Easy Motion Tourist (17 page)

We stayed in bed kissing, touching, talking. Amaka told me funny stories from her childhood. She seemed to have been everywhere in the world, just like Mel. She asked about my life in London. She guessed right that I was a public school boy. I went to St. Pauls. She wanted to know why I gave up law to become a journalist. If I liked what I did. If, like her, I had come to realise that one lifetime is just not enough to be all you want to be. I cheesily asked who she got her button nose and pink lips from: her mum or her dad. Did she miss not having siblings? How many children did she want? We lay in bed, her head on my chest, my fingers curling her braids.

Between kisses, she made calls to try to track down the girl who had called her that morning. With each call, she spoke differently, switching between the way she talked to me, to pidgin, to a local language. She spoke quickly at times, almost as if she was upset with the person on the line; at other times she took time to ask how the person was. She soon became so engrossed that I had to let go of her.

I lay beside her, watching. She was about the same age as Mel, I guessed, but while Mel had a great job as an analyst in the City and a nice flat in Maida Vale to show for it, Amaka’s job meant more. The increasing worry on her face as she
ended each call and dialled the next, was not angst over a half a million pound mortgage, or an increasing waistline. Watching her propped against the headboard, just doing what she does, I could not imagine her having enough spare time for things like exhibitions in Cairo, or retrospectives at the Barbican, or boyfriends.

I shimmied over to her, put my arms around her shoulders and buried my head in her neck. She shrugged away and, without looking up from the message she was typing said, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, moving strands of braids from her neck.

She looked at me as she continued typing. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you start working on the story?’

‘How?’

‘Google Otokoto Hotel,’ she said, then she spelled it out.

The first page I opened had a picture of four shirtless men sitting on the ground in front of what looked like a decaying head set upon an upturned plastic bucket. I leaned away from the screen. Could that really be a human head? Who were the men? How on earth could a website publish that picture? I turned to look at Amaka. She was waiting for someone to answer her call. I continued reading, trying not to look at the picture.

A syndicate of ritual killers was exposed in 1996 when the Nigerian police arrested a man named Innocent Ekeanyanwu, in Owerri, in south-eastern Nigeria. He had a parcel on him. The severed head of a young boy, Ikechukwu Okonkwo, was in it. The police found the torso buried on the grounds of Otokoto Hotel, owned by a certain Chief Duru, a respected wealthy local businessman, and his gang was uncovered. Their business was the sale of human parts. Violent protests, looting and burning of properties belonging to
the ritual killers followed, then a trial, and in February of 2003, the suspects were sentenced to death by hanging.

How many more such syndicates had managed to avoid arrest? Dreading what I’d find, I searched for ritual murders. The first five results on the search engine mentioned Nigeria. There was a piece on the BBC website about something that happened in London in 2001. I remembered the story. The police recovered a headless body floating in the Thames, near Tower Bridge, not far from where I work. They named the unknown boy Adam. They believed he was victim of a ritual killing. Forensics led detectives to south-west Nigeria. The case was never solved.

There were other stories about ritual killing syndicates in the country and in Tanzania, Liberia and Malawi. Body parts – heads, eyes, tongues, breasts – sold to witch doctors for up to ten thousand dollars apiece; tempting money in a continent with serious poverty. Apparently, witch doctors use the organs in rituals at the behest of their clients, to ward off misfortune, cure diseases, grant good luck and defeat enemies.

The more I read, the more I grew worried and the more I appreciated the vulnerability of the women Amaka looked out for and why it was so important to her to do something about this. How such a dark practice had survived into the twenty-first century perplexed me.

She crept up behind me and leaned over my shoulder to see what I was doing.

‘Do Nigerians really believe in magic?’ I asked.

She sat next to me on the edge of the bed.

‘Everywhere you look in Lagos, there’s a church,’ she said. ‘New churches appear every day. The people are poor, they are desperate. They turn to God for help, and when that doesn’t work,
they turn to crime. The young boys become fraudsters, armed robbers. The girls become prostitutes. Some turn to black magic. Just like they believe in God, they also believe in the devil. God asks them to be patient but the devil says, “I will give you what you want; you only have to do one thing in return.”’

