The end of the year rolled ever closer. Like the previous year, the expected harmattan had not come. This one came with a weak dryness of the air accompanied by a scorching head that pierced and bit skin.
In these parts, folk preferred to stay indoors during the day, the dusk signaling the start of the day’s business. For many here, business meant the production of local fast-food delicacies, be it fried yams, bean balls, soups of different kinds, or the classic rice and stew combination.
With the sun sinking lower into the sky above Olumo Street, Mafoluku, and the clearing smoke and human chatter rising from the bustling street below a lone banner could be seen suspended in the sky, with bottles tied to the lower edges to keep it from swaying in the wind.
P’ate Obo Mega Street Jamz
Oshodi l’oga wa o!!
E fee joku ni
Featuring Danny Wise, DJ Imole, and Omo Ibo T’owapose
Time: 10 pm till mamma calls
Date: Friday, 17 October
The accompanying art was as crude as the copy. But the advert had clearly served its purpose as, below, a crowd slowly gathered to enjoy a night of wonder, a Lagos night carnival.
These weren’t the fancy, colorful affairs you’d likely heard of. For one, this carnival wasn’t a fair where you could bring your family on a rare holiday getaway.
These were the Oluyole carnivals, a noisy, gay fest of loud fuji and shepeteri music, skushies, pelebe, and tough men.
The bigger street carnivals tended to be held at the tail end of the year, and, as the ember months were already underway, the space was mostly packed with bodies, with a perimeter barricade the only thing keeping the throng away from the raised stage area.
The open field of Saint Binta Grammar School was the venue tonight, deep in the heart of Oshodi, where women of every shape and size peddled alcoholic beverages of varying flavors and ingredients, gesticulating as wildly as the men, as they flirted and did business.
Their many children flitted about, running errands, causing tantrums, or simply dancing. The ones too small to move about or too vulnerable to be let loose were either strapped securely to the backs of their vibrant mothers as they buzzed around or monitored closely by their older siblings; or indirectly through their mothers, as well as she could manage.
Not all the women were there to trade, however. Many huddled in groups, holding animated conversations over the loud music streaming from the speakers. Whatever their interests, these ladies socialized in their unique way, their mode of speech a heritage where every interaction was delivered emphatically.
In a corner, three energetic-looking girls passed around the contents of a red cup, listening to one of their number share an incredible tale.
“Ade n’do yati! Oko re tobi to yii…”, she made an obscene gesture, holding up one arm by the elbow, with her hand. The arm she held up was clenched into a fist, seemingly indicating the impressive size of what she was speaking of. “O gbemi debe, live!”
The rest cackled like crazed witches while pushing for the revelation of juicer details of the tryst.
Not far from where they stood discussing sexual escapades, close to a curb, another group of eight men hovered around a small bench. One of them sat with his back arched, and head deeply bowed, even if it didn’t quite reach his lap, rocking slightly.
He was, in turn, sandwiched by two others, who took turns smoking through the hose of a hookah. Another man tended the device, adjusting the coals as his hand went for the umpteenth time to his low-sagging pants, brief bands and more visible for all to see.
Tommy Finger
Everywhere you looked, the air seemed pregnant with smoke, clouds of the thing floating ever anew into the atmosphere. Everywhere the eye landed, more than one person could be observed taking long deliberate whiffs, before exhaling the excess to thicken the air further.
A young boy tried to barrel roughly past a pocket of boys smoking cigarettes and dicing and was rewarded with a violent pull that made his entire shoulder jerk painfully.
“E ma binu, mi o mo…” A hard knock on the top of the skull sent a wave of pain through the boy’s body, snuffing out the chance for an explanation with a swift punishment.
Many of the men were openly ogling the women, some going as far as to pull at them, seeking to press their bodies against their lady parts.
One struggled at present with a short, stocky man intent on pulling her waist close to his groin. It had begun as a playful, flirting dance, with the man lightly grabbing at her shirt as she moved nimbly away, him in slow pursuit. Now, barely a few moments after it started, it had turned serious, and he was beginning to hurt her.
“Daddy Tunmise, e fimile ooo! I’ll tell your wife…” she complained.
Around them, closer to the stage, the crowd danced hard, eyes rolling around many heads in a mask of senility as they gyrated to the trending sounds of the trenches.
Sitting in a spot as dignified as could ever be found in such a setting– reclined in a plastic chair, with a plastic table set before him crowded with green bottles, and surrounded by overexcited cronies– Yaya let out a yawn, betraying his true feelings about the ongoing carnival.
A stoic person, Yaya would very much be anywhere else but at the heart of Mafoluku, listening to music he’d grown up listening to, but had never loved.
He’d been personally invited by Olu Tiger, chairman of the transport workers guild, a second cousin twice or thrice removed, to the governor himself. He could’ve turned down his request. But a show had to be put up.
So he endured the excesses of those gathered around him, many of whom he knew personally, but wasn’t close to. Presently, a thirst took Yaya, and he realized that the array set before him contained one of his favorite picks.
Reaching for Gulder, a bitter stout with a slow-release, sweet aftertaste, Yaya simultaneously motioned to the nearest man to pass him a red cup, choosing to ignore the others taking measured swigs straight from the black and green bottles. He inspected its cleanliness by the light of the distance-muted stage floodlights, and firmly holding on to the green bottle, Yaya inclined his head and carefully placed the cap’s edge on his lower molar, before applying sandwiched pressure with the aid of an upper molar, pulling hard in a clamping motion.
