Lagos Noir

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,” Idara said.

“I won’t be alone when I go after them,” Gabriel assured her. “I will take my findings to my superiors and request backup.”

“Your superiors — you mean the nice Sergeant Sule?”

“No, I am taking this to the inspector.”

Idara nodded. “Why don’t you sit down and eat, your food will get cold.”

Gabriel did as he was told, happy that he had almost cracked the case, optimistic that with this he could finally get the promotion he merited. As he ate, he stole glances at his wife and thought how proud she would soon be of him. Soon, she would have the husband she deserved and the respectability and perks that come with being married to a senior officer.

Scorpion was a man of very few words. He was a doer and he did. He also considered himself a righteous man. Yes, he killed people, but there was no one he had killed who did not deserve it. He could not be held accountable for killing people who plotted to kill him, or for ending the lives of rich scumbags whose very sense of entitlement ensured that the wealth of the community only circulated among themselves. He fancied himself a modern-day Robin Hood; he took from the rich. That was as much as he knew about Robin Hood, the part about stealing from the rich.

In the far corner of the dimly lit room, his men sat together smoking, drinking, and playing cards. On the floor next to them was a big canvas bag stuffed with guns and machetes. They did not have a mission that night, but Scorpion liked to always be prepared. He was not too concerned about the authorities or the police. He would ensure they were taken care of, and the ones who did not conform were taken care of in a different way. His real worry, if he were to call it that, had more to do with rival gangs, some of whom had tried in the past to encroach on his turf. The entire length and breadth of Lagos Island belonged to him; no one else was allowed to operate there.

He got up from where he was sitting and left the room. Outside it was warm and breezeless. He scratched his right shoulder with his pocketknife, almost drawing blood. It had now become an irritation for him, the constant itching. This one was more persistent than any other itch he had gotten in the past. Something big was going to happen.

Razor soon joined him outside. “Tell the others to get ready for Sunday,” Scorpion said to him. “We got another hit.”

When Razor nodded and returned inside, Scorpion wondered if perhaps his itch was more a warning that someone within his crew was plotting something.

Three weeks elapsed before Corporal Gabriel had enough evidence to approach the inspector. It had not been easy finding any sort of time to pursue his hunches. He worked four nights a week on checkpoint duty and had two free days in between. Well, he liked to believe that he had two off days, though the reality of being an ambitious junior officer seeking a promotion meant reporting to the station every day and being at the beck-and-call of as many senior officers as possible. He was determined to cover all grounds and check some of the information he had been given before presenting his findings to the inspector, and he knew he had to be especially careful with who he trusted at the station. It was common knowledge, after all, that some officers were in bed with criminals. In the island district he covered, there were some corporals who drove nice secondhand cars worth much more than their entire earnings in a year. Idara made it her duty to always remind him about these officers and their wives. The thought of enduring a lifetime of her nagging was enough to make him ignore his off days and check his leads.

After three weeks, he had a name for the gang leader and his possible hideout. He felt like a real detective, the kind he only encountered in movies, and this made him feel good. He had even dreamed of being promoted to the crime-solving division of the force, working in plainclothes and not the ugly black uniform of the regular police. But he saw his dream disintegrate the moment Sergeant Sule asked him about the bus that had been let into Colony Estate.

“Why, sir?” Gabriel asked.

“I hear you have some leads,” the sergeant said.

This surprised Gabriel, as he had told no one in the station about what he had discovered.

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of telling me what you know. The SP himself wants us to investigate the case again and focus our energy on the people we saw in that bus.”

“The superintendent?” Gabriel was unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

“Yes, the superintendent of police. He wants you on the case.”

“He knows who I am?”

“Somehow he does. Look, we can stand here all day chitchatting about who knows who, or we can get to work on the case. Now, have you heard of the gangster called Scorpion?”

“Yes, yes, I have,” Gabriel replied, amazed to hear the sergeant mention the name of the man he believed was responsible for the robberies and also the murder of a harmless woman.

“What do you know?”

Gabriel told him everything, everything he had told only to his wife, everything he had intended to tell the inspector, along with everything new he had learned. As he narrated how he had pieced together the evidence, he saw what he thought was a look of admiration in the sergeant’s eyes.

