419

by Will Ferguson

  She wouldn't leave her room, so they came to her: investigators with the Nigerian police, speaking in hushed, almost hallowed tones, offering her the tea and scones and sympathy that the concierge had sent up.

  "We've caught the rascal," the officer in charge assured her.

  "We will question him over the weekend, assess his story, probe for accomplices. You will need to come down to the Ikeja police station on Monday morning, make a formal statement, identify the culprit."

  "Monday? I can't."

  "I'm sorry, madam, but you must. Bring your passport."

  "I can't. I have a flight to catch. I'm heading home tomorrow."

  "Oh, madam, I'm afraid that is out of the question."

  They're not going to let me leave. I'm never getting out of Lagos.

  "Did the boy mention any accomplices?" they asked.

  After the investigators had left, she locked herself in again, dug out Inspector Ribadu's card. And if I do call him? They may very well find out about the money I transferred home. May even accuse me of 419. But if I don't call him...

  She paced the room, secure for now behind her deadbolt and chain. When she had outpaced the worst of her anxiety, exhaustion set in, and she lay down on the bed. This had been no random robbery, she knew—the story about the leopard and the hunter, the warning to go home and cause no further mischief. The boy hadn't known who Winston was, though; his puzzled look seemed genuine. But who knew what alias Winston was using? She should have said "Chief Ogun," and she berated herself over that. I should have said Ogun.

  Laura ate her dinner from the minibar fridge—cashews and chocolate bars and screw-top wine—and watched the searchlights on the airport towers turning. Just when she'd resolved to call the EFCC and come clean, the phone rang. It was the police officer who had interviewed her earlier.

  "Madam, you are free. You may go home. I just require your flight times and information, in case of last-minute complications."

  "I don't have to come to the station, identify the boy who robbed me?"

  "There is no need, madam. He died in custody."

  CHAPTER 114

  Ironsi-Egobia dragged a chair across the cement floor of the crumbling courtyard. Aluminum legs, vinyl seat: he turned it backward, sat across from Nnamdi, his heavy arms folded on the chair's back.

  "Can you read?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you read the newspapers yesterday?"

  "No, sir."

  "The United Nations has reported that the average life expectancy in Nigeria is 46.6 years. As of today, I am 46.7 years." A smile surfaced, wide and magnanimous, like an invitation to an embrace.

  "You see? I have already bested the odds." His low belly laugh turned into a bronchial cough, and then into blood. He wiped his mouth, continued to laugh.

  Ironsi-Egobia's men shifted uncomfortably behind him. They were not used to hearing him laugh.

  Slowly, Ironsi-Egobia's expression changed.

  He looked at Nnamdi. "I was there, you know, in the Delta, when the army burned Odi to the ground. I lost my mother, my father. I even lost my name. The Fathers at the seminary in Calabar took me in, raised me among the Igbo, taught me the gospel. Turn the other cheek. Love thine enemy. But they also taught: An eye for an eye. Last year, I tracked down the colonel in charge of the Odi offensive; he's retired now. I removed his eyes and fed them to him, and then I relieved him of his teeth. It was... biblical.

  Understand, this was someone who had once bragged that he knew two hundred and four ways to kill a man. I showed him a two hundred and fifth."

  Ironsi-Egobia stopped again to cough blood into his handkerchief, and when he stared at Nnamdi his eyes had the wet look of someone who's been choking on a bone. "Among the Igbo, they say

  A lizard who wages war with the landlord ends in death. But I say to you, landlords die like any man. Lagos is a city of landlords, and I arrived here, in this city, with nothing but my will. I had no cousins to coddle me, no relatives to needle with outlandish requests. I fought my way into Ajegunle, and I fought my way out. I battled for control of the Mushin crime dens, and I crushed the area faddahs on Akala Road one after the next. I bought those I could, killed those I could not. And when the Yoruba mobs attacked Ijaw slums, I fought alongside them because they were the stronger... Then I turned on them, devoured them whole. On Odunlani Street, I organized the ragtag boy-men into something like an army. I added discipline to their ambitions, put a fear of God in their souls." He turned to his shadowmen, said, "Is this so?"

  Mumbled "Ya" and "Is so" replies.

  Ironsi-Egobia returned his attention to the boy, lowered his voice. "Now, the Igbo, they have something they call ekpawor. It's a kind of medicine. Very strong, I have seen it work. They ferment it in earthen pots with every manner of item thrown in. Bones, skin, spoiled gin. Sometimes even there are rotting eggs floating in it.

  When someone drinks the ekpawor, it enters their soul, and they are compelled to speak the truth. And if they have done wrong, they die. Now. If I gave you ekpawor to drink, what do you think would happen?"

  "I—sir, I don't know how to answer."

  "This is the problem, isn't it? In life, the cure we require so often kills us. But do not worry. I have no Igbo medicine for you to drink. I have only a request."

  "And what is that, sir?"

  "The truth. Only that." He leaned in, levelled his eyes on the boy, looking for facial tics and other small tells. "We who traffic in falsehoods..."