‘What is the government doing about it? Can’t they outlaw black magic, ban witch doctors, make arrests?’

‘What can they do? The police don’t have forensic labs like CSI, and even if they did, people don’t talk to the police. Most victims are never identified and the witch doctors do not exactly go about announcing that they use human body parts in their rituals. What can the police do?’

‘It just doesn’t make sense,’ I said.

‘A lot of things here don’t make sense. You know, it’s not just the people who kill that bother me. One of the girls I work with, let’s call her Florentine. She was picked up on the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway walking naked like a zombie. She had been beaten so badly, it was a miracle she was alive. The people who found her took her to a hospital but the doctors wouldn’t admit her. They wouldn’t even give her first aid. They asked for a police report. They said she was either an armed robber or something of the sort for her to have been beaten like that.

‘Luckily for her, one of the nurses knew about Street Samaritans and told them to take her to our office. When I saw this girl, I cried. And I don’t cry that often. Anyway, we took her in. We took her to a hospital that doesn’t ask questions and we paid for her treatment. All through, this girl refused to tell anyone who she was, why she was on that road, or why she had been beaten like that. The gossip around the hospital was that she had escaped from a mental institution.

‘I needed to know what I was dealing with so I told her that since she was getting better, the police would be coming to take over her case. I didn’t have the intention of doing any such thing, but it worked. She opened up. According to her, she was a “guest” in a place known as the Harem, a mansion deep, deep in the forest somewhere outside Lagos. What she told me about that place still scares me till today. The Harem is a sex club run by some guy they call Mr Malik. It’s a secret affair. The girls are taken to the house in the middle of the night, blindfolded, and they stay there for months without any contact with the outside world. Big men, members of the club, go there every weekend to have their pick of a dozen or so girls.

‘Apparently, this Mr Malik pays them well. Some of them, when they eventually leave the Harem, leave as millionaires. But I can only imagine what they must have gone through to make all that money.

‘In Florentine’s case, she had a regular customer who decided to beat her up one day. He beat her till she was unconscious then Mr Malik helped him dump her body on the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway. They thought she was dead. So many bodies turn up naked on that road and people assume it has to do with rituals but sometimes it’s just a sadistic bastard who likes to beat up young girls.’

‘This Mr Malik, do you know him?’

‘Nope. I’m still trying to find him, and when I do he’s going to pay for what he did to that girl. I’ve already found his friend.’

‘The one who beat up the girl?’

‘Yes. I took care of him last night.’

‘How do you mean?’ I remembered she had been away during the night.

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday.’

Talking about ritual killings and brutal men filled the room with a heaviness. She had insisted that we could not see Aunty Baby till very late at night – I didn’t ask her why; I somehow already knew I would trust her with my life. She asked if I wanted to get something to eat. It was about seven p.m. and we had skipped both breakfast and lunch. I didn’t realise how hungry I was until she asked.

‘Yes. Should we get some room service?’ I turned to find the phone by the bed.

‘Nah. I’m taking you somewhere nice. You’ll love it. Then afterwards I’ll take you to a decent bar. Not like Ronnie’s.’

She winked when she mentioned the pickup joint. I managed a smile, but truth be told, I would have preferred to stay in the safety of the room rather than tempt fate in another Lagos night. But I could see she was excited by her idea, and when I thought about it, I still wanted to see the Lagos I’d heard so much about.

Amaka had sent her clothes down to the hotel laundry and they had been returned. She rolled up her blouse sleeves and left the top three buttons undone.

I chose a pair of blue denims and a white short-sleeved linen shirt but couldn’t help feeling that no matter what I wore, I would still look second-rate next to her. The last time I felt this way was back in school when, by some anomaly in the order of things, I found myself dating Betty Stewart, the daughter of a millionaire MP and also the most beautiful girl in our year. It lasted two weeks – before Timothy Spencer-Rye started telling everyone my father was originally Polish and Collins was really my mother’s surname.