“I think we should storm his hideout today while we have the element of surprise,” Gabriel concluded.

“No, that may not be the best idea,” the sergeant said. “There is a danger that some of our men could be killed. It’s his territory, after all.”

“What do you suggest?”

“We have a tip-off that Scorpion and his gang plan to strike again this Sunday. We even know what estate they are targeting and which house. My suggestion is that we get there before they do and ambush them.”

Gabriel agreed that the plan was a good one. It made sense to avoid the lion’s den and instead pounce on Scorpion and his gang when they least expected it.

Later that evening, Gabriel was summoned once again by the sergeant for a formal briefing with the remaining five members of their squad. Sule laid out the strategy of their raid and warned all of them not to disclose it to anyone. He also took a moment to point out to the squad that Gabriel had been very instrumental in the gathering of intelligence. All this pleased Gabriel. He was certain that once Scorpion and his gang had been captured, he would indeed get the promotion he deserved.

Sunday. It came more quickly than Gabriel had imagined. The hours since he’d spoken to his sergeant seemed to have developed wings. The usually dreadful night patrol didn’t bother him in the few days leading up to Sunday. He tried to contain his excitement that for once he was actually involved in real police work. Remembering the warning from the sergeant that they keep the raid under wraps, he could not tell Idara when she asked him if he had taken his discoveries to the inspector. He coded his answer to her, telling her instead that all was under control.

Before he left home on Sunday morning she stopped him by the doorway and held his hands tight.

“What is it, Idara?” he asked, sensing an aloofness in her countenance.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just know that I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replied before leaving.

He found her action strange, but there was nothing he could do about it. He knew that in a few hours he would be able to share everything with her, perhaps including the news that he was on his way to being promoted.

At six in the evening his squad gathered, the six of them and the sergeant. Something felt odd but he couldn’t put his finger on it. When he asked why they weren’t given bulletproof vests, the sergeant simply said it was not required, that he had it on good account that Scorpion and his gang operated solely with machetes. Sule’s tone did not invite further questioning.

They left the station before the hour struck seven. They took two vehicles, a Hilux truck and an old Peugeot sedan. Traffic on the bridge to the island was light; they got to their destination in no time. The estate’s security team had been expecting them and let them in. The housing estate was like the others — gated, clean, and pretentious. They parked their vehicles away from prying eyes, in the part of the estate with the industrial-sized water-treatment facility and giant electricity generators. Gabriel imagined that, like the other housing estates that had been hit by Scorpion’s crew, the occupants of this one also had no idea about the real Lagos life, about constant power failure and taps with no running water. Everything worked here. Everything here was a big lie.

“We walk to the house from here,” the sergeant said.

They set off by foot. They used side streets and hidden paths, trying their best to avoid being noticed by the occupants of the estate. The houses were separated by little gardens and picket fences. Gabriel noticed basketball hoops in some yards and a child’s bicycle with pink ribbons on the handlebars in another.

They arrived at a house that was far removed from the other ones. It was large, with a fancy facade, the type of house that would inevitably pique the interest of a criminal like Scorpion and his gang, Gabriel imagined. The occupants of the house were not there but the police were let in by a security guard. The sergeant instructed him to leave afterward.

Everything from then on seemed to happen fast, just like life in Lagos — the real Lagos, not the make-believe utopia of these island estates, where rich people’s children rode fancy bicycles, played basketball, and had nannies and gatemen. Complete darkness came swiftly. Lagos nights could be unforgiving. They all took their places to wait. Gabriel’s spot was inside the house. The others remained outside, hidden.

Just before midnight Gabriel heard a bus pull up in front of the house. His heart was racing. He checked to make sure his gun was loaded and ready. He waited to hear his squad attack the gang, to hear their barked commands for surrender and warning shots fired, but there was nothing. He wondered what was wrong. It occurred to him that maybe he had been abandoned, so he crept to one of the curtained windows in an upstairs room. And then he heard her voice: “Gabriel...”

It was too unreal, like something out of a bad dream. At first he thought he had imagined it, though when he shifted the curtain slightly, enough to remain hidden but still allowing him a good view outside, there she was — his wife. She was flanked by thuggish men.

“Gabriel, please come out,” she called, her voice as calm as if she were at home. “No one is going to hurt you.”

