The first time I stepped into a pub in Lagos, Malik dragged me there on an April night. The experience left an indelible mark on me, one that lingered long after I’d left the so-called “Center of Excellence.” Even the mere mention of the city would evoke unsettling memories, a testament to the lasting impact of that fateful night.
* * *
I’d left Akure for Lagos to stay with Malik in his two-room boys’ quarters in Orile. The cozy sitting room featured lattice windows and stylish furnishings, including a sleek couch and matching armchair upholstered in a modern, olive-green fabric that complemented the color of the curtains and walls—a reflection of his improved financial situation since landing a better-paying job at a beverage company in Ikeja nearly a year before.
Malik tucked some money into his pants pocket. “For once in your life, come on, and I’ll introduce you to the pleasures of a beer or two.”
“I prefer to keep my brain untainted,” I said in a voice weighed down by the weariness in my bones. “You know my family places great store on the Ten Commandments, holiness, and all that, and—”
He cut me off, staring right into my eyes. “You can have a soft drink then.”
Malik was notorious for using his washed-out brown eyes to convince others to do his bidding, yet, I found myself resisting his gaze. I pushed aside the coffee table and lay down on the shag area rug, which was a soothing gray color, reminiscent of a peaceful ocean at dusk. As I settled in, its softness eased the fatigue in my calves. “I need to rest my legs.”
Earlier in the day, I’d scoured various parts of the city in search of a job. Despite sending online applications to several media outlets, I hadn’t received a single call for an interview, so I decided to take a proactive approach. Armed with a plastic folder in which I’d neatly arranged copies of my CV and degree certificate—first-class honors in English Language studies—I visited two publishing houses and two radio stations. If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain. I braved the chaotic roads, navigating a sea of vehicular and pedestrian traffic, and I witnessed a Danfo driver blowing a trumpet as his horn and a car driver using a microphone handle as a makeshift gearstick. My ears rang from the swirling maelstrom of human and mechanical noises. The polluted air, a noxious brew of exhaust fumes and stale breath, ravaged my lungs, leaving me wheezing. Despite my efforts, the responses I received from those organizations were a no:
“Sorry, there’s no opening.”
“We have no vacancies.”
“We’ve already completed our recruitment for the year.”
“We’re downsizing.”
I’d left the fourth company with a heavy weight in my chest. As I trudged back to Malik’s place, my skull felt like it was on fire from the effort of fighting off disappointment. When I finally arrived, I’d collapsed onto the couch in a defeated slump.
Now, Malik patted my shoulder as I lay on the rug. “Let’s go cool off, Ezekiel. It’s just a matter of time before you get a job.”
I hauled myself upright, a deep sigh rattling my chest. I scratched at the stubble that seemed as lackluster as my job prospects. The bland rejections stuck in my mind like a persistent parasite, feeding on my frustration.
He squatted and nudged me with his elbow, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Come on, jobless JJC,” he said, his voice booming with laughter. He rose and offered me his hand, pulling me up.
I dragged my feet into the guest bedroom and changed into the T-shirt and jeans I’d bought in a thrift store. Malik emerged from his bedroom, tucking his arms into a white polyester shirt. I stared at his belly which looked like a pumpkin beneath his singlet—perhaps the result of excessive drinking. He caught my gaze and rubbed his stomach, but I refrained from asking if he’d been bingeing lately. He mimicked the singer 9ice’s mantra, “Let’s go there.”
I’d known Malik for nine years, beginning with our time at Obafemi Awolowo University, where we were roommates from our first year to our fourth. I’d graduated before him and left him in school because his engineering course was five years’ long. Back then, I was dubbed The Walking Encyclopedia, while Malik was often teased about his ears, which resembled the oversized handles of the UEFA Champions League trophy. Many of our classmates initially assumed we were siblings or cousins until we clarified that we weren’t related by blood. Malik was his mother’s only child, and his father was Alhaji Masha, who had forty-two children with his eight wives. I was the only son of my parents, who were both financially invested in my education.
“How fortunate you are,” Malik would often say, “that your father and mother support your university endeavor.” Alhaji Masha only supported his children’s education up to high school, after which he encouraged them to learn a trade or craft. Malik’s mother had been the only one working tirelessly as a trader of yam to ensure he received the schooling he desired.
