A. Barrett - Blackass

Igoni finished his cigarette in silence and picked up his cappuccino. As he drank, Furo watched him openly. Igoni seemed friendly enough, he also appeared to have some money, and he was Kalabari, almost family without the drawbacks. Furo decided it was now time to ask the favour of Igoni that he’d intended since he realised that fate was finally dealing him a good hand. And so he said Igoni’s name, and when Igoni looked at him, he spoke in a halting voice:

‘I know it’s a bit odd, but I want to ask you a favour.’

‘Go ahead,’ Igoni said.

‘I need a place to stay in Lagos. Only for a short time, about two weeks. I’m hoping, if it’s possible, if it’s not too much trouble, that I can stay with you.’

‘Oh,’ Igoni said in a surprised tone. ‘That’s a big one.’

Furo jumped into the opening. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I don’t have anyone else to ask.’

Igoni leaned forwards, rested his elbows on his knees, and cracked his knuckles. He stared at the ground between his feet until he raised his head. ‘I’ll be honest,’ he said, his eyes seeking out Furo’s, and then swinging away as he continued in a voice shaded with regret. ‘Any other time I would be happy to have you over, but I’m in the middle of some writing, so I really can’t, not now.’

Furo’s voice was hoarse as he said, ‘I understand.’

Igoni was about to speak again when his phone rang. After mumbling a few words, he hung up the call, and then reached for his wallet. ‘I have to rush off,’ he said as he flipped it open. ‘The person I was waiting for has arrived.’ He pulled out four crisp five hundreds and placed the notes by his saucer. ‘That will cover the bill.’ Rising to his feet, he slung his laptop bag over his shoulder. ‘It was nice meeting you, Furo. Bye now.’

Furo watched Igoni until he disappeared into the milling throng outside the cafe’s glass front. Returning his gaze to the table, he noted that Igoni hadn’t finished his drink. He picked up the cup, and after swirling around the leftover cappuccino, he drank it down. As he clacked the cup on the saucer, the money caught his eye. Maybe he should have asked Igoni for money instead, he thought, and then heaved a coffee-scented sigh.

‘May I join you?’

Furo whipped his head around. The woman in yellow heels had turned in her seat till her bared knees pointed at him. Her smile did not reach her eyes.

‘Is it OK to join you?’ she asked again.

At his nod, she took up her handbag, rose to her feet and, with a waft of perfume, slid in beside him. Her knee bumped his under the table. ‘Oops,’ she said, and threw him a smile only just warmer than her last. ‘I’m Syreeta.’

‘Furo,’ he said.

‘That’s a Nigerian name.’

‘I’m Nigerian,’ Furo said. Some resentment escaped into his tone, and he met her gaze. Her brown irises were steady pools from which his face stared back. ‘You sound Nigerian for sure,’ she said at last. ‘But you’re the first Nigerian I’ve met who has green eyes.’

Furo blinked in surprise, and to cover his confusion he raised his hand to his nape, where his fingers began to rub. When Syreeta asked, ‘Is your neck paining you?’ he nodded and rubbed harder. ‘Stop rubbing it like that, it won’t help, it will make it worse.’ After he dropped his hand, she said, her tone conversational: ‘What you need is a massage. I can give you one if you want.’ She held up her hands, showed her palms to him. ‘I’m good with my hands. And my house is not far from here.’ She took his silence for agreement. ‘We’ll go after my food comes.’

Head reeling from the speed of things, Furo bent forwards and grabbed hold of his straw. As he slurped the last of his milkshake, his eyes watched Syreeta’s hands, her scarlet fingernails drumming the tabletop. Her offer had caught him unawares, as he hadn’t expected it of someone as well-heeled as her. He understood what she wanted, the same as that other one, the runs girl who had accosted him by the mall’s toilet, had wanted. The white man’s money, that’s what. Appearances had deceived him and her, because he had misjudged her morals as completely as she his pocket. She was loose, he was broke, and the rules of this game were fixed. He had to set her straight. Despite the tinder of hope that her offer had sparked, he had to douse it before the flames overcame his common sense.

Furo straightened up and found his voice. ‘Look, I don’t—’

‘Shush,’ Syreeta said, and Furo followed the direction of her look. The waitress was headed their way with a tray from which steam rose, and as she drew up to them, Syreeta said, ‘Sorry dear, I’ve changed my mind, I’m leaving now. Pack the food for me. And bring our bills.’

Alone again, she said to Furo, ‘You wanted to say something?’

‘I don’t have any money,’ he blurted out.

Her face hardened. ‘Did I ask you for money?’

‘But you want me to go home with you!’

‘And so what?’ she said in a flat voice.

Furo stared wordless, aghast at her shamelessness.

‘Do you want to or not?’

He closed his mouth and nodded yes.

‘Then stop talking plenty and come,’ Syreeta said with a toss of her braids.

In the car park of The Palms, Syreeta beeped open a silver-coloured Honda CR-V. ‘Your belt,’ she said to Furo after he climbed into the passenger seat, and when he was buckled in: ‘I’ll make a quick stop before we go to my place.’ She switched on the ignition. The flash of dashboard lights, a blast of stereo music, streams of air from the vents, and the machine purr of an engine eager to go. The car cruised out of The Palms, and when Syreeta accelerated (even though he couldn’t drive, Furo could tell that she handled the wheel with panache, to which the Honda responded like a dance partner) towards the Lekki highway, the easy motion of the car pulled Furo into a sinkhole of comfort. Every breath he drew, every rub of his tired shoulders on the soft leather seat, every sensation contributed to his need to pee.

Her quick stop was the five-star-looking Oriental Hotel. Furo realised this when the Honda swept through the gateway into a parking lot overflowing with millionaires’ toys, and by the time Syreeta found a spot and reversed into it, he’d convinced himself of the quickie reason for her stopover, the abysmal state of her morality, and the dangerous nature of her daring. She demolished his assumptions by asking him to follow her in. Together, side by side, they walked into the hotel’s lobby. To the right of the entrance was the reception counter, and Syreeta turned left. She clicked past a knot of men dressed in bankers’ suits, and pausing in their conversation, they stared after her, their eyes burning with the fever of acquisition. Furo skidded across the smooth stone floor in his efforts to keep pace with her, and when she halted in front of the elevator, he felt a vicious stab in his bladder. He couldn’t hold it in any more.

‘I need to ease myself,’ he whispered to Syreeta.

‘Let’s get upstairs first,’ she responded, but a quick look at his face changed her mind. ‘Go on, the loo is that way,’ and she pointed. ‘I’ll wait here.’

Furo trotted towards the lavatory, and once he was through the door he hopped from foot to foot and fumbled with his fly before bounding to the nearest urinal. He panted at the first spurt, pungent and steaming, the colour of factory waste, a whole day’s worth topped with a cup of milkshake, which splashed into the glistening ceramic and rattled the coloured mothballs and foamed in the drain. His nerves calmed with his stream, and soon he glanced around to confirm he was alone, and then down at his trousers to ensure he had no reason to be self-conscious. He finished and gave a yawn, closed his zipper, and then, as his eyes caught the brand stamped on to the urinal, he barked with laughter. He hadn’t noticed he was peeing into a Toto — a vagina. Yes, a dirty joke , he thought as he strolled chuckling to the washbasin, but when he saw his face in the mirror, his mirth caught in his throat. A monstrous joke, a monster’s joke: that’s what this is.