  CHAPTER 115

  The pimple-like blisters along her neck were burning. Her hands were trembling and her head felt light. She had trouble keeping the receiver to her mouth. "Died in custody? How?"

  "Madam, I will pass you over to my associate. He will take down your flight information and answer any questions you may have."

  The second man carefully recorded Laura's flight number, departure time, the confirmation code the airline had given her.

  "But I want to know what happened to the boy who robbed me," she said. "The one you arrested."

  "He escaped, madam."

  "Escaped?"

  "Yes, madam."

  "But the other officer said he died in custody."

  "Yes, madam. He died in custody, and then he escaped."

  CHAPTER 116

  The latest bout of coughing had stopped, and Ironsi-Egobia looked at Nnamdi and sighed. "It cost me a lot of money to get you out.

  Much more than the hundred dollars you stole."

  "I didn't steal it, sir."

  Another sigh, this one almost a growl. "It's the lying that frets me, not the thieving. I cannot allow people to see me as toro kro, someone who speaks big but never acts."

  "Dile, cousin. Dile. "

  "It's too late for Ijaw apologies. I know how little those are worth. So listen to me now, and answer me truthfully. I will only give you the one chance. Did you tell them my name? Did you tell them anything about me?"

  "No, sir."

  "Did you tell her my name?"

  "No, sir. She called the hotel police quick when she saw me.

  There was no time. I ran."

  "I see. No time to kill her, but time enough to rob?"

  "No, sir. I didn't rob her."

  "She sayin' you took a hundred-dollar bill. So, I'm asking you: Did you thief it? The money? Are you trying to play me for a mugu?" Did he thief it?

  Nnamdi turned this question over in his mind, considered the many varied meanings of taking, of stealing. A robbery? No. He didn't take the money, she gave it to him. It was a gift, she'd said as much herself. "I didn't thief it, sir."

  Ironsi-Egobia turned to the others. "He's lying. Tie his arms down. We will beat the truth out of him."

  They wrestled Nnamdi's arms behind his back, bound them tightly.

  Ironsi-Egobia called out, "Tunde!"

  Tunde scattered Nnamdi's possessions across the rusted lid of an upturned oil barrel. "This is what he had on his self, guyman faddah. Was no hundred dollars."<
br />
  "Of course not," said Ironsi-Egobia, holding back a cough.

  "The police pocketed it."

  The Oga went over to the barrel, examined the items. A bus stub. Some licorice. A few kobos' worth of coin. Some clay pebbles, embedded with bits of feather and bone, shards of shell and stone.

  Ironsi-Egobia picked these up, rolled them in the palm of his hand.

  "My, my. What do we have here?"

  Then, to the others: "Do you know what this is?" They didn't.

  "Buro-you," he said, speaking a language he had long pretended not to know. He was surprised how thick it felt on his tongue.

  "Diriguo, buro-you, owumo. Ha! Buro-keme, buro-keme. Igbadai. We have a diviner in our midst! A fortune teller."

  "Oh no no," said Nnamdi. "I'm only a simple Ijaw man—"

  "A simple Ijaw boy," he corrected. "You are no man. You are a swamp rat who thinks he can charm his way into a finer fate. And let me tell you, a diviner who denies he is a diviner is not much of a diviner. Mumbo jumbo. That's what the Fathers at the seminary called it. Mumbo jumbo." Ironsi-Egobia stared at Nnamdi, his eyes lit as though from within. "But you and I, we know better, don't we, Nnamdi? Tell me, can you see the future? Can you see your own fate?"

  "Sir," Nnamdi said weakly, "I'm not any sort of—"

  But Ironsi-Egobia had already turned away. He gestured to his men, who wheeled in a tire. One man followed with a jerry can of petrol.

  Ironsi-Egobia turned, smiled at the boy. "You are to be congratulated! You're going to join the ancestors. You will be among the opu duwoi-you."

  Nnamdi looked up, tears welling. "But sir," he said. "Who will take care of the girl?"

  Ironsi-Egobia steadied his gaze on his cousin. "The girl did what was asked of her. She may continue to work at the hotel if she wishes, till the baby comes, and after as well. It is... beneficial for me to be havin' her there. She may still be of use. I cannot say the same of you." You come in here, stinking of the Delta.

  The men wedged the tire over Nnamdis shoulders.

  "Do not bury me childless," Nnamdi pleaded. "Do not bury me wrapped in a ragged mat, no food offered. I beg you, cousin, you must not send me hungry into the afterlife, for I am not childless. You understand? I have a child."

  They poured gasoline over his head as though anointing him with oil. It pooled in the tire and stung his eyes, forcing them closed and making the others laugh, for it looked as though he were crying tears of petrol.

  Ironsi-Egobia leaned in, spoke to the boy one last time; it seemed only fair to share the truth at such a moment.

  "Do not feel bad," he said. "I was never going to let you live."

  And then, closer still, so only he and Nnamdi could hear, "Egberifa."

