LAGOS, NIGERIA
WEDNESDAY, 2:31 P.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (9:31 A.M. EST)
Don’t drive so fast, Chuku,” Judge Bola Akinola instructed, pulling one of his four cell phones away from his ear.
“Yes, sah,” replied the driver, swerving aggressively through traffic.
“Don’t be nervous, Chuku. We are safe.”
“Eh, chief. We are safe. But this is the bridge where Tunde Babatunde was kidnapped this morning. I’m not going to stop.”
“That has nothing to do with us, Chuku,” Bola said, tightly gripping the car’s backseat handle with one hand and his phone with the other. “My greater concern is that you’re going to crash. Or kill someone.”
“Eh, chief. I will get us there safe.”
Bola turned his attention back to his call. “Yes, Minister. I understand,” he murmured. “But once an official inquiry is opened, there is no way it can be closed without cause. It has to be completed all the way to a conclusion. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, of course. . . . I assure you that will happen. . . . Yes, I will personally share your concerns with the lead investigator. Thank you for your call, Minister.”
Bola hung up and picked up another phone.
“Chuku!” he shouted. “Slow down! You are a greater danger than the area boys.”
“Yes, sah. . . .”
“This is Judge Akinola,” Bola spoke calmly into the phone. “The police commissioner is expecting my call. . . . Yes. . . . This is the time. . . . No, I’m calling for the update on the Funke Kanju murder. . . . I demand to know what’s happening. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Well, this is very pressing, too. Tell him I called again and I’m expecting a reply within the hour.”
He changed phones and the tenor of Bola’s voice shifted. “Eh, Zina, I hear you have gotten yourself into trouble again, my friend. . . . No, no, no, you have a choice, Zina. . . . You can let me help you or you can take your chances in the creeks. . . . It is up to you, Zina: You can let me help you or you can choose a long, slow, painful death. . . . Those are your only choices, Zina. . . . Eh, I will send one of my people to meet you. Azikiwe Street, by the entrance to the university, she will find you there. In exactly one hour. Be there or there is nothing I can do to save you.”
Bola swapped phones again, not noticing a yellow minibus taxi that was lurching forward alongside his car. “Mama, how are you today? Is Auntie with you—”
“Crazy danfo!” Chuku shouted as the taxi swerved with several young men hanging menacingly off the side. The van’s side door slid open, revealing a masked man shouldering an assault rifle.
“Go, Chuku, go!” Bola shouted and ducked.
A slight merciful pause, then the attacker unloaded his weapon, raking Bola’s Mercedes with bullets, rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat! The windows exploded over Bola’s head and showered him with glass. The vehicles around them screeched their brakes, but Chuku didn’t slow down. He jerked the wheel sharply and stomped on the accelerator, crashing into the side of the minivan. The traffic came to a halt and an eerie silence fell over the scene.
The next sound Bola heard was a spine-tingling shriek of metal scraping metal as Chuku forced the Mercedes along the minivan until the car finally pulled itself clear. By this time the armed man had gathered himself and stumbled out of the taxi. He moved in front of the van, taking aim for another round of shots at Bola through the rear window.
“Go, Chuku!” Bola yelled from the floor of the backseat. But rather than drive forward, Chuku yanked the transmission into reverse and accelerated backward. The Mercedes crunched into the van, crushing the shooter between the two mangled vehicles. Chuku then slammed the Mercedes back into drive, sideswiping cars as he sped away. Bola lay on the backseat, the only sensations the sound of his pounding heart and the smell of burning rubber.
The next thing Bola Akinola knew, Chuku had pulled the car through the security barrier of a gated shopping mall and come to a steaming stop. Bola tried to catch his breath.
“Eh, chief. We are safe.”