Kan The Carnivorous City

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-60945-370-1
Verlag: CASSAVA REPUBLIC
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 315 Seiten

'Rabato Sabato aka Soni Dike is a Lagos big boy; a criminal turned grandee, with a beautiful wife, a sea-side mansion and a questionable fortune. Then one day he disappears and his car is found in a ditch, music blaring from the speakers. Soni's older brother, Abel Dike, a teacher, arrives in Lagos to look for his missing brother. Abel is rapidly sucked into the unforgiving Lagos maelstrom where he has to navigate encounters with a motley cast of common criminals, deal with policemen all intent on getting a piece of the pie, and contend with his growing attraction to his brother's wife. Carnivorous City is a story about love, family and just desserts but it is above all a tale about Lagos and the people who make the city by the lagoon what it is.'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kan, Toni

Leseproben

WAIT AND SEE
Santos came early the next morning. He used to ride around shotgun with Soni because, as Abel got to learn, his brother never trusted anyone enough to drive him. That was why, on the day he disappeared, they found his car in a ditch in Shomolu, the engine running, the speakers blaring Fela. Abel remembered Santos as Ikechukwu, a snotty-nosed kid who loved biscuits and used to spend his holidays with them. He was a cousin of sorts who had lost his mother at an early age and ended up being passed around a cast of uncles and aunts. They called him Ten Biscuits because once, while on holiday at their house, he had gone begging for biscuits from a neighbour who ran a small supermarket. Two silly boys who lived down the road had told Ikechukwu that they would give him ten biscuits if he allowed them to smear a hot Chinese balm on his eyes. Ikechukwu agreed. His screams had alerted the neighbours, who rushed out to administer first aid. After his eyes had been washed clean and he could identify the boys, they discovered that Ikechukwu had been clutching the sodden biscuits in his palm, all the while. ‘Ten Biscuits!’ Abel yelled as Santos sauntered into the living room where he was watching CNN. ‘Bros, easy o,’ he whispered in Abel’s ear as they hugged. ‘My name is now Santos o.’ ‘Santos, Santos,’ he said as their embrace broke. ‘Welcome, bros. You have been suffering in Asaba when your brother is a king in Lagos,’ he said in Igbo. ‘I have come to my brother’s kingdom,’ Abel countered, and they both laughed. ‘Welcome bros. Where are you going today? Iyawo say we get many places to go today,’ Santos said, switching to pidgin. Abel told him he needed to go to the lawyer, then to the bank to see whether he could free up the account and get some money. That was paramount. ‘No yawa,’ Santos said. ‘Bros Sabato has plenty accounts but I will take you to the banks where there is plenty money.’ Sorting out the legal issues took days and by the sixth, Abel was tired and broke and frustrated. According to the bank, Soni was missing, not dead, so it was difficult to invoke the power of next of kin. So, back and forth to the lawyers Abel went. An affidavit was sworn, documents were provided, letters were written, but at the end of the day it was Santos who came up with a bit of peculiar Lagos wisdom that helped them make headway. ‘Bros, I no sure say this your court matter go work o,’ Santos told him as they left the lawyer’s office that morning. ‘Sabato is still missing so e go hard. Let’s go to one of the bank managers I know and offer him something. He will let us have some money to run things until we sort out the court wahala.’ The bank manager was a smallish, fair-skinned man in a well-cut suit. His fingers were manicured and coated with transparent nail polish. His shoes gleamed and he had the air of someone who liked to look good; the kind of person who bought his clothes based on what models were wearing in the glossy spreads of GQ or Vogue. But the moment he spoke, Abel saw it all fall away. He had a thick accent that Abel immediately placed as Bendel, the old name for what used to be Delta and Edo states. It was the thick residual accent of a boy who grew up in the village before fate thrust him into Lagos. As he spoke Abel looked at his hands again, at the fingers he kept clasping and unclasping. They were peasant’s fingers masked with a patina of gentility. They were the hands of a man who had grown up on a farm and who, having escaped, would do everything to never go back. Abel knew people like him. He met them first at the university. They would arrive as bush and timid as they came, but by the second semester they would be affecting an annoying American accent. Their voices, with the fake accent and half-realised drawl, always reminded him of someone with body odour, the kind that remains long after the person has left the room. ‘So, you want some money and you don’t wanna wait for the legal processes to be completed, is that what you are saying?’ he asked, his beady eyes flipping from Abel to Santos. ‘Basically, yes,’ Abel answered. ‘That’s not legal, you know. We could all get into trouble.’ ‘Bros, na help we need,’ Santos butted in, all solicitous and Lagos-like. It was something Abel would come to recognise: a tone of voice and posture that said, dude, I know I am begging but you can’t say no. ‘Help us and my bros here go also make sure say something drop. We know say Sabato has a huge sum in your bank. The last statement you sent showed say he has one hundred and thirty-two million naira here, abi?’ The bank manager smiled as if impressed. Abel was impressed that Santos had that figure. ‘So, imagine say you give us ten million. My bros here go drop one point five million for you; that’s a cool 15 per cent. So, anytime we need money, we will show and it’s the same arrangement all over,’ Santos told him, switching fluidly from pidgin to English. ‘Una no fit make am 25 per cent?’ the bank manager asked, all pretences at Americanese gone. His small eyes shone with greed. ‘I gotta sort out other people,’ he added when he caught the look on Abel’s face. ‘Bros, Sabato get plenty money for different banks. If you don’t accept our 15 per cent we will go to another bank,’ Santos told him without frills, his gaze level with the bank manager’s. Silence stretched the moment for a few seconds before the bank manager cracked a smile and stretched out his hand. ‘Kai, dis bros you harsh,’ he said regressing to his origins. ‘Give me a few days to sort this out. I will give you a call once it’s ready. You have a card?’ Abel shook his head and wrote down his phone number on a bright pink sticky-note pad on the manager’s table. ‘Thanks guys,’ the bank manager said as he opened the door to his office. ‘I will give you a call.’ In the car Abel turned to look at Santos. ‘Bros, corruption is another name for Lagos,’ Santos said before Abel could find the words he was looking for. ‘Nobody come Lagos to count bridge. You help me, I help you – everyone happy. The guy is taking serious risk and we are paying for the risk. But look am well; we get money to run things, e get something for him wahala. Everybody is happy.’ ‘If I had gone alone, I would never have known how to do that,’ Abel said, still amazed at how easily Santos had pushed forward with the proposal. ‘No shame for Lagos, o. If you shame hunger go kill you, bros. That’s one thing I learn from Bros Sabato and that manager: no dey play with him cut. Na deal man be dat.’ ‘You knew him before now?’ Abel asked. ‘Yes o. Sabato is a special customer and he told me this funny gist about the manager.’ Santos switched from pidgin to Igbo like a crazy driver veering from lane to lane. The story was about Soni and an old friend, someone with whom he had done a job. When the money was paid, it was routed through the same bank manager, although he was just the head of operations at a small branch at the time. It wasn’t much – a mere three million naira – but it was a lot back then because Soni and his friend were just starting out. The manager had packed the cash into two Ghana-must-go bags, and spread out on the table was three hundred thousand naira, which he believed was his cut – a cool 10 per cent. But there was trouble brewing: getting greedy, Soni’s friend had called ahead and persuaded the bank manager not to split the remaining two million seven hundred thousand equally. So, when they arrived, Soni’s bag had one million two hundred, while the other guy’s had one million five hundred thousand naira. ‘Bros, you should have seen the fight,’ Santos said, getting into the story as if he had been there. ‘Sabato didn’t waste any time in attacking his friend. There was blood everywhere by the time mobile policemen came in to break them up. It was the mobile policemen who saved the day. They almost sacked the guy but Sabato said he was happy how the guy quickly shared out the money equally and asked them to leave. So, when money came bros made sure he remained loyal to the bank manager. That’s why I said we should come and see him. I know he likes money and he and Sabato go back a long way — Soni’s office was in Apapa, off Creek Road and close to the wharf. He had a staff of about twelve. Abel addressed them later that morning in the tastefully furnished conference room. Though he was a lecturer and quite used to speaking, it felt strange sitting there with men and women seated around the table, some as old as his parents, hanging on to his every word. It felt surreal as he signed cheques running into millions to cover admin costs and pay salaries for all staff members when his own salary was nothing to write home about. It all needed getting used to but there was no time to adjust. He was diving headlong into things. Back at home, he was surprised to find that they needed close to a quarter of a million naira...