Lagos was in a foul mood that Monday morning. The sky was overcast and had the look of a bitter woman with a grudge. A brewing storm threatened rain.
‘I think Zeal should stay home,’ Ada said to Philo as she led a fully dressed Zeal downstairs.
‘I want to go!’ the boy cried.
‘It’s going to rain,’ Abel told him. He was watching CNN while sipping coffee.
‘I like rain,’ Zeal squealed and made a dash for the door. Philo grabbed him and dragged him, squealing and laughing, back to his uncle.
‘Let’s watch Teletubbies,’ Abel said, tickling him.
‘School!’ Zeal cried, giggling and struggling to wriggle free.
That was where they were when Santos burst in, wet from the rain. He had eight soft-sell magazines with him.
‘Bros, yawa don gas. Sabato gist is all over the papers.’
Ada cried out and dashed into the living room. Santos spread out the papers on the floor. The stories were all the same, with slight variations.
Top female banker arrested over missing businessman
Lagos Big Boy missing, top female banker nabbed
Top female banker arrested in connection with missing businessman
Sabato Rabato missing; Top female banker detained
Lagos Big Girl, Dr Nicole, in police net for fraud
Where is Lagos Big Boy, Sabato Rabato? Police seek clues
Is Sabato Rabato dead? Fear grips Lagos socialites
Sabato Rabato feared dead. Associates nabbed
‘We must contact Mama,’ Ada said. ‘Before someone tells her.’
Abel smiled his thanks. Ada always thought fast. He had been paralysed by all the stories.
‘Yes, I will call my sister right away.’
Abel called Oby and briefed her. ‘Go to Uncle Mezie. Tell him what has happened and let him go with you when you tell her. When you get to mummy, call so we can also speak to her.’
When Abel dropped the call, he replied to a text sent by Auntie Ekwi. She had a Bible passage for him as usual: God is our refuge, an ever-present help in trouble. He is our strength we shall not be moved. It is well and I will send a text to the Prophet to pray for us.
After sending his reply, Abel considered all the papers spread out in front of them on the floor. The story was all out: Dr Nicole’s arrest, the forged cheque and Soni, who some reports said had been missing for months and hadn’t been seen at any recent social events. The kicker was the one that read, Sabato Rabato’s pretty wife has been seen around town with a handsome young man and tongues are wagging.
‘“Handsome young man and tongues are wagging?”’ Abel exclaimed.
‘You are handsome and you are young, aren’t you?’ Ada said and told him to calm down. ‘Soft-sell stories are all about innuendo and speculation. At least we know who the handsome young man is. Let the tongues wag.’
Abel scanned the papers again and exhaled loudly. ‘How did they even find out in the first place?’ he asked no one in particular.
‘Soni’s girlfriend, Dr Nicole,’ Ada said as she paced. ‘If he had kept his dick in one place most of this wouldn’t have happened. Nine inches my arse!’
Abel looked up at her, considered saying something, then thought better of it. He could tell she was hurting and that was her own way of letting off steam.
‘And bros, more papers will come out tomorrow,’ Santos said. ‘Soft-sell papers come out on Mondays and Tuesdays.’
Abel growled as if in pain and placed both hands on his head. This was becoming a circus he hadn’t planned for. ‘What do we do now? Send a rejoinder, call a press conference?’
‘Press what?’ Ada stopped in front of Abel. ‘You don’t even respond. Give it one week and they move on. Someone one else will disappear. Some rich man will sleep with his daughter or a huge scandal will break out in Abuja and they will forget all about Sabato Rabato.’
‘But we won’t forget,’ Abel said, marvelling at how analytical and in control Ada appeared, as if this was something she had anticipated.
‘We will never forget,’ she said and continued pacing.
Abel’s phone rang. ‘Oby.’ he said, expecting to hear his sister’s voice, but a man answered.
‘Is this Mr Abel Dike?’
‘Who is this?’ He paused to look at the caller ID. He did not recognise it.
‘My name is Uzor Arinze. I am a reporter with Oui International. I am calling about your missing brother. Is it true that his account officer has been detained with regard to his disappearance? Were they lovers?’
‘Who gave you my number?’ Abel barked. ‘Do not call me again. Ever!’ He cut the call.
They were relentless. When he wouldn’t pick up, they called Ada. When neither responded, the text messages came flying in like a swarm of locusts.
