The Professor lounged in his chair, a glass of wine held aloft by the bartender stretching a hand at him in service.
“Bend over, young woman!”, he said softly, certain to be heard by no one within remote earshot except for the lass it was intended for. There were no customers up here at this time of night. Just him, and a few other female workers bustling about, attending to the business of tending the establishment.
His eyes, upon close inspection, seemed trained on a bountiful spot beyond the arm that now passed him the cocktail glass. The serving lady took care to ensure that his gaze remained consistent for a few seconds more, then rose and turned around, all within the duration it took for a late morning riser to execute his first, long yawn.
The Professor watched the serving girl leave, admiring the magnificent view of her mini-truck of a derriere as she sashayed away.
Sighing, he took a sip of his drink, placed the glass on the table, and then pulled out his smartphone to send an SMS.
This particular bar was one of many used by the Scarlets as meeting spots all over the south of Lagos. All of Surulere, Yaba, Lagos mainland, island, and Epe were the territory of the Scarlet Confraternity, while their biggest rivals, the Black Crew held sway in Agege, Ikeja, Ojo, Alimosho, and parts of Ikorodu.
While the guilds were responsible for the vagaries of legal business in the state, the more shady dealings that put money into the hands of the select few were done in the secret world of rival illegitimate businesses, trades in whores, drugs, alcohol, and human beings, with the Black Crew and the Scarlets by far the most powerful of the controlling gangs in this unique ecosystem.
This underworld was controlled by powerful figures who held on to power and influence ruthlessly, dealing death and destruction to any who stood in their way.
The powers that be were free to carry out their illicit activities, as long as they paid their dues, with their activities taxed heavily by special state government parastatals, in exchange for immunity– off the books of course.
The unwritten rules of the underworld meant that these entities had almost limitless power. However, they were obliged to keep their schemes in the shadowy dark where they operated. Any leaks or damage that directly affected the public was prosecuted mercilessly by the law, as the government could ill afford to be seen to compromise its mandate to the people.
Hence the gangs had extensive networks, hands in all the right pies, and mutually beneficial friendships with commissioners, ministers, and various security, military, and para-military officers.
The Professor took in the fine sights of the scene, trying to relax before his meeting. Stubborn had been charged the day before with disseminating a memo to key Scarlet lieutenants. There was information to be shared, now that the Professor had it all properly deciphered, with his key players all in position. Stubborn had sent five memos to five bosses, notifying them of the urgent meeting here, at the summit of one of the tallest buildings in their section of the city.
The Professor was the current Dragon of the Scarlets, a position he’d occupied for nearly ten years. He still answered to the shady Tyrant, as did his rival Yaya and the heads of the smaller gangs. But as far as this part of Lagos was concerned, not a single naira went through the underworld without his knowledge. The entire structure was a loose one with numerous aliases, false cons, and decoys, all managed more or less liberally by corrupt folk trying to get the better of other greedy folk. He did not have complete sovereignty. But his power was far-reaching, and that was really all that mattered.
For in this playground, only the strong came around. Only the strong could play without getting hurt. There was no referee, moderator, no leveler, no moral compass. Everyone did as they saw fit as long as they had the means to defend their profits. If you worked in evil, you had to have the means to back up your fell deeds. Else you fell back to the ground, hard on your arse.
A few months ago, intel had come in from a mole in the rival camp. It was about the delivery of a package containing a very interesting item. His source had been unable to find out what the lot consisted of, but its importance had been emphasized, especially given the suspicious secrecy around its transportation. He’d been there in person, just to make certain that Yaya knew exactly who’d rattled his nest. It had not been a completely bloodless operation, however. Tensions were already high between the two groups, higher than they’d been for several decades.
There had always been two rival factions. Black and Red. Bird and Pirate. They were known by different names depending on whether you asked in the narrow alleys of Agege, or the gloomy streets of Eko. In some places, particularly epic drunken spates had even birthed more outlandish claims– the names of political parties, social groups, and even governmental organizations.
However, the rare few in the know were well aware of the origins, as well as the true depth and extent of the rivalry. But that was a story for another day.
Today, other thoughts occupied the mind of the Professor. The Scarlets’ operation at the Shrine had not yielded maximum results, but retrieving the box had been enough. His hands went to the curiously designed briefcase opened before him, hovering over the small rag-like cloth at its center.
The Professor smiled.
At that moment, Stubborn walked up, saluting his boss, sharp eyes taking in the mild activity of the few girls around the bar.
“It is nearly nine, Stubborn. Where are my guests?’’ he asked irritatedly.
“On the way, Professor. They should be here any minute now…’’
‘‘They had better be early. I do not wish any sort of delay’’.
“That will be at their peril, Professor’’.
He relaxed in his chair again, tapping his fingers to his lips every few seconds. Soon enough, they began to arrive.
The local government chairman of Kosofe strolled in, genuflecting as was the ritual, before folding back the draping arms of his agbada and taking a seat in silence. He was a short, stocky fellow with a huge sense of self-importance. His sort was easy to manipulate. The trick was to dangle choice bait at a precise time.
The next fellow that sauntered in was a light-skinned with nervous eyes. Alayo indirectly owned, more or less directed all of the trade in the key markets of the Island. For every deal that was brokered in every five and four-star hotel in the vicinity, he had a cut. For every lapdance given in the elitist dens of the south, he had a share.
“Baba oo”, Alayo genuflected, stamping one foot hard on the ground, both arms held upright in a comic pose.
