Whose Booty?

by Ibrahim Babátúndé Ibrahim

content warning: mention of death

PART I: It Was Ours

I

This was my box; our box. The same old one; metallic and heavily-rusted at the edges. Sometimes a chair or a bed, depending on if it was day or night. Sometimes we placed used plates or dirty boots on it. And when we swept, we went around it like it was an elevation sprouting from the floor; a short, plateaued pillar. 

Much like the old wooden desk and chairs in a corner; the dirtied intercom jutting from the wall; the long-expired calendar hanging above the intercom; the squeaky fan suspended from the square-patterned, browned, cobwebs-ridden ceiling; and the unending blare of horns from the busy Ikeja street outside, the box was one of the parts that made up the Veritana gatehouse.

I wasn’t exactly sure how long the box had been at Veritana, but it’s definitely longer than most hotel staff except a few veterans, including Baba Kokori who originally owned it. At one time, it found its way to the fifth floor of the hotel, carried there by me. The General – owner of the hotel – paid Baba Kokori twenty thousand naira for it – ten times more than he bought it according to his stories. 

The General had said he needed a place to store sand for his potted plants. When he asked for the box and offered the money, I thought it was another of his dry attempts at making us laugh, but the episode ended with me sitting the box on the balcony of the best suite in the entire Veritana, in between pots of exotic cactus and with a glorious view of the browned corrugated roofs of Ikeja. 

I probably should have known then that there was something about the box, but I was too angry and jealous to think of it. Apart from the fact that I was giving up my seat and bed, it would get to spend time in a room that was too good even for my lofty dreams. An ordinary rusted box. Argh!

When the room was being cleared out some months later, the intercom buzzed, Baba Kokori picked and spoke into it, then dropped and asked me to go upstairs and bring the box down. It was so heavy it felt as if it was consciously struggling with me, refusing to be taken down. Although the task hurt my muscles and had me panting and sweating as if I had run a marathon, I had gotten one back over the box. I tongued-out in jest and had forefingers beneath my eyes pulling them wider, like, you’re back with us again, ntoi! 

Petty, I know.

II

I hated this job, but it puts food on the table, and from it my little brother got just enough to help him stay in school. Our father was a practical joke, spending more time at the local joint with agberos and omo-itas than he did at his job. Sometimes, I’d wake up to find him fallen among fallen leaves under the mango tree outside the house, and those were the good days. Other times, he could be blocking the flow of dirt in some gutter or being a human roundabout on some road. He himself needed help, there was no possibility of him helping anyone. 

His father – our grandfather – ’s hard-work was the roof over our heads; albeit small, with unplastered bricks and bare windows, we had a house. If he hadn’t left it in mine and my brother’s names, perhaps a few bottles of gin would have transferred its ownership. Unlike other houses that had it in our area, the ‘This House is Not for Sale’ sign written in uneven white font in front of the house was written by us, the kids and not our father, and it’s only due to the little respect that was left that we did not end it with the usual ‘Beware of 419’.

It was a lonely place to live in, but with my brother back from school since before the elections in June, I had company that wasn’t lizards peeking from holes in the wall, rats that knew how to differentiate between my food and poisoned baits, and a drunk who sometimes couldn’t tell the difference between the latrine and other parts of the house. The foul smell around the house improved greatly, with used plates and pots disappearing from the kitchen and the latrine clean and free of flies.

In the one month since he’d been home, I’d been on night shifts, returning early in the mornings. On most evenings before I left, he and I would sit on a low bench beneath the mango tree outside the house, or on its branches, reading. Sometimes, gists about girls, university, and JAMB, left our open books with pages unturned. Other times, we would play games of cards, scrabble, checkers, or ludo. Ever so bubbly, he found everything funny and something about his deep laugh reminded me of Baba when we were little boys; before his descent into what he was now. The man was drinking then too, but it wasn’t bad enough to keep him from teaching us games beneath this tree or playing and laughing with us. 

I didn’t envy my brother for having his laugh. It terrified me that I had everything else; his cashew nut-shaped head with hairline encroaching into the forehead, hunched shoulders and slightly bent posture on a lanky frame, hands and feet that seemed a little bigger than his other features. 

My brother took none of these. He had a round and already balding head, short and plumb frame – potbellied –, and was black like burnt wood, apparently all from his mother. He was named Kabiru at birth, but his blackness and its fittingness birthed ‘Duduyemi’ which had stuck since. 