As we strolled down to Anthony Badejo Street, the sky’s tapestry of fuchsia and purple hues triggered a sense of déjà vu. Memories of an Eid-el-Kabir celebration with Malik in his father’s Wabilahi Taofeek House in Oyo came flooding back. The sprawling one-story face-me-I-face-you building had sixteen rooms and was home to Alhaji Masha’s eight wives and their children. It was a whirlwind of activities during the festival—he slaughtered eight rams, one for each wife and her children. That day, the late evening sky was also dyed fuchsia and purple, a fleeting work of art, as Malik and I wandered to a pub, just a street away from his father’s neighborhood.
Now, we passed a police station with an array of motorcycles lined up on its premises. The police had clearly seized the bikes. Their owners stood in clusters nearby, seeking ways to recover their machines.
“The police extort money from those okada men,” Malik said through gritted teeth.
No one spoke highly of the police. They were leeches who sucked the life out of the people they were supposed to protect.
He drew his breath and released it. “They’re quick to intimidate citizens but slow to catch robbers. They stop okada men from making a living and still charge them heavily to release their bikes.”
“Before you leave your house for your daily bread,” I said, “you should pray, ‘May I not have issues with the police today’.”
It was a prayer I’d learned when I was still in high school from a conversation between my father and some other men. The police had raided a few streets and randomly picked up innocent men and women. The most bizarre of the indiscriminate arrests had been that of a couple wearing the same Adire fabric—the man holding their Bibles, the woman carrying their baby—returning from an evening church service.
Malik’s laughter eased the tension in his voice. “It’s an important prayer to be prayed, even if you don’t believe in prayers.”
We turned right, into a neighborhood of mostly low-tenement houses. The facades were run-down, except for a few buildings painted the vibrant red of the telecom service company Airtel—a kind of street advertisement designed to catch the eye. In front of one house, a woman bathed a two-year-old boy. On the pavement outside another, a young girl washed dishes under the supervision of a middle-aged woman. In all these scenes, I could feel a sense of exclusivity in the neighborhood: everyone minding their business, and communications carried out in hushed tones.
The pub was at the end of Anthony Badejo Street, which Malik said was the neighborhood of a once notorious armed robber turned evangelist. The man, now in his sixties, had terrorized the Southwestern part of Nigeria in the late eighties. I recalled reading about his brutal bank robbery that ended with twenty people dead on a New Year eve. The account had left me shaken. Despite his numerous killings and maiming, he’d received a presidential pardon and was now a free man.
The pub’s doorpost read Enjoy Live. The spelling error wasn’t lost on me. Live instead of Life—an unpardonable piece of malapropism. Spelling errors on signs were a common sight. I’d always seen such mistakes as a shame on the writers, who cared more about their paydays than the accuracy of their art. But then, what did they know about malapropism? Malik probably hadn’t noticed the error either. As roommates, I often pointed out to him the grammatical mistakes in his notes, teasing him that his writing skills were poor. But he would shrug it off, saying, “Who needs grammar? I’m an engineering student. What’s my business with writing?” He wasn’t wrong. In fact, what had spotting grammar mistakes gotten me? I’d submitted applications to the two top private schools in Akure for a position as an English teacher and been promptly rejected. And now, here I was in a pub, about to drink on the bill of a person who knew nothing about malapropism.
Christmas lights twinkled across the doorpost—a little early for the decorations, in my opinion. A bare 270-watt bulb hung above the Christmas lights like a stationary pendulum. The long wire of the bulb crossed with the thin wire of the winking lights as if to form a crucifix.
As we entered, the savory aroma of catfish pepper soup enveloped me, and my mouth watered. The interior was simple, with rectangular white plastic tables covered in cheap blue cloths, each seating four, arranged in five rows. The walls, recently painted with a plant-colored emulsion, were adorned with a collage of beer signs. A small television mounted on a wooden frame on the wall played a local movie on Africa Magic Yoruba, but the volume was turned down in favor of the hip hop music blasting from the speakers. I’d seen the movie Ifa three times already on the same channel, and it was annoying to watch the same movie repeatedly on a paid subscription.
