Lagos Noir

Chris Abani

• Publisher: CASSAVA REPUBLIC
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9781911115731
• eBook ISBN: 9781911115748
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

An anthology of noir stories set in the tumultuous metropolis, Lagos. Edited by Chris Abani, this collection brings together brand new stories from some of Nigeria's best loved writers. From the introduction by Chris Abani: The thirteen stories that comprise this volume stretch the boundaries of "noir" fiction, but each one of them fully captures the essence of noir, the unsettled darkness that continues to lurk in the city's streets, alleys, and waterways...Together, these stories create an unchartered path through the center of Lagos and out to its peripheries, revealing so much more truth at the heart of this tremendous city than any guidebook, TV show, film, or book you are likely to find.

PART I

Cops & Robbers

WHAT THEY DID THAT NIGHT

by Jude Dibia

Lagos Island

Get into the house. She will be alone. Finish her! It was not an assignment that would require taking his motley crew of two along with him. They were a nuisance most of the time—drank too much, smoked too much as well; talked excessively, always wanting to brag and to impress their silly girls who, more often than not, infected their fledgling masculinity with crabs or worse. But the two riffraff had their use. They could be relied on for aggression and fear. One of them would have to drive the bus to the house and then act as a lookout, while the other would follow him into the house. Just in case. Scorpion had since learned not to take chances.

“Cobra,” he said to the gangly youth to his left, “gi’ me smokes.”

Cobra dug into his back pocket and withdrew a scrunched-up joint, which he put in his mouth and lit before handing it to Scorpion.

Scorpion took a long puff and then held his breath. He felt an itch on his right shoulder, the one with the tattoo of his namesake. He cursed inwardly, knowing that any time his tattoo itched it meant something was not quite right. It was like the time he had boarded the ferry from Sambo heading to the island suburb. Traffic on the road had been tight that particular day because of the rain. Jacob, the man who operated the ferry, had refused to collect money from him; but as soon as he sat down, his right shoulder began to itch persistently. He should have known that the river was hungry that afternoon and his itch was trying to warn him. The ferry capsized before they got to the shore. Jacob died, along with thirty-three other passengers.

He fingered the itch and turned around, his eyes taking in the rusty Ferris wheel and the huts that stood in front of it, built close together like the Lego bricks of a careless five-year old, the lights of the city flickering and dying in a late-evening dance of radiance and shadow. His gaze panned through all these and finally rested on the shoreline. He knew the weed was working, the way he heard the ocean roar as it swelled, threatening to swallow up all of the shore. Ah, this was good stuff! Be still, be still, be still, the sand seemed to whisper each time the water receded. But it was high tide. The ocean refused to be still; it took more, claimed more, and retreated less. But paradoxically, the hungry sea left behind many of its unwanted children, its vomit littering Scorpion’s little patch of beachfront: a seagull’s skull, uncapped beer bottles, horse scat, empty packets of cigarettes, a large shoe, a dead army of used condoms, and an old deflated football.

This was good weed! Yes, cheap gin and good weed. Was there a better way to prepare for tonight’s contract? He exhaled and watched the brown smoke drift in front of him. It was blown away a moment later by a new onslaught from the high tide.

They stood by the entrance of the ogogoro shack that they had exited moments earlier. He could hear the banter of the remaining patrons, old voices ruined by years of guzzling vile liquor. He moved away and looked up into the sky, at the full moon that resembled a suspended piece of snow-white Trebor Peppermint.

“Cobra, na you go drive,” he said. “And when we reach de place you go siddon inside dey watch. Sey you un’stand?”

“Yes sah.”

“Razor,” Scorpion said to the other one, “na me with you go enter the house-o.”

Razor nodded. Much of his lean, hairless face was covered with tribal marks.

The three men headed north to where they had parked the recently serviced Kombi bus earlier in the evening. Cobra got into the driver’s seat while Razor slid into the passenger seat beside him. Scorpion climbed into the back of the bus.

They did not have long to travel. The journey from the beach to the private housing estate took thirty minutes when the road was busy—they had just one bridge to cross—but at this time of night they would make it in less than half the time.

As they approached Colony Estate, Scorpion felt his tattoo itch again. The bus slowed down, which made him glance out of the window. A few feet away from the gate, a barrel-and-plank police checkpoint had been erected. Five armed officers stood in the middle of the road and motioned for the vehicle to stop. Scorpion sighed, thinking how one would expect that with the recent handover of the reins of government from the military to civilians, these boys in uniform would have finally retired to their barracks. What year did they think this was, 1993? It was the new millennium, the year 2000, and Abacha, the erstwhile military head of state, was dead! These uniformed boys were not supposed to be there, not tonight. He had been guaranteed!

