12 Hours

by L I Owugah

  "Is everything okay?"

  "Perfect," I said. "A bottle of Guinness, if you don't mind."

  "Big one, ahh - bii?"

  I nodded.

  She shot off into the kitchen, returned with my favourite beverage and popped it open.

  "Thanks."

  I took a long swig. Michael and the woman I suspected was likely to become his new partner came to join me.

  "You did it!" Sade said, a broad smile on her face.

  I looked at Michael.

  "You need a hospital," I said.

  He nodded and gave me a once over himself.

  "I'm not the only one, " he said.

  I returned the nod, drained my bottle, and rose to my feet. "There's only one thing I need right now," I said. "The next flight back."

  A few hours later, I boarded the last flight to Lagos. With a return ticket in hand, I caught an Aerocontractors plane with less than twenty passengers on board. Fifty minutes later, I arrived in Lagos. I grabbed a cab and headed back to Comfort Hotel. Stomping back through the Lobby, I met Tunde. He dashed out from the bar. "Oga!" he said, staring at my damaged face in disbelief. "What happened?"

  I ignored the question.

  "Can you get me a taxi?" I said.

  "Of course," he replied. "Where to?"

  "Back to Cool Breeze."

  34

  JONAH

  BASTARD WITH NO CONSCIENCE

  Following a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes, I grabbed a taxi and headed for Cool Breeze. If there was any chance of finding Rambo, the first place I'd ever set eyes on him was the most logical place to start. After the rumble in the jungle with Emenike, and the surprise topple from what felt like Mount Everest with Juku, I was hurt, severely hurt. But still pumped with the one thing I could depend on to get me to the finishing line. Pure unadulterated adrenaline.

  The night was far from young, yet the streets were alive with drivers honking their horns, motorbike riders weaving perilously through traffic, and bus conductors hanging from doors of moving vehicles, like Hollywood stuntmen. Lagos at night. Fascinating. But for the next few hours, the least of my concerns. After a twenty minute drive, the taxi arrived at Cool Breeze and cruised into a courtyard streaming with a crowd of people who, in the words of Prince were partying like it was 1999. Climbing out of the vehicle, I turned to the driver.

  "How much do I owe you?"

  "Oga don't worry. Your boy has already paid me," he said, referring to Tunde. "I will wait for you."

  I nodded in appreciation.

  "Thanks," I said. Turning back, I was intrigued to be confronted with an atmosphere that was a million miles removed from my initial visit to the establishment. The deafening sound of Fela singing "International Thief Thief" echoed from a pair of giant speakers outside the bar. A flood of scantily clad working girls, lit cigarettes held between their fingers, and bottles of beer in their hands, moved their bodies, like visceral instruments of seduction, to the lyrics of Afro beats greatest star.

  And then there were the men. Young and old. Men out to be serviced for the night. A bunch of them hovering around a barbeque stand, women clinging to their arms, as they paid for giant slabs of tasty looking grilled beef on sticks. Walking into the establishment, a mirror image of what I had seen outside presented itself in the bar. There was also the strong smell of tobacco combined with the sweet, pungent odour of cannabis. As I made my way through the crowd, I could still hear Fela's voice echoing from outside. "I no be tief," the Afrobeat King wailed followed by the chorus "you be tief."

  "I no be Robba, you be Robba!"

  Lyrics, which, from the curious stares aimed in my direction, appeared to be directed at me. I stopped abruptly. Like Arnie trying to track down a young John Conner. I scanned the faces in the room. A working girl in her early thirties waltzed up to me."Fine man," she said. "How far now?"

  I looked at her. For a moment I thought she hadn't taken a proper look at my battered face before using an adjective like "fine" to describe what was standing before her. But on second thoughts, I figured she was merely plying for business. Flattery I imagined, was a big part of the deal.

  "Where's Funmi?" I said.

  "You don't like me?"

  "Where is she?" I repeated.

  She turned up her nose, as though she had just been insulted.

  "She's wid a Cust-oma," she snapped and walked off. I snaked my way through the crowd and turned off into the corridor, which led to the rented rooms. Whoever she was with would just have to take a hike I decided. I opened Funmi's door and let myself in. Funmi was seated on the edge of the bed. She was naked. Naked, but alone. Sobbing quietly, she had her head hung over and didn't look up as I walked in, and took a seat beside her. I took her by the chin, turned up her face and saw that her right eye was the size of a golf ball.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  She turned away.

  "It was Rambo," she said. "He left a short while ago."

  "He beat you?"

  She nodded feverishly.

  "He was very annoyed when he got here," she said. "I don't know why. After we finished, he refused to pay!"

  "What did he say?"

  "He said that if I want my money, I must come to his house."

