Apeteshi

by Bolaji Odofin

Table of Contents
Part 1 and part 2
appear in this issue.

conclusion

They sipped from tall, frosted glasses. A slice of something that looked like lime was stuck to the edge of his glass. Apeteshi vaguely wondered what on earth he was supposed to do with it. Osagie had no such problem; he’d pounced and immediately eaten it up. “Ah, this is life,” Osagie cried, smacking his lips. “Real life. So this is what all these rich people eat to look fresh. Apeteshi, you will eat life till you die, I swear.” He beamed at Apeteshi.

Apeteshi’s smile widened.

Enjoying their adventure, they called their waiter, wanting try something else on the menu.

“Ahem.” Someone cleared his throat by the table. They glanced up in surprise. It was the head waiter. He was looking at them in some embarrassment. A man stood behind him, important, impatient, a beautiful lady on his arm.

Apeteshi recognized the Minister. “Yes?” he queried. “What is the problem?” He remembered, just in time, to cough and frown importantly.

“Sir,” said the head waiter in a low voice, smiling persuasively. “I believe there’s been a mistake. This table has been reserved-”

Apeteshi believed he knew where this was going. What the hell? Who did these people think he was, some beggar wandering in from off the streets? Lai-lai.

“What?” Apeteshi exploded. “Are you saying I should get up from my table or what? Is that what you are saying?”

“Sir-” the waiter began.

“Excuse me,” the Minister broke in, sounding irritable. “This table is reserved. You’re wasting my time-”

Apeteshi’s eyes flashed. “Mister Man,” he told the Minister, “this is my table. I suggest you take yourself off, and find yourself another one.” He was glaring, his outrage unfeigned.

“What – what –” The Minister spluttered. Apeteshi dismissed him with a contemptuous flick of his hand.

This head waiter apologetically led the man and his lady friend away.

Osagie had been sitting there like he’d been turned to stone, but now he suddenly came alive. “My... God,” he whispered . “Do you know who that is? That’s the Minister. The Minister. Apeteshi. My God.”

“So?” Apeteshi cocked an eyebrow, his smile beatific. “If he’s the Minister, what then? Is he spending more than money here? Look at you; you don’t know your friend at all. He is the one playing with fire. I can have him removed if I want, you know. I have connections all the way to the Presidency. The Presidency,” he repeated.

“A-pe-te-shi.” Osagie drew out the word, his voice reverent “You’re too much now o. Just too much.”

Apeteshi gave a belly laugh, extra deep, extra long. It was, after all, the supreme moment of his life.

For days, weeks, months, he floated on air. Just the recollection of that night was enough to lift him out of the blackest of moods. He savoured it as another man might savour the finest cigar; bringing it out, holding it up to the light, then carefully locking it up again.

A part of him that had lain dormant for long struggled briefly to the surface. It fought for the ego now springing eternal, insisting it was its right; its need was greater and the victory had, in reality, been his.

Apeteshi didn’t like this part of himself at all. It frightened him a little. He was all the more ruthless in squashing it.

August came, and Apeteshi began to think of running for some elected post the following year. He unfolded his plans to his wife. Ebele listened to him in silence. She kept giving him these strange little looks. Apeteshi stomped out of the house in disgust. “Women!” he thought, curling his lip.

It was Saturday. Apeteshi Nigeria Ltd didn’t open on Saturdays, but he knew Osagie would be at his carpentry shop. The man worked too hard. A body needed relaxation. He would insist Osagie close shop. They would go for a night on the town.

He found Osagie, bare of torso, hammering wood. He was covered in sweat. To Apeteshi’s annoyance, Osagie hesitated when he threw down his suggestion. What was the matter with him? Who did he think he was, insulting him like this? It wasn’t Osagie’s fault. People always said the rich should befriend the rich. Osagie had him for a friend, and he wasn’t even grateful.

Apeteshi was making his offended way back to the car when Osagie came running after him, looking contrite and, even better, desperate to please. It was just that the job he had on his hands was very, very urgent, very important. But Apeteshi was more important, of course he was. Apeteshi was a true friend, and everybody knew true friends were scarce in this world. No, no; one does not stray beyond one’s apportioned lot. One does not throw away a great person just like that, as if they were a kobo each at the marketplace. Apeteshi should give him a moment to put on his shirt. Biko, he would soon be back.