We drove to a boutique hotel in Ikoyi called Bogobiri. In the small bar area of the hotel a light-skinned man walked up to us. Amaka was busy with the waiter and the food menu and didn’t notice him.

‘Hi,’ he said, holding out his hand. Close up I realised he was mixed race. His dark curly hair had streaks of grey but his clean-shaven face didn’t look that old.

‘Gabriel,’ he said with a wide smile. He had a strong grip.

‘Guy.’

Amaka looked up from the menu.

‘Gabriel.’ She practically jumped into his arms. He lifted her off the ground and rocked her body from side-to-side. From their excited talk I gathered that he had just returned from a trip to London, someone had told her he was doing something in Ghana, and they hadn’t seen each other in almost three months. Three months didn’t seem to me long enough to miss someone so much. I took a closer look at him.

The night was hot, humid, and dark. Inspector Ibrahim gathered the men of Fire-for-Fire into a sweltering room in the back of his police station to brief them on Operation Bulldog: the siege on Matori. First, he had a senior officer inspect their eyes; anyone high on drugs would be excluded from the operation.

It was to be a textbook raid and so hardly needed instructions beyond an address and a target. But Matori was a place deep in the dark heart of the slums where hoodlums and miscreants owned the streets. Ibrahim didn’t expect their target to be ready with his own little army but he didn’t want to spark a riot among police-hating neighbours keen to rush to the aid of one of their own.

‘We’re going to go in quietly,’ he said. ‘First, we secure the perimeter; two men to every house on the road. No torch lights. If anyone confronts you, tell the baga to go back into their house. If they don’t, do not arrest them. The offensive will begin exactly five minutes after everyone is in place, so no need to worry about any bloody civilians. I don’t want a single shot fired unless it is absolutely necessary: we don’t want to attract any attention. We just go in, fetch him, and we get out. Remember, he must be delivered alive. I repeat: Chucks must be delivered alive. Hot-Temper is the commanding officer; nobody farts unless he authorises it. Boys, let’s go and do our job.’

Outside the station, on Ahmadu Bello Road, officers stopped danfo buses and told the passengers to get out. The braver commuters who had paid their fares demanded an explanation. ‘Police business’ was all they were told.

The commandeered vehicles were directed to park in front of the station where members of Operation Fire-for-Fire waited. The bus drivers were given bulletproof vests to wear under their shirts. It was too much for a lanky young boy. Shaking with fear, he lost control of his bladder and tears fell from his face. A desk officer was nominated to drive the bus in his place.

The men piled into the vehicles. At five-minute intervals they set out into the night.

Ibrahim and three officers, each of them in plain clothes, got into Ibrahim’s car. He was off to deal with another matter that required delicate handling. His men would keep him informed over the two-way radio tucked into his belt, next to his semi-automatic pistol.

Amaka took Gabriel’s hand and introduced us all over again – out of courtesy, I assumed, because she immediately turned her attention back to him. She did not bother to explain who I was but she did say I was a journalist. ‘Gabriel owns an estate agency,’ she said. ‘He sells properties all over Europe to rich Nigerians. Anybody worth knowing is his client.’

‘What is this, Gabriel? No glasses? Have you finally started wearing contacts?’ she asked him.

‘Ah. There’s a story there,’ he said, pushing away the menu and the salt and pepper shakers as if he needed space to talk. ‘On the flight, just as we were on our final approach into Lagos, a hostess announced that she had a pair of glasses that someone had left in the bathroom. I wasn’t wearing mine so I couldn’t see what she was holding up. I placed my hand on my breast pocket and felt my glasses case and went back to sleep.’

‘You fool. They were yours.’

‘Yup. I took them off to enjoy crapping over the Atlantic and I left them there. Or I was subconsciously trying to get rid of them.’

Next, he was talking about baggage handling.

‘You know that sorry looking battered old bag that keeps going round the carousel unclaimed? I don’t think it caught the wrong
flight. I think the owner is just too ashamed to claim it while people are watching.’

Amaka laughed, I only smiled, even though I thought the little anecdote was clever. Then he turned squarely at Amaka.