“Listen to your wife, Gabriel.” That was his sergeant.

He peeked out of the window again and saw they were all there — his wife, his squad, Scorpion, and his gang. It suddenly dawned on him what this was: it wasn’t a sting operation, it was an initiation. Everyone was in on it except him. His wife must have been the one who told the sergeant about what he’d discovered and what he planned to do with it. The night at Colony Estate must have been possible because his sergeant and squad had been paid off to look the other way. Gabriel had always known that some police officers were corrupt, but he never imagined this grand scale of deceit.

He knew he was cornered. If he attempted to be a one-man Rambo, they would surely kill him. This was not the night he would die, Gabriel thought. He had to find a way to play along and survive. His wife was out there with them. He would join her, surrender his weapon, and act like he understood the score and was in with them. After all, this was Lagos, where the police force was everybody’s friend.

“Hey,” Gabriel shouted out through the window, “I’m coming out!”

Heaven’s Gate by Chika Unigwe

Showlogo by Nnedi Okorafor

Ajegunle

Showlogo fell from the clear, warm Chicagoland skies at approximately 2:42 p.m.

He landed with a muted thud on the sidewalk in the village of Glenview. Right in front of the Tundes’ house. There were three witnesses. The first, and closest, was a college student who was home for the summer named Dolapo Tunde. She’d been pushing an old lawnmower across the grass as she listened to M.anifest on her iPhone. The second was Mr. David Goldstein, who was across the street scrubbing the hood of his sleek black Chevy Challenger and thinking about his next business trip to Japan. The third was Buster the black cat who’d been eyeing a feisty red squirrel on the other side of the Tunde’s yard.

The sight of the man falling from the sky and landing on that sidewalk would change all three of their lives forever. Nonetheless, this story isn’t about Dolapo, Mr. Goldstein, or even Buster the cat. This story is about the black man wearing blue jeans, gym shoes, and a thin coat who lay in the middle of the sidewalk with blood pouring from his face.

“I go show you my logo,” Showlogo growled, pointing his thick tough-skinned finger in Yemi’s face. All the men sitting around the ludo board game leaned away from Yemi.

“Kai!” one man shrieked, holding his hands up. “Kai! Na here we go!”

“Why we no fe relax, make we play?” another moaned.

But Yemi squeezed his eyes with defiance. He had always been stubborn. He’d also always been a little stupid, which was why he did so poorly in school. When professors hinted to him that it was time to hand them a bribe for good grades, Yemi’s nostrils flared, he bit his lower lip, frowned, and did no such thing. And so Yemi remained at the bottom of his university class. He scraped by because he still, at least, paid his tuition on time. Today, he exhibited that counterproductive stubbornness by provoking Showlogo, hearing the man speak his infamous warning of “I go show you my logo,” and not backing down. Yemi should have run. Instead, he stood there and said, “You cheat! You no fe get my money-o! I no give you!”

Showlogo flicked the soft smooth scar tissue where his left ear had been twelve years ago. He stood up tall to remind Yemi of his six-four muscular frame as he looked down at Yemi’s five-eleven lanky frame. Then, without a word, Showlogo turned and walked away. He was wearing spotless white pants and a shirt. How he’d kept that shirt so clean as he squatted with the other men in front of the ludo board while the wind blew the dry crimson dirt around them, no one knew. No one questioned this because he was Showlogo, and for Showlogo, the rules were always different. As he strode down the side of the dusty road, he cut quite a figure. He was very dark-skinned and this made the immaculate white of his clothing nearly glow. He looked like some sort of angel — but Showlogo was no angel.

He walked past two shabby houses and an abandoned building, arriving at his small flat in his “face me, I slap you” apartment complex. He moved wordlessly down the dark hallway, past four doors, and entered his home. It was custom for none of the flats in the building to have keys. Too expensive. Showlogo had always liked being able to just open his door. Plus, no one was dumb enough to rob him, so what need did he have for locks and keys or hiding his most valued things?

He slipped his shoes off and walked straight to his neatly made bed. Then he removed his white shirt, white pants, white boxers too. He folded and put them on his pillow in an orderly stack. He removed the diamond stud from his right ear. Then he turned and walked out. People peeked from behind doors, but not one person spoke to Showlogo or each other. Not a whisper. Unlike Yemi, his neighbors were smart.