About two hours later, the doorbell rang. Philo answered; a short lady with red lips and kinky dreadlocks was standing at the door.
‘My name is Monica Dimka. I write for—’
‘Shut the door, shut the door!’ Abel screamed at Philo.
He was losing it, his hands shaking badly. How had the dwarf made it past the gateman?
His phone rang just then and he was reaching out to put it off when he saw Oby’s name on the screen.
When he answered, his mum was crying and screaming: ‘I told him to stop o, I told Sunderland to stop. Chukwu nna, what am I going to do?’
The voice faded; Oby must have moved some distance away from the tumult.
‘I am with Mummy,’ she said. ‘She has been rolling on the floor since.’
‘What did you expect? Is Uncle Mezie there?’
‘Yes.’ Abel asked her to put him on.
Uncle Mezie was their mother’s brother, a no-nonsense retired teacher.
‘Chiedu, what is this that I am hearing?’ he asked in Igbo.
‘Uncle that’s what we met in Lagos,’ Abel replied in the same tongue.
‘When did this one happen?’ Abel explained quickly. ‘You people can kill o. Something like this happened and you kept it under your fingernails for over two months. Chiedu, my son, is this a good thing?’
‘Uncle, do not be offended,’ Abel placated him. ‘We did not want anyone to worry. We thought this would be sorted out quietly.’
‘You do not want us to worry, eh? What is a father’s job if not to worry? Chiedu, this is not good.’
Abel apologised again, and charged him to take care of his mother, who was bawling uncontrollably in the background.
There were more calls and text messages but Abel and Ada ignored them all. The next call he took was from DSP Umannah.
‘I have been trying to reach you all day,’ he said as soon as Abel answered.
‘It’s been crazy down here,’ Abel told him.
‘I know. I saw the papers. Welcome to Lagos my brother,’ Umannah laughed.
‘It would be funny if it wasn’t so terrible. That banker got us into this, I tell you.’
‘Yes, yes. She moves in the top social circles – the so called Lagos Big Girls.’ Umannah hissed. ‘But don’t worry. It’s a circus and it will soon move on. Lagos is like that. I will keep in touch.’
Abel finally went up to shower before going down for lunch. Then he sat downstairs and read all the papers from beginning to end, astonished at the details in some and amazed at the complete falsehoods in most.
Some of them read like fiction. Some reports said Soni’s car had been found in a ditch on Victoria Island. Others said Lekki. Most of them got the make of the car wrong and many of the papers spelt his name as Sabato Roberto. Many got Ada’s name wrong while others said he had two wives, Dr Nicole and Ada.
By evening, Abel’s anxiety was easing and he was beginning to find the stories hilarious. There was something about them that seemed calculated to make you laugh, as if they were writing for the shock value.
He was drinking cognac by the pool when a text message came in.
I hv news abt ur broda’s whereabts. Reply if u want 2 c him alive.
Who is this? Abel replied, stopping himself from calling the number only by sheer willpower he didn’t even realise he possessed.
Mayowa Akindele, came the reply.
And who are you?
I am d publisher of Excel Celebrity magazine. Print and online
And how come you know his whereabouts?
i hv my sources
And who are these sources?
As a professional journalist of over 15 yrs standing, I cannot divulge d id of my sources. I am running out of credit so let me know weda u will come around.
Where?
The address was in a street in Ikeja off the notorious Ipodo, between Olowu and Ikeja bus stops.
Meet me tomoro by noon. Come alone. If u come wit smbody, I will not show. I will take u 2 meet someone.
Abel dug into the pile of papers and found Excel. Someone by the same name of Mayowa Akindele was indeed the editor and publisher, but the paper was a trashy little piece of junk. It was filled with typos, from the captions to the stories. It seemed as if the guy wrote the way he typed his text messages, without bothering about spelling or grammar.
‘Oga, one man say e want to see you,’ the gateman announced. Abel had given him a stern warning after his Monica Dimka slip.
‘Who is it?’
‘He say his name is Nnamdi.’
Abel asked him to let his car in.
Nnamdi was all smiles as he came out of the Prado.
‘Knowing that you are a poor man, I came with my own drink,’ he said waving a bottle of Courvoisier XO.
‘You are a true son of your father,’ Abel said as they shook hands.
‘I saw the papers. I knew it would be madness so I said let me come down and wipe your tears.’