  "And you refused?"

  "Yes, I refused! And I told him he was bastard! A bastard with no conscience!"

  "That's why he beat you?"

  "Yes."

  I took her by the arm and helped her to her feet.

  "You know where he lives?"

  "Yes, I have been there before."

  "Well, you're going to go there again," I said.

  She looked at me and noticed my injuries.

  "Jonah!" she gasped, placing a soft hand to my cheek. "What happened to..." I didn't let her finish.

  "Long story," I replied.

  She nodded to suggest she understood.

  "He's dangerous," she said.

  "So am I. Get dressed."

  I turned away as she got ready, and walked over to the door. Two minutes later I heard my name.

  "Jonah."

  I spun around and looked at her. Despite the swollen eye, she looked ravishing in a baby doll dress. "I appreciate everything you have done for me," she said. "You are a good man. Let the bastard keep the money. There is no reason to fight with him."

  "It's personal," I said quietly.

  She nodded and reached for something on the bed.

  "Then you might need this."

  She handed me a bulletproof vest. "It belongs to Rambo," she said. "The idii-ot was so angry, he forgot to put it back on before he left."

  35

  BULLET FROM A BARREL

  On the third floor of a six storey residential building, the troubled law enforcement officer stumbled into his flat and snapped on the light. Rambo's living room was sparsely furnished but exceptionally clean. There was no sign of a television or radio. Only a glossy, hardwood floor, a handsome leather couch, and a well-polished drinks cabinet making it evident Rambo deemed it essential for his home to remain in pristine condition. The cabinet was loaded with several bottles of hard liquor, but there was only a single brandy glass on display. Rambo had never been one for company.

  Another item in the room, summed up the police officer's personality with even greater accuracy. A wall mounted painting of Balogun in his police uniform. A portrait in which he was wielding an AK47 shotgun, and standing over the bloodied bodies of a pile of armed robbers.

  Vivid evidence of a deluded man who lived to manipulate, manufacture and control every facet of his existence. A deluded man, who, for the first time in recent memory felt threatened. Severely threatened. Unbuttoning his tunic, Rambo ran his fingers over the front of his chest. He sunk his head into his palms and took a deep breath. He instantly remembered where he had forgotten his armour of protection and was shocked how quickly he was beginning to lose focus.

  Since the elimination of The Quiet Man and now Juku, the strain of the l
ast few hours was beginning to take its toll. This man, whoever he might be, was officially a clear and present danger. A lethal weapon who had to be exceptionally skilled to have eliminated not just an incredibly efficient assassin, and the son of an ex-governor, but also the ferocious bodyguard known as Emenike.

  "You're a dead man, Balogun," Michael had said to him on the phone. "You're a dead man." Announced with all the confidence of a person who had enough faith in this agent of death to believe it was a foregone conclusion.

  Rambo pondered his initial response to the pressure. He had headed off to Cool Breeze in the hope that a fierce round of rough sex would ease the tension. And it did. Until the insult. His favourite call girl had paid dearly for that. A bastard with no conscience Funmilayo had called him. A blatant insult from a common "Ashawo." He opened the cabinet, twisted open a bottle of Jack Daniels, and took a long swig. The liquor burnt his throat, and hit the familiar spot, sending an immediate surge of confidence racing through his veins. Withdrawing his service pistol from its holster, he quickly examined the chamber. The gun was a Beretta M9 and had a full clip loaded with fifteen bullets.

  After killing three men within twenty-four hours, this man was probably on his way to do the same to him. But there were two sides to every story. Rambo had never met a threat, like the one he was faced with, however, he was confident this individual was unlikely to have ever met a force of destruction like himself. Besides, it didn't matter how tough, powerful or efficient you were, there wasn't a man alive who was tougher than a bullet from a barrel.

  The barrel of a 9mm.

  His head snapped around in response to a knock at the door and lowering himself to the floor, crept up to the window, pistol at the ready. He cautiously parted the curtains. Fumilayo was standing outside. He rose to his feet and opened the door.

  "What are you doing here?" he said.

  "I'm sorry if I offended you earlier," she replied. "I just needed the money. My rent is due." He looked at her. A suspicious expression on his face. He stepped towards her, stuck his head out the door.

  Satisfied she was alone, he said, "Come inside." She entered the flat, and he closed the door behind her. Rambo stared at her face as she stood in the room. He couldn't remember causing so much damage to her eye. He found the swelling somewhat offputting. His gaze switched to her voluptuous figure, and he felt a hardening between his legs.

  "Remove your clothes," he ordered.