Baba married neither of our mothers. What mine looked like was only figments of my imagination, but Duduyemi’s came around until I was eight and he was six. I’d wonder how she and Baba were ever able to get intimate and make a baby, because always they were at each other’s throats; or more like, he was always at the mercy of her threats to spill a secret which she held over like a ransom. 

Once when she was wielding these threats, I learned my mother left him because of this secret. Duduyemi’s mum also stopped coming eventually, but not before, one day, transferring the aggression on me, saying I would never amount to anything and I was likely to turn out like Baba. 

These words confused me, creeping into my sleep and scribbling themselves all over my mind, becoming a permanent torment that kept me on my toes at all times. I never wanted to turn out like Baba, and so I did my best at school and built very lofty dreams. Even when Baba could not afford our school fees anymore, I took my brother into the streets and we saved money from every kind of work we could find. 

We both wrote JAMB and didn’t make the cutoffs for Law – for him – and Engineering – for me. I decided it was Engineering or nothing. He settled for History with his JAMB score. I had sat for JAMB twice since then. The result of the last one was released in April; good as usual, but not good enough for Engineering. 

Baba Kokori couldn’t understand it. “How dem go talk say person wey dey speak correct big big English like you no pass?” He asked. I had to explain that I didn’t fail; I just didn’t make the cut-off for the course I wanted.

The job at Veritana paid more than I made jumping from one menial one to the other on the streets. It helped me keep mind and body together, save a little for next year’s JAMB, and contribute to Duduyemi’s school fees. So as much as I woke up every morning wishing I didn’t have to show up at there, I never missed a day. At least not until the issue of the box.

III

The General’s candidate had won the presidential election in June and he had been in high spirits. At the hotel, there was plenty of food and drinks, a lingering smell that made the mouth water and the stomach churn, a celebrating crowd, and deafening music. I spent most of the day by the gate, parting and closing its two giant arms for guests coming in and going out. By the time I closed at night, I had a stuffed pocket from tips and two plastic bags of food going home with me. 

Some few days later, I heard Baba Kokori exclaim from the gatehouse as I closed the gate after a departing guest. I hurried into the gatehouse to find out what had happened. It was the Head of State on the radio, announcing that he was annulling the results of the election. I struggled with the meaning of ‘annul’. Baba Kokori was convinced it was negative. I wasn’t so sure, but not for long.

In solidarity with a retired force-man, the General would always come into the gatehouse to salute Baba Kokori. Even when he couldn’t, he flung ‘esprit de corps’ from a rolled down window in his car as his driver drove him in or out. That morning, he ran out of the hotel and into his army-green Peugeot car, shooting it down the driveway faster than I could open the gate. As soon as I parted the arms, the car was gone, and a trail of raised dust stood in its place. There was no driver, no visit to the gatehouse, and no ‘esprit de corps’.

“I tell you say that word na yawa,” Baba Kokori said knowingly. “E go mean say General investment don enter water.”

The next evening, the radio shocked us again. A helicopter had crashed in Port Harcourt and all four people on board had died. One of them was our General. 

Through the dazing shock and the sorrowful mourning that followed, people peddled all kinds of theories. Some said the Head of State himself had masterminded the crash. Others said it was The General’s cronies in the army who felt betrayed that he dumped the uniform for politics. I heard one that suggested it was the husband of a woman he was sleeping with, and another that said his children did it for their inheritance.

Beyond Veritana, things were beginning to escalate. Streets filled up with angry mobs carrying a rainbow of placards. Army trucks rolled around in the background, evidently waiting for the slightest provocation. Everyone at the hotel constantly had cameras and microphones shoved in our faces whenever we stepped out. We guards went from doing shifts to not being able to go home on most days. 

Patronage dropped almost to zero, the tips dried up, and even though the business was still running, there was no one to ask for salaries. Frustration had built up and perhaps this was why I was glad to bring the box down from its high horse when the manager called Baba Kokori to come get it. In its absence, I’d been having to sleep on a threadbare mat on the floor. 

There was a giant padlock dangling from the box’s mouth, locking its content shut inside it. 

“What do we do with the sand inside,” I had asked Baba Kokori.

“After I mourn General finish, we go find way cut the lock,” he said with his lean face cupped in his wrinkled hands. “For now, just put am where e dey before.”

I had nursed the idea of asking him for the box before the General bought it. I knew that if I passed JAMB and secured an admission, I would need one to get my things to school. The timing was off, but I asked anyway. “Baba, you don’t need this box. Please give me to pack my things with when going to school.”

A hand left his chin and waved through the air like he didn’t care, then returned to his chin. I smiled. He hadn’t said yes but this was enough.