‘God bless you.’ They settled at the pool and Abel passed a clean glass to Nnamdi.
‘I didn’t realise there had been some arrests,’ Nnamdi said as he sipped his drink.
‘Yes – that banker lady and some lowlifes. I went to Panti. It wasn’t them. They were greedy idiots but they had nothing to do with Soni going missing,’ Abel explained.
‘And the lady?’
‘The greediest of the lot. You know her right?’
‘Like Abraham knew Sarah.’
‘Looks like I am the only one who never got there. You remember the day we met at the bank?’ Nnamdi nodded. ‘I had been to see her.’
‘I was on my way to see her. She must love guys from our place.’
‘I suppose so. Anyway, we had finished talking when she just hit me with, “I know your brother is missing, but he promised me a new car for my birthday and it’s not as if he is broke.” I was completely shocked.’
‘Why were you shocked? In Lagos the hustle never sleeps. To her, Sabato is missing and so what? She also told me about her birthday when I went up. It’s a hustle my brother.’
Abel digested the information slowly. It made sense, even if in an amoral kind of way. Everyone knew how Soni had made his money and he was sure everyone felt they had a right to some, if only they could find a way to get their hands on it.
Had he got in on the hustle too? Was that what he was doing by entrenching himself in Lagos and digging deep into Soni’s wealth and home? There he was, lying in a lounge chair by the pool, sipping fine cognac. Was he not feeding off Soni’s hustle by sleeping in his bed, driving his cars, wearing his clothes, enjoying the company of his wife? What made him different from Dr Nicole? Soni was missing, yes, but the party was still in full swing.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ Abel asked. Lost in his thoughts, he had missed the question Nnamdi asked.
‘I said, have you guys told your mum? She will hear now that it is all over the papers. Your mother and father loved to read papers. I remember, whenever I came to your house, your father would ask me to sit and read the newspapers while someone went to fetch you. I hated those moments, especially when you didn’t come out immediately.’
Abel said his mother had been informed and that Oby was keeping an eye on her.
Ada came out then to greet Nnamdi.
‘Our fine wife, how are you?’
‘Fine bros.’ She curtsied. ‘You abandoned us.’
‘How can I? How is the boy? I haven’t been here since his naming ceremony. Lagos swallows you.’
‘Is it Lagos? Or have you been busy counting your money?’ Ada teased. ‘We heard stories o.’
‘Rumours. All rumours.’
Ada asked after his wife and kids then told them to have fun.
‘How are your parents?’ Abel asked him. ‘Your mum was a very pretty woman but she was wicked, o. Her flogging was something else.’ He recalled Nnamdi’s mother, who had taught them geography and wielded a mean cane.
‘She is fine. She and my dad are in India. She was having issues with her waist so they went for surgery. My sister Nkechi is with them too.’
‘Money is good.’
Nnamdi sat up with a smile. ‘You know, I still remember the slap my father gave me when I came home with my first car, a Peugeot 505. “No son of mine will be a 419 criminal,” he spat and threw me out. Remember, it was in your house I spent that Christmas. I went legit because 419 almost destroyed our generation. I got into telecoms the moment I saw the opportunity. Soni couldn’t drag himself away.’ There was something that sounded like regret in his voice. ‘We always envied you, you know. How you stayed away and didn’t even come to Lagos. Did I tell you what happened when I got to Lagos? I wrote to Eva. You remember short Eva with the big head?’
‘Yes, I remember Eva. Where is he now?’
‘Dead. He was beheaded in Saudi Arabia. When things went bad here and money ran low, he got into the drug trade.’ Nnamdi refilled his glass. ‘Anyway, I sent word to him that I was coming to Lagos and could I stay with him? You know Eva couldn’t say no to anybody. He said sure, so I came. Big mistake. There were five other boys from our set staying with him. It was a tight space. At night we would talk and argue and some people would quote Karl Marx and Adam Smith, Frantz Fanon, Steve Biko, Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre. Imagine us all: white-collar criminals spouting revolutionary rhetoric. It was funny. But Eva always had the last word. After we had all poured out our frustrations with revolutionary quotes as footnotes, he would unroll his thin mattress, and as he stretched out for the night he would say, “I will make it in this Lagos like Malcolm X said, ‘by any means necessary.’” And every time he said that, someone, I think Ralph, would say, “You know, it was actually Jean-Paul Sartre who coined that phrase,” and then everyone would shout him down with, “Shut up, you told us before.”
