Otunba passed the armed policeman at the gate of the three-storey pink building in Magodo where his convoy had stopped. The house, like the rest on the street, had been built to take up all the available space in its compound. Either side of the building, there was only a metre from the fence. A navy blue BMW and a gold Jaguar saloon were parked side by side. The front door had been left open. Another policeman standing guard saluted.
Otunba walked across a large parlour busy with servants in white uniforms ferrying trays from a door that kept swinging open and shut. They carried the food up a marble staircase while others hurried down with empty trays. The room smelt of jollof rice and fried chicken, beer and egusi soup. Otunba went up the staircase. The servants bowed as Otunba passed them. They plastered their bodies against the wall and held their trays high above their heads to give him even more space. His hand trailed over the polished banister and he nodded as he passed each servant. At the top he dipped his hand into his pocket and held out a fist of cash to a man standing at attention. ‘Thank you, sir,’ the man said, bowing.
‘Share it with the rest,’ Otunba said.
The landing had sofas pushed against three walls that each had a door leading from them. The fourth wall had double doors in the middle and picture frames everywhere else. Laughter and loud talking came from the room behind the double doors. Otunba crossed the floor and opened them. Smoke and cool air washed over his face. Around a large dining table in the middle of the room, people were seated with playing cards in their hands. Some had cigarettes wedged between their fingers, others smoked cigars. A thin man with a slim face and a white Afro was smoking a pipe, and the only woman at the table – slim, older, her grey hair combed back – was smoking a joint. On the table, cards, poker chips, and bundles of dollars took centre stage among ashtrays, glasses, and bottles of beer, wine, brandy, and champagne.
At the far end of the table, Ambrose looked up from his cards that he was guarding with his other hand. He was the only person not smoking. His eyes locked with Otunba Oluawo’s. He reached for his champagne flute and raised the glass to his lips.