Showlogo’s meaty chest and arms were gnarled with scars, some from fighting and some from threatening to fight. Often, he’d take a small pocketknife he liked to carry, stab his bicep, and growl, “Come on!” when anyone was dumb enough to challenge him. Today, however, he didn’t have his pocketknife. No matter, Showlogo thought as he strode down the street naked, I go kill am.

As he walked back to the game, people watched from food stands, cars honked at him, passersby quietly laughed and commented to each other.

“Who no go know, no go know. Showlogo know some logo-o.”

“I hope say you body ready for him.”

“Hope na man today. Not woman.”

Everyone knew that if he said, “I go show you my logo,” to a woman, it meant... something else. Either way, if you were smart, you knew to run. When Showlogo arrived back at the game, he found that Yemi had finally run for his life. Showlogo stood there, vibrating his chest, every pore in his body open, inhaling the hot Nigerian air.

“Why dey run?” Showlogo asked, his eyes focusing on Ikenna, who had a big grin on his face. Showlogo sucked his teeth in disgust. “Dem no get liver for trouble.”

“Please-o. Forget Yemi, Showlogo,” Ikenna said, laughing nervously. “Make you calm down. He ran like rabbit. Here, take.” He held a stack of naira in front of Showlogo’s twitching chest.

Showlogo scowled at the money, flaring his nostrils and breathing heavily through them. Slowly, he took the stack and counted, nudging each purple-and-pink bill up with a thumb. The hot breeze ruffled the short, tightly twisted dreadlocks on his head. He grunted. It was the proper amount. If Yemi had given too little or too much, Showlogo would have left, found the disrespectful mumu, and beaten him bloody. Instead, Showlogo went home and put some new clothes on — jeans and a yellow polo shirt this time. Today, his fists would not tenderize flesh.

Showlogo owned a farm and he maintained it himself. It was good work. He’d inherited it from his adoptive father, Olusegun Bogunjoko. Twelve years ago, when his best friend Ibrahim was killed during riots between Ibrahim’s clan and a neighboring clan, Ibrahim’s father, who had no other male children, adopted Showlogo as his son. Showlogo had been sixteen years old. Olusegun had always loved Showlogo. The fact that Showlogo was so strong in mind and body and refused to join any side, be it a confraternity or a clan’s core membership, set the old man’s mind at ease as well.

Showlogo’s parents had died when he was very young and he already deferred to Olusegun as a father, so the adoption made perfect sense. Showlogo took over the coco farm and ran it with the strong, attentive hand of a farmer from the old precolonial times, before oil had been discovered in Nigeria and began overshadowing all other produce, before Nigeria was even “Nigeria.” Showlogo was a true son of the soil, and the death of his best friend and the love of Olusegun brought this out in him.

Showlogo worked hard on his farm, though it made little money. However, when he was relaxing and not playing ludo with his friends, he was smoking what the legendary Fela Kuti liked to call “giant mold,” a very large joint that was thick at the end and thin at the tip. When Showlogo rolled one of his giant molds, his friends would call him Little Fela, and he’d smile and flex his big muscles.

Few people in Ajegunle had not heard of the great and powerful Showlogo: the Man Who Could Not Die, the Man Who Could Fight Ten Men While Drunk and Walk Away Not Bleeding, the Man Who Was Not Right in the Head, the Man Who’d Chosen to Cut Off His Ear Rather than Join a Confraternity.

He’d once jumped from a moving fruit truck just to show that he could. “I dey testing my power,” he’d said as he climbed onto the truck, clamoring over its haul of oranges. “No pain, no gain. Na no know.” He had asked the driver (who’d been taking a Guinness break before driving his haul to Abuja) to speed down the road. When the truck was moving forty-five miles per hour, Showlogo jumped, hit the road, and tumbled to the side of it, where he lay for several seconds not moving. His friends had run up to him, pressing their hands to their heads and wailing about how terrible Nigeria’s roads were for always taking lives. But then Showlogo raised his head, sat up, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles, and smiled. “You see now, I no fe die. Even death dey fear me.”