The bottle cap fell off in a blink, and Yaya poured, drinking deeply.
Muttering impatiently to himself, he refocused his attention on the stage, where the live band sang churned-out their percussion-heavy fuji rhythm.
The performer was storytelling, as it was with this genre of music, leading a kind of orchestra where the lead singer sang a blend of upbeat folklore and special eulogies. This artiste seemed to be in the middle of a recollection of one of his many travels, this time, in a certain Italian city. His band consisted of various percussionists of talking drums and bells, and other instrumentalists, along with two supporting acts who occasionally punctuated his lyrical flow at random intervals, providing a frenzied continuity to the fast-paced song.
Here lies Napoli,
Napoli like Lagos,
Napoli of Italy, like Lagos
The drummers took over, beating up a stormy rhythm for the next minute or so in a well-practiced drill that drew many of the observers closer to the stage in excitement, their expert dance steps a gesture of approval and encouragement to those on stage.
We’ve performed plenty in America,
We performed in New York City,
We performed in Staten Island,
New Jersey, Philadelphia,
We performed in Chicago
Maryland, Washington,
I tell you, we’ve performed plenty in America
Countless performances in London, east, west, south, and north,
We thrilled in Europe, Hollanda, Amsterdam,
We performed in Belgium, Brussels, and Antwerp
In Spain, at Madrid, Muncia, Malaga,
However, in all our travels, we’ve never made port in Italy.
Living in Napoli,
Is like living in Lagos,
They party alike, dress alike,
And most especially, they drive the same way
And now, we give thanks to the Almighty saying,
“At last. We touched base in Italy”
Sometime during the rendition, a few individuals were allowed through the barricade, and now, they were allowed through, up the stage to, face to-face with the artiste. They all carried bundles of paper currency, some in their bare hands, and others in fancy leather bags. Their lackeys preened over them, keen to ensure that their masters' names would be the first to be lauded in song.
In moments the music tempo changed as a new kind of performance began. The lead singer began reeling off the names one of his crew had obtained from the competing cash-splashers as they were whispered to him. He lauded the wealth and exploits of his sponsors and patrons, the names of all of whom were eased seamlessly into his lively lyrics, much to the delight of their honorary recipients, who, in-person, enjoyed the luxury of fuji self-worship.
If you’d like to buy fresh fish,
Dried fish, crayfish, veggies,
Bournvita, Nigerian milk, stout, Heineken,
whether Star or Gulder.
All is right here in Napoli.
With the crowd mostly focused on the show and the main performer, Yaya thought back to the events of the last few weeks, settling into his next bottle of Gulder. Not for the last time that night, he recalled the Shrine incident and the events that had occurred afterward.
It’d been a few months since he’d lost the case that had been used to deliver the ring, along with the small, ragged cloth in it. Since then, he’d been on the alert, restricting the activities of the Black Crew, and allowing the street credibility to go to the lesser gangs. He did send some spies sniffing around Scarlet territories, but none had brought him any useful information about the Professor’s whereabouts, or how the knowledge that such an important prize was going to be in transit.
None, except Money.
Since she’d started tracking Arnold’s movements, Money had had nothing particularly interesting to report back, even as she gave him weekly updates of her probing activities.
Yaya frowned, flicking on the screen of his smartphone as he suddenly remembered that she’d indeed contacted him that afternoon. Cursing irritatedly at his forgetfulness, he went searching for her phone number.
That afternoon had been a haze for Yaya, as he’d needed several extras in his system to cater to the business of the day– hassling the representatives of a new government project over the acquisition and possession of the several hectares of land slated for a new international airport construct close to the Ojo army barracks.
Such business was never easy, but work had to be done.
Searching his contacts for the only number he knew she’d be reachable on at this time of night, Yaya vaguely remembered from the brief phone call that Money had hinted at making a trip south into Scarlet territory, promising to send him her contact for the latest source of information. There was an accompanying SMS containing a name and phone number.
Frowning again slightly, Yaya made to dial her number.
The Professor whipped out a strange cutlass that had not been there a second before, whipped it out from somewhere behind his chair. It gleamed in the night, its black blade seeming to swallow the very darkness of the night sky.
“Ta ni e?”, he bellowed.
But Money had moved first. Before the first rough note was out of his mouth, her lips were already moving in silent urgency. Harsh syllables. Arcane speech poured forth in a barely audible whisper. The others were too slow to react.
Time seemed to slow, as the lieutenants went still. Iyaloja froze halfway up from her chair, suddenly in the power grip of the same force that locked her meeting companions firmly into place.
But the charm had no effect on the Professor, who, though slower to react, had the advantage of surprise. Unruffled, by the sudden display of arcane power, the Professor’s mouth quickly, muttering incantations to neutralize the intruding pretender.
The Professor called upon his own esoteric powers, flinging the charm at the decoy, the force of the impact making the very air vibrate, as the others were thrown apart, smashing against various parts of the bar with loud, painful-sounding cracks.
Broken bones.
Money fell back into her seat roughly, convulsing violently as her powers were slowly suffocated.
No! She was going to die!
Fear took residence inside her very being, her pupils dilating in terror as the Professor pushed the large table aside, moving closer to her.
“Eewu n be loko Longe, Longe fun ara re eewu ni! Who are you?”, he asked.
Money failed to answer.
Somewhere in the city, her phone, which she’d left at home for the night’s operation, rang once, twice, thrice, unanswered, and then stopped.
After a few moments, the device’s screen lit up again with a text notification.
Where are you?
