by L I Owugah
"What do you have with you?" the gunman screamed. He spoke with a prominent lisp, his tongue flickering from his mouth in a cartoonish, snake-like fashion.
I said nothing.
The machete-wielding thug stomped over to where I stood and pushed the blade of the machete against the base of my throat.
"You no wan talk?" he yelled.
I felt a tremble in his arm and spotted a puzzled expression in his eyes. A look that suggested he was second-guessing the situation, visibly confused as to why his methods of intimidation were patently ineffective.
"I will kill you here!"
The man with the gun glanced over at the driver in the taxicab, his face cupped in his hands.
"Why is that idiot still in the car?" he asked.
"He can't move," I said.
"What do you mean, my friend?" the machete-wielding thug said, still with the blade pressed to my throat.
I looked him straight in his eyes again.
"Broke his leg in the crash."
"Why are you speaking like a white man?" the gunman said.
"It's called an accent."
"From where?"
"London."
He turned to look at his partner.
"Go stand for main road," he said.
"For wetin?"
"You wan make police meet us here!" Glaring at me, the man holding the machete removed the blade from my neck and bolted over to the edge of the motorway.
The gunman fixed the muzzle of the AK47 to the centre of my forehead.
"Where is the money?"
"Money?"
"The British Pounds?" he screamed.
I said nothing.
He fished in the front and back pockets of my jeans and yanked out, my wallet, mobile phone, and the giant wad of Nigerian Naira. He pocketed each item; the weapon fixed to my forehead as he did so.
"Where is the remaining money?"
"In my luggage."
"Where is the luggage?"
"Car boot."
He moved behind me, whipped the gun around 180 degrees, and planted the muzzle of the barrel to the back of my skull.
"Oya! Let's go."
It took about ten seconds for us to reach the taxicab, but even less for me to decide what was I going to do next. Simply put, in any combat situation, a general rule of thumb is first to eliminate or contain, the greater threat. The logic being whoever is left standing will be forced either to throw in the towel or risk suffering a similar fate themselves.
Furthermore, it didn't hurt if, what was deemed the greater threat, was right beside you, and the lesser threat at a safe distance of several yards. As I reached the back of the car, the gunman stepped to one side to gain a clearer view of what was in the boot after I had opened it. Shifting the AK47 from the back of my head, he moved the gun to the left side of my face and dimpled the middle of my cheek with the point of the weapon. I fiddled with the bunch of keys in my hand while planning three separate actions that were intended not only to disarm the gunman but to put him to sleep.
"Hurry up, my friend!"
Speed has always been one of my greatest assets, and, to your average bystander entirely unexpected for a man weighing 250 pounds. The gunman wasn't your average bystander but was stunned nonetheless.
Snapping my head to one side, I displaced the point of the firearm from my cheek with a swift sideways swipe of my forearm against the barrel, leaving the gunman startled by a response for which he was totally unprepared for. Two separate moves followed. In quick succession. First, an explosive right hand to the gunman's temple, which sent the gun flying into the bushes. Then, as the gunman toppled forward, the next and albeit most damaging shot was thrown into play.
An uppercut. An uppercut delivered in the style of a prime Roy Jones. An uppercut from Hell in which the practitioner, like a man with springs in his feet, would leap two feet into the air, and drive his entire bodyweight up and into a single blow. A crippling shot intended to finish the job and ensure the gunman was put to bed, which was precisely what it did.
As my fist smashed into the gunman's chin he released a horrific scream. The excruciating pain of having clamped down and severed his own tongue. In response, the thug with the machete spun around and tore in my direction. He had the gleaming blade raised above his head, and with a murderous look on his face, his intentions required no clarification.
I glanced around for the unconscious gunman's weapon. It was lying in a pile of overgrown weeds, just a couple of feet away. It was an immediate answer to my current predicament, but a solution which presented another issue I could very well do without. The moral dilemma of choosing to take the life of another man. A decision, which, even when justified, was best avoided if the situation allowed for it. Either way, I had to stop the threat and fast.
The answer appeared in the shape of a large rock which lay beside one of the taxi cabs back tyres. Reaching down to grab it, I spun back around to face the lesser threat, who, at a distance of ten feet, had now become a major obstacle.
"I go murda you!" he screamed.
Aiming straight for his face, I threw the rock with the speed and precision of a cricket bowler.
The rock whizzed through the air and smashed into his forehead. He let out a loud groan; and dropped the machete. Then, with his legs turning to jelly, he did a funny dance, crashed into the back door of the taxicab, and collapsed to the ground in a state of unconsciousness.
