Fantasy For Good: A Charitable Anthology

by George R. R. Martin

  Showlogo’s meaty chest and arms were gnarled with scars, some from fighting and some from threatening to fight. Often, he’d take a small pocket knife he liked to carry, stab his bicep and growl, “Come on!” when anyone was dumb enough to challenge him. Today, however, he didn’t have his pocket knife. No matter, Showlogo thought as he strode down the street naked. I go kill am.

  As he walked back to the game, people watched from food stands, cars honked at him, passersby laughed and softly commented to each other.

  “Who no go know, no go know. Showlogo know some logo, o.”

  “I hope say you body ready for him.”

  “Hope na man today. Not woman.”

  Everyone knew that if said “I go show you my logo” to a woman, it meant… something else. Either way, if you were smart, you knew to run. When Showlogo arrived back at the game he found that Yemi had finally run for his life. Showlogo stood there, vibrating his chest, every pore in his body open, inhaling the hot Nigerian air.

  “Why dey run?” Showlogo asked, his eyes focusing on Ikenna who had a big grin on his face. Showlogo sucked his teeth in disgust. “Dem no get liver for trouble.”

  “Please, o. Forget Yemi, Showlogo,” Ikenna said, laughing nervously. “Make you calm down. He ran like rabbit. Here, take.” He held a stack of naira in front of Showlogo’s twitching chest. Showlogo scowled at it, flaring his nostrils and breathing heavily through them. Slowly, he took the stack of naira and counted, nudging each purple and pink bill up with a thumb. The hot breeze ruffled the short tightly twisted dreadlocks on his head. He grunted. It was the proper amount. If Yemi had given too little or too much, Showlogo would have gone, found the disrespectful mumu and beaten him bloody. Instead, Showlogo went home and put some clothes on, jeans and a yellow polo shirt, this time. Today, his fists would not tenderize flesh.

  *~*~*~*

  Showlogo owned a farm and he farmed it himself. It was good work. He’d inherited it from his adoptive father Olusegun Bogunjoko. Twelve years ago, when his best friend Ibrahim was killed during riots between Ibrahim’s clan and a neighboring clan, Ibrahim’s father, who had no other children, adopted Showlogo as his son. Showlogo had been sixteen years old. Bogunjoko had always loved Showlogo. The fact that Showlogo was so strong in mind and body and refused to join any side, be it a confraternity or a clan’s core membership, set his mind at ease, as well.

  Showlogo’s parents had died when he was very young and he already deferred to Bogunjoko as a father, so the adoption made perfect sense. Showlogo took over the coco farm and ran it with the strong attentive hand of a farmer from the old colonial times, of a farmer before oil had been discovered in Nigeria and overshadowed all other produce, before Nigeria was even “Nigeria”. Showlogo was a true son of the soil and the death of his best friend and love of Bogunjoko brought this out in him.

  Showlogo worked hard on his farm, though it made little money. However, when he was relaxing and not playing ludo with his friends, he was smoking what the famous Afrobeat singer Fela Kuti liked to call “giant mold”, a very large joint that was thick at the end and thin at the tip. When Showlogo rolled one of his “giant mold” his friends would call him “Little Fela” and he’d smile and flex his big muscles.

  Few people in Ajegunle District had not heard of the Great and Powerful Showlogo, the Man Who Could Not Die, The Man Who Could Fight Ten Men While Drunk and Walk Away Not Bleeding, The Man Who Was Not Right In The Head, The Man Who’d Chosen To Cut Off His Ear Rather Than Join a Confraternity.

  He’d once jumped from a moving fruit truck just to show that he could. “I dey testing my power,” he said as he climbed onto the truck, clamoring over its haul of oranges. “No pain, no gain. Na no know.” He asked the driver (who’d been taking a Guinness Beer drinking break before driving his haul to Abuja) to speed down the road. When the truck was moving forty-five miles per hour, Showlogo jumped, hit the road and tumbled to the side of it where he lay for several seconds not moving. His friends ran up to him, pressing their hands to their heads and wailing about how terrible Nigeria’s roads were for always taking life. But then Showlogo raised his head, sat up, stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles and smiled. “You see now, I no fe die. Even death dey fear me.”