  Funmilayo unzipped her dress in silence. Rambo holstered his weapon and disappeared into the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of a double bed he was reaching for the laces of his boots when a familiar sound caught his attention. The sound of the front door being eased open. Whipping out his gun, Rambo dashed back into the living room. Funmilayo was standing by the door, a mobile phone in her hand.

  "What are you doing?" Rambo yelled, levelling the weapon at her.

  "Nothing!" she cried, backing away in terror.

  Rambo's eyes turned to the door. Creaking open like the arrival of the proverbial thief in the night, Rambo aimed the gun in its direction, good and ready for whoever was on the other side. Then Fumilayo let out a scream.

  "Jonah!"

  The door crashed open and a towering figure came charging into the room. Rambo pulled the trigger. With a resounding bang, the bullet exploded from the barrel of the 9mm and blasted the intruder back through the door. A brief silence was followed by screams of panic from the street outside. Rambo swallowed a satisfied lump in his throat and smiled.

  Finally, it was over he thought. Over and done with.

  36

  JONAH

  GAME OVER

  I had on the bulletproof vest when I was hit by the shot. A dramatic turn of events for a situation, which, up until this point, had seemed well in hand. Twenty minutes earlier, Funmi and I had arrived outside Rambo's apartment building in a yellow taxi. Pulling up by the side of the road, she had hastily paid the driver before I could reach for my wallet.

  "You didn't have to do that," I said as we climbed out of the back seat.

  "It's no problem," she replied.

  I nodded. After a brief assessment of the surroundings, I noticed that Rambo's police truck was parked at the far end of the building, with the vehicles rear end pointed out towards the main street. The apartment building had the glow and modern aesthetic of a recently built structure. It was made up of six separate floors, a number of apartments facing the street on each one. The flats on each floor shared a common walkway, stretching from one end of the building to the other. Lagos city's colourful nightlife was in full effect. A number of fried yam, grilled fish, and suya meat stands could be seen outside. There were a bunch of outdoor drinking spots, one of which stood across from the building itself. Several people sat eating and drinking. Afrobeat music filled the humid night's air.

  The entrance to the building was manned by a middle-aged security guard who sat in front of a security gate. He had a wrapped piece of newspaper in his hand from which he was eating large pieces of fried yam sprinkled with a peppery looking sauce.

  Bolting to his feet like an army recruit, he bounced the flat of his hand off his forehead.

  "I Sah loot, Sah!" he said.

  Figuring he was fishing for a tip, I stuck both hands into my pockets, felt around for my wallet, and discovered it was gone. Funmi glanced in my direction and appeared to recognize I'd come up empty. She rummaged into her handbag and produced a five hundred naira note. She handed it to the security guard. He nodded in appreciation.

  "Thank you, maa-dam!" With a broad smile, he swung open the gate. We stepped into the building and headed up a concrete stairwell.

  "Looks like my wallet's gone walkies," I said.

  "Walkies?"

  Funmi looked at me, her expression puzzled.

  "Missing."

  'Ahh, sorry, oh" she said, "You need to be careful in this place."

  "Bit late for that now."

  She smiled.

  "Anyway, don't worry. If there's anything you need, I still have some money left over from what you dashed me."

  "Thanks"

  Rambo's floor was the fifth one up. We paused on the landing of the stairwell to make a brief plan of action.

  "Once you get inside, I'm going to need a signal," I said.

  "No problem" she replied, flashing a phone at me. "I will send you a text as soon as it's safe."

  "Don't leave it too long."

  We exchanged numbers, and she headed out of an exit door, that opened on to a lit walkway. I walked over to the door myself, pulled it back a couple of inches and trailed her with my eyes. There were three flats in the direction she was headed. The last three on that particular floor. Rambo's apartment was right at the end.

  A couple of feet past the officer's front door, a concrete wall partition jutted out from the side of the apartment. A seemingly pointless piece of architecture, which stretched halfway across the width of the walkway. The wall boasted a giant rectangular shaped mirror that I suspected Rambo, with his toxic blend of vanity, and what I considered self-hatred, had taken the trouble of fixing himself.

  A police tunic had been aired out to dry on the back of a wooden chair, by the edge of the balcony. Funmi rapped on the police officer's door. Sticking his head out from the flat, Rambo gazed down the walkway, causing me to duck back into the stairwell. Seconds later Funmi was permitted entry. I heard the door shut and peered back into the walkway. Funmi was gone. Pulling out my phone I waited for her message.

  A minute later, a notification. I had one message. I accessed it and a single word popped up on the screen in bold letters: NOW.

  I darted over to the flat, turned the door handle and pushed it open. Slow and steady at first. Then I heard Funmi scream and charged in without a seconds thought. I heard the shot before I saw the barrel of the gun. A deafening explosion, followed by a tremendous thump to my sternum, which propelled me back into the walkway.