Picking up both the machete and the gun, I retrieved my money, and wallet from the pockets of the gunman. Then I beckoned to the shaken taxi driver. The cabman climbed out and stared at the bodies in disbelief. I emptied the magazine of the AK47, scattering its bullets on the ground.
"Oga, you be military man?" the cabman asked. I said nothing and tossed both the gun and machete into the bushes.
"What's going to happen to these two?" I said gesturing to the unconscious men on the ground.
"If Police or civilians find them here, they will know they are thieves."
"Then what?"
"They will kill them."
"Capital punishment?"
"Public execution."
He stared at his damaged car and shook his head.
"Look at my mo - tow, eh? How will I feed my family, now?"
"Get me to the hotel, and I'll cover the damage," I said.
Together, we flagged down another taxi cab. Fifteen minutes later we arrived at Michael's hotel. We strolled over to the reception desk and a smartly dressed lady greeted us from behind the counter. Her face wore a perturbed expression, as she scrutinized both of us, the cab driver, visibly distraught, and my t-shirt sprinkled with blood.
"We're here to see Michael," I said. Her face relaxed in an instant at the sound of my accent, which I would later discover was a pretty consistent reaction to foreigners in the country.
"The man from London?" she replied.
"Yes."
"He is your brother?"
"Last time I checked."
She gave us the room number and directed us up to the second floor. Mounting a single flight of stairs, we walked down a poorly lit corridor and stopped outside a room marked 15B. Standing a couple of feet behind the cabman, I waited as he rapped on the door.
Moments later, the door swung open and Michael stood on the other side.
"Thank God," the driver said.
"Who are you?" Michael asked.
The driver pivoted in my direction, and I stepped forward.
9
MICHAEL
WHO DARES WINS
My brother's arrival in Lagos was clearly unexpected, but not a total surprise. With a flight tagged travel bag slung over his shoulder it was apparent he was coming from the airport. However, spotting the fresh blood stains on his t-shirt, I guessed that someone, somewhere, had just paid the price for attempting to get in his way.
The man in Jonah's company was full of praise for his response to what had happened on the way to the hotel. Knowing Jonah and w
hat he was physically capable of, I suspected that the vivid description of what had occurred was still a picture that lacked a few layers of colour. Jonah sat on the edge of the bed and the man continued his account of my brother's explosive heroics. A dire situation which appeared as though they were minutes away from losing their lives.
Jonah dumped his sports bag on the floor and dug his hand into the front left pocket of his jeans. Clearly felt something he wasn't looking for and drew out two familiar looking travel documents. One was a Nigerian passport, the other a British one. Dumping both on the bed, he shoved his other hand into the opposite pocket, and pulled out a thick wallet. He folded it open. Selecting ten notes from a bunch of British twenties and fifties, he extended the cash to the driver. The cabman bowed in a cultural gesture of deference and appreciation.
"God bless you, Sah!" he said.
After the driver had finally taken his leave, I turned my attention to Jonah.
"Two hundred pounds?" I said in disbelief.
"Should cover the damage to his car," Jonah responded casually.
"Just won the lottery?"
"American Express card," he replied, matter of factly. He lay back on the bed, locked his fingers behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling.
"You know you get a bank charge for that sort of thing," I said.
"It's only money," he replied.
He shot a look in my direction.
"Besides, he needed it more than I do."
I sat beside him.
"Been here less than five hours, and you're already in a fight."
"Wasn't exactly a fight."
I took a close look at him and picked up on something I'd never noticed before. He looked fatigued. Not the sort of fatigue you got from being jet-lagged, but the kind you associated with years of physical wear and tear. Then there was the matter of the cut beneath his eye, which was probably less than a month old. I had never known Jonah receive an injury in a fistfight. He had always been too fast, too slick, too explosive. But at thirty-six years of age, maybe the physical assets that had made him near invincible in hand to hand combat were giving way to the inevitable clutches of father time.
"What happened to your eye?" I said.
"Someone got handy with a beer mug," he replied.
"Over what?"
"Marilyn Monroe."
I smiled quietly to myself. Jonah's humour had always been terminally dry. But in the thirty-six years, I'd known him, he probably wouldn't have any other way.
"How's Dami?" he asked referring to my daughter.
"Awesome, just turned seven last month."
"Get to see her often?"
"Not enough."
"Guess it comes with the territory."