Apeteshi was mollified.

Osagie told him of a place on the other side of town where the beer was plentiful and cheap. If you stayed long enough, he’d heard, naked girls took over and served the fare.

Over beer, Apeteshi told his friend of his new political ambitions. He was aiming for the Senate; what did Osagie think of his chances?

“Very good,” Osagie assured him. “You’re very clever, Apeteshi. Half the people there now don’t have half your brains. I don’t see you having any problems.”

“Really?” Apeteshi began to smile.

“Trust me,” Osagie said, flipping open another bottle of beer.

They stayed very late, talking and laughing deep into the night, but the naked girls did not appear.

“Better verify your information before you tell me next time,” Apeteshi chided his friend, slightly put out. Osagie looked sheepish.

It was the wee hours. Both men were sleepy. Sated and happy, they got back into the car.

Apeteshi was turning at a four-way junction near a footbridge when he was flagged down by a group of mobile policemen. They were manning an illegal checkpoint. Apeteshi slowed to a stop. Osagie’s gentle snores ceased.

Torches were shone into the car, on both their faces. Half-blinded, he shielded his eyes with a hand. What kind of nonsense is this? he thought.

“Yeesss?” drawled one of the policemen lazily. “Can you identify yourself? Where are you coming from by this time?”

“Take that light out of my eyes,” Apeteshi barked. “There are streetlights now. Do you want to blind me?”

“Er...” The policeman peered closely at his face. Apeteshi could smell ogogoro and marijuana on his breath; it was revolting. “Who are you, sir?”

“You’re asking me who I am? Don’t you know who I am?” Apeteshi glanced at Osagie in outraged disbelief, then glared at the policemen. “C’ mon, I have somewhere to go. Don’t waste my time.”

The policeman glanced uncertainly at his colleagues. They drifted close.

“Identify yourself, sir,” said another one. He opened the door, and Apeteshi arrogantly swept out.

“I’m Mr. – Chief Apeteshi, Director of Apeteshi Industries. I’m a close friend of the President. In fact,” he confided in condescending tones, his eyes flickering strangely in the streetlights, “you’ll be seeing me in the Senate very soon.”

There was a little silence. The policemen glanced from Apeteshi to his ancient vehicle, and back again. From the corner of his eye he caught Osagie hunching, as if trying to make himself invisible. What was the matter? Apeteshi wondered. Osagie was ‘with’ him. He was perfectly safe. “Look, ehn, officer-”

The first blow took him by surprise. Apeteshi grunted. He fell to his knees.

What was happening? he wondered in some confusion. Certainly not this. This couldn’t be happening. Didn’t they know who he was?

He heard a noise, and realized the policemen were laughing. Laughing at him!

With a grunt of effort he rose to his feet. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Ehn? What-”

“I will shoot!” one of them shouted. He pointed his rifle at Apeteshi’s head.

Apeteshi froze.

The one with the rifle edged a little closer. He pushed Apeteshi’s head back with the barrel of the gun. He prodded him in the chest, then roughly between his legs. “Sorry o, Mister President’s Friend,” he said. His friends snickered. He grinned at his own wit.

“O-O-Officer,” Apeteshi stammered. His mouth was dry. His tongue came out and moistened his lips. They can’t do this to you, he thought wildly. They can’t! Don’t they know who you are?

A thought popped unbidden into his mind: Who are you?

He felt himself turn hot, then cold. Standing beside one of the policemen, holding the knot of his wrapper with one hand and a calabash with the other was his father.

“I said identify yourself!” one of the policemen barked in his face. “Search his car,” he added as an aside to his friends. “I think he might be an arm-robber.”

Apeteshi wanted to protest. Wanted to say, “No, this is wrong. You can’t do this; it’s wrong.” But the old shivery feeling ballooned in his chest, and he was paralysed. He could feel himself trembling.