A man sitting at a table in the center of the room rose and beckoned us over. Malik introduced him as Ekpe. His long, thin arms, deep-set eyes, and narrow torso gave him the physique of an Ethiopian long-distance runner. A threadbare short-sleeved shirt, faded to a dull gray and a few sizes too large, hung loosely on him. If we were in school, we might have nicknamed him “Sir Ectomorph” or something similar to describe his lean frame. We shook hands across two bottles of Star and his callused palm felt gritty against mine.
“Malik, my guy. The only honorable man wey dey come Enjoy Live,” Ekpe said in a gravel voice.
Malik cocked his head and gave him the side-eye. “Even if you didn’t call me, I’d have come to you. So don’t play smart.” He snapped his fingers at a waitress whose sleeveless yellow top was a ray of sunshine.
She gave the plastic smile girls like her have been conditioned to give all the patrons.
“Two bottles of Guinness and two bottles of Maltina,” Malik told the waitress. Then he turned to Ekpe. “It’s time you paid me back.”
Ekpe lowered his head. “Chai, you no go believe sey people wey promise me money no give me.” He raised his head. “Abeg, give me another three days.”
“Again?” Malik grimaced. “Listen, I don’t have money to pay for my beer.” He glanced at me. I nodded, playing along.
Ekpe took a swig of his beer and made a rolling, don’t-worry hand gesture.
“You’ll pay for my drinks?” Malik said. “It means you have money on you.”
Ekpe pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. I shook my head. He took out a lighter, poked the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and thumbed the striker wheel on the plastic lighter. The cigarette glowed. When he spoke, the stick bobbed up and down. “Malik, I dey drink on credit.”
“And Mama Shine agreed to that?” Malik steered his gaze toward the owner of the pub seated at the bar, a hefty woman with scarcely a neck between her shoulders. She looked haunted as though a measure of grief were pushing down on her like a wine press.
Ekpe took a long drag on his cigarette. I thought he would choke. Instead, he blew out a stream of smoke through his nose. “You no know the meaning of my name?” He leaned back and hacked a dry laugh. “It mean lion.” He thumped his chest. “I be lion from Akwa Ibom. Anything I do here, I do. Who go arrest lion?”
The waitress went over to Mama Shine, shaking her head, as if denying some accusation. When she came back with our drinks, her expression was sour.
Ekpe flicked ashes off his cigarette into a porcelain ashtray. “Mercy, no ask dem money,” he said to the waitress. “I go pay for dem.”
Mercy’s black eye caught my attention, reminding me of another waitress in our neighborhood years ago whose fiancé had battered her for having an affair. Maybe Mercy had a similar story. It was an open secret that bar waitresses had flings with patrons, and sometimes bar madams even arranged the trysts to keep customers’ patronages.
While Malik ordered two bowls of pepper soup, I poured myself a glass of Maltina, draining the first bottle. I tossed down the drink with a gurgle and a pleasant, chilled sweetness flooded down my throat. Satisfied, I refilled my glass with the second bottle, intending to sip it slowly.
Ekpe dropped his voice. “Dat girl get jigida for her waist.”
Malik opened his beer and filled his glass, the drink foaming around the rim. “How did you know she wears waist beads? Have you entered her kingdom, too?”
Ekpe’s voice hinted at pride. “Nah she open her kpekus and me enter the place like 2face.”
I was right after all. Mercy was doing more than serving beer to the patrons. I shook my head.
Ekpe smiled at me. “Wetin man go do, my brother? As man no get wife and sperm don full man body,” he said in comedian Okey Bakassi’s voice, “man must mekwe girls to relieve himself. Money for hand, back for ground.”
Malik smirked, putting down his glass with a thump. “You don’t really love yourself. You’re wasting your panel beating job earnings on olosho.”
Ekpe leaned forward as if to whisper a secret. “Mercy no be olosho like dat o. See, nah last October she disvirgin. She tell me sey she need money to go back to school. Nah why she dey hustle be dat.” He glanced at Mercy, who was approaching our table with bowls of pepper soup on a silver tray. She set the steaming bowls before us.