And so the box was back in its old corner, now mine, again a short plateaued pillar, sometimes chair, sometimes bed, sometimes holding used plates and dirty boots, but never moving from its spot even when we swept the floor.

IV

Last night, a crack in our cooking pot of beans leaked water into the burning sawdust beneath and made it impossible for it to hold fire. We had no gas, no electric cooker, and no kerosene. Duduyemi and I had gone to bed with dry throats and growling stomachs. This morning, the only thing my mouth had tasted was mint-flavoured toothpaste. Baba Kokori thought that made my situation better than his. He had only tasted his chewing stick.

Things had calmed a bit and business had returned to a few other places, but still not to Veritana. The hours dragged by slowly and by noon, there still wasn’t any hope of food for either of us. 

I stood at the window by Baba Kokori’s desk, book in hand, watching the road in front endure feet and tyres going in both directions, its many potholes throwing around thick brown water that looked like rich Bournvita tea. A Hausa man trading scrap metal – an olomolanke – pulled a truck filled with his wares behind him, shaking a bent rod that held plates of metals noisily as he moved, calling customers to buy from and sell to him. His songs kindled an idea in my head and I turned to Baba Kokori with excitement in my eyes. 

“Baba, you’ve given me this box, abi?”

“Wetin happen?”

“Nothing baba. I’m just thinking, since we’re not using it right now, if we sell it to that olomolanke man, that’s money o.”

“Who be we? Na me and you buy the box together? Abi na you hotel manager carry am give after General die?”

“Baba, think about it well o. Risi will soon pass with rice and dodo. You already sold this box once. If we sell it again, we’ll eat rice and dodo; everyone will be happy.”

“So, make we because of hunger begin sell our property for shikini money now?”

“Shikini money? Baba this box is too heavy for shikini money o. If we tell the man that it contains kitchen wares, it’s until he gets where he will open it before he realizes it’s sand. By that time, we’d already have our money; we’d have eaten; we’d be happy.”

“I no do.”

The words were scarcely off his mouth before his tummy made a long and burdened growl. He banged the table feebly. “Oya go call the olomolanke come.”

PART II: Then it Was Not

I

As this box siddon for here so, no be our own o, but at the same time, na our own. Why? Because na for inside our compound e siddon so, and anything for inside our compound, even if e go still waka comot, e go drop something first. Car o, okada o, human being o, na everything dey pay bail for here.

We dey our own jeje for patrol van. The fuel gauge don touch bottom and we been dey find traffic offender, or miscreant, or any woman wey dress like ashawo who we fit quickly hold for corner to fit buy fuel. We don try one miscreant but he hold army ID card, and when we see car wey pass one-way, we reason him speed tell ourself the truth say we no fit catch am. Plus say, na who get fuel dey do car race.

Rain fall that morning and the flood don bury all the gutters. Bad smell dey hang for air from the dump wey dey block the gutters. Water dey splash from our tyre as we dey cruise down Agege road, dey discuss wetin we go do if tank reach bottom, na im we hear loud scream like person wey see ghost from inside Kajola Motor Park. We know Kajola people well well. Na agbero and omo-ita full inside. If you arrest them for wahala, na bad market. You go just dey feed them for cell, dem no get anybody wey fit come pay bail. 

We look ourself, shake our head. Make Kajola and their wahala hold their self, na fuel money we dey find.

As we dey drive pass the Kajola long fence, our patrol van begin cough and jerk like who get epilepsy. By the time wey e manage reach Kajola gate, e cough one big cough, come stop like say e jam wall. We look ourself. As we no fit carry the truck go filling station, we go need to buy the fuel for keg come pour am inside the truck for here. We no get choice but to shook leg inside flood, enter Kajola go find keg. And na there the drama start.

As we waka enter, look the area wey we hear the scream, we see one man wey hold blazing torch with blue fire for hand dey threaten two omo-ita. Another man dey ground dey look like mumu. As we near dem, the man wey hold the torch quickly drop am. Fear go don catch am when he see as we hook handcuff for our belt holes, carry AK-47 for our hands, and balance our police cap for our heads. 

He begin run dey come meet us. He dey open him two hands, dey complain like pikin wey dem flog for wetin e no do. As he reach, we dey try calm am down to hear wetin him dey talk, na im we see the box for him back where the other men dey; ugly for outside, but fine well well for inside. We no stay to hear the man again, we rush go join the other men.

The man wey come meet us na olomolanke. The one wey been dey kneel down na welder. The olomolanke na him get box, he come leave am for welder to help am cut the lock, then he go mosque go pray. As the welder cut padlock open the box, the spirit of wetin dey inside shock am, na him make am scream the scream wey we hear outside. The scream make olomolanke run leave prayer, but the two omo-ita don already see wetin dey inside the box and dem eyes don shook inside.

