by Femi Kayode
I can’t counter him and this makes me sad. ‘Those boys never stood a chance.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You saw that landlady. Did you see how quickly people started gathering when she shouted? How can what happened to those boys be stopped from happening again if people won’t learn from their mistakes?’
‘They first have to admit that they made a mistake before they can learn from it.’
I fall silent remembering the Chief’s justification of his community’s actions and the townsfolk’s defiance in the face of nationwide condemnation. The whole thing brings to mind a study I was part of years ago, where we looked at the history of restitution in different cultures through history. Nations that swept their injustices under the carpet with nothing more than a vigorous ‘Never Again’, tended to repeat the same mistakes. The ones that took collective action towards recognising the injustice, understanding why and how it happened, and then taking concrete measures to prevent it happening again, tended to succeed. The conclusion of the study did not bode well for the future of the US when it comes to slavery and its impact on race relations today or for South Africa’s post-apartheid future. On the contrary, the prognosis for Germany’s post-Nazi efforts was exceptionally high, proving that it might take several decades but collective wrongs can be righted.
We are now at the Hotel Royale. We get out and as soon as we enter the reception, I feel uneasy. The manager throws us a belligerent greeting while the waiter looks away, without the warm welcome we’ve enjoyed ever since Chika started doling out tips for every errand. A soccer match is playing on the two TV screens. Some local youths were watching it and, despite the volume, they now seem more interested in Chika and me as we climb the stairs.
Apprehension makes me tense.
‘Play it cool,’ Chika says as we walk to our rooms. ‘Don’t let them think they’re getting to you.’
‘They are getting to me.’
At my door, I slot in the key as Chika goes on along the hall to his room. I turn the key to the left to open but it doesn’t yield. I turn the key rightward and it gives.
‘Chika?’
He stops and turns.
‘My room’s open.’
He walks back to me and we stare at each other. ‘Maybe the cleaner forgot to lock it when –’
I open the door and what confronts us stops him short.
A tornado might as well have moved through my room. The mattress is on the floor and torn; its innards violently exposed. The chairs and the desk are overturned. My clothes are all over with my toiletries scattered too. The woody smell of my Armani fragrance tells me the perfume bottle is broken somewhere under all the mess. The wall that held my Post-its is stripped bare, and all my notes are shredded into pieces littering the floor like confetti.
Replacing the Post-it notes is a crudely pasted copy of a newspaper article on the Okriki Three. Black-and-white pictures of Winston, Bona and Kevin underneath the bold headline: ‘Gang of Thieves Burnt to Death’.
Next to the newspaper cut-out is a warning rendered in red paint:
‘Leave or burn!’
FIGHT OR FLIGHT
I lift the mattress, and then find my laptop under the overturned desk just as Chika rushes back from his room. The letters of my keyboard scatter on to the floor like Scrabble pieces and the shattered screen is separated from the base like a decapitated head. My suitcase looks like someone took an axe to it.
Mindless. Wicked. I pick up the two separate pieces of this expensive machine, trying to recall when last I backed it up.
‘I think the hard drive can be retrieved,’ Chika says as he looks around.
‘Your room?’
‘Not as bad as yours. Just the same message.’ He points to the wall.
Atoka stands at the door, looking smug rather than sorry.
‘Gentlemen,’ he announces pompously, ‘you must leave my establishment. Clearly, you are a risk to my person, property and staff.’
‘You bastard,’ Chika says and lunges for him but I grab hold of him.
‘And abusive too,’ Atoka goads him.
‘You know who did this, don’t you?’ Chika is shaking with rage.
‘Why would I allow anyone to do this to my property?’
With one violent pull, Chika shakes off my grip, grabs Atoka by the neck and slams him against the wall.
‘Chika!’ I shout, but his fiery gaze is fixated on the manager, who has lost considerable bluster as his feet search for the ground.
‘Who. Did. This?’
‘I don’t know!’