The bus finally came to a halt, almost reluctantly, in a shudder punctuated by a piercing screech.

“Where you dey go?” the police officer asked.

Both Cobra and Razor remained quiet.

“I say, where you dey go?”

At the back of the bus, another officer of slightly higher rank had switched on his flashlight and was shining it through the rear window. He spotted Scorpion. Recognition flashed through his eyes before he switched off the beam and stepped away from the bus.

“Gabriel,” the senior officer said, “let them through.”

“But Sergeant Sule …” Gabriel began to protest.

“That is a command,” the sergeant said. He gave a sign to the other officers to let the bus through.

Gabriel stepped back, and with a tired cough and rattle, the bus continued its journey through the gateway of the huge estate, until it stopped on the pavement opposite a two-story mansion: House 8A, Lugard Drive.

Beware of Dogs, a sign posted on the front of the guardhouse announced. It contained a picture of a vicious-looking Doberman pinscher on it.

The three men remained inside the bus. It was too bright outside. The streetlights shone like floodlights at a midnight football game, illuminating each mansion on the street, casting huge, monstrous shadows on paved streets and grass lawns.

It was so organized here. The lawns were well tended, the streets looked like one could eat off them, and the houses were neatly painted. There was not one stray dog in sight.

It still surprised Scorpion that only fifteen minutes separated chaos from harmony. This was the country they lived in, a country where a glass wall divided the rich from the poor. The rich could show off their wealth, look disdainfully at the less fortunate, and feel protected by the fragile barrier that separated them, while the poor—people from his neck of the woods—could only look on in admiration, envy, and awe.

He peered down at his watch. It was 11:58 p.m. They had only a little while longer to wait. Everything should work smoothly.

At midnight, all the lights in the housing estate went off. The streetlights flickered briefly, and then expired like tired eyes succumbing to sleep. On a normal day when electric power went off, the standby automatic generator that serviced the entire estate would come on before the residents even noticed the outage. The high price they paid to live there was no secret and their comfort was a priority. That night, however, the generator did not go on within seconds. It would not go on for another thirty minutes.

“Razor, oya!”

The two men jumped out of the bus, leaving Cobra behind. They got to the gate of the mansion and pushed it gently. It slid open with ease. There was no one at the guardhouse to stop them; there were no fierce security dogs waiting to maul them. Everything was as Scorpion had been told it would be. Get into the house. She will be alone. Finish her!

They entered through the unlocked door. In front of them, in the hall, was a staircase leading upstairs. They let their eyes adjust to the darkness and then to the opulence of the passageway. Thank God for the full moon that ushered in natural light, Scorpion thought, realizing also that his tattoo no longer itched. His eyes did a quick scan of their surroundings. Hanging on the walls were several portraits and photos of the couple who inhabited this haven—the radiant smiles of the handsome, bespectacled dark-skinned man and his attractive white wife bore down on him. It occurred to him just then that this hall was far bigger than the cramped rooms that whole families inhabited in his neighborhood. This had always upset him somewhat, this unrestrained waste. It was not right!

“Vincent?” a nasal female voice called out from the top floor. It was foreign. “Vincent, is that you?”

There was movement on the top floor. From where the two intruders stood, they could see a beam of light bounce off the upstairs walls and settle unsteadily on the stairs. Scorpion pulled out a long, curved knife from the waistband of his jeans. He looked at Razor and watched him uncover his own weapon—a crude nine-inch blade.

Two menacing silhouettes began a determined ascent of the stairs.

“Vin … Oh my God!” she screamed.

Scorpion felt the meat between his thighs stir, as if it was a man in coma shocked back to consciousness, some larva from the underworld crossing back into life.

“Oh my God! Oh my God … help!”

Her scream excited Scorpion all the more; made warm blood gush down to his penis. As the horror-stricken woman backed away into a room, he dropped his knife and began to unbutton his jeans. This will not take long, he thought. There is enough time for this. Maybe enough time for Razor too.

The news report was tucked away in a small corner on page twenty of the Lagos Gazette. Corporal Gabriel was surprised that the killing of the wife of a big man was given such a small mention in the papers. He was more surprised, though, that no one yet, not even the nosy journalists, had made the connection that in the last three months there had been six other violent robberies in the wealthy island suburb. All of them had happened in areas that usually had good security and around-the-clock power supply, yet on the nights of each raid, they had suffered electricity failures and the expensive private security officers had been nowhere in sight. The only difference with the last raid was that someone got killed. Not just anyone, but a white woman. And yet, the sensation of this had been buried on page twenty.