The Professor acknowledged him absentmindedly, signaling permission to allow his upraised hands to fall back to their normal position. The new entrant took a position in the seat to the Professor’s left, reached out to pour himself a generous portion of one of the drinks laid out on the low center table,
Soon after, the rest of the expected gathering came in, all within a minute of the other. Their eyes naturally drifted to the compelling sight around them; the mini bar with a dais in one corner, the serving girls working around the bar, and the magnificent view of the city from this vantage point.
While Alayo controlled trade in the hotels, dens, and sex parlors, Iyaloja controlled organized crime in much of the south of the city. She was friends with the leaders of the local mob, helping to ease their access to the hard drugs they used to keep their scum numbers happy, high, and ready for targeted violence. Iyaloja was a woman in her late forties whose beauty the advancing of years had failed to significantly erase. A widow, she was rumored to have had a single child outside of her marriage with a husband who’d died shortly before she’d taken in.
Thus went the rumors.
The reality was that she lived the life of a single, childless widow. If she did have a child, that soul would safely be far away from the country, probably studying somewhere far away from danger and the risk of blackmail, in Eastern Europe or the Far East.
The last two bosses came in together, chatting in low voices as they neared the low central table. The Red Lady and Oropo, two high-ranking female lieutenants among the Scarlets, were rather quite young to have attained such steep, sheer, risky heights. Neither was thirty yet, the Professor was sure. But he hardly cared about age. In his many decades on earth, he had learned that only the tough, and the strong dominated. In his world, aged veterans who grew comfortable in power did not live long enough to appoint successors and retire peacefully.
Over the last ten years, the average age of his most efficient and trusted lieutenants had steadily dropped, leaving him by far older than most of these fresh-faced taskmasters who had violently filled in the ranks. The older gangs did not cow before old men with massive paunches anymore. They deferred to youthful zeal and brutality, not outdated, restricting ideals.
Thus, there had been a great many deaths in the ranks and an intense power struggle. The media had reported tragic plane crashes, deaths from supposedly accidental ingestion of toxic substances, and vacation accidents that were in reality coordinated bomb attacks, poisonings, drownings, and shootings. It was getting bloodier out there by the day.
The Professor checked his watch. It was exactly 9:59 PM. He began.
“Gentlemen, and ladies. I must thank your prompt response to my impromptu request’’, he said slowly, deliberately, looking into the eyes of the five gathered. He continued. “As we all are aware, we are at war with the Black Crew. This time, it is no petty conflict. Battle lines have been drawn’’.
One of the two young ladies interrupted her sultry voice at odds with the severity of her words. “Battle lines you say. We’ve suffered attacks over the past few months. It is the norm. It has been the case since before I was born. What is different about this particular fight?”
“The difference is that we drew the battle lines this time. We started it. And we certainly will finish it’’.
The Professor took another sip of his drink, watching the different expressions of his guests. They were not lousy, or dumb. Despite their varying looks, each of them had attained their power through a combination of outstanding wit and cold-blooded decisiveness. He saw their calculated looks, saw them pondering his words. Igwe was to first to deduce.
“Ah, this has something to do with the Shrine attack, eh?’’, he said slyly.
Iyaloja looked at him sharply, then turned to face the Professor.
“I heard rumors a while back. Yaya himself. In person. The papers reported it as a targeted assassination, a disruption by rival music labels”, she said, searching his expression for confirmation. A slight twitch of his right lip confirmed her guess. Her eyes rose.
“What is the catch?’’, the politician asked quietly.
“That is what we are here to discuss. I conducted that particular orchestra because I needed to obtain vital information. Which I now have”.
“Why then have you not acted on this knowledge, if it is as important as you claimed?”
“I will come to that later,” the Professor waved a hand dismissively. “What matters now is the information we have, and how it will destroy Yaya and bring the Black Crew to its knees. Forever. This city cannot stay fractured for eternity. The world is in a state of flux. Constant change is necessary for progress. You rise or fall with us. If you’re not with us, you are our enemy. We do not coddle our enemies. We kill them, utterly ruin them’’.
While the Professor continued his rousing speech, Money fidgeted nervously where she sat posing as the Red Lady, one of the Professor’s lieutenants. Her heart thudded with the rhythm of her fear, as she, for the umpteenth time that night, cursed the luck that had landed her here.
The leader of the Scarlets in the flesh.
Her mind whirled, meticulously considering each possibility, the decisions she'd taken leading up to that moment, and how she'd been so blind to see it coming.
Mo ti fuckup. Shit!
Mentally supplicating for safety and hoping her incredible luck would continue to hold. It certainly was working at this moment. Even Oropo had not noted any difference.
Money sat composed, her striking pose hiding the source of her true form in plain sight as she fingered her ring.
The real Red Lady was currently a floating corpse in the filth of the lagoon, utterly drained of blood.
There was a small noise from behind, the arrival of another person. Garbed in the skin of her murdered victim, Money watched as a scrawny boy walked in, straight up to the Professor to whisper something in his ear.
A feeling of deja vu teased at the edges of her memory, and her anxiety grew.
Money knew she was in trouble as soon as the boy moved close enough to the head of the table to be clearly observed. She’d been on Arnold's trail for over two months, reporting his activities to Yaya.
So far, her diggings hadn't yielded much result. But, by some mighty fortune, she'd managed to get a hold of some crucial information. A meeting of key players. Too good to resist.
And now this.
As the gaunt lad lowered his head to whisper to the Professor, she tensed, furiously trying to recollect why he looked so familiar. A few seconds later, the emissary walked away headed for the lower floors.
The second he disappeared completely from view, all hell broke loose.