‘Your goddaughter is just like you,’ he said. ‘I’m starting to suspect foul play. Honestly, if you were a bloke, I’d check her DNA. The other day, she was coming down the stairs…’ He turned to me momentarily, ‘She’s five. Madam said she could dress herself; they were going to party or something. Anyway, she’s coming down the stairs. She’s got on every new thing she has: dress, jacket, belt, sunglasses, socks. She even had her little pink handbag. So, she’s coming down the stairs and she’s taking her time like “look at me”, and Madam says: “Yemisi, you have your shoes on the wrong legs.” You know what she says? I swear, she’s just like you. She stops there, one hand up on the banister like that, the other hand on her hip; she looks at her mum and calmly says, “Mum, how can they be the wrong legs? I only have two legs.”’

Amaka laughed, I laughed, a couple on a table next to us laughed. He wasn’t so bad.

We ordered omelettes and fried plantains with goat meat stew – Gabriel’s suggestion. I had never eaten either. When the food came, on trays balanced on one hand by waiters, I could smell the scale-busting hotness of the fiery stew which had massive chunks of meat still with skin on in it. Gabriel shovelled through his meal while I had to douse each peppery mouthful with a gulp of water. Amaka was totally tuned in to his constant, rapid delivery of stories and oblivious to the plight of my English palate. I knew my face was going through all shades of red.

He turned to me and I was sure he was about to make a joke.

‘So, Bob, where are you staying?’

I started to correct him but Amaka chuckled and placed an arm on mine.

‘He calls every man Bob,’ she said.

‘No, not every man, just your men.’

‘Yes. That’s how he refers to every man he sees with me. It’s a private joke.’ She looked at him and they both chuckled. ‘Not that I’ve ever understood it. But don’t worry, he soon grows tired of it or he forgets to do it and he’ll call you by your real name.’

He let Amaka finish then he turned to me.

‘So, where are you staying?’

‘We’re at the Eko Hotel,’ I said.

‘Oh. You are staying together?’ He raised an eyebrow at Amaka.

I was afraid to look at her.

‘It’s a long story,’ she said. ‘And wipe that look off your face, you dirty old man. It’s not what you think.’

‘Dirty, yes. But I have to object to old. So, how come you two are staying together?’

‘He has a girlfriend. Her name is Melissa. So, stop digging.’

Why ever did I tell her about Mel?

She went on to tell him about the events of the previous night. She wasn’t completely honest with her narrative. She told him a friend had asked her to help spring me from the police station, and she entirely left out the part about the service she provided to the girls. It made me feel good that I knew something about her that he didn’t know.

‘You, my friend, are the easy motion tourist,’ Gabriel said, looking at me after Amaka finished her abridged version of the story.

‘What?’ She looked bemused, as if she was expecting one of his jokes to follow.

‘Easy Motion Tourist. It’s an old song by Fatai Rolling Dollar’s old band. Bob, did you ever listen to Highlife music?’

I shook my head.

‘Shame. Really good music. So, Easy Motion Tourist, it’s an old Highlife number from the seventies, or sixties, by the Harbours band. The inspiration for the number came after a night out jamming. The group returned late from a gig and one of the band members couldn’t get into his house. The chap had been locked out of his own home. They wrote a song about it the next day – or something like that. In the end it’s a song about nocturnal misadventure. That’s what you’ve had, and that’s why you, my friend, are the easy motion tourist.’

He raised his glass of water to me in a toast. I raised mine. ‘Come to think of it, they were all young Nigerian musicians playing their music in Nigeria. Not one foreigner amongst them. Makes you wonder where they got “tourist” from. I want some of whatever they’d been drinking that night.’

We talked a lot. Gabriel kept asking random questions that I felt were intended to trip me up – to let slip the true nature of my relationship with Amaka. It made me feel good to think that he thought there was something between me and her.

At eight p.m. Amaka told him we had to leave. He was reluctant to let us go and he only relented when Amaka promised to have lunch with his family the next weekend.