As she sashayed back to the bar, her ample ass swung in her black leggings like a metronome, but I felt no stir of desire. How could I, when I’d had no craving to touch my fiancée’s, either? Tosin, aka “Tosin of Jesus,” had made it clear from the start that her body belonged to Christ, and she’d decreed it off limits until marriage. Her words, reinforced by my own jobless despair, had anesthetized my longing. Raised in a strict Christian sect that once deemed TV “Satan’s box,” she’d rebelled against some aspects of her upbringing, embracing liberal styles—flashy clothes, jewelry, braids, and manicures. Yet, despite her stylish exterior, her traditional values remained unwavering, her stance on premarital sex an unshakeable conviction.
The savor of the pepper soup transported me back to my undergraduate days, when Malik and I would frequent a restaurant outside the school for goat-meat pepper soup. We’d indulge in it mostly during the early days of a new semester, when our funds were still plentiful. However, as the semester wore on and our account balances dwindled, our visits became less frequent, eventually tapering off by mid-semester when our finances were in the red.
I took my first spoonful and the flavors exploded on my tongue—the tender fish, the rich broth, and the slow-building heat of the habanero peppers. The spiciness made my nose twitch, but I loved it.
Ekpe threw back his head and drained his bottle. “I don tell her sey if she stick to me, I go give her money for school.”
Malik gave Ekpe a scornful gaze. “Swear on your head she be the only girl you dey mekwe. How much you get sef to send a girl to school?”
Ekpe recoiled, his lips trembling. I could tell he struggled to find the right words to defend himself. I suspected Malik switching to pidgin English was deliberate, aimed at hitting Ekpe with the language he understood and piercing his philandering heart.
“You think sey school fees nah bread and beans?” Malik added. “You fit take care of a woman with the way you dey live your life?”
Ekpe went mute, unable to defend himself. I felt the sting of Malik’s words, too, condemning me for my inability to meet some of Tosin’s needs. But she never made me feel inadequate; she’d share her meager earnings with me. Her radiant smile was a beacon of hope, illuminating even the darkest corners of my soul. The velvety softness of her voice was a gentle embrace, her words piercing my very core, revitalizing my withered spirit.
Malik sipped the soup, his eyes closed as if savoring a sacrament. He opened his eyes and nodded. “Mama Shine’s pepper soup is more delicious than the one we had in school.”
“You’re right,” I said, enjoying the contrast between the spicy soup and my cool Maltina as the flavors danced on my palate.
Malik smacked his lips. “I love it peppery because it kills malaria.”
I nodded in agreement with the common belief that spicy foods helped get rid of colds, catarrh, and malaria.
With each spoonful, Malik’s eyes sparkled, and he let out a soft “mmm” of pleasure. I glanced sideways. Two tables away, a bespectacled man and his companion slurped their soups. He caught my gaze and grinned, then continued his culinary worship.
As night fell upon the neighborhood, more patrons strolled in: men with bloodshot eyes, men with faces carrying a vestige of cement from construction sites, men who smelled of engine oil and fuel and frustration, weighed down by unfinished tasks and financial expectations.
A man with bleached skin walked in, accompanied by two men and two women, and everyone began to chant, “Agbalagbi, Agbalagbi.” He raised his shoulders as he ambled to the table that was hurriedly arranged for him.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“He’s contesting for a councillorship position in the local government,” Malik replied.
But the man looked like one of those thugs being used by politicians to snatch ballot boxes, now trying to redeem his image by seeking public office. I’d bet he’d got his right eyebrow scarred and his front teeth broken from a brawl.
For the first time since we arrived, Mama Shine got up, the hem of her boubou sweeping the floor as she lumbered to Agbalagbi. I couldn’t imagine her walking for ten minutes without gasping for breath. She conferred with Agbalagbi, then removed her headscarf, offering it to him. He touched it. She returned to the counter, retying her head cloth, smiling. Her action was significant—a homage to Agbalagbi, who acknowledged her by touching her scarf.
“One bottle for everybody,” Agbalagbi announced, waving around the room. He carried the condescending aura of one who saw himself as superior to everyone else.
