17

Malik got down and had walked past two other cars parked on the side of the road before he turned, pointed his key at the Range Rover with Naomi inside it, and pressed a button to activate the alarm.

At the entrance to Peace Lodge, he leaned close to a panel on the fence and spoke into the microphone. ‘My name is Malik. Baba is expecting me.’

When he was still close to the wall, he removed a pen from the breast pocket of his black dashiki, twisted its cap until he heard a click, then replaced it, his actions hidden from the camera above the console.

On the other side of the fence a guard considered the tall, light-complexioned man on his monitor. A call had come from the main house letting the gate know that Otunba was expecting a Malik, but no title had preceded the name, no Chief, Prince, Senator, or even Honourable, so the guards had not known what to expect. The man standing outside could be a politician or an errand boy. He looked rich in his starched outfit with an embroidered emblem over the breast pocket. Even on the small, colour monitor, his skin looked like he was used to eating good food and living in an air-conditioned house. His beard, however, shimmering with pomade, made him seem more Lagos Big Boy than Abuja Big Man. The guard buzzed the foot gate open.

Two security guards were waiting for Malik when he stepped into the compound. One of them had a wand, the other held out a square, grey plastic tray. Three police officers holding AK-47s stood behind the guards and watched.

The wand beeped at Malik’s trousers. Malik lowered his stretched-out arms to remove his two phones. He removed the keys to his Range Rover Sport from the other pocket, along with a wad of money in a gold clip. Everything went into the grey tray. Next, he removed his Hublot Fusion King Gold and gently placed the watch on top of the wallet already in the tray. He struggled with the clasp on his gold bracelet and the officer with the wand said, ‘No need.’

The officer ran the wand down Malik’s sides again and to his feet, down his back, over the insides of his legs, then along each hand, the wand beeping as it went over the gold bracelet. A black pen was visible in Malik’s breast pocket. The officer waved the wand over it and it beeped. Malik removed the pen and was about to place it in the tray when the officer held out his hand for it. The officer tested its weight in his hand. He seemed fascinated by the floating star in the tip of its cap. ‘Mont Blanc,’ he said to the other officer, nodding, and returned the pen to Malik with a smile.

One of the waiting policeman asked Malik to follow him. They walked up to the main building, then turned right onto a pathway with trimmed edges on either side. They went past the building, turned along the footpath, past the wire fence of a lit-up lawn tennis court, past a row of white plastic pool chairs, and to the pool house on the other side of the large rectangular pool.

After fifteen minutes sitting alone in the pool house, Malik composed a message on his phone: ‘I am at Otunba Oluawo’s house. He asked me to come and see him. I don’t know why.’ He selected several contacts in his address book, many of them with the prefixes, Senator, Honourable, Chief. He sent the message to all of them, watching his screen to see the messages get delivered.

From his armchair he could see the lit windows of the big house. He saw people walking past, stopping to talk, leaning against the window frame. It must have to do with the party’s dead candidate. He could be waiting a long time. But why had Otunba reached out to him?

The policeman by the door, his rifle slung across his body, hands held behind his back, was probably there to keep him in place.

Malik had been introduced to Douglas once, at a party hosted by a senator, and he had seen him a couple of times after that at other parties, but they had never as much as said hello again after that first introduction. Douglas was not a real Lagosian. His life was really in America where he made his money selling subprime mortgages. He had returned to Nigeria only five years earlier to accept an appointment as Commissioner for Works and Housing, and in that capacity he made his name by allocating small parcels of land in the recovered areas of Lekki to groups of indigenes that then sold them on and became first-time millionaires. The people loved him. But what the hell did he have to do with Malik? Why had Otunba, whom Malik had never met, called him himself and asked him if he wouldn’t mind coming to Peace Lodge immediately? Otunba Oluawo, who once kept a president of the federation waiting while he played table tennis with his grandson, and when he had time for the president, just wanted to tell him that he was invited to his only daughter’s wedding, was keeping Malik waiting, but definitely not so as to invite him to something fun.

Malik kept his eyes on the policeman while he raised his hand to his chest pocket. The officer turned to face him. Malik dropped his hand away. ‘Does he know I’ve arrived?’ he asked.

‘Sorry?’ the officer said.

‘Does baba know that I have arrived?’

‘I think they called him when you arrived. Please be patient. He will see you soon.’

A back door of the mansion opened and a man appeared. Malik leaned forward, then stood. The policeman also stood to attention and Malik began to walk to the door.

‘Please, remain here,’ the officer said, holding out his hand.

Malik looked out the window at the old man getting closer. He looked shorter in real life than in the papers, slightly stooped, but at over eighty, it was impressive that he could still walk with such assured strides. He had no bodyguards with him. Well, it was his house, after all, but it still felt strange to see such a powerful man appear so vulnerable.

The policeman opened the glass door for Otunba.

‘Malik, how are you?’ Otunba said, extending his hand.

‘I’m fine, sir,’ Malik said, bowing as they shook hands. ‘It is a great honour to meet you, sir.’

‘Yes, yes. Sit down.’

Their armchairs faced each other.

‘Leave us,’ Otunba said to the policeman. The officer left, closed the door behind him, and walked to the other side of the pool where he stopped and turned to face the pool house.

With his hands on the armrests, Otunba began. ‘I understand that my son-in-law visits your little club in the forest,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ Malik said.

‘No. The answer is no.’

‘Quite right, sir. No. I do not have a club in the forest.’

‘Good. I was told your business is blackmail.’

Malik opened his mouth to talk. Otunba raised a hand to stop him.

‘Do not deny anything. You let your customers arrange to meet the girls outside your club. They think they are cheating you but the girls are working for you. The girls arrange even younger girls and sometimes even boys for them. You videotape them doing all sorts with the little girls and boys and you use it to extort them but they think it is the girl doing it.

‘They either pay the girls, or they tell you. When they do tell you, you tell them you will take care of it. The girl disappears, and you give them what you claim to be the only copy of the video and they fall into your debt. They think you have killed for them and they are not sure whether you have kept a copy of the video.

‘Am I correct so far?’

Malik nodded.

‘We know about your little games. You are a businessman and I am a politician. We both do what we have to do, I understand. Your business does not concern me, so you don’t have to be afraid. But you must do what I ask you to do or else you will become my enemy right from this night. So, now that we understand each other, tell me now, what do you have on my son-in-law?’