Apeteshi

by Bolaji Odofin

Table of Contents
Part 1 appears
in this issue.

part 2 of 3

“Ooo,” Osagie whistled. “You can’t make it without connections in this place. You have to know your way about the town. Congrats o, Apeteshi my dear friend.”

“Thank you.” Apeteshi drank his beer. They talked football, politics and women, exchanging ribald jokes and laughing uproariously.

“Na wah,” said Osagie with a chuckle. “This life, eh.” He glanced at his friend, and suddenly looked embarrassed.

“What is it?” Apeteshi asked, smiling.

“It’s... er... Apeteshi, we’ve been friends now for a long time. You know I wouldn’t ask it if it wasn’t important...”

“What is it?”

“I... er...” Osagie coughed. “I need some money. You see, my landlord-”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Apeteshi kept smiling. “How much?

Osagie named a sum. Apeteshi dipped a hand into his pocket and brought out a thick roll of banknotes. He counted out some. “Here,” he said, handing it over grandly.

“God bless you, my friend. God bless you. I will soon return it, I promise.”

“It’s nothing.” Apeteshi’s eyes flickered strangely. “Nothing. I have the money, and you’re my friend. It’s nothing.”

“Hm,” Osagie said. “It’s not easy to make money, especially from the government. You need brains to do that. Brains. And the Minister’s given you another contract...”

Apeteshi royally inclined his head.

“Chei! Apeteshi...” His friend was frankly admiring. “You’re a very clever man.”

Apeteshi would be in the office when the man would come, prostrating. “Your Excellency,” he would say, “You sent for me, and here I am.”

Apeteshi would regard him with such contempt! Hatred would shoot out of his eyes! “Do remember me?” he would ask; softly, dangerously, like that cowboy man, Clint something-or-the-other.

“Of course, Your Excellency,” the man would say. “Everybody knows who you are this town.”

“No,” Apeteshi would say, and slowly remove dark glasses (he would be wearing dark glasses). Well he would remove them and say, “Now do you remember me?”

The man would remember and cringe in terror.

“Little did you know, when you sent goons to me that day, that you were beating the most powerful man in this town. Did you know? Did you?”

The man would crawl on his knees and beg for mercy. “Please, Your Excellency, please spare my life.”

“Boys!” Apeteshi would call in his security men. “Take him away and deal with him.”

The man would be escorted out, pleading. No, wait. They would drag him away, kicking and screaming. No; he would deal with the bastard himself. He would give him the beating of his life. “Take that!” he would say. “And that!”

“Take that,” Apeteshi mouthed softly.

The baby gurgled happily.

Apeteshi lifted him onto his lap. He gave him Ebele’s mirror to play with.

Ebele came over and snatched it out of the baby’s hands. She threw it on the cushion beside her husband. “You don’t let babies look in mirrors,” she admonished. “It will give them bad dreams.” She took the baby away.

The mirror lay face- up on the cushion. Apeteshi caught his reflection in it. He stared at himself in silence. Then he reached out and gently pushed the mirror away.

Apeteshi was different, Ebele thought. He walked different, with a sort of swagger. He laughed different, a deep belly laugh, like oyinbo Father Christmas on Tele: Ho-ho- ho.

Ebele didn’t like Father Christmas. Too much of him was covered up; he had to be hiding something.

She shifted restlessly on the sofa.

Her husband talked different too. He’d polished his accents, and now dropped his r’s. So when he said, “Cook rice,” it came out “Cook whice.” And his eyes... Apeteshi’s eyes were too bright.

“Rice,” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m off to work. Bring it to me on your way to the market. See you later, hor-ney.”

Ebele frowned. The baby whimpered. She tucked the nipple back in its mouth, absently kneading her breast. Then she burped him, and turned back to the predatory antics of her favourite television actress.

Apeteshi was out when she got to his office. She gave the food to one of his boys, and set out for the market.

She sold items of clothing, gossiping with buyers and other traders all the while. Her splendid teeth constantly flashed in the sun. But sometimes she laughed, and it did not reach her eyes.

When Apeteshi came home in the evening, she was waiting. The baby was asleep. The older children were at the neighbours, watching Tele.

“Ebele,” she heard him call, but she did not answer. “Ebele,” he shouted again, and barged into the bedroom.

His mouth dropped slightly open.

Ebele had on tiny tiger-coloured brassiere and panties. She batted her lashes, like she’d seen done on Tele.

Apeteshi stared at her. “What on earth is that?”

“What?” Ebele pouted.

“Those things... where did you get them?”

“From Mama Iyabo at the market.” Ebele struck a pose. “Don’t you like it?”

Apeteshi stared at his wife in her second-hand seduction gear; at the bulging breasts, the splayed feet, the rounded tummy with its extra large but oddly vulnerable-looking belly button. Just as she’d intended, he began to laugh. “Naomi Camp-be-lli!” he crowed. “Look at her, just look at her: Mrs. Universe!”

Ebele glared at him, but on the inside of her she was dizzy with success. For there, laughing his head off, laughing his old laugh, was her Apeteshi. She had to admit, for a while there, he’d given her a scare. But now he was back. Apeteshi was back.

Ebele felt very clever. Contented, she went to sleep.

He was getting dressed when she woke up. “I’m going to the office,” he told her. “Someone is bringing big business.” His eyes were bright, his smile strange and fixed. Ebele realised, with a sinking feeling, that she had lost him again.

“Ahh, customer!” Apeteshi hailed the man loudly. He got out from behind his desk and shook hands. He laughed a deep belly laugh. “Welcome. Welcome. It’s lucky you met me here. I just came to check on these boys before I visit my other company. How are things, customer?”