He’d thrown himself down hills, jumped from speeding danfos, leaped from the fourth floor of an apartment building, fought five men simultaneously and won, been shot on three different occasions, lost count of the number of times he’d been stabbed or slashed with a knife, saved a friend from armed robbers by driving by and throwing a water bottle at one of their heads. Showlogo had even looked a powerful witch doctor in the face and called him shit. Some said that Showlogo was protected by Shango and loved by many spirits whose names could not be spoken. He only laughed when asked if this were true.

And, of course, there was not one woman who had not heard of his massive “head office.” Some said that he’d once visited a prostitute and she’d given him back his money just to get him to stop having sex with her. According to this piece of local lore, the prostitute “couldn’t handle his logo.” Nobody messed with Showlogo and didn’t regret it. Then, two days after he nearly killed Yemi, Showlogo moved from local celebrity into legend.

In Nigeria, farming no longer made one rich unless you were farming oil. So, to make ends meet, Showlogo took odd jobs. For the past two months, he’d actually managed to hold a job at the airport. He spent the day loading luggage into and off of planes. It was the kind of work he loved — physical labor. Plus, he rarely had to deal with his boss (which was when the trouble usually began for him at other jobs). The hours in the sun made his near-black skin blacker, and the loading of luggage bulked up his muscles nicely. In the two months he’d been working at the airport, he imagined he was really starting to look like Shango’s son.

Keeping out of trouble at work, however, didn’t mean he kept out of trouble elsewhere.

“I pay you next time,” Vera said as she got off of Showlogo’s okada.

Showlogo smiled and shook his head as he started the engine. “No payment necessary,” he said. He watched her backside jiggling as she entered her flat. Vera wasn’t plump, the way he liked his women. However, she was plump in some nicely chosen places. Showlogo chuckled to himself and drove off. It was always worth driving Vera wherever she needed to go. It was also a good way to end a long day at the airport.

He didn’t make it a mile before two road police ruined his mood. He stopped at their makeshift roadblock, a long, thick, dry branch. He was shocked when the police officers demanded he pay them a bribe in order to pass.

“Do you know who I be?” Showlogo snapped, looking the two men over as if they were pieces of rotting meat.

“Abeg, give us money,” one of the cops demanded, brandishing his gun, waving a hand dismissively. “Then make you dey waka!” He was smaller and fatter than the other, standing about five-six and looking like he had never seen a real fight in his life. The taller, slimmer one, who was closer to six-three, vibrated his chest muscles through his uniform and flared his nostrils at Showlogo.

Showlogo pointed a finger in the smaller man’s face. “You go die today if you no turn and waka away from me now.”

The moment the taller one took a step toward him, Showlogo jumped off his okada, engaged the kickstand, and stepped into the grass. He glanced at the bush behind him and then at the two policemen who were approaching. There was a red leather satchel that he carried everywhere; this way, he always had what he needed. He slung it over his shoulder and pushed it to rest on his back.

He knew exactly what he was going to do. He’d decided it as a god would decide the fate of two mere men. He slapped the smaller man across the face so hard that a tooth flew out. The trick was to open his calloused hand wide and arch his palm just so. He grabbed the other man by the balls and squeezed, then kneed the officer in the face as he doubled over.

Both men were in hot pain and bleeding, one from his mouth and one from his nose, as Showlogo wordlessly dragged them into the bush. The foliage was not dense and if there were snakes in the high grass, Showlogo didn’t care. Any snake dumb enough to bite him would die, and he would not.

“Abeg,” one of the policemen said as he coughed, his words wet from the blood on his lips, “let us go. Dis has gone too far. Wetin na dey do?”

“I go show you my logo,” Showlogo muttered. “You asked for my logo and I go show you. Stupid set of people.”

He continued dragging them for several minutes and neither man tried to fight his way to freedom. They had realized who he was; they knew better now. Soon, their bleeding slowed but they were bothered by mosquitoes buzzing around their heads. Now they stood before the trunk of a tall palm tree. Showlogo held their hands together as he brought out a coil of rope from his satchel.

The policemen never spoke to anyone about how one man was able to tie two gun-carrying officers to a tree so well that they could not undo the knots. This was understandable, because it was so humiliating. Even if it was the madman Showlogo, how could they have not tried to take him or at least run away? It was shameful. Nevertheless, this was what happened. Showlogo tied them to a tree and then returned to his okada and drove off.

