Fela’s New Afrika Shrine was full to bursting, straining at its seams as its inner and outer grounds bled a buzz of excitement and a riot of milling color.
The popular upcoming artiste Agaba was having a show tonight at the heart of Lagos. A relative unknown before he’d shot almost blindingly into the limelight a couple of months prior, Agaba was a 22-year-old rapper thrilling the streets with his uncouth, vulgar, and explicit lyrics.
Ahead of his anticipated finale, the crowd was enjoying the performance of another act, entertained by the orchestra of sound and bodies reverberating and gyrating across the stage– instrumentalists, backup singers, and, of course, dancers delighting the audience with a rendition of Coffin for Head of State.
The air was stuffy and pungent with the smells of different strains of pot. Behind the orderly front row reserved for invited special guests, the crowd was rowdy, packed chock-full of folk from the more ordinary walks of life– young men and women from the Island and Mainland looking to enjoy the atmosphere, upjumped upstarts in the form of garishly garbed youngsters doing their best to flash around their gold bracelets, wristwatches, necklace-chains, and Mercedes-Benz car keys, outrageously clad female varsity students mostly in the company of the former, and little pockets of gruff-looking men making loud jokes and pointing rudely at the stage, and the throng around them.
From the VIP section three floors above, Yaya observed the show from his seat close to the railings. His face scrunched up in frustrated concentration as he alternated between watching the showing and looking over the crowd, seemingly expectant of someone. Or something.
Another act had taken center stage, the uniquely infectious beat almost overriding the coherence of the energetic artiste’s explicit lyrics.
Mah gal she getti bigi yanshi,
Baby girl, make I shine your congo,
These other gals, all of dem be silly ashy,
But na you dey make my brain kpolongo
From his viewpoint, the main hall spread below him, with the section immediately adjacent to the stage, playing host to specially invited guests. Here, men and women of means had paid a small fortune to enjoy a more relaxed and less chaotic atmosphere, away from the sometimes uncontrolled excitement of the more densely packed sections behind them.
Yaya turned his gaze to the fellows seated around his table, taking a long drag from his smoking pipe.
“Yaushe kayan zasu iso?” he grumbled out loud.
Glancing at his Rolex, Yaya frowned questioningly across the table at Rago, whose perpetually lingering senile half-smile had been wiped off at the tone of his boss’s voice.
Over the din came Rago’s shouted reply. “Yaron yace karfe tara, oga”.
“He’d better be here soon,” muttered Yaya. More audibly, he continued. “Zai fi kyau nan da nan, idan na rantse da Allah azzakarinsa zai yi rauni lokacin da zan gama da shi!’’
“Gbaghara ya, onye isi. ọ naghị abụkarị ndị na-egbu oge. He’ll be here before 9 pm,’’ piped Igwe. His high-pitched, lively voice would forever be at stark odds with his otherwise macho frame—a small voice for such a big man.
The others murmured placations to Yaya, attempting to calm his rising temper. He tried again to keep his emotions from showing on his face, subsequently turning his head to scope out the pack below for signs of the messenger.
Moving through the mass of bodies, exchanging pleasantries, surrounded by a veritable army of men and women dressed in different styles and cuts of various shades of red; an orange cap here, a reddish-brown jacket there, it was the man in their midst that stood out, a white suit amid the human sea.
The expected exclaims of surprised men came from around Yaya as the first of his companions noticed the new statement-making arrivals as they blended into the sea of the gay and the merry, reacquainting with familiar faces and settling into seats, which, previously occupied, had mysteriously become vacant.
The only sign of Yaya’s shock was the visible sneer that crept into his face as he observed the party move around the ground floor of the Shrine.
What were they doing here?
Yaya quickly regained his composure, glancing sideways to see Rago, Igwe, and the rest of his group scrambling to get a good look from the balcony.
This should not be happening.
The others had craned their necks, their mutters growing louder by the minute.