It bothered Gabriel that this death could have been prevented. He knew that his command post had been on duty just outside of the estate that night and had come in contact with the gang committing these crimes. He was certain that his sergeant had waved their bus into the estate. Shortly after the bus was allowed unhindered passage, the same sergeant had made them leave their post and drive to another location. When the news broke about what had happened in House 8A, Lugard Drive, Gabriel knew it was not just a coincidence.

“All these killings, it is very unfortunate,” his sergeant had said to him when Gabriel went to him to discuss his suspicions.

“I believe we have a lead, sir,” Gabriel pressed.

“There’s no lead,” the sergeant replied, looking Gabriel dead in the eye.

“That bus—”

“I said, there is no lead,” the sergeant repeated. “It was just a bus.”

“Yes sir,” Gabriel said. He had recognized the threatening note in the man’s tone. “I will leave you now.”

As he made to leave, the sergeant’s voice rang out, stopping him. “All of you have been doing a good job,” the man said, his voice more cheerful. “I have sent something to each of your homes. I’m sure by the time you get home, your wife will have received your share.”

“My share of what, sir?”

“You will see when you get home.”

“I don’t understand, sir. What is it for?”

“Call it motivation,” the sergeant responded, smirking. “I have to keep my boys happy so you can all work better.”

Gabriel nodded slowly and left. It was not until he was outside that he realized that he had not thanked the sergeant. He wondered if the fat fool noticed or if he was too steeped in his smugness to be aware. Gabriel’s suspicions only grew. He was sure it was not just some random coincidence.

When he got home later that evening, Idara, his wife, had made his favorite dish for dinner and she had made it with big pieces of chicken. Gabriel could not recall the last time he had seen chicken cut so large, not even at parties.

“What is all this?” he asked.

“Can’t a woman cook for her husband?” Idara replied. “Come, sit, eat.”

“You know what I mean. Can we afford this?”

“You don’t have to worry. Your boss is a good man, he sent this for you.” She showed him an envelope with money in it. “He sent N20,000 to us. I could not believe it!”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing. I used five thousand to shop for food and some things we need in the house.”

“Why? That money is not clean,” Gabriel snapped.

Idara stared into the envelope and shrugged. “Some of the notes are not so dirty.”

“Damnit! Don’t act like you don’t know what I am saying. That money is hush money. Somebody died, Idara—”

“And so?” she cut in. “Darling, open your eyes! People die all the time. You are lucky enough to be assigned checkpoint duty on the island, and yet unlike your other colleagues you refuse to take advantage of your position. I am the only officer’s wife who is poor.”

Gabriel had always known his wife was unhappy about their lack of money and the finer things in life. For a long time after they got married he had been unemployed and she had been the one who’d suggested that he join the police force. She had alerted him when the police academy began accepting new intakes and had pushed him to go. For a while she had been happy, but it did not last for too long. His salary never came on time and the minimum wage they had to survive on barely got them through the month. When he was assigned checkpoint duty, she had been ecstatic. But Gabriel was not like the other officers—he preferred to do things by the book and would not take a bribe.

“Things will improve,” he said.

“When?”

“I am on to something, Idara. I have been following the strange robberies taking place in some housing estates on the island.”

“That is not a formal case,” she said. “You shouldn’t worry yourself about it.”

“I think I know who the perpetrators are and I may be able to solve it.”

“To what end, Gabriel?”

“Hear me out. I believe the same people committing these robberies also killed a woman. A white woman, Idara. If I lead the police to their arrest, I can get a big promotion and better financial security for us.”

“What are you planning?”

He told her what he knew, about the rickety bus and the dodgy-looking occupants. He told her how he had, on his own time, visited the other places that had been hit by the robbers and how he had interviewed some of the victims who’d had face-to-face encounters with them. Those who had been willing to talk had given similar descriptions of the men. He told her that one of the victims had mentioned a scorpion tattoo. He told her he had been given the license plate number and through speaking with some local mechanics had been lucky to come across one who knew that particular bus. What he did not tell Idara was that the mechanic had been very afraid to talk about the men who had recently brought the vehicle in for repairs.

“But these people you are chasing, they sound dangerous,” I...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Also in the Akashic Noir Series
• Map
• Table of Contents
• Introduction
• PART I: COPS & ROBBERS
• PART II: IN A FAMILY WAY
• PART III: ARRIVALS & DEPARTURES
• About the Contributors
• Copyright
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