“I came in here not too long after the last time we saw each other,” Maradona continued. “One of my boys tried jacking one NDA boy off his government-issued ride. The young soldier put three bullets in him before he could realize what was happening. Somehow my boy didn’t die, so the soldier hospitalized him and beat the whereabouts of his crew out of his mouth as soon as he became well enough to take a beating. The rest of his crew never came back, so the soldiers took whomever they could see. I knew it was going to happen someday. It was just a matter of time.
“These two,” Maradona added, pointing at Mendaus and Pastor’s son, “have been here barely a week. Someone had been talking too much shit on the radio. It took them so long to get here, I’m beginning to wish I had their luck.”
I heard weeping from the floor, rising slowly to accompany mine, but I could not tell whom exactly it emanated from, if not both of them. It was the first time since our innocent childhood that I had looked at my friends without seeing any shadow aspect to their personalities, without any likes or dislikes, without any catalysts or inhibitions to accepting them. And it felt sweeter and purer than childhood, when shadows could not exist because we were hidden in the blinding light of innocence, because now we were in the pitch darkness of our predicaments and it was easy to lose touch with reality, to hallucinate things that did not exist—Nigeria, in its entirety, a wonder of this world.
Acknowledgments
Shout out to my family. I became an avid reader off the bookshelves in the room previously inhabited by my Mummy and my Aunties—Ayo and Aunty Funke—in my grandparents’ home in Surulere, Lagos. And I grew into borrowing the books from the bookshelves of their own homes. They’ve told all their friends about this book so I hope it meets their expectations and doesn’t bring the family name to shame, even though I’m sure they’re proud of me regardless. And my cousins—I could never ask for a more ride-or-die squad. To Daddy, Uche, Nneka, and Chika—you’ll get yours in the groupchat.
Shout out to friends. Isioma, Ugo, Dosa, and Tobi—the initial Afrika Shrine crew. And then the Omole Coalition—Kunle, Femo, Bobby, Jide, Jeffrey, Ole, and Tobi. No words. All love. To Chisom, Bimbo, and Ibukun, who stress and spoil me beyond measure. To the boys at the back of Oghene’s class, the folks who failed Ede and Olukanni’s classes, and the incredible J2 family—this book is a compilation of my thoughts and lessons, of which you are all coauthors.
Shout out to my peers. I was and am still deeply motivated and inspired by Abimbola, Chinenye, Phids, Edwin, Fope, Ope, Tolu, TJ, Ayodeji, Zainab, Ifeoluwa, Aisha, Oke, Oluchukwu, Moji, Ona. Those who struggle to finish their stories, struggle to publish or struggle to overcome imposter syndrome #TalkIsCheap.
Also, shout out to the mailing list—Chihurumanya, Abimbola, Oluwatobi, Yemi, Rachael, Kiits, Dams, Nkem, Oke. My very first readers and editors. You pushed me to write, pushed me to finish and pushed me to publish. If this was an album, you would all have Executive Producer credits. I’ll be sending you the first drafts of the next project in a minute.
Special mention to Femi Apata. He was the first person to call this back when I was still writing English class essays for tuckshop. And to Mensah Demary and the good people at Counterpoint, for making dreams come true.
© Adedunmola Olanrewaju
NNAMDI EHIRIM is a twenty-six-year-old Nigerian writer based in Lagos and Madrid. His writing has appeared in Afreada, Brittle Paper, Catapult, Kalahari Review, and The Republic. He cofounded a clean-energy start-up in Nigeria and is currently pursuing an MBA focused on entrepreneurship in the renewable energy sector. Prince of Monkeys is his first novel.
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