  CHAPTER 117

  Nnamdi was lying on a woven mat, legs sore and heart still pounding from the climb. The women of the village had gathered, and his mother was kneading palm oil into his legs. She was whispering softly in his ear, "You won't be afraid. You won't be afraid."

  CHAPTER 118

  A locked door, a dark room, and hair too short for the climbing.

  She lay on the cumulus softness of hotel pillows, trying to will herself to sleep. When that failed, she rolled onto her side, watched the thin band of light below her door. She tensed up every time the shadow of footsteps passed.

  How had that boy gotten past security; how had he managed to enter a locked room? Who had let him in? Winston? But how? She was breathing in shallow sips, jumping every time a distant elevator dinged or a cloud of murmured voices passed. She jerked in fear when the a/c kicked in, jerked just as fearfully when it suddenly shut off. Twice she crept across the room to check the chain in its slot, the bolt on the door, only to return more unnerved than before. The sole comfort she took was in the sound of airplanes landing and leaving.

  And then—another sound.

  Not a sound.

  The echo of a conversation, resurfacing from her first moments in Lagos: "Where are you staying, madam? The Sheraton? A fine establishment. I know the concierge. "

  And there it was: the why of it, the how.

  I know the concierge.

  He wouldn't have known the concierge only at the one hotel.

  He would have known them all, would have made it his business to know. Would have known the concierge here as well, at the Ambassador. And in that instant—even with the police having been called in and hotel security everywhere—she realized just how much danger she was still in.

  And yet.

  Knowing this calmed her nerves. She was in danger, and had to plan her escape with care. She had to focus—and from focus came resolve, another word for courage.

  On the other side of the city, in a quiet kitchen on a quiet street, Inspector Ribadu was waiting patiently for his tea to steep.

  Had she called, he would have come; had she called, he would have helped. But his phone never rang.

  CHAPTER 119

  When Nnamdi didn't return, Amina knew something had gone horribly wrong and she set out for Cemetery Road to buy back his life, to try to renegotiate his fate. The child inside her was stirring, was straining against her, and she whispered admonishments to calm it. "You must wait just a little longer. "

  She herself waited more than an hour in the outer hallway of the International Businessman's Export Club before Tunde finally appeared and gestured with his jaw for her to follow. Through a series of heavy doors, past sullen eyes, deeper and deeper into shadowman land.

  Ironsi-Egobia was waiting for her, and he didn't bother with pleasantries. "What is it you want?"

  "Please," she said, offering the $100 bill on outstretched palms.

  "Please, sir, release him to me."

  And the crowds yelled out for Barabbas. "He was a thief and a fibber."

  "A dreamer, sir."

  "A diviner, a witch."

  "A boy. Just a boy."

  Ironsi-Egobia looked down at her belly. "He was man enough for some things." He leaned in, stared into her eyes until she was forced to look away. "He. Was. A. Thief."

  Only then did she catch the past tense. Her world began to collapse inward, clay walls tumbling into sand.

  The rage bubbling within Ironsi-Egobia brought forth a new spasm of spackled coughs, which he held in with a stained handkerchief.

  Amina was shaking. "Please, here is the money. Please give him to me."

  But there was no him for the Oga to give. "He died well, if that is a comfort. He died well and was buried with proper rites."

  This was a lie. Nnamdi's body, charred and stumped, would bob to the surface of Lagos Lagoon several days later, where it would ruin the view from several fine homes on Victoria Island. It would float there for almost a week before it finally disappeared. Fell apart or carried away on the tide, it was hard to say. But the curtains on Victoria Island stayed closed until then.

  They have Left me nothing, not even bones.

  "Keep the money," Ironsi-Egobia said with a generous wave of the hand. "The boy paid for it with his life. Tunde, take her home."

  When she tried to stand, her legs gave out, and she had to be helped. Emptied of everything, even tears. She staggered again, every breath coming out as a dry heave. This wasn't the story she was meant to be living. Sunlight on silver. Not this.

  Loss demands repayment, and she turned back to Ironsi-

  Egobia, spoke in sobs. "The oyibo. She has to die too. Don't let her to live."

  This batauri woman, this boiled-faced oyibo, lacking in grace, acting like an oafish house guest who knocks over furniture and then tries to leave without paying. This oyibo couldn't be allowed to twist the story like that and then walk away unharmed. Loss demands repayment.

  When Ironsi-Egobia spoke, his voice was unnaturally calm.

  "Do not fret. The woman will die. I give you my word."

  CHAPTER 120

  Laura woke to the sound of church bells.

  Across the airport suburb of Ikeja, across Lagos, across so
uthern Nigeria and West Africa, women were hurrying about in their Sunday best, tying up their elaborate head scarves, pirouetting into wraparound skirts, draping their shoulder shawls just so. Men were donning dress shirts and Sunday jackets. Little boys were buttoning up their vests, and girls were adjusting ribbons and satiny bows as the church bells beckoned like songbirds.