Ннеди Окорафор - Lagos Noir

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. I was honored to receive such stellar contributions from this highly talented group of writers, some very well known, some just now emerging. 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.

Chris Abani

March 2018

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.