12

Inspector Ibrahim yelled and I jumped in my chair. Maybe it had something to do with the ‘two fatalities.’ What the heck did that mean, ‘No casualties, two fatalities’? But then he grabbed the officer’s hand and shook it like he wanted to tear it off. It was good news. So good, that the inspector called someone on his mobile to share the news: ‘Sir, we have just captured the Iron Benders… Sorry sir. I didn’t check the time… The Iron Benders… Yes, sir. No, sir, those ones are from Benin Republic. Iron Benders, sir. They used to be iron benders. They worked at a mechanic’s yard in Ajegunle.’

It turned out that the Iron Benders gang was a group of novice robbers who compensated for their inexperience with violence. Their speciality was carjacking. In the few months since they took up their new trade, they had become the most wanted robbers in two states. They shot and killed for no reason, raped and tortured for sport. Ibrahim told the person on the phone a story of how they once relieved an elderly pastor of his S Class Merc. They made the terrified man of God pray for them and bless them, before shooting him in the leg and asking him to pray for a miracle that would instantly heal the bullet wound. They left him bleeding on the road and sped off in his car. A few kilometres into their getaway, the car stopped. It had an anti-theft immobiliser. They set it ablaze, snatched another car, and went back to find the pastor – to teach him a lesson for deceiving them. The pastor barely survived the beating. They told him they only spared his life so that his congregation would buy him a new car, which they would in turn return to collect. They were a bunch of disillusioned, disaffected, drug-crazed, violent gangsters.

The gang had been on a crime spree that night. They had snatched several cars, probably to order, and then driven their loot in a high-speed convoy, picking up more cars on the way, heading out of Lagos. The men of Fire-for-Fire were out on their nightly patrol and the gang drove into them. The gunfight that followed saw motorists abandoning their cars to flee on foot. In the end, two of the criminals fell and the rest were arrested.

Ibrahim asked for details and shook hands with the officers. He wanted to know who fired the fatal shots: it was Sergeant Hot-Temper, as usual.

Hot-Temper, a lanky fellow with deep lacerations that spread from the corners of his mouth to his cheekbones, was standing straight, arms folded across his chest, grinning toothily through glazed eyes.

Ibrahim slapped a loud handshake onto his palm.

‘Hot-Temper, why didn’t you waste all the bastards?’

‘Oga, my bullets finished. Before I reload, they don surrender.’

The men burst into laughter.

This man, this Sergeant Hot-Temper, who stood less than a metre from me, had just come back from ending two lives. I shouldn’t be here.

A short man with a tiny face like a squirrel’s eased his way into the room. He tried to catch his boss’s attention amidst the taller, harder looking combatants. He waited until the inspector noticed him and beckoned. I listened to their conversation while pretending to admire the plaques on the wall.

Squirrel-face told his boss that a woman had trekked barefoot to the station and asked to see the officer in charge. Her car had just been snatched. She ‘spoke well’ and looked like a ‘big woman,’ so the constable thought it wise to inform his boss rather than ask her any further questions.

‘Where is she?’

‘She is at the counter, sir.’

‘Has she written a statement?’

‘No, sir.’

‘OK. Ask her to write her statement and when she finishes, bring her here.’ He turned to me. ‘Mr Collins, as you can see, we are very busy here tonight.’ I nodded. More than one of the terrifying-to-look-at officers had given me the once-over. I really didn’t want him drawing attention to me right then.

‘What you witnessed tonight, at the club, I advise you to forget. These things happen in our country, but even worse things happen in yours, we see it on TV all the time. My boys will take you back to your hotel and you will forget everything that happened tonight. Understand?’ I nodded.

‘As you can see, we the police are doing all we can to get rid of the miscreants in our society. What you witnessed tonight will not go unpunished. The life expectancy of armed robbers in this country is less than thirty. We will catch the culprits, and when we do, we will bring them to justice. You do not need to worry about it. This is a local problem and we will deal with it locally. Understand?’ I nodded. ‘Just forget everything, OK?’

I’d been so busy dealing with my own predicament that I had actually forgotten about the girl in the gutter. I wanted to believe that this man would do something about it. That he would find the bastard who did that to her and turn Sergeant Hot-Temper loose on him. I suddenly felt a strange sense of responsibility for the girl.

‘OK,’ I said.

‘Good.’

His phone rang. He checked who was calling and told everyone to be quiet. All eyes were on him. He answered the call.

‘Hello, sir,’ he said.

In seconds, his face dropped and a frown formed. When the call was over, he looked scary. When he spoke, he sounded dangerous.

‘Everybody, clear out,’ he said.

Everybody began to leave. I followed them.

‘Not you.’

I turned to look.

He walked past me and his shoulder brushed mine so that I had to step back to remain standing. He slammed the door. It hit its frame and bounced back. He rough-handled it again and this time it stayed closed. What the hell did that call have to do with me?

He went to his desk and picked up a remote control. He pointed it at the TV set on top of a rusty filing cabinet. A few clicks later and we were watching CNN.

I recognised the road in front of Ronnie’s and my apprehension moved up a notch. The picture was grainy, probably filmed with a mobile phone. A female voice spoke over the shaky video, reporting what I already knew: a woman had been murdered in an apparent ritual killing, organs had been taken from her body, and it happened right outside a busy nightclub in Lagos.

His face creased and contoured with every frame.

‘You people. Sergeant!’

A policeman came running into his office.

‘Lock him up. Cell B.’