  He’d thrown himself down hills, jumped from speeding danfos, jumped from the fourth floor of an apartment building, fought five men at the same time and won, been shot three times, lost count of the number of times he’d been stabbed or slashed with a knife, saved a friend from armed robbers by driving by and throwing a water bottle at one of their heads, Showlogo had even looked a powerful witchdoctor in the face and called him “shit.” Some said that Showlogo was protected by Shango and loved by many spirits whose names could not be spoken. He only laughed when asked if this were true.

  And of course, there was not one woman who had not heard of his massive “head office”. Some said that he’d once visited a prostitute and she’d given him back his money just to get him to stop having sex with her. According to this piece of local lore, the prostitute “couldn’t handle his logo”. Nobody messed with Showlogo and didn’t regret it. However, two days after he nearly killed Yemi, Showlogo stepped from local celebrity into legend.

  *~*~*~*

  In Nigeria, farming no longer made one rich unless you were farming oil. So, to make ends meet, Showlogo took odd jobs. For two months, he’d actually managed to hold a job at the Lagos Airport. He spent the day loading luggage into and off of planes. It was the kind of work he loved- physical labor. Plus, he rarely had to deal with his boss (which was when the trouble usually began for him at other jobs). The hours in the sun made his near black skin blacker and the loading of luggage bulked up his muscles nicely. In the two months he’d been working at the airport, he imagined he was starting to really look like Shango’s son.

  However, just because he kept out of trouble at work, didn’t mean he kept out of trouble elsewhere.

  “I pay you next time,” Vera said as she got off of Showlogo’s okada.

  Showlogo only smiled and shook his head as he started the engine. “No payment necessary,” he said. He watched her backside jiggling as she entered her flat. Vera wasn’t plump, the way he liked his women. However, she was plump in some nicely chosen places. Showlogo chuckled to himself and drove off. It was always worth driving Vera wherever she needed to go. It was also a good way to end a long day at the airport.

  He didn’t make it a mile before two road police ruined his mood. He stopped at their make-shift roadblock, a long thick dry branch. He was shocked when the police officers demanded he pay them a bribe in order to pass.

  “Do you know who I be?” Showlogo snapped, looking the two men over as if they were pieces of rotting meat.

  “Abeg, give us money,” one of the police officers demanded, brandishing his gun. He waved a hand dismissively. “Then make you dey waka!” He was smaller and fatter than the other, standing about 5’6 and looking like he had never seen a fight in his life. The taller slimmer one who was closer to 6’3 vibrated his chest muscles through his uniform and flared his nostrils at Showlogo.

  Showlogo pointed a finger in the smaller fatter man’s face. “You go die today if you no turn and waka away from me now.”

  The moment the taller one took a step toward him, Showlogo jumped off his okada, used the kickstand to prop it up and stepped into the grass. He glanced at the bush behind him and then at the two policemen who were approaching. There was a red leather satchel that he carried everywhere; this way, he always had what he needed. He’d wrapped the strap on the handlebars of his okada. Now, he unwrapped it, put it over his shoulder and pushed the satchel to rest on his back.

  He knew exactly what he was going to do. He’d decided it as a god would decide the fate of two mere men. He slapped the smaller man across the face so hard that a tooth flew out. The trick was to open his big calloused hand wide and arch his palm just so. He grabbed the other man by the balls and squeezed, then he kneed him in the f
ace as the police officer doubled over.

  Both men were in hot pain and bleeding, one from his mouth and one from his nose, as Showlogo wordlessly dragged them into the bush. The foliage was not dense and if there were snakes in the high grass, Showlogo didn’t care. Any snake dumb enough to bite him would die and he would not.

  “Abeg,” one of the policemen said as he coughed, his words wet from the blood on his lips. “Let us go. Dis has gone too far. Wetin na dey do?”