The policemen were stuck to that tree for two days. No food, no water, mosquitoes and other biting insects feasting on their blood. They sat in their own urine and feces and sang songs they’d learned from the powerful and violent university confraternities they both belonged to. It was this singing that eventually attracted the group of women coming from a nearby stream. Those men could have easily died there, but luck was finally on their side.

Word about the incident spread like wildfire.

“Why you dey ask me dis nonsense again?” Showlogo said several days later. “I don move on with my life-o. Na thunder go fire those yao-yao police.” He took a giant pull off his giant mold. He was sitting with his cousin Success T at the restaurant they fondly called the cholera joint, a plate of roasted goat meat and jollof rice in front of him. He exhaled and grabbed his spoon with his left hand and shoveled rice into his mouth. It had been a long day of work at the airport and the food tasted like heaven. “Next time they will stay out of my way,” he added through his mouthful.

“People dey talk about it,” Success T said, smiling. He was the only person on earth Showlogo trusted. The two had grown up together and then lived in the same flat for years when they were older. Both even had access to each other’s bank accounts. “How you dey tie them? Everyone wants to know.”

Showlogo paused as he ate more rice and drank from his bottle of Coca-Cola. He belched loudly and pounded a fist against his chest. “I be One Man Mopo. I no need help and no dey fight in group,” he responded, biting into a piece of goat meat. “You no believe me?”

“I do,” Success T said. He leaned forward, the smile wiped from his face. “Showlogo, I no want make you go to jail. Those police be cultist. Their people haven’t forgotten-o.”

Showlogo chewed his goat meat and smiled. “Jail no be for animal. Na for human person. But don worry. Jail no be for me.”

He wasn’t stupid. He thought about it. The police always had each other’s backs. And they held grudges like old women. And the fact that those two idiots who’d had the nerve to ask him for bribes were also part of confraternities was not good. So Showlogo decided to lay low for a bit. No partying or playing ludo outside with his friends for a few weeks. Go to work and then go home, that was the plan.

Then the Igbo shop down the street was robbed. Showlogo held his phone to his ear as he got on his okada that evening. Hearing about the incident first, Success T had called to warn him. “Watch out, o!” Success T said. “That kobo-kobo Igbo shop nonsense. Word on the street is that they caught the guys who did it and they said they knew you.” Showlogo blinked. Time to disappear. He would stay with Success T for a day or so until he figured out a better place to go for a while. He put the phone in his pocket and quickly drove home.

As he tried to pack up a few things, he heard cars arrive outside his building. When he looked out his window, he saw that one of the men who exited the police car was the very cop he’d left to die in the bush, the one with the fat wobble-wobble belly. They’d arrest him, and once in police custody Showlogo knew they’d find all sorts of reasons not to release him. He’d rot in jail for months, maybe years. He escaped from the back of the building just before the police came to his flat’s door.

He fled to the most hidden place he could think of — the airport tarmac. The shaded area beneath the mango tree on the far side of the strip was where the luggage loaders took their breaks. He’d once spent a night here when he was too tired to go home. Now, he sat down on the dirt to eat the jollof rice he’d bought from one of the lady vendors on his way there. He leaned his back against the tree and let out a tired sigh, thinking about his flat. Would the police force their way in and ransack the place?

As he sat in the early-evening darkness, chewing spicy tomato — flavored rice, Showlogo made a decision in the way he made every decision: fast. He stared at the 747 across the tarmac. He knew the schedule; this one would soon be bound for America. It was still glistening from its most recent wash. The water droplets sparkled in the orange and white airport lights. The airplane looked fresh, new, and it was headed to new lands. The sight of the clean airplane combined with the spicy rice in his mouth made the world suddenly seem ripe. Full of potential. Offering escape. For a while. He drank from his bottle of warm Coca-Cola and the sweetness was corrupted by the pepper in his mouth. He smacked his lips. He’d always liked this combination.

An hour later, he bought another container of rice from the same woman, demanding that she pack it into the plastic container he normally used to carry his toothbrush, toothpaste, and washcloth when he worked late hours. He went to his locker and brought out the heavy jacket he used when he worked during chillier nights.

