Knockout took a motorcycle taxi to Obalende, an area bordering Ikoyi, where the wealth stops and the slums begin. The okada galloped down a street where different genres of music blasted from loudspeakers in front of beer parlours, short-stay motels, and outright brothels. Teenage prostitutes lined both sides of the road, waving at cars. Behind them, sloshed men sat on rickety plastic chairs and tables that took up all of the pavement. It was a neighbourhood of cramped, decaying houses that provided the island with drivers, house girls, messengers, and handymen. Criminals, who preferred to live close to easy pickings, also lived there.
The motorbike drove through a series of alleys. Knockout tapped the rider to stop in front of a long narrow bungalow between two dilapidated apartment blocks. He waited for the driver to leave then he whistled three times and waited.
Someone whistled back, three times, from the building and Knockout whistled again.
A young man opened the door, stepped aside for Knockout to enter, and scanned the street before closing the door and locking it. A corridor ran the length of the bungalow to a door at the back. The walls and doors had been fashioned out of plywood to create six separate rooms; three on either side.
‘Kekere, long time? I’ve come to see your brothers.’
Kekere went from room to room, knocking on the doors and calling his brothers: ‘Brother One-Nation, brother One-Love, brother Oscar, brother Romeo.’
Muscular thugs emerged from each room, shirtless. Their scarred, tattooed bodies glistened with sweat. They were once a family of amateur boxers, following in the footsteps of their late father who had been a boxing trainer in the sixties. Their mother died of pneumonia long before their father passed on from not being able to afford the drugs to treat his high blood pressure. They grew up as orphans, putting their training to good use as bouncers until a local politician asked them to be his bodyguards. Over several elections, they chose their street names and amassed an arsenal of weapons provided by the campaign trail. It was because of this cache of arms that Knockout had come to see them. Catch-Fire and his girls had embarrassed him with their guns; when he returned, he wanted to impress them with his.
‘A boy messed with me today and I want to teach him a lesson,’ he said.
The brothers did not ask what the person had done or who he was. Knockout told them about the situation at Catch-Fire’s house and the thugs found it amusing that prostitutes were now being used as bodyguards. A price was agreed and Knockout didn’t even have to fetch the extra money he had hidden under his shirt.
‘When do you want the job done?’ One-Nation asked. He and his twin, One-Love, were the eldest of the brothers.
‘Today. Now.’
The man shrugged. ‘No problem. And how do we find this Catch-Fire?’
‘I will take you there. I dey come with you.’
A king-size bed in the middle of Catch-Fire’s bedroom was draped with a glossy sheet printed with large Armani logos and above it a chandelier had a clearance of four feet. From wall to wall stretched a rug with flowers in all the primary colours – the source of the new-fabric smell in the room. Electronic appliances were stacked on a shelf against the wall connected to an extension box by a mess of entwined wires. A midsize refrigerator was constantly humming and changing tone.
Catch-Fire was in a large armchair opposite Go-Slow who sat on a stool. He was still recovering from the poison but Doctor had assured him that death had missed him and he just had to continue taking plenty of water and avoid alcohol.
‘My Brother,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about what happened here last night. It is the fault of that boy, Knockout. He cannot just come to my house like that and start talking carelessly. I had to do what I did. It was for you people’s protection. I hope you understand?’
Go-Slow nodded.
‘That man that was here with me, he is the one I am doing the spare parts business with. His name is Amadi. Chief Amadi. We have been doing the business without any problem for some time, but now he suddenly wants to kill me. Thank God that my parents are not just sleeping in Heaven but watching out for me. He did not know that ordinary poison cannot kill Catch-Fire.’ He spat into a bowl by his side. ‘As he has tried and failed, he will surely come back for me. I don’t know when, but what I know is that he cannot rest until I am dead. I know too much about his business. Right now he will be afraid that I will leak information to the police.
‘I have to eliminate him before he eliminates me. If not for this poison he has used on me that has made me weak, I would have gone to find him and finish him myself. But I am too weak. That is why I have called you here.’
Go-Slow doubted that, poisoned or not, Catch-Fire had it in him to pull a trigger in the face of another man, but he let it slide. He had come to see him for two reasons: first, he needed the money, and second, he did not need an enemy, even in the person of such a low life as Catch-Fire.
Catch-Fire continued with a rambling speech meant to convince Go-Slow to do the job, then he got up and walked to his bed, knelt down beside it and pushed the mattress up. Through a space between the wooden planks he fetched a Ghana-must-go bag and emptied the contents onto the floor at Go-Slow’s feet.
‘That is one million naira,’ Catch-Fire said. He emphasised the million as though Go-Slow might doubt it, then returned to his chair. ‘Will you do this favour for me, my brother? It must be done as soon as possible. I will give you his address but I don’t think it would be safe to do it at his house. He has a button that he can press to summon the police immediately. There is another place that would be easier.
‘We drug the people we use for the rituals then we take them to a house off Lekki Expressway, on the way to Epe. The house is very far from the road. It is the only building in the area, inside a big forest. Me, myself, I do not go inside. I just deliver the people and when he finishes, we drive back to town and he pays me. He kills them himself and does his juju with them inside the house. I am the only one that drives him to the place. Even when I don’t have anybody for him, he phones me to take him there every Sunday night around ten p.m. I think he has to do the rituals at that time. We always go there alone. I am sure he will go there again this Sunday even if he has to drive himself. That is the best place to waylay him.
‘You cannot take a car there. You have to go during the day and hide until he comes. He is a very wicked man but he never carries any weapon; he only relies on his juju, so it should be easy. I have made this charm to protect myself.’ From his pocket he got a small object wrapped in white cloth and bound with red thread. He handed it to Go-Slow. ‘Take it with you; you will need it.’
Knockout followed the thugs to their backyard. Romeo, whose Mohican had begun to grow out of shape, opened the wooden lid on a well. He reached in, and with both hands pulled the rope till he had the large bag tied to its end. He placed the bag on the ground and unzipped it. Knockout beamed at the guns and ammunition inside.
The thugs took turns reaching in to select weapons. They had AK-47s, Uzis, pump-action shotguns, and automatic pistols to choose from. They inspected their arsenal and cleaned them, concluding their preparation by tying strings of amulets around their waists, wrists, and biceps.
Knockout stared longingly. He began to formulate a plan to get his hands on their guns once the night’s job was done.
‘Do you have transportation?’ One-Nation said.
‘No.’
‘That will cost you extra.’
‘No problem.’
He thought of Go-Slow and dialled his number but cancelled the call before it rang. He was moving up. No more carjacking for him. He was now one of the big boys. He was going to be bigger than Go-Slow.