  “I dey show you my logo,” Showlogo muttered. “You asked for my logo and I go show you. Stupid set of people.”

  He dragged them for several minutes and neither man tried to fight his way to freedom. They had realized who he was; they knew better now. Soon, their bleeding slowed but they were bothered by mosquitoes buzzing around their heads. They stood before the trunk of a tall palm tree. Showlogo held their hands together as he looked into his satchel and brought out a coil of rope.

  The policemen never spoke to anyone about how one man was able to tie two gun carrying men to a tree so well that they could not undo the knots. This is understandable because it was so humiliating. Even if it was the madman Showlogo, how could they have NOT tried to take him or at least run away? It is shameful. Nevertheless, this happened. Showlogo tied them to a tree and then returned to his okada and drove off.

  The policemen were stuck at that tree for two days. No food, no water, mosquitoes and other biting insects feasting on their blood. They sat in their own urine and feces and they sang songs they’d learned from the powerful and violent university confraternities they both belonged to. And it was this singing that attracted the group of women coming from a nearby stream. Those men could have easily died there, but luck was finally on their side.

  Word about the incident spread like wildfire. If Showlogo was not already a local legend, he certainly was the biggest one now.

  “Why you dey ask me dis nonsense, again?” he asked days later. “I don move on with my life, o. Na thunder go fire those yao yao police.” He took a giant pull off his “giant mold”. He was sitting with his cousin Success T at the restaurant they fondly called “the cholera joint”, a plate of roasted goat meat and jollof rice in front of him. He exhaled and grabbed his spoon with his left hand and shoveled rice into his mouth. It had been a long day of work at the airport and the food tasted like heaven. “Next time they will stay out of my way,” he added, through his mouthful of rice.

  “People dey talk about it,” Success T said, smiling. He was the only person on earth Showlogo trusted. The two had grown up together and then lived in the same flat for years when they were older. Both even had access to each other’s bank accounts. “How you dey tie them? Everyone wants to know.”

  Showlogo paused as he ate more rice and drank from his bottle of Coca Cola. He belched loudly and pounded a fist against his chest. “I be One Man Mopo. I no need help and no dey fight in group,” he said, biting into the piece of goat meat. “You no believe me?”

  “I do,” Success T said. He leaned forward, the smile dropping from his face. “Showlogo, I no want make you go to jail. Those police be cultist. Their people haven’t forgotten, o.”

  Showlogo chewed his goat meat and smiled. “Jail no be for animal. Na for human person. But don worry. Jail no be for me.”

  *~*~*~*

  He wasn’t stupid. He thought about it. The police always had each other’s backs. And they held grudges like old women. And the fact that those two idiots who had the nerve to ask him for bribes were also part of confraternities was not good. So Showlogo decided to lay low for a bit. No partying or playing ludo outside with his friends for a few weeks. Go to work and then go home, that was the plan.

  Then, the Igbo shop down the street was robbed. Showlogo held the phone to his ear as he got on his okada that evening. Hearing about the incident first, Success T had called to warn him. “Watch out, o!” Success T said. “Word on the street is that they caught the guys who did it and they said they knew you.” Showlogo blinked. Time to disappear. He would stay with Success T for a day or so until he figured out a better place to stay for a while. He put the phone in his pocket and quickly drove home.

  As he tried to pack up a few things, he heard cars arrive outside his building. When he looked out of his window, he saw that one of the men who exited the police car was the very police officer he’d left to die in the bush, the one with the fat wobble wobble belly. They’d arrest him and once in police custody, Showlogo knew they’d find all sorts of reasons not to release him. He’d rot in jail for months, maybe years. He escaped from the back of the building just before the police came to his flat’s door.

  He fled to the most hidden place he could think of- the airport tarmac. The shaded area beneath the mango tree on the far side of the strip was where the luggage loaders took their breaks. He’d once spent a night here when he was too tired to go home. Now, he sat down on the dirt to eat the jollof rice he’d bought from one of the lady vendors on his way here. He leaned his back against the tree and let out a tired sigh thinking about his flat. Would the police force their way in and ransack the place?