“Success T, how far?” he asked, shrugging on the jacket as he held his phone to his ear.

“I’m good,” Success T said. “I dey study. You dey come out with us tonight. Where are you?”

“Look, I’m going for a little while. These yao-yao police need to calm down. Have Mohammed and Tolu watch my farm.”

“Where no dey go?”

“Away.”

After a pause, Success T said, “Good. I dey call you before. Some police dey wait outside your place. I drove by half hour ago.”

“Make you no worry about me. I fine.”

After the call, Showlogo stared out at the tarmac and pushed his phone deep into his pocket. He moved quickly. It was dark but he knew where he could walk and remain in the shadows. The New York — bound 747 would be pushing off soon, so he had to be quick. He climbed up the undercarriage, pressing a foot against the thick wheel. He hoisted himself into the plane’s landing-gear bay. In the metal space around him there were wires, pipes, levers, and other machinery.

He positioned himself in a spot where the wheels would not crush him and he could hang on to a solid narrow pipe. He’d have to grasp it tightly upon takeoff because the bay would fill with powerful sucking air as the plane picked up speed and left the ground. “One Man Mopo,” he said aloud with a laugh as he practiced his grip. He positioned his satchel at his back. Inside it were his phone, charger, the container of rice, a torch, his wallet, and a few other small things. All he’d need.

Showlogo’s mind was at ease when the plane began to move. In a few hours, he’d be in the United States. He’d never dreamed of going there. Nigeria was his home and the city of Lagos was his playground. But he understood change and that it could happen in the blink of an eye. He’d learned this when he was seven years old: one day his parents had been there, then the next, they’d died in a car crash. Since then he’d learned this lesson over and over. One day Chinelo had loved him, the next she was marrying his cousin and pretending she didn’t know him. One day there was food to eat, the next there was none. One day he had no money, the next his pockets were stuffed with naira and he had two jobs. One day he could buy fuel for his car, the next his car had been stolen and this didn’t matter because there was a fuel shortage. He’d lived his life this way, understanding, reacting to, and riding the powerful and weak waves of the universe’s ocean. He was a strong man, so he always survived.

The plane taxied to the runway. Showlogo watched the passing black pavement below. Success T would keep his flat for him, maybe use it as a second home when he wanted to be alone. Success T lived a fast life and was always sneaking away to spend days in remote hotels to get away from it all; the idea that his cousin could now use the place was comforting.

Of course, Success T would have to get rid of the police first. Showlogo chuckled to himself when he thought of the cops who were probably still waiting for him outside his home. They would spend weeks trying to find him. He’d lose his job at the airport by tomorrow morning and be replaced by the afternoon. So be it. He would be elsewhere. Who no know, no go know.

Showlogo began to have second thoughts as the plane picked up speed. The suction in the landing-gear bay was growing stronger and stronger... and stronger. Oh my God, Showlogo thought. He looked down at the pavement below. It was flying by, but maybe he could still throw himself out and survive. The plane wasn’t even off the ground, but already he felt an end to his strength. It was too late.

Whooosh!

When the plane left the ground, Showlogo felt as if he were dying. Every part of his body pressed against the bay’s metal walls. The air was sucked from his lungs. As the earth dropped away from him, his world swam. But this sense of death only lasted about thirty seconds. Then his body stabilized. In the next few minutes, Showlogo marveled at the fact that he would never be the same again. Who could be after feeling what he felt, seeing what he was seeing? Nigeria was flying away from him.

As the temperature rapidly dropped, he pulled his thin coat over himself and thanked God that he’d worn his best and thickest jeans, socks, and gym shoes. The undercarriage retracted. The clouds and distant earth below were shut away as the metal doors closed and Showlogo was pressed in tightly. “Shit!” he screamed. There was so much less space than he’d expected. And the temperature was still dropping.

He shivered. “Sh-Sh-Showlogo no go sh-sh-shake. No sh-sh-shaking for Sh-Sh-Showlogo,” he muttered. Only a few yards above him, people sat in their cushioned seats, warm and safe. The flight attendants were probably about to offer drinks and tell them about the meal that would be served. Showlogo had flown twice in his life. The first time was to Abuja, with his parents when he was five. When his parents were still alive and telling him every day what a great doctor he would be. The second time was a few years ago to Port Harcourt, when his parents were long dead and he had business to take care of in Calabar. On both flights, he remembered, they’d served snacks. When he was five, it had been peanuts or popcorn. As an adult, it had been drinks and crackers. Success T told him that on international flights, there was an actual meal.

