Ннеди Окорафор - Lagos Noir

Emeka stood up. “Boss...”

On Monday morning, Ibukun, the president of the student union at Lagos State University, stumbled upon a corpse outside her school gate, eighteen kilometers from Victoria Island. It was that of a young man, possibly in his twenties. He had probably been killed somewhere else, most likely somewhere upscale and exclusive, and dumped where he could be just another anonymous corpse. This young man, so close in age to herself, deserved some respect, even in death. She picked up her mobile phone and dialed the police.

“This corpse you say you found, you know the person?”

“No sir.”

“And so what is your business with it?”

“It’s outside the school gate, sir.”

“Is it inside your room?”

“No sir.”

“Did you kill him? Give me your name and address.”

Ibukun hung up. She knew how very easily innocent citizens could be arrested for crimes they’d had no part of. She remembered the story of her townsman who had taken the victim of a shooting to the hospital, called the police to report it, and was arrested on suspicion of being the perpetrator. Ibukun sighed and headed to class. Let the dead deal with the dead.

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.