  As he sat in the early evening darkness, chewing spicy tomatoey rice, Showlogo made the decision in the way he made every decision. Fast fast. He stared at the 747 across the tarmac. He knew the schedule; this one would soon be bound for London. It was still glistening from its most recent wash. The water droplets sparkled in the orange and white airport lights. The airplane looked fresh, new and it was headed to new lands. The sight of the fresh, “new” airplane combine with the spicy rice in his mouth made the world suddenly seem ripe. Full of potential. Offering escape. For a while. He drank from his bottle of warm Coca Cola and the drink’s sweetness was corrupted by the pepper in his mouth. He smacked his lips. He’d always liked this combination.

  An hour later, he bought another container of rice from the same woman, demanding that she pack it into the plastic container he normally used to carry his toothbrush, toothpaste and washcloth when he worked late hours. He went to his locker and brought out the heavy jacket he used when he worked during chillier nights.

  “Success T, how far?” he asked, shrugging on the jacket as he held his phone to his ear.

  “I’m good,” Success T said. “I dey study. You dey come out with us tonight. Where are you?”

  “Look, I’m going away for a little while. These police need to calm down. Can you have Mohammed and Yomi watch my farm?”

  “Where no dey go?”

  “Away.”

  After a paused, Success T said, “Good. I dey call you before. You hear about that kobo kobo Igbo shop? Some police dey wait outside your place. I drove by half hour ago.”

  “Make you no worry about me. I fine.”

  When he finished talking to Success T, he stared out at the tarmac as he shut off his phone and pushed it deep into his pocket. He moved quickly. It was dark but he knew where he could walk and remain in shadow. The 747 would be pushing off soon, so he had to be quick. He climbed up the undercarriage, pressing a foot against the thick tough wheel. He hoisted himself into the plane’s landing gear bay. In the metal space around him were wires, pipes, levers and other machinery. He positioned himself in a spot where the wheels would not crush him and he could hang on to a solid narrow pipe. He’d have to grasp it tightly upon take off because the bay would fill with powerful rushing sucking air as the plane picked up speed and left the earth. ”One man Mopo,” he said with a laugh as he practiced his grip. He positioned his satchel at his back. Inside it, he carried his mobile phone, charger, a container of rice, a torch, his wallet and a few other small things. All he’d need.

  Showlogo’s mind was at ease when the plane began to move. In a few hours, he’d be in the United States. He’d never dreamed of going there. Nigeria was his home and the city of Lagos was his playground. But he understood change and that it could happen in the blink of an eye. He’d learned this when he was seven years old. One day his parents had been there, then the n
ext, they’d died in a car crash. Since then he’d learned this lesson over and over. One day Chinelo had loved him, the next she was marrying his cousin and pretending she didn’t know him. One day, there was food to eat, the next there was none. One day he had no money, the next his pockets were stuffed with naira and he had two jobs. One day he could buy fuel for his car, the next his car had been stolen and this didn’t matter because there was a fuel shortage. He’d lived his life this way, understanding, reacting to and riding the powerful and weak waves of the universe’s ocean. He was a strong man, so he always survived.

  The plane taxied to the runway. Showlogo watched the passing black pavement below. Success T would keep his flat for him, maybe use it as a second home where he could stay when he wanted to be alone. Success T lived a fast life and was always sneaking away to spend days in remote hotels to get away from it all; the idea that Success T could now use Showlogo’s place was comforting to Showlogo.

  Of course, Success T would have to get rid of the police, first. He chuckled to himself when he thought of the police who were probably still waiting for him outside his home. They would spend weeks trying to find him. He’d lose his job at the airport by tomorrow morning and be replaced by the afternoon. So be it. He would be elsewhere.

  Showlogo began to have second thoughts when the plane started picking up speed. The suction in the landing gear bay was growing stronger and stronger…and stronger. Oh my God, Showlogo thought. He looked down at the pavement below. It was flying by. But maybe he could throw himself out and survive. The plane wasn’t even off the ground, but already he felt an end to his strength. It was too late.