“It was shit,” Success T had laughed. “For this small-small plate, the beef wey dem put dey tasteless-o! If I chop am, I go die before we reach Heathrow!”

Success T wasn’t exaggerating. He had been born with intestinal malrotation and lived on a very strict diet of seafood, fruits and vegetables, and very selected starches. He could not eat fufu or foods soaked in preservatives, and he could not eat most European and American cuisine. As Showlogo thought of his cousin, who was practically solid muscle and scared anyone he competed against in boxing tournaments, yet could be felled by merely eating the wrong food, he chuckled. Then he shivered again. He brought out his flashlight and flicked it on. The beam was dim despite the fact that he’d put in fresh batteries less than two hours ago.

He could see his breath as if he were smoking a giant mold. Speaking of which — he reached into his satchel and brought it out. He had to flick his lighter ten times before it produced a weak flame, then he only managed three puffs before it went out. The vibration of the plane’s engine shook his freezing body, causing his legs and arms to flex. He squeezed his palms and curled his feet and toes. He flexed his buttocks and straightened the tendons in his neck. Time was slowing down and he felt calm. He could see the black borders between the frames. Slowly, he ate his jollof rice, wheezing between bites. It was warm, red, and spicy, heating his belly. Then he lay back and thought of nothing more.

As Showlogo lay on the sidewalk, the woman named Dolapo Tunde, the man named Mr. David Goldstein, and the black cat stared. Dolapo shuddered as she grasped her lawnmower. She shuddered again and crossed herself. Then she pulled out her blue earbuds and let them fall to her thighs. Mr. Goldstein dropped his soapy sponge and leaned against his Chevy Challenger. All thoughts of work fled his mind as he tried to piece things together.

The man could not have fallen from any house or building. There wasn’t one close enough. No tree either. He’d fallen from the damn sky! But Mr. Goldstein had seen photos on the Internet of what was left of people who leap from tall buildings. He’d seen one of a man who’d jumped from a skyscraper. The guy had been nothing but mush in the road. So Mr. Goldstein shuddered as well, for he did not want to see or even know what the man looked like underneath.

Only Buster the cat was brave and, of course, curious enough to inspect. He padded across the road. He hesitated for only a moment and then he walked right up to Showlogo’s body and sniffed the side of his head. Buster looked at the man’s nose, which was pressed to the concrete and dribbling blood. The smell of the blood was rich and strong — very, very strong. Buster had never smelled blood with such a powerful scent. He was focusing so hard on the rich bloody aroma that when Showlogo grunted, the cat was so deeply startled that he leaped four feet in the air.

Across the street Mr. Goldstein shouted, “Holy shit! HOLY SHIT! Whoa! He’s alive! How the fuck is that dude alive? What the hell!”

Showlogo lifted his head and glanced around. He coughed and wiped his bloody nose. He sat up, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles, and smiled tiredly. He looked at Dolapo, who was staring at him with her mouth hanging open. His brain was addled, so when he spoke, what came out was not the pidgin English he meant to speak, not even the Standard English he should have spoken, for he was most certainly in America. Instead, he spoke the language of his birth, Yoruba.

“You see? I can never die,” he said. “Even death fears me.”

Dolapo tried to reply, but all that came out was a gagging sound.

“I agree with you,” he said to her. “There are better ways to travel. Can you prepare some yam with palm oil for me? I have a taste for that.”

Dolapo stared at him for several more seconds and crossed herself again. Then she quietly responded to him in Yoruba, “God is with me! I have no reason to fear evil. Be gone, fallen angel! Be gone, devil!” She switched to English. “In the name of Jesus!”

Showlogo stared blankly at her and laughed. “My eyes tell me I’m in America, my ears tell me something else.” He stretched his back and began to walk up the sidewalk. He was Showlogo, and he could survive anything and anywhere. Behind him Buster the black cat followed, attracted and intrigued by the strongest-smelling blood he’d ever sniffed.

Just Ignore and Try to Endure by A. Igoni Barrett