“Folice, folice, arrest me flease,” the olomolanke beg us for Hausa accent. “Arrest me and my box flease.”

“You go need to arrest all of us be that o,” one of the omo-ita talk.

The box don make us remember our pikin school fees wey we never pay, our papa wey sick for village, the money wey we owe landlord, and all the better better things wey we wan use money do. Na the box gangan na im we wan arrest, but you no fit carry shit make fly no follow you, na im make us kuku arrest both the box and everybody wey surround am. But first, dem contribute money for us to take buy fuel inside our van.

II

The mad woman wey we arrest two days ago don dey scatter cell before we reach station, but we no get her time now. The constable wey dey for counter tell us say she beat one of her cellmate, bite her join, until that one faint. Now, dem don comot her from general cell, put her for isolation. Her bail na big money, 20k, dat na why we no release her since. But as this box matter don land, we fit release her now now sef make she dey carry her wahala dey go. This box go settle us better.

When we reach station, we blast horn but one yeye officer dey block gate because one car wey he catch dey leave station without paying bail. We need to beg am not to worry, we go pay am the bail money if he open gate for us to enter. 

When we wan carry the box down from truck, one other stupid officer don do I-too-know come dey ask wetin dey inside. We tell am say we go give am something if he keep quiet about the box. But the Hausa man and the other people don see as say all the officers eyes dey shook, so dem hold ground say we no dey carry the box enter station because dem no trust us, say if e enter e fit no comot again. That na why e dey siddon for middle of compound.

E no matter if dem trust us or not. We sha know say as the box don dey our compound so, e don become our own until bail drop. Especially because we no even sure who get the box again. 

The Hausa man talk say na him get am. When we carry the welder enter station go interrogate am, he confirm say na the Hausa man give am the box to open. When we carry the omo-itas enter station go interrogate, dem say dem no sure, but their own na to collect their share.

Later, two men enter station come talk say na dem get the box, one old and one young. Two of them wear security guard uniform wey fine pass our own tear tear police uniform. The old man carry fire for eyes but him voice calm. The young man head resemble the welder own, like cashew nut. After small talk na im the welder change mouth, talk say no be the Hausa man again, say na the old man carry the box come give am to open.

When we ask the omo-itas again, dem say dem no care. Their own na to collect their share.

The Hausa man vex. He spit for air, take face catch am. “Na me get am por box,” he talk. Before we know wetin dey happen, some of him people don dey assemble for station gate dey speak their language to am. We tell the officer wey dey for gate make he lock am make nobody enter.

We call the Hausa man and the old man make two of them come talk. The Hausa man tell us say he buy the box from the old man, carry am go Agege, give the welder to open, come go mosque go pray. The old man talk say he don get the box for years, him oga borrow am and he collect am back after the oga die, he come go give welder to open am since the oga no leave the key.

We ask two of them for proof. Hausa man talk say he go call all the people wey he see for road on him way to Agege with the box. The old man say he go call him lawyer. We know say the welder na drunk and he fit no really know wetin he dey talk, but we don dey see say na the old man dey serious pass for the case, so we don dey parley am for our settlement. The welder soji, come dey laugh one kain wicked, deep laugh wey make us frown face for am.

The blue and yellow iron rods for station gate don drown for all the cloth colour from the angry crowd wey don build behind them. The crowd dey buzz for there like bee for hive, dey beat the gate, dey make noise, dey create scene.

“When your lawyer dey come?” we ask the old man.

“He go soon reach here,” he tell us.

The constable for counter don come remind us say he don move the mad woman come counter from isolation, so we decide to run her release as we dey settle this box matter for questioning room.

III

“Officers, my client owns the box, simple! How can that poor hawker who looks like he can’t afford his night meal possibly own a box like this?”

We look the Hausa man through the window of the questioning room as he dey waka round the box for outside. We look the old man for him security uniform as he rest him back for wall beside the younger guard, close to the box. The Hausa man get energy at least. The old man look like who go faint from lack of food and energy. We no talk, we continue to listen.

“This is an open and close case,” the lawyer continue. “Let my client have his box, he will pay his bail with 10% of the foreign currency and jewelry inside.”

We lick our lips, the lawyer lick him own too. As he dey sweat dey talk inside him pink shirt wey don almost fade to white, and him tie wey be like say e too big for the shirt collar, we know say him no be correct lawyer, but that 10% wey he talk don win am this case.

