A. Barrett - Love Is Power, or Something Like That - Stories

The fourth button on Eghobamien Adrawus’s uniform broke off and fell to the porch floor. He trapped it with his foot before it could roll out of range. He bent to pick it up, and straightened as the van stopped in front of him. Inspector Abacha was in the cab of the van, beside the driver.

“Morn, sah!” Eghobamien Adrawus saluted, drawing his feet together and thrusting out his chest. His shirt gaped open, exposing the slackened, sweat-browned neck of his fishnet singlet.

“Morning,” the inspector replied. He leaned forward to look out the driver’s window. “You dey live for Oyakhilome Barracks, not so?”

“Yes, sah!”

“Okay. We get operation near there, for barracks bus stop.”

“Ah, wetin happen?”

“No worry, nothing serious. Nah just those bus drivers. We get report sey they are causing go-slow.”

Eghobamien Adrawus nodded and stepped back.

“Enter motor,” the inspector said. “Make we give you lift, abi?”

“Ah, thank you, oga!”

Eghobamien Adrawus pocketed the loose button and bundled his mufti into the rucksack. He buttoned up his uniform as he descended the porch steps; then he hurried to the back of the van and climbed in, and when he pounded on the roof, the van sped off with a blast of its horn, followed by the Black Maria.

When the convoy, which now included three commandeered transport buses and two tow vans, arrived at the bus stop, the bus drivers and their hooligan cohorts scattered in flight, as they recognized from the battle gear and firearms that the police were serious. The policemen pumped their rifles, called out commands, and gave chase.

Though he was off duty and under no obligation to participate, Eghobamien Adrawus threw himself into the raid. He had just shoved a blubbering conductor boy into the Black Maria and was looking round to see where else he was needed, when he noticed a stealthy movement among a cluster of spectators gathered around some meat sellers’ stalls. He stared at the group and began to jog toward them. The crowd held their ground until there was no question where the policeman was headed. Then they broke apart like startled bush fowl and exposed a man creeping on his hands and knees, trying to get away. The man, too, decided to run and jumped upright, but before he took a step Eghobamien Adrawus was upon him and tackled him to the ground. One of the policeman’s slippers flew off from the impact.

“So you want to run, ehn?” he puffed, straddling the man’s chest and holding on to his shirtfront. He dealt him a slap and then grabbed his waistband to pull him to his feet. The man was tall, taller than him, and so fair skinned that Eghobamien Adrawus felt a twinge of spite. He delivered another slap to ensure that the man stayed cowed — he felt a coil of pleasure in his belly as he saw the imprints of his fingers glow red on the man’s cheek. He turned and tried to drag the man away, but he was surprised to find him resisting, not fearfully, pleadingly, but with unexpected force.

“Wetin I do?” the man protested, as he tried to prize loose the policeman’s grip on his waistband. The man’s feet seemed rooted to the ground, no matter how Eghobamien Adrawus tugged, he would not budge.

“You dey resist arrest!” Eghobamien Adrawus threw a quick look around. The other policemen were too busy to come to his aid, and he could feel the man becoming bolder, less respectful. His fingers began to slip — the success of the raid and the safety of his colleagues in that instant seemed vested in the grip of his fingers. He released his hold on the man’s trousers.

The man panted with triumph. He made a half turn to complete his escape, but Eghobamien Adrawus lunged forward and flung his arms around him. When he tried to lift him off the ground, the man gripped his shirt and locked legs with him. A black, foaming fury rose to the policeman’s throat. He glowered past the man’s shoulder at a table in one of the abandoned meat stalls. A thin rivulet of blood flowed over the table’s edge, pattering the ground.

Eghobamien Adrawus placed his lips against the man’s sweat-moistened cheek and snarled: “You dey challenge my authority — you no dey fear?” The man’s cheek muscles tensed, but he made no reply.

Eghobamien Adrawus bunched his shoulders and strained backward, and when the man resisted, he heaved forward. The man staggered back several steps and crashed into the table, bloodying the seat of his trousers. Eghobamien Adrawus felt a surge of power. He drove his knee upward, into the man’s crotch. As the man doubled over with a yelp, Eghobamien Adrawus released his clasp on his shoulders and landed a blow on his mouth. The man jackknifed to barracks attention, his eyes widening, his lips flapping loosely.

Eghobamien Adrawus took his time in selecting which part of the man’s body to inflict punishment on. He punched him in the stomach, the neck, the ear, and when his arms tired, he head butted him in the mouth. The man began to chatter pleas, blood seeping from between his teeth. Eghobamien Adrawus aimed a kick at his legs, and with a shout, the man fell to the ground. Catching sight of the pile of butchered meat on the table surface, Eghobamien Adrawus reached out and grabbed a cow leg — the hoof dug him in the wrist and bloodstained ligaments extended like hacked wires from the knee joint. Wielding the leg like a truncheon, he clubbed the prostrate man over the head.

Someone in the crowd yelled: “You go kill am o!” The policeman, snorting from his exertions, straightened up. He scowled at the wall of faces. Through the unbuttoned part of his shirt his belly heaved like a hippopotamus in labor. The man on the ground moaned and struggled up onto one elbow, his shoulders trembling from the effort. One of his eyes was swollen shut and blood bubbled from his lips and nostrils. Eghobamien Adrawus tossed aside the cow leg and bent to help him to his feet.

“Come,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”

Overloaded with prisoners, the Black Maria turned onto the road, puffing clouds of smoke behind it. Eghobamien Adrawus collected his bag from the back of the police van and left the bus stop. His barrack was a short walk away but he had only one slipper. He had searched for the second but with no result. He flagged down a passing okada.

When the motorbike came to a stop in front of his apartment block, he climbed down and strode off without paying. The okada rider — a foul-smelling adolescent boy with mud-colored hair and arms as thin as cornstalks — released a stream of abuse at his back, his voice cracking with emotion. The invectives, delivered in a mishmash of dialects and mangled English, flew from his mouth with gobs of spittle. After the policeman entered the building, the boy swung his motorbike around and rode off with a shriek of tires.

Estella was bent over the stove in the corridor. She looked up when a shadow fell across her cooking pot and, recognizing her husband, gave a cry, which was choked off before it could declare itself as fear or delight. She straightened up, wiping her hands on the front of her wrapper. Eghobamien Adrawus let her take his bag. He grunted a reply to her inquiry about his appetite, but feigned deafness when she observed that the neck of his singlet was stained with blood. He parted the curtain to enter the apartment, then halted at a dirty pot by the doorway.

“Nah Mama Adaobi pot,” Estella said quickly.

“But this nah the second day.”

“Ah Eghe, I don tell her make she remove am from my door-mot, but she no wan’ hear!”