Chika’s hands tighten around Atoka’s neck. I rush to pull at Chika’s shoulders, but I might as well be kneading rock.
‘Chika. Please. It’s not worth –’
‘Was it the Chief?’ Chika is not looking at me; the manager is now gasping for breath. ‘Did he order this?’
‘I … I don’t kkknow …’ the manager sputters, seeking air.
His eyes are bulging, and I fear if Chika doesn’t let go now, I might be forced to do a mouth to mouth on the vile creature.
‘Chika, let him go!’
Perhaps it’s the panic in my voice because he drops the manager suddenly. Atoka scrambles up almost immediately and backs away from us into the corridor.
‘You must leave!’ the manager croaks defiantly, rubbing his bruised neck. ‘And I am not returning any deposit to you!’
Atoka scampers away. I’m breathing heavily from the ordeal. Chika, on the other hand, breathes as evenly as if he just had taken a leisurely stroll. Only his eyes give any indication of how close he had been to squeezing the life out of the manager with his bare hands.
‘We need to leave here,’ I state.
‘The bank has a guest house in Port Harcourt, but it’s too far from here.’
‘We might not have a choice.’
‘We can also try the university’s guest house. It’s always full, but we might be lucky.’
‘Why not? That’s a plan. In fact, I’m sure if we call the Registrar, he might be able to help.’
I reach for my phone and try to see whether any of my messages to the Registrar have been returned. None, but there’s a text message from Salome Briggs. I see it was sent seventeen minutes earlier.
‘Come to PH. It’s not safe there. Trust me, Sal.’
I show Chika the message. He reads, frowns and looks at me.
‘Who’s this?’
‘A friend in Port Harcourt. Well, sort of. We met on the flight. Her mom is from around here.’
‘She seems to know a lot for someone far away in PH.’
‘I know.’ I look around the room, ‘Someone must have told her.’
‘You trust her?’
‘I’ve no reason to distrust her.’
Chika nods and hands back my phone. ‘Then we must hurry. The longer we stay here, the greater the danger of me doing something I’ll regret.’
He starts picking the pieces of paper up off the floor while I call Salome. She answers on the first ring.
‘Thank heavens, you’re fine.’
‘How did you know?’ I ask.
‘No time for questions. Just get over here. As soon as you get into PH, call me. I’ve already booked you both into a hotel.’
‘Will you be there?’
‘If you want me to –’
I decide quickly before the pause becomes an awkward silence.
‘If it’s not too much trouble, yes, I would like you to be there.’ Despite my brisk tone, I see Chika slightly pause as he gathers shreds of paper off the floor.
‘No problem.’ Her tone is practical. ‘Just hurry.’
She hangs up.
Chika has amassed a significant amount of torn paper and I join him in sorting through the debris.
‘Did your lady say who her source is?’ Chika asks drily.
‘She’s not my lady,’ I snap, more abruptly than necessary. ‘And I’m sure she’ll tell me everything when she sees m
e later. She’s booked us a hotel.’
‘Hmm … she just happened to book us a hotel in anticipation of the vandalisation of our rooms?’
When Chika puts it like that, it does seem rather stupid to rush off to Port Harcourt on Salome’s say-so. In truth, what do I really know about this woman?
‘So, we don’t go?’ I ask.
‘It’s a more interesting option than the bank’s guest house in PH. I think we, I mean, you should follow the trail. It’ll be interesting to find out what she knows. Besides, you say you trust her.’
I can’t tell him about my sudden doubt, so I remain silent as we hurriedly gather the salvageable items in my room into a bed sheet Chika has turned into a makeshift rucksack. My destroyed laptop is wiped clean of dirt and put back in its bag, and we look around to be sure we have everything that isn’t beyond remedy.
The soccer game is still on when we come back downstairs, but the young men are all standing, their backs to the TVs, unmoved by the excited speech of the commentator. The manager is at the entrance door, arms akimbo, eyes belligerent.