The lawyer still dey talk when we hear tap for door. “Come in,” we shout.

The door open inside and constable push the mad woman enter the room. Lawyer mouth seize as he see the woman. Him eyes narrow like say he dey try remember where he sabi the woman. Sweat don gather for him neck, we dey wonder how him colour wey deep like black shoe polish never stain him shirt.

We eye the woman as she stand before our table with her hands for her back and her face up to the fan wey dey roll for up like say we no dey there. She short, thick, black. Her big lips come even black pass her face from too much smoking. Her eyes red like say dem paint them. She no really be mad woman, but the craze way she dey behave na im make us dey call her so.

“Go bring that drunkard come,” we tell the constable as he dey comot for the room.

“Go siddon for that corner,” we tell the woman. “We go release you now.”

“Why una no go release me,” her voice be like who get catarrh come cry join. “When una don see money. Abi you think say I never see the box wey siddon for outside.”

“Shut up there,” we shout! 

As she waka go the corner to siddon for the small bench wey dey there, we turn face the lawyer make he continue, but him mouth still seize. Him face be like who dey find correct answer to question for exam. 

Knock sound for the door again and we shout, “come inside!”

Na the drunkard stagger enter.

“So, welder, as na you be the only authentic witness, na anything you talk go determine this box case. We wan ask you one last time to confirm who get the box before we release am.”

“God don catch you today, you this useless man,” na the mad woman voice. The welder don open mouth to talk before he hear her. The mouth no gree close again and fear don creep enter him eyes like who see ghost.

We look ourself dey wonder wetin dey happen.

The woman don stand up dey waka towards the welder. “Better tell dem the truth before I open your yansh here.”

“Hey! Wetin dey happen?” We jump up with anger for our face.

“Tell them say na me get the box!” the woman shout. Her red eyes big like say dem wan comot for the sockets, and her flat nose dey widen like say something dey pump am.

The lawyer jump. The welder too.

“Na… na she ge… get am,” the welder stammer.

We look ourself, look the woman, look the welder, look the lawyer.

“Lawyer, talk nau!” we shout.

Lawyer don dey off him tie, unbutton him shirt. The collar don wet like say dem dip am for bucket of water. “See ehn, I no know again,” he talk. 

The welder crumble for ground like squeezed paper, dey cry like pikin wey dem collect him sweet. We smack our palms together in wonderment.

“Call that other guard come, na him go fit tell you.” The lawyer talk.

We call constable make he go bring the other guard come inside.

The woman face us. “Me I no get time to waste time. Half of wetin dey inside na im I go give two of una to bail me and the box. Just clear the gate for me make I dey carry my wahala go.”

We look ourself, lick our lips.

As the other guard enter see the woman, shock stagger am. He open mouth no fit close am. 

The woman look am, look the welder wey dey cry for ground, come look the lawyer. She just begin laugh all of a sudden.

“Why you dey laugh,” we ask.

“Look them nau. Shey you no see say dem be one family?”

We look the man for ground and the one beside am. True true the two resemble; their two heads like old and young cashew nuts. But the lawyer no look like them at all.

“Is she…?” the lawyer ask the young guard quietly. The guard nod him head. The lawyer drop for seat, hold him head.

“Officers, no time to check time. You don hear the witness. Me sef don tell you say half of the box na una own. I need to comot for here,” the woman talk.

We stand up, look outside the window. The Hausa man still dey waka round the box. The old man still look like who wan faint for the wall wey he rest. The omo-itas siddon under tree dey chop gala. The wall of bodies outside don completely replace the gate. 

We call constable, whisper for him ear. Then we and the woman comot leave the three men for the room.

Minutes later, shots tear for air and the yellow and blue gate reappear as the crowd scatter. Even birds fly comot for the surrounding trees and the people inside the station scamper for cover. Another shot ring for air, to make sure say everybody understand not to come back.

When we finish the business for outside, we enter station back to see the people wey we leave for questioning room before we go go submit our resignation letters. The drunkard still dey floor. Him son don find seat siddon. The lawyer dey look out for window like statue wey wear cloth. We tap am for shoulder, give am the bundle of $100 wey the woman say make we give am, plus the note wey she write join. 

He collect the money first, stuff am for pocket. Then he collect the note, open and begin read am loud: “Good to see you, my pikin. I love you plenty.” 

He drop the paper come begin laugh one kain wicked, deep laugh wey we sure say we don hear today. We look the guy well well, we look the welder as he dey ground dey cry, we turn look the guy again. Then we look ourself come nod head for each other, join the laugh. Na now we understand say na one family true true.