I glared at him, instantly picking up on the twisted sarcasm of his response. A reference to the warning he had given me on the day I'd told him about my decision to marry an exotic dancer. A woman Jonah knew from the gentleman's club he had previously worked as a doorman.
"Bad idea," I remembered him saying at the time. "She will always be a stripper."
"Is that your way of saying I screwed up?" I said.
"Should have listened to me, Michael."
"Why, because we had a difference of opinion?"
"No, because my opinion was right."
Glaring at him, a part of me wanted to explode and launch a verbal tirade. Tell him how wrong he was, how far he'd crossed the line. But then there was the other side of me, one that was both rational and objective. A side of me that had to admit Jonah was right. He was right then, and he was probably right now.
"So what are you doing here?" I asked.
He turned his head sideways and stared at me.
"To make sure you don't let the cart run off with the horse."
"You don't think it's important we try to find out who did this?" His gaze reverted to the ceiling.
"No," he said, his tone deadpan.
"And why the Hell not?" I yelled back.
"He didn't react. Didn't even look at me."
"Bad odds," he replied.
I stared at him in disbelief.
"Bad odds?"
I felt like leaning across and delivering a solid punch to his solar plexus, but glancing at his overwhelming powerful physique, thought better of it. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," I muttered.
"Doesn't make it any less of a fact."
"Says who?"
"Numbers."
He paused for a moment.
"Do you know how many people live in this city?"
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Over 20 million," he said, ignoring the question. "Chances of a decent police force tracking down a hit and run driver under those conditions are beyond slim."
Again, my immediate instinct was to defend my position. I wanted justice, but from the look of things, Jonah, and whoever shared his opinion, couldn't give a monkeys. There was also something else. Something Jonah had apparently misunderstood.
After speaking to an Inspector who had subsequently disappeared off the face of the globe, and meeting a bunch of police officers who took bribes to perform their duties. Lagos city seemed the last place to use the adjectives "decent" and "police force" in the same sentence.
"How about a corrupt police force?" I asked.
"Even less," he replied.
"Uncle Taffi feels the same way."
"About the police?"
"Yeah, reckons they're a bunch of crooks."
"Wouldn't surprise me."
"Already witnessed it first hand," I admitted.
Jonah acknowledged this with a quiet nod and gazed in my direction. "Being emotional about this situation isn't going to fix anything, Michael. It never does. His eyes returned to the ceiling, like an elderly sage, delivering an enlightening stream of consciousness. "But I'll tell you what it will do. It will bring out the opportunists." His tone dropped a beat as though he was speaking to himself. "Like a medium who tries to convince you he can talk to the dead."
"Then what?" I said.
He looked at me again.
"Then they will take you for every penny you have."
I went quiet for a spell. Jonah was probably right. Uncle Taffi too. Maybe this exercise was a waste of time, a wild goose chase that would likely end in disappointment and potentially put me out of pocket. Only I couldn't walk away just because the odds of success were unfavourable. I mean, deep down a part of me wished I could - wished I had the singular focus and cold objectivity of the six foot five force of nature before me. But then, we were two different animals, Jonah and I. Always had been, probably always would be. "Maybe so," I said. "But you know what they say. Who dares wins." I waited for a reaction, didn't get one, and turned to look at Jonah.
He was fast asleep.
10
SADE
The time had just gone past six pm when the request to investigate a hit and run case came to the attention of the founder and sole practitioner at Moonlight Investigations Lagos. Her name was Sade Nonso, an attractive 28-year-old whose slender physique, midnight dark complexion, and hair plaited in neat twists, made her a dead ringer for Lauren Hill in her prime. Growing up as the only daughter of a prominent newsmagazine owner, Sade had launched her one of a kind agency in the aftermath of her fathers tragic passing at age seventy-five.
The late William Nonso Sr had made his name and fortune as the creator of the immensely successful, gossip-driven magazine publication called Lagos at Large. The first of its type in the country. He had also been a polygamist, and at the time of his death, a husband to five wives and father to ten children, Sade being his only daughter.
Heart disease has often been touted as the greatest killer of men over the age of fifty, but after a trusted housekeeper had informed Sade that her mother had served the media mogul a cup of herbal tea shortly before his demise, a gut feeling alerted her to the possibility of foul play. Scouring through her mother's tablet computer for clues she had identi
fied the smoking gun within minutes. Evidence of an untold number of Google searches by someone who was curious about identifying the most effective means of successfully spiking an individual's drink.