As I walk past the men, the smell hits me. I stop and face them.
‘Guys, I can smell my wife’s Christmas present to me on some or all of you. So, I can assume some or all of you were responsible for vandalising my room.’
Silence, but their body language says they are raring for a fight. An overwhelming sense of violation shoots through me. These thugs tore through my personal things and now stand here, watching me leave the Hotel Royale, an image of defeat. The thought makes my blood boil, but I know not to make a volatile situation worse.
‘Tell whoever sent you they’ve made a big mistake because I’ll not stop until I find what you’re trying to hide,’ I say to the cluster. We look like a scene from a Western; me staring down the recalcitrant youths while Chika blocks the manager from stepping into it.
I turn and start to walk away. What follows happens fast. Chika swings his fist and I duck out of the way just in time, turning just as his uppercut connects with the chin of one of the youths who I’m realising was going to tackle me from behind. He falls to the ground with an agonised yelp, gritting his bloodstained teeth in pain. The others start to advance threateningly on Chika who discards the ‘rucksack’ on the floor.
My voice is calm as I address the manager. ‘Tell them to back down, or I promise you, the damage to your hotel will be more than anyone can pay.’
Atoka takes too long to respond and Chika drop-kicks a second man.
‘Enough!’ Atoka shouts. He glares at me, equal parts angry and afraid. ‘Just go! Please.’
‘Chika, let’s go.’
Chika holds his combat-ready position, looking from the manager to the young men in a dare.
‘Chika!’ I raise my voice.
He reluctantly picks up his suitcase and the ‘rucksack’ of my stuff, turns and walks out. I follow him with my battered Samsonite and laptop bag, getting into the Land Cruiser just as he switches on the ignition.
I’ve barely closed the passenger door when he reverses so forcefully that I can smell burning rubber.
A LADY OF INFLUENCE
It is well past 9 p.m. when we stop for the military police on our way into PH. There’s no exchange of pleasantries as Chika passes two hundred naira through the window and my phone beeps. It’s Salome sending her location. I click on it and Google maps informs me we are about sixteen minutes away.
I switch on the electronic voice of the navigator to guide us through the city towards the Tropicana. The avenue leading up to the enormous gates of the hotel is lined by huge palm trees and well-tended lawns. There are heavily armed guards at the entrance who use flashlights to peer into the Land Cruiser and ask if we are guests or just visiting.
‘Guests,’ Chika answers brusquely.
One of them uses his flashlight to flip through a list.
‘Philip Taiwo?’
‘That’s me,’ I respond.
‘ID please.’
I reach in my pocket for my American passport and stretch across Chika to hand it to the guard. He points the light into the car again, checks and closes the passport and hands it to Chika, who gives it back to me.
‘Please proceed.’
‘Your friend must be very connected,’ Chika says as he drives through the gates. ‘The Tropicana is one of the best hotels in town. It’s where the expatriates stay.’
‘Explains why it’s heavily guarded.’
‘The insurance on the lives of the guests here is the GDP of some countries.’
The hotel is huge and if there’s any similarity with Hotel Royale, it’s only in the humming sounds of generators. The whole compound is lit up like a Christmas tree, and it’s hard to fathom any part hidden from the watchful eyes of the armed security guards parading the grounds.
A uniformed concierge rushes towards us as we disembark from the Land Cruiser.
‘Welcome to the Tropicana.’ He touches a hat that’s more suited to the host of a circus show and bows. He is dressed in a double-breasted coat embroidered with the crest of the hotel on the left breast pocket. ‘My name is George. Do you need help with your luggage?’
He sounds quite chirpy for this time of night. How he’s not breaking out in sweat under so many clothes is beyond me. Chika opens the trunk and George doesn’t bat an eyelid at what he sees inside. The makeshift rucksack from Hotel Royale is lifted out with the same reverence he would have given a Luis Vuitton bag.