‘Those were crazy nights. If anyone had made some money during the day, he would buy drinks. The preferred drink was Squadron because it was cheap and gave a quick buzz. You remember Squadron, abi? Many nights, the landlord, tired of our arguments would bang on the door and tell us to shut up. “Una dey crase! Omo ibo buruku. People want to sleep o.” That was where it all started. Then we branched out and things changed and, you know, but my parents never accepted me. I would send money and they would send it back. Intact. You teachers, eh? Anyway, my mother took ill. I went to see her and, would you believe, my father wouldn’t let me into the house. My mother wouldn’t see me either. They wouldn’t accept my money. I came back to Lagos and cut off all ties with my 419 cronies. Telecoms had just started and I invested all my money. Many 419 boys invested in politics and telecoms and many lost out big time. But I was lucky and God started blessing my hustle and from there things changed. I wish Soni had done the same, you know, made a clean break, but then I suppose he had got in too deep. Your brother made serious money. He was a wealthy man and now it’s all coming to you; you who never got your hands dirty. Life is funny, my brother.’
They sat there by the pool drinking and reminiscing until late. They recalled the old days when their parents all lived in the same compound. How Abel and Nnamdi’s fathers would play tennis together on Wednesday evenings and Saturday mornings.
‘I wanted to be them, in their white shorts and tops with your father’s red headband.’
‘But you were too skinny,’ Abel teased, and Nnamdi laughed.
‘And you were always at death’s door.’
‘But my father still took me. I played tennis.’
‘I played football and I also played with the girls. You, we thought you would die a virgin.’ Nnamdi poked him playfully in the ribs.
It wasn’t until 11pm when Nnamdi was leaving and asked after Calista that Abel remembered.
‘Damn, she leaves tonight. I was supposed to take her to the airport. God. Drive safe, Nnamdi. I need to call her.’
Her flight was for 10.45pm. There was no way he could meet her.
‘I was too upset to call. I didn’t think you would forget,’ she told Abel when she finally picked up after the sixth call, and only after he had sent a text explaining what happened.
‘I am really sorry but it’s been a crazy day.’
‘You could have called, sent a text. I would have understood.’
‘It’s OK. I have to board now. Our flight was delayed. Your mum knows now, right?’ Abel said she had been informed. ‘Good, she doesn’t have to hear it from the press. And someone is taking care of her?’
‘Yes, my sister. Oby, you remember her. She came to visit once when we were in school.’
‘I remember. She had lovely long hair and she caught us in bed, once. We had a good laugh afterwards. She was born-again, right, and she didn’t find it funny.’
‘No, she didn’t. She told me you were a Jezebel and you would lead me to hell. They caught Soni with girls all the time and said nothing, but it was me who would go to hell.’
‘Jezebel indeed,’ Calista said with a laugh. ‘See, I have to board now. Take care of yourself and when this is all sorted out you should come visit me. You can afford it.’
Abel said goodbye and went upstairs. He showered, brushed his teeth and got into bed, but sleep was a distant country. He lay in bed, trying to make sense of what he was becoming. Or had become. The things Nnamdi and Calista said had unsettled him. Were they seeing things he had refused to acknowledge, the fact that he had assumed what was not really his?
‘You should come visit. You can afford it,’ Calista had told him. Nnamdi had said, ‘He was a wealthy man and now, it’s all coming to you; you who never got your hands dirty. Life is funny, my brother.’
It was true; he hadn’t engineered Soni’s disappearance but he hadn’t wasted any time taking over all that Soni left behind. There was always money in his pocket now. He had spent more money in the past two months than he had ever seen or had access to in his entire life.
As he lay there in the dark listening to the music filtering out of Ada’s room, his thoughts running in different directions, a passage from Achebe’s Things Fall Apart came to mind. He didn’t remember the lines verbatim but it had something to do with an Igbo saying about the relationship between the hero and the coward.
Soni’s life was epic and heroic; a full book brimming with grand tales and multilayered chapters. His own, by comparison, was a mere paragraph, the words scrambling around like excited ants, trying to find their niches. His life had become, as Achebe wrote, the coward’s house from where people stood and pointed to the crumbling ruin of the dead hero’s abode as they said to their children: that was the house of a great warrior who is no more. Soni was the hero, and Abel was under no illusions who the coward was.