“You have another company?” The man handed over the books he wanted leather-bound. “That’s nice.”

“Yes, yes.” Apeteshi snapped his fingers, and the books were carted away.” I have other companies.”

“That’s nice,” the man said again. These Ibo traders, if nothing else they knew facades. They would wear the same shirt on their backs for days, sweating in dingy shops like this one, and yet have millions squirreled away. “Hmm,” said the man with a knowing grin. “Customer-customer.”

Apeteshi grinned right back

The man left. Apeteshi turned to his boys. They were staring at him. “Get back to work,” he told them softly. He had no need to shout; everyone knew only a poor man raised his voice – the work of frustration. Big men spoke in low, soft voices; they never had to shout to be heard.

The boys obeyed in silence. Something about him had killed the smirks. It was his eyes. There was something about his eyes.

Apeteshi went back to his desk He was settling in when someone else darkened the doorway.

“Ahh, customer!” Apeteshi got out from behind the desk. He shook hands. He gave a belly laugh. “It’s lucky you met me here. I was just leaving for my other company...”

On a day in the scorching month of February, Apeteshi came home to find his wife in the sitting room, clad in nothing but a sky-blue wrapper wound under her armpits. Her hair was half undone and looked wild. The baby, naked, played with her bare feet.

Apeteshi stopped and stared. His brow creased in a frown. Ebele looked... she looked... she looked provincial, that was the word. Like she’d just arrived from the village.

Apeteshi savagely ground his teeth together. What was the matter with her? Suppose one of his friends came in and found her like this, what then? Didn’t she realize he was a big man? How many rich men’s wives looked like this? None! That was how many. They all looked smart. Natty. Beautiful like they didn’t shit. Ebele was bent on disgracing him.

“What is it?” Ebele stared at his face. “What’s the matter? What is it?”

“Why,” he asked hoarsely, “are you dressed like that? Eh? What are you wearing?”

Ebele glanced down, then up. “It’s hot,” she explained. “It’s the heat. Can’t you feel the heat?”

Apeteshi was incensed. “Go and remove that stupid wrapper! Is that what your mates are wearing? Go and remove it!”

“See me see trouble,” Ebele began, clapping her hands. Another look at his face and she had a rethink. Muttering inaudibly, she made for the bedroom.

“Take that dirty baby with you!” Apeteshi screamed. Ebele snatched up the baby and vanished.

There was a knock at the door. “Hallo. Hallooo,” someone called. “Where is the landlord of this house?”

Apeteshi opened the door. “Ah, Osagie.” He gave a belly laugh. “How are you, my friend? Come in, come in,” he invited with a grand sweep of his arm.

Apeteshi was a man happy in his world. And why shouldn’t he be? He had found his place in it.

April dawned rainily. Apeteshi urged his car along the expressway, one eye on the angry-looking black sky. He was attending a meeting of other printers and publishers. Nothing rode on his back; he was the equal of anybody, anywhere, at any time. An old song blared in his mind. He began to hum it, nodding to himself.

He was close to the National Stadium when he heard the shouts. He immediately spotted the crowd. He parked the car but did not get out. Peering through the window, he tried to make the whole thing out.

Then he gasped, and his spine stiffened with shock. It was a lynching. The crowd was lynching a little boy!

“Good Lord,” Apeteshi whispered. From the shouting he gathered the boy was suspected of trying to kidnap a little girl for ritual purposes. He watched in horror as grown men and women, who really ought to have known better, hit the boy with stones and sticks and broken bottles. Protesting his innocence, the child wept and begged and bled.

This is insane, Apeteshi thought. This cannot happen; it mustn’t happen. Do something. Stop them before they commit murder. You’re a big man. The crowd will listen to you.

He wanted to move, to get out of the car, to stride up forcefully and authoritatively order the crowed to disperse, to call in the police. But an old familiar feeling mushroomed in his chest, spreading like poison through his body, paralyzing his will.

Oh Lord, he thought, trembling.

Coward, said a voice in his head. Apeteshi started wildly. Cowardly little nobody, his father whispered again. The old schoolmaster gave a cackle that turned his blood to ice. Yellow, that’s what you are, my boy. Ye-llowww, he bayed like a moon-mad wolf. Yellow through and through!

Apeteshi shook his head, and the whispers went away. When he looked at the spectacle again he saw the crowd was still beating the boy. A stream of something whitish ran out of the boy’s ears. Apeteshi groaned, dizzy with the heat, the terror, the darkness of it. He watched, numb, until the boy was finally still.

Oh Lord, he thought, starting up the car. He noticed a thing, an ordinary so extra he shook in his seat: the clouds had cleared, the weather was fine; it was going to be a beautiful day.

When he caught his children torturing a mouse they’d trapped in the backyard, branding stones and rusty nails, something seemed to run all over him, and he shouted at them to stop.

The children’s faces turned sullen. They glared at him.

The moment his back was turned, one of them swept a rock down on the creature’s back, breaking it.

Apeteshi screamed.

The Pyramid was one of the best and most exclusive restaurants in Lagos. It prided itself on its gourmet cuisine, its tasteful decor, its excellent service.

Apeteshi not only managed to find a way in, he also appropriated the best table in the place, close to the door.

“What?” Osagie studied the prices in disbelief. “Five hundred naira for a bottle of beer? Are they mad?”

“Keep your voice down,” Apeteshi said pleasantly. He was looking about him interestedly, studying the other diners and watching the door to see who came in or went out. The place wore affluence like a perfume. Surreptitiously, his hand went into his trouser pocket. Reassured by the feel of the naira notes in there, he relaxed and ordered them drinks.

Proceed to part 3...