“Awon oloshi…”
“What are they doing here tonight…’’
“Bura uba…”
“They can do nothing here! He wouldn’t dare…”
Yaya allowed his mind to drift from the curses of his men, focusing more intently on the group below.
A group of nine-odd men and women, acting perfectly natural, they seemed to be popular, too. They blended into the gay ensemble, shaking hands, bumping fists, and seemingly gyrating in different directions without really leaving one spot as acquaintances were made and renewed,
As the Scarlets settled into the ambiance of one of the most sacred grounds in the city, with the formerly swarming gaggle of attendants now conspicuously absent, attending to orders, Yaya’s diligent, roving watch yielded reward, his eyes finally settling on one of the company beneath.
From this height, the distance stretched between Yaya and the focus of his attention, and as it happened in the movies, the man below had intuitively sensed the gaze of the man above.
White-suit looked up directly at Yaya. Their eyes met.
Midnight found Agaba somewhere behind the show deck engaged in his pre-performance ritual– the potent charm that had never failed him every time he stood off against the deafening rave of crazed fans, lending him the ginger and swagger to sense exactly what would delight them the most, while sensitizing his limbs to react violently to psychotic fans who broke through, coming dangerously close.
Leaning against the wall, pose as relaxed as one can ever be while standing upright, he calmly sipped skushies, absent-mindedly waving off the last crew member who’d come to remind him of his impending act with one hand while maintaining a deliberate grip on the contents of the other.
Agaba immersed himself in the easy vibes brought about by the liquor-fuelled calm.
Skushies was the drink for barnies, hardy folk, and senior citizens. For working boys, hustlers, and everyone looking to have a good time.
Skushies would transcend time and space, echoing into the sands of time.
Skushies, the eternal drink for all of mankind, the fueller of ginger and sprinkler of pepper…
Agaba’s skushies-infused thoughts continued carrying him through strange dimensions.
However, it had been predestined that his evergreen Skushies would be the last thing fast-rising songwriter Agaba would ever taste on earth.
As he raised the cup for the umpteenth time to taste of its glossy-faced, swirling depths, a bullet from somewhere in proximity almost noiselessly blew open his skull from the back, taking out a large chunk of his brain on its way out through the frontal bone.
Agaba’s head jerked forward sharply from the impact, dead before his cup of skushies clanked once and broke upon the ground.
From his vantage point, Yaya observed the stage, the long-awaited package lying on the table. The bottles of drinks had been pushed aside to accommodate a small black briefcase, whose sensitive contents had been privately confirmed immediately by Yaya upon the boy’s arrival three hours ago.
The first thing Yaya had done after his long-suffering wait finally yielded reward was to retrieve the black ring enclosed in the briefcase. A curiously designed box, it consisted of overlapping small cases, each one smaller than the last. Within a tiny holding niche, the crude material wrapped around the gift was slowly prised away and then returned to the box.
The plain black ring slipped easily onto his finger, and his eyes returned where they had been trained only moments before.
Agaba was due to come out any minute now. The stalling tactics of the emcee were doing nothing to distract the crowd’s anticipation of the grand finale. Yaya was even of the mind to join him on the stage at the end of the show as a show of public support.
But the performing crew was already in place. The singers and dancers kept glancing backward, unsure what to do. The crowd’s murmurs increased with every passing second. After about two minutes, with nothing happening, Yaya decided something was wrong. Agaba knew the importance of this show. He would certainly not risk his rising star tonight of all nights.
Yaya rose to his feet instinctively as a small scream came from somewhere ahead. The crew on stage scattered in a hubbub of confusion. Their mood spread like fast-moving hydrogen to the rest of the Shrine, with those closest to the stage the first to amplify the now-charged murmurs emanating from the front.
Another set of screams. The forgotten music blaring through the speakers seemed to go mute against the renewed outpour of frenetic fear given voice.
Something was wrong.
