LAGOS, NIGERIA
TUESDAY, 3:05 P.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (10:05 A.M. EST)
Big judge man, how you dey? God don butta my bread me to see you.”
“I’m very happy to see you, too,” said Bola Akinola through his open car window to a boy in a dirty white T-shirt, holding up a sack of oranges.
“You buy dis?”
“No, thank you. No oranges for me today,” said the judge.
“I dey hungry. I wan chop. You fit buy DVD?”
Bola’s driver, Chuku, waved the boy away as he nudged the vehicle, an aging black Mercedes E-Class sedan, through the crowd. “Tsah! Go!” Chuku hissed.
The hawker ignored the driver and jogged cheerily alongside the car in bare feet.
“You aren’t trying to sell pirated merchandise to a judge, are you, son?” Bola asked.
“Oh, no, big judge man. Dis good movie. First-class. You wan Yankee Hollywood? Iron Man, Star Wars, Happy Feet Two,” said the boy, flashing the plastic cases. “You wan Nollywood film? Last Flight to Lagos. Dis ha fine film. Funke Kanju dey inside. Dey ending too funny. Laugh wan kill me die. Good price.”
“Do you have any children’s books?” Bola asked as they pulled slowly through a gate and into the courtyard of his office block.
“Abeg, wait me, big judge man,” the boy squealed, then disappeared.
Chuku eased the Mercedes into a space underneath a palm tree and then sprung out to open the rear door. Bola emerged from the car, sprightly for a man in his early fifties, wearing an agbada, a huge free-flowing robe, all white with fine gold trim, matching white trousers, and well-worn brown leather sandals. On top of his head, a matching embroidered soft gobi cap flopped to one side.
He eyed the line of people that had formed outside his office, a whitewashed concrete building that had once housed a mission boarding school for girls.
“Many people again today, Chuku,” Bola said, stroking the wisps of gray hair in his goatee.
“I’m sorry we are late, sah. The traffic on the bridge was too go-slow, eh. I will drive better tomorrow.”
“It’s not your fault, Chuku. The governor should have finished the new bridge by now. Life in Lagos will be better when the bridge is open.”
“Eh, chief. Soon life will be better.”
Bola handed his briefcase to the driver. “Take this to Mrs. Oshinowo. I will be inside in a moment.” He wandered over to the crowd outside his front door. “It’s a beautiful morning,” he said to the woman at the front of the line. “Why are you here today, my friend?”
“Doctor judge man, my sister has moved in with a bad man who is trying to steal our father’s land,” she said. Bola nodded and moved on to the next person.
“I have information about the Senator from Lagos East,” whispered an old man.
“De Oga in Ikeja. Dey resell subsidized fuel,” reported an elderly woman. “De police, dey no care.”
“We seek your wise advice for our marriage,” said a young couple holding a newborn baby.
Next in line were three young men huddled together. “Chief, we have a business proposition. A big idea. Very big.” And on to the next, and the next.
When Bola had finished hearing from each and every person waiting in line to see him, he thanked everyone for coming and begged for their patience. Waiting by the door was the street boy who had been selling oranges and DVDs.
“I sell you dis, big judge man,” said the boy excitedly, holding up several books, a dog-eared used mathematics textbook, a tattered German romance novel, and a shiny new copy of Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss.
“How much for the green book, my friend?”
“Good price,” said the boy. “Three thousand.”
Bola tsked at the offer, about fifteen American dollars, and walked away. “It’s not worth more than five hundred.”
“I have to eat. I wan chop. You wan big man to beat me? Two thousand.” The boy chased after him, thrusting the book into Bola’s hand. “You take dis, big judge man. Pay me tomorrow. Any price you wan.”
Bola accepted the book and walked into his office. The air was hot and humid, like breathing spicy peanut soup.
“Good morning, Mrs. Oshinowo,” he said to the woman sitting at the reception desk. “How is Timi?”
“He’s better, Judge Akinola. Thank you. He was able to go to school today.”
“Very good. I have this for him,” he said, handing her the Dr. Seuss book. “It’s very popular with children in America. I think he will like it.”
“I am sure he will, Judge Akinola. Thank you and God bless.”
“Give me a few minutes to read the newspaper and have my tea, then send in the first person. There are many outside today. It’s going to be a long day, Mrs. Oshinowo.”
“Just like yesterday. You have calls from the attorney general, the governor of Cross River, the police commissioner, and your cousin Ife in Greenwich.”
“Ife!” Bola snorted. “I will call them all back after my tea.”
“And Funke called twice. She wants to interview you again for the show. In studio, tomorrow.”
“Of course,” he said. “Call Funke back and tell her yes.”
Bola stepped into his office, which was even hotter than the reception area. He flipped on the air conditioner, but nothing happened. He tried again, with no result.
“Mrs. Oshinowo!” he called out. “The AC is out again.”
“No power today,” she replied.
“Tell Chuku to turn on the generator.”
“No diesel,” she said.
Bola slumped into his chair and exhaled. “Where is Chuku?”
A few moments later, the driver appeared in the doorway.
“Where is the diesel?” Bola asked patiently.
“No fuel in Ojota today, sah. I tried Ikeja, too, eh. No luck.”
“Can you go to Victoria Island?”
“Eh, chief. But it’s extra money. The rich people on the island pay too much.”
“That’s fine, Chuku. We need diesel today. It is too hot,” he said, handing Chuku a thick wad of local currency.
“Yes, sah. Right away.”
“And on your way out, there is a small boy. White shirt, no shoes.”
“The area boy selling books?”
“That’s the one. Give him this,” he said, handing Chuku three thousand naira.
“Okay, chief. Right away.”