The two men with him stood and raised their hands in reverence to him. “Tuale, Baba. You don win the election. No lele.”
Agbalagbi raised his hands, too, then one of his mistresses lifted a glass to his mouth.
Ekpe stubbed out his cigarette, the butt being the eighth dumped in the ashtray. “Dis man correct. He wise well-well. See how he dey do campaign. He go beer parlor and buy beer for people. Nah the same thing he do last week for IyaSidi place. He give beer to everybody.”
I chuckled. Would they vote for him because of a bottle of beer? But the ridiculous had already occurred in the country’s electioneering. Many people had turned to the biblical Esau and sold their birthrights, their votes, for a peanut.
A young woman strode in, the elegancy of her gait commanding attention. Her burnished dark skin seemed to glow from within, its subtle sheen offsetting the vibrant red and white plaids of her Croatia shirt, creating a striking visual harmony. She conferred briefly with Mama Shine before turning to leave. Ekpe let out a flirtatious catcall, stopping her in her tracks. I tightened my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I’d observed the same shameful behavior among butchers in Akure. Those men, who reeked of animal blood and whose heads were the capital of vulgarity, made inappropriate advances toward female customers, particularly single women, creating an uncomfortable atmosphere.
The young woman shot Ekpe a withering glance, but I felt the disdain pierce me. Ekpe, unmindful of the tension he’d created, giggled, his eyes fixed on the woman’s retreating figure.
Malik stared at him with a mixture of disgust and disappointment. “Akwa Ibom lion, stop ridiculing yourself.”
“I don hear you.” Ekpe uncapped another bottle, took a swig, and belched.
A moment later, the bespectacled man burst out laughing. It was a kind of laugh that made you wonder if he was going insane. Everyone turned to him.
“Oga Cletus?” Mama Shine called.
“Yes, Mama Shine,” he answered.
“Why you dey laugh like dat?” She looked him over. “Hope all dey well o.”
“Nah Yinus make me laugh jare.” He took off his black-frame glasses and cleaned the lens with the hem of his shirt. “But why I no go laugh when I dey enjoy my beer and I no think of any problem now?”
They say you come to a pub to forget your sorrows. You are able to transfer your burdens into the beer which, as you pour it into your glass, swells, froths, and pops—a good metaphor for what you experience with your burden in the time you are in the pub.
The patrons’ faces glistened with sweat under the rattling ceiling fans, which barely stirred the air. A cloud of smoke hovered over us. At ten fifty, Ekpe and Malik didn’t seem ready to leave. Malik was on his twelfth bottle—perhaps more; I may have lost count as Mercy diligently brought more chilled beers each time two or three bottles stood empty on the table. I’d taken three other bottles of Maltina, and my belly had become a pool of malt.
At this stage, everything seemed to be moving in a blur. My soggy T-shirt clung to my body—my armpits squelching with sweat. The cigarette smoke clogged my lungs. I coughed to clear my chest, all too aware of the need for fresh air. “Malik, I’m going outside for a while.”
“I’ll join you once I finish this bottle,” he said, belching into his hand.
I shuffled outside and stretched my limbs. Mercy came out, passing a mop leaning on the entrance wall. It resembled a scrawny, gray-haired Rastafarian warning the patrons of the dangers of consuming excess alcohol and smoking. But it would have been a warning too late for people like Malik and Ekpe. I decided to stretch my legs a bit and strolled down the street. The doors to most houses had been closed, with only a few windows glowing yellow. My phone rang, startling me; I’d forgotten it was in my pocket. I stopped beside a rickety, two-door Starlet, the kind of car that might require passersby to push it into motion, and which might lurch several times before finally roaring to life.
During our university days, Malik joked that an average Nigerian man lacks chivalry—that, if you see him opening the passenger door for his wife, it’s either because he’s showing off his new car, or the door is faulty and only he can open it. The Starlet seemed to be the latter case, as a U-bent iron rod held the passenger door shut. A reflective sticker on the rear window read: LIFE IS GOOD. If life was good for the car or its owner, who likely used it for commercial purposes? Perhaps he transported agricultural produce, like many rickety cars—which I’d called “mechanical donkeys”—did in Akure, hauling bananas and maize from farms to markets.