The next few seconds were a blur as Yaya raced down the spiral stairs, eyes frantically searching for Mr. white-suit. Mind in overdrive and barely aware of his companions shouting at him to come back, he did the opposite of their urgings, struggling with the rest of the crowd to reach the ground floor, his lean, muscular frame helping him carve a path quickly through the tightly-packed press of moving bodies.
Arriving at the ground floor, where everyone was pushing away from the direction he faced, Yaya attempted to repeat the bullying tactics that had brought him speedily down the gallery when he heard more piercing screams from the general direction of the dais.
Drawing a determined breath, Yaya only managed a further two steps before a fist crashed against his temple. In a normal man, the shock of blow alone would be as strong fingers pulling him to the oblivion of the nether realm, the blinding pain enough to knock him out, sending his skull bouncing freely on the extra-hard cement floor.
All of this would be possible if Yaya were an average man.
But Yaya was no common man.
He recovered inhumanely quickly, a drunken stagger to one side accompanied by a savage snarl the only indication of the implications of the attack he’d just suffered. Snapping suddenly to an upright position, Yaya charged his shell-shocked attacker, who, caught ball-watching, stood helpless in the face of his foe’s barrage.
As the man fell, the piercing, undeniable crack of breaking bottles peppered the air as ordinary men, pawns, and principalities prepared to wage war. Hoarse-voiced men shouted at each other in anger, panic, and fear, lending fuel to the freshly kindled inferno about to rage through Fela Shrine.
A few brave ones shouted for order, calling for people to remain where they were even as they pummeled the folk closest to them who panicked.
Strong hands pulled Yaya upright. He looked around, already surrounded by members of the Black Crew. He recognized each of them, knew them all by name. Dazed from enduring more pain than the average man could bear, Yaya listened to filtered snippets of their rushed reports.
“….Agaba….gunshot…”
“…dead… Agaba…”
“… must’ve been the work of the Scarlets…’’
“…the gall to do this openly…’’
Around them, the shouts continued, more screams rending the air as news of the fell deed spread like wildfire across the assembly at Fela Shrine.
The Black Crew pushed their way out of the premises with Yaya in the center, swept up in the wave of the mini-stampede as people fought to get to the exits.
The murder of Agaba was terrible enough. It was a battle line drawn in the open. A tenuously-forged peace charter torn up in insolence and spat upon, a declaration of war.
This act baffled Yaya, however. Le Professeur was not one to do things rashly, and this attack was rash, if not anything. There was only a superficial victory to be had from the murder of one of the most promising music acts in the country, solely because of his links to the Black Crew‘s number one. It all smacked of mere sentiment, a cheap victory with potentially damaging costs. It could not be the driving motive.
Could it?
“The case! Did any of you remember to bring the case?!” Yaya screamed, his voice filtering pitifully into the mocking roar of the milling, desperate throng.
Twenty minutes later, Yaya sat in the passenger seat of his Chevrolet Camaro coupe, the chauffeur speeding towards his villa, pondering his losses and near ruin at the hands of the Scarlets that night.
The actual circumstances of Agaba’s murder would be muddled up by strategically placed reporters and journalists in the media and the press. An assassin working independently, perhaps. Or even a hired gun sent from a rival in the music industry. But certainly not the beginnings of a gang war.
The briefcase had been the main target all along.
Not for the last time in the previous few minutes, Yaya’s hand strayed almost lovingly to the simple black ring he now wore, thinking back to the night’s events, then sighing gratefully at his miraculous fortune.
The very source of my power tabled as a feast before my enemies…
The murder was merely a smokescreen, a thrilling tightrope walk ending with the act falling to their death below.
Agaba. Dead. A cheap waste. A needless waste of life. Yaya’s mouth grew bitter as fast-flitting images of the night’s mishaps invaded his mind once more.
The filthy lagoon and its lit night vista sped past to either side as Chigo drove on towards base, towards home.
Revenge would be served cold, for sure.