‘Do you guys have anything planned for tonight?’ he said.

‘No, not really,’ Amaka said. ‘I thought I’d show Guy a little bit of Lagos then we were going to see an old friend. Do you have anything in mind?’

‘You know that my madam’s MD is cousin to the Attorney General?’

‘Yes,’ she said. She turned to me, somehow realising I was lost. ‘His wife’s boss.’

‘Well, it appears they’ve found a suitable governor’s son to be her husband – the Attorney General’s cousin, that is, not my madam. The engagement party is tonight. We have been invited to the owambe at the Yoruba Tennis Club.’ He turned to me. ‘Have you been to an owambe party yet?’

‘No. What is an owambe party?’ I tried but I’m sure I got the pronunciation wrong.

‘Ah, you are in for a treat.’ He turned to Amaka, ‘You haven’t taken young Bob here to an owambe? Haba. How is he going to get to know Lagos?’ He turned to me. ‘An owambe party is a spectacle. I don’t know how to describe it; you just have to attend one to understand. Promise me you’ll come. Amaka, promise to bring Bob to the party.’

‘I don’t know, Gabriel, you know society parties are not my thing.’

‘Maybe not, but it would be criminal to deprive Bob of a chance to get to see the movers and shakers of the country in their element. Besides, you keep telling me you want to raise money for your charity; this is a perfect opportunity to meet some of the deepest pockets in the city. And I’ll introduce you.’

‘Come to think of it, there are a couple of people I’d like to meet. A certain Chief Amadi, he stays here on the island. And a man they call Mr Malik. Know them? Perhaps they will be there?’

‘Ebenezer Amadi?’

‘Yes, I think.’

‘Why do you want to meet him?’

‘It’s business, Gabriel. Why do you suddenly look so serious?’

‘Do I? Anyway, come to the party and bring Bob. I’ll introduce you to some of my clients.’

‘Do you know him personally?’

I paid attention. He glanced at me and caught me studying his face.

‘Yes. He’s a client,’ he said with finality, as if he meant to end the conversation.

‘So you can introduce us?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about Malik? Do you know him too?’

‘Do you know how many Maliks are in Lagos?’

‘Which ones do you know?’

‘I don’t know any.’

He was abrupt.

‘Gabriel?’ she said, in a way that reminded me of my mum calling my name when she knew I was deliberately trying to miss the point that she had just made.

‘What if I know the Malik you are looking for?’ he said. ‘Then what? Are you going to tell me why you’re looking for him?’

‘You don’t need to know. It’s nothing.’

‘If it’s nothing, why can’t you tell me?’ He turned to me. ‘I know her too well. She’s up to something, and if I’m right it’s something dangerous.’

‘Dude, there you go doing your big brother thing again. How many times do I have to tell you I can look after myself? Do you know the guy or not?’

‘I said I don’t know any Malik. At least not any you should know.’ He turned to me again. ‘She once asked me to introduce her to a senior civil servant, only for the guy to later give me a ten million naira cheque made out to her charity and tell me to warn her never to get in touch with him again. I lost a lot of business from the guy.’

‘He was sleeping with the youth corpers posted to his ministry.’

‘And how you knew that, I still don’t know. You blackmailed the guy, and you used me. Not good.’

‘He had it coming. He deserved worse.’

‘And you are not the police. Look, there are lots of really nasty people out there that you don’t want to be messing with the way you messed with that commissioner. You were lucky; the guy could have come after you, you know?’

‘What can he do? If he tries anything he’ll regret it. He knows it.’

‘See? Talking like that, that’s the reason I’m afraid to introduce you to people.’

‘Is Malik your client too?’

‘You think this is about me being afraid to lose a client? I’m afraid for you, sis. You think you’re superwoman or something and I keep telling you, this is Nigeria. You can’t go about waging your own personal war on corruption and filth.’

‘I’ll find him, with or without your help.’

He shook his head at her. ‘Come to the party tonight. And bring Guy. If Amadi is there I’ll introduce you. And if you tell me why you’re looking for Malik, if it’s the Malik I know, we’ll talk.’