Ннеди Окорафор - Lagos Noir

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.