Another concierge joins George with a trolley and we follow them into the grand hotel lobby where Salome is looking as glamorous as the last time I saw her nearly five days ago.
She walks over to us like she owns the place.
‘Thank heavens, you made it.’
Should I shake her hand or hug her? She makes the decision for me with an embrace of such warmth that all my inhibitions dissolve and I’m introducing her to Chika like she’s an old friend.
‘Thank you for all your help, madam,’ Chika says the same way he used to address me. This far, but no more.
If Salome notices Chika’s reservation, she gives no sign of it, as she laughs in that unfettered manner that had invited stares on the flight. ‘First things first, drop the madam. Second, go to your rooms and freshen up. I asked the kitchen to prepare something light for you. Come down as soon as you’re ready.’
One of the concierges approaches us with two key cards. Salome collects them and hands them to us.
‘You’re on the same floor. George will see you to your rooms.’ She turns to him and speaks rapidly in Ikwerre.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Thank me after you look and sound human. I’ll be here.’ She points further into the lobby where I can see a smattering of patrons seated in what appears to be a bar.
‘Go. I can’t keep the kitchen open for much longer. They close at 10 p.m. sharp.’
My gratitude and relief at such kindness drives me to hug her again.
‘Go!’ She pushes me off with a laugh. ‘Sentimental Americana.’
I chuckle, a bit embarrassed, and follow Chika towards the elevator that George and his colleague are holding for us.
My room is sheer luxury compared to the one at Hotel Royale and ranks well above average by any standard. A vast bed dominates the centre and all the amenities of a five-star hotel confront me. George drops my bags on one side of the room and places the ‘rucksack’ gently on the thickly carpeted floor. Like any well-trained concierge, he walks me through the amenities in the room. The minibar is fully stocked, the TV has more cable channels than anyone would need, and the bathroom is bigger than my entire room at Hotel Royale.
‘Thank you, George.’
I’m rummaging through my pockets for my wallet when I realise I have no money save my emergency hundred-dollar bill.
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ George says. ‘Miss Salome has taken care of everything.’
Salome tipped the concierge in advance of my arrival? I smile to hid
e my sudden discomfort. ‘But still, I promise to give you something before I leave.’
‘No problem, sir. I shall tell Madam that you will be down in ten minutes?’
‘Please do that. What room is my friend?’
He tells me and gives instructions how to call Chika’s room.
As soon as George bows and leaves, I flop on to the bed and close my eyes for a brief moment. I can’t help but feel like a pauper raised to the station of a prince. One moment I am in Okriki fighting off assailants, next I am in a five-star hotel in Port Harcourt. Only in Nigeria.
The phone rings and I jump. I reach for the receiver on my bedside table.
‘Oga …’
‘We’ve moved from sir to Oga?’ I answer Chika wryly.
‘Anyone who knows anyone who can find us accommodation in the Tropicana is an Oga. In fact, the person is the Big Oga.’
I laugh heartily, amused and relieved that we are both fine. ‘I take it you like your room.’
‘I like it so much that I’m not leaving here tonight. I’ve asked for my food to be brought up. Please give your friend my apologies.’
‘Chika, I think she’s expecting both of us –’ I protest, worried that Chika thinks he would be intruding. I can’t admit that I’m somewhat nervous about being alone with Salome.
‘I’m sure she is. And believe me, I have many questions I would like to ask her, but tonight I think I’ll stay in the room and pray this is not a dream. Don’t stay up too late. You still have an investigation to finish.’
‘How can I forget?’ I sigh.
‘And Philip, I don’t know if it’s my place to say this, but please be careful.’
I am quiet for a beat. I can pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about, but Chika and I are beyond that now. ‘I will. Thanks.’
I hang up and walk to the bathroom.
Chika’s admonition plays back in my head as I look at my face in the mirror above the sink. Am I that obvious? Sure, Salome is attractive, but I hope that’s not what Chika meant when he asked me to be careful. Or was his admonition regarding the investigation?