“Coward,” his father jeered, wandering through the policemen, sipping from the calabash. “Bastard.”

Osagie was hauled out, cowering. They dealt him a few slaps. Talking among themselves, laughing, they tore through the car. They came away with nothing.

“Who did you say you were again?” the Wit demanded, cocking his rifle.

“I... I...” Apeteshi stuttered through stiff lips.

Their eyes met. Held. Infuriated by the hopeless misery on Apeteshi’s face, goaded into fury by his trembling, hand-wringing helplessness -that defencelessness which almost always rouses cruelty in some people- the policeman attacked. Gleefully, his friends joined in.

Osagie watched, too frightened to breathe.

A storm of boots, whips and gun butts fell on Apeteshi. He screamed, and began to sob.

Something hot and liquid ran down his legs. It formed a pool on the ground. His father stopped and, grinning, gave him a thumbs-up sign. “These are the moments in a man’s life, am I right? These are the moments to live for, yes? Ahhhh,” he jeered. “You know I’m right.”

This cannot be happening, Apeteshi’s mind insisted. This is the most vivid dream a human being has ever had...

They rubbed his face in his urine.

“Papa!” he screamed when they began to beat him again. “Papa, help me! Help me, Papa! Papa, please!”

The old schoolmaster sipped from the calabash. He gave a long sigh of refreshment.

From far away Apeteshi heard a terrible sobbing. Good Lord, he thought, who on earth is that? Then he realised it was him.

Darkness hovered at the edge of his vision, pressing close, seeming to retreat when he looked up and focused.

The beating had stopped. The policemen had left him alone.

Apeteshi saw blood on the ground. Mine, he thought. My blood.

“Useless man. I sure say na arm-robber,” someone hissed overhead. A boot in his belly, the lash of a whip across his face, and it began again.

Out of the darkness came his father’s soft, demented voice:

There was a crooked man
Who had a crooked son
Who had a crooked head
And they all lived together in a little crooked town...

This is my life, Apeteshi thought. How I despise it.

He drove home in silence. Osagie kept darting surreptitious little glances at him. He couldn’t wait to be gone. “Na wah o, Apeteshi,” he said after a while “Na wah. But you tried, sha. You really tried. You got away lightly o! See how you used brain for them. You really tried—” He broke off. Apeteshi was staring at him. Discomfited, he scrambled out of the car. He hovered uncertainly about for a moment, then darted briskly to the other side of the street. H would wait for an okada to take him to his house.

Apeteshi unlocked his front door and let himself in.

It was quiet, and no wonder; everyone was still asleep.

Apeteshi leaned against the door and took a deep steadying breath. Standing there in the bright fluorescent lighting, he was surprised by a sense of calm; by the clarity of his thoughts and of his perceptions. His mind felt clean. Clean, like it had been dipped in the clearest cold water.

The paint behind the sofa was peeling. The bedroom door was smudged. He saw a hole in the threadbare carpet; saw the grey of the cement beneath.

His oldest son slept on the floor a few feet away. He lay on his side, one arm supporting his head, the other between his drawn- up legs. He looked so peaceful lying there that Apeteshi crept close and peered into the child’s face. How extraordinarily long his lashes are, he thought. How come I’ve never noticed that before?

Apeteshi rose to his feet. Resting his jaw on his palm, he exhaled on a sigh.

Ebele stretched like a cat, yawning mightily. The bed space beside her was empty but she didn’t give it a thought; Apeteshi often rose before she did.

Gingerly, she stepped over the bodies of the children sleeping on the floor and made her way into the sitting room.

At the sight that met her eyes, she stumbled, and sat down hard.

Her disbelieving eyes met Apeteshi’s. He couldn’t see her, for his were empty. Indeed he would set eye on nothing again.

Apeteshi dangled from a rope fastened to the ceiling fan.

Ebele felt grief wedge itself solidly in her chest. She sat there, unmoving, and time went away.

In a daze, she looked about and saw her oldest child, fast asleep. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet and ran to the corpse. She rummaged in its pockets and extracted thick wads of crisp banknotes.

This she hid.

Them she took a deep breath and screamed, and the neighbours came.