor comes to your door, you must welcome them in. "Of course you may. Come, come. Is this your first time in Lagos?"

  "It is. I've just arrived."

&nb
sp; "Miss Scarlet," said Winston, "if we don't leave immediately, all is lost."