I looked at Tosin’s plump face lighting up the screen, her dark braids a waterfall of night. I’d called her as soon as I’d gotten home in the late afternoon, sharing the disappointing details of my day with her. She’d offered words of encouragement.
“You may have faced disappointment today, Ezekiel, but you’re a day closer to getting a job. It’s well with you, babe.”
“Tosin, if you were a man,” I said after a sigh, “I’d call you Barnabas, the son of encouragement.”
She laughed and suggested I call her “Barnabasine.”
Now, as I continued my walk, I said, “Hello, babe?”
“Hello, love.” She yawned through her words. “How are you faring now?”
“I’m well. You’re in bed?”
“Yes. What did you have for dinner?”
Two cars screeched past as if Formula One had come to town. Pranksters or joy riders, driving without regard for pedestrian safety. Clearly, the road needed speed bumps.
“Are you outside?” Tosin asked.
“Yes, I went to a bar with Malik, but I decided to stroll a few meters for fresh air.”
“It’s past eleven, Ezekiel. It’s too late to be outside. There’s no night life and security in this country; you know that.”
The alarm in her voice halted me. I could picture her face, wrinkled with terror.
“It’s risky to be out at this time. The night has no respect for a noble man. Please go back home and call me when you’re there.”
“Okay, babe.” I jogged back to the pub, the hairs on my arms prickling, the air slapping me in the face. “It’s high time we returned home,” I would tell Malik. I’d never stayed out so late before. Usually, by 9 p.m., I’d be indoors, surfing the internet or planning my activities for the next day. It was a shame that the country’s nightlife had become a thing of the past, the glory years of the country. In those years, the economy was booming and night parties rocked the streets. My father, then a bachelor and an unbeliever, had bought a four-legged Grundig TV and partied all night with his friends to celebrate his new acquisition. In those years, university graduates like me didn’t have to fast and pray before getting a job. But the country was now Ichabod, for the glory years had departed even before I was born.
A bird flew past with a high-pitched chirp. I quickened my pace, my feet pounding the blacktop in rhythm with my racing heart. Despite my panicked heartbeats, the academic man in me prevailed over the superstitious one, shrugging off the bird as a mere coincidence, not a bad omen.
When I reached the entrance of Enjoy Live, I breathed a sigh of relief, as if the pub were the biblical Ramoth, where my safety was guaranteed. A petite lady brushed past me, as did a man who was almost falling-down drunk. The drunken man mumbled a curse.
The lady made a beeline for our table and clenched Ekpe’s shirt. “Onigbese, onigbese! Pay me my money,” she whined, her voice sounding like a faulty blender. “I go collect my money tonight.”
Her see-through tank top revealed a studded deep navel, and her white miniskirt drew attention to her panty line. Her short hair was tinted pink, and despite her heavy makeup, the pouches under her eyes were still visible.
“Take am easy . . . Fanta,” Cletus said. “Fanta babe, relax.”
At first, I thought Cletus was requesting a soda but now I understood—and, was taken aback—that her name was Fanta.
I turned to Malik. “Fanta?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Nickname?”
“Her real name.”
Cletus moved to our table and put a hand on Fanta’s shoulder in a gesture that suggested he was used to her. “My Fantalicious”—his voice held a seductive lilt—“it’s me saying make you take am easy.”
She shrugged off Cletus’s hand and shot him a fierce glance. “Make una no tell me to take am easy.” Her tight voice surged higher. “Since three weeks, he never pay for my service.”
I gave Malik a quick, questioning gaze.
“She’s olosho,” he whispered. “She services many of the men that come here. Ekpe fucked her on credit.”
“Shey I sey I no go pay you ni? No be tomorrow I promise you?” The tendons in Ekpe’s neck were taut like bridge cables. “Because you no get customer tonight, you kon vex meet me.”
It was absurd for any man to be a debtor over beer and sex. I gazed at Ekpe again, his faded shirt a testament to his poor choices. It would have been more acceptable if he’d bought new shirts on credit like I’d done a few times. After all, owing money for food or clothes was excusable. But owing for sex was a whole different story; it was living the most outrageous life. Ekpe’s shamelessness was grating. I expected him to swallow his distasteful arrogance as he swallowed his beer. His action should count as a crime Fanta could report or sue Ekpe over.
“Liar. You dey always sey tomorrow.” Fanta’s grip on Ekpe’s shirt tightened. Two buttons popped off. “Mr. Dobolawin. You do two rounds; you no pay me kobo.”
I recalled a warning from my father: Be wary of who you fuck and who you fuck with. Ekpe had fucked and fucked with a woman who had no shame about her sexual life, who was ready to expose any patron who crossed her.
The music volume decreased, and Mama Shine shouted, “Ekpe, Fanta! Make una no fight for my shop o. I no want police wahala o.”
Ekpe strained against Fanta, his shoulders stiff, his eyes flashing like a trapped bulldog. His shirt was stretched taut, the fabric groaning in protest as he twisted and turned. “See this olosho wey Calabar belt go kpeme las las.”
Fanta slammed her head into his chest, knocking him against his chair. “Nah Calabar belt go kpeme your mother, too.”
Ekpe’s lips curled into a sneer. “My mother don die long time.”
“E go kill your sister.”
“I no get sister.”
“E go kpeme your wife.” Her breath quickened. Her fingers were a vice on his shirt, unyielding and unforgiving.
He guffawed. “I no get wife. Make una talk something else.”
She yanked his shirt apart with a vicious grip. The sharp, tearing sound echoed through the air. Ekpe’s torso was left naked. His chest heaving, he pushed her away. She stumbled but quickly regained her balance.
“Satan punish your Mama for hellfire.” She grabbed Malik’s glass and threw the beer in it on Ekpe’s face.
“My eyes, my eyes!” Ekpe cried, his dignity shredded like the fabric that lay torn and crumpled at his feet. As he rubbed his wrist across his eyes, Fanta reached for an empty bottle, ready to smash it on his head, but a voice bellowed and stopped her hand mid-air.
“Everybody lie down!”
I turned around to face two muscular men standing in the doorway, their scowl as menacing as the guns they pointed at us. I hit the floor, my heart racing like a jackrabbit. Fanta lay to my immediate left. Ekpe lay to my right, and Malik was next to him. The sharp smell of Fanta’s perfume filled my nostrils. I stifled a sneeze three times, and it felt like a vein in my neck would burst. The robbers shot into the ceiling, and a cloud of asbestos rained down on us. They overturned tables and chairs, shattering bottles and glasses that bounced and smashed on the floor, stinging me with flakes.
“Bring out the money—all the money there!” one of the robbers demanded of Mama Shine.
A thud followed, and Mama Shine squealed, calling her dead mother to come rescue her. Someone’s breathing grew heavy, and another person farted loudly. I couldn’t keep my already cold hands from trembling, and my pounding heart felt like it would burst out of my rib cage.
“Hey, Agbalagbi, give me everything you have! Now!”
I heard Ekpe whisper, “Malik, dis nah the money I owe you,” slipping some naira notes to him.
Malik shook his head, but Ekpe insisted that he take the money. Just then, a heavy kick caught Ekpe in the face. He yelped.
“Bastard, you want hide the money, abi?”
Another kick followed, and Malik let out a blood-curdling scream. His agony sent my bowels shuddering. I clenched my eyes shut.
“Idiot. Say you’re a bloody idiot.”
“You’re a bloody idiot.”
“You personalize it.” Another kick.
“I am a bloody idiot,” Malik shrieked, his voice abruptly silenced.
I cringed at the thought of a boot hitting my head. Globs of sweat pooled on my face and dripped into my eyes, stinging like pepper. The sickening smell of urine filled my nostrils. A gloved hand frisked me, taking my phone.
“You don’t have money, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
A powerful kick slammed into my leg, making me howl in pain. I wriggled, short of breath, fearing my leg might be broken.
The robbers ransacked the pub for what felt like an eternity, their curses piercing the air. When they finally left, the pub was silent; the only sound the hiccups and heavy breathing of the patrons.
As I sat up, massaging my leg, a warm trickle spread down my thigh. My face was seared by shame as if a red hot branding iron had been pressed against my cheeks. I glanced around, hoping no one had noticed, but Ekpe’s gaze flicked to my crotch and back to my face, his expression a mix of pity and disgust. My mind raced with embarrassment. How could this happen to me? What would Tosin think if she saw me like this? I felt like a child who’d wet his pants, not a grown man who’d just survived a robbery.
Ekpe staggered to his feet, then slumped onto a chair, his face swollen and teeth missing. His lips were like a vampire’s sucking his first blood. Agbalagbi pressed a handkerchief to his bleeding mouth. Fanta curled up by the wall, mewing like an abandoned kitten, before bursting into gasping sobs.
I shook Malik, but he didn’t respond. I turned him over. He lay still, blood dripping from his nose and crimsoning his white shirt.
“Malik, Malik!” I called, my voice a panicked whisper.
Cletus crawled over and shook Malik with wild eyes. Malik’s head dangled to one side.
Cletus put his ear on Malik’s chest. “He no dey breath again.”
My heartbeat crashed in my ears. “He’s not breathing?” I couldn’t keep the tremor out of my voice. “What do you mean?”
The police arrived, their siren blaring like a cacophony of chaos.
They always came late.
Four policemen stormed in, shouting, “Where dem dey? Where are the robbers?”
I stumbled to my feet, my legs shaking like a newborn fawn.
A policeman came over. “Can you identify them?”
“My friend… he needs help.” I pointed to Malik, my voice barely audible. “He needs to be taken to a hospital.”
The officer’s gaze flicked over Malik’s still form, his expression unyielding. “I’m here to catch the robbers, Mr. Man. Describe them to me.”
I stood there, a specter whose presence went unnoticed and whose voice went unheard. The only thing that mattered was getting Malik to the hospital, but no one seemed to care. My insides churned, and I collapsed, my chest slamming against the floor. A wave of nausea surged up my throat, making my mouth water. The sour taste of Maltina flooded my mouth as my stomach contents rose, burning my throat. Tears streamed down my face as I clenched my fists and rose on my knees, wailing, unable to hold back the inevitable. A torrent of vomit burst from my mouth, splashing onto the floor with a sickening splat.
***
When you lose your father, you become fatherless. When you lose your mother, you become motherless. When you’ve lost both parents, you become an orphan. But why is there no name for a person who’s lost their friend, especially a friend that had become the brother they didn’t have from their parents? When I think of Malik’s mother too, I ask myself why there’s no name for a woman who’s lost her only child as we have “widow” for the one who’s lost her husband.
When I lost Malik, I became… what? There’s no word for a person who’s lost a friend, a brother who wasn’t bound by blood but by the heart. I long for a term to define my loss, to explain the ache that refuses to fade. Friendless? Brother-less? The words feel inadequate; they diminish the depth of my sorrow.
Five years have passed since that fateful night, yet the questions still haunt me. What if I’d insisted we didn’t go to the pub? Could we have escaped the robbery if Tosin had called earlier? Would we have stayed in, bantering, if I hadn’t been consumed by my own disappointment? The what-ifs torment me, a constant reminder of my perceived guilt.
After returning to Akure, I got a job at the local bureau of a national newspaper. But this new opportunity filled me with guilt as I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I’d gone to Lagos to set Malik up for death. Perhaps, if I hadn’t allowed my joblessness to force me to the city, he would still be alive. When the newspaper management asked me to relocate to their Lagos headquarters to work as a sub-editor, I couldn’t bring myself to return to the city. The thought of living and working in Lagos, surrounded by memories of Malik, was too much to bear. I resigned, unable to face the constant reminders of what I’d lost.
In my dreams, I see Malik, but he’s always out of reach. The distance between us echoes the times we had misunderstandings as undergraduates, the times he would reach out to mend our friendship. Now, in my dreams, my words of apology bounce back, a harsh reminder that he’s gone, and I’m left with the anguish of what could’ve been.
Yesterday, as I gazed at Tosin’s growing bump, a surge of certainty shot through me: our firstborn son would be named Malik. But Tosin’s eyebrows furrowed, her lips pursed, and a faint crease lined her forehead.
“It doesn’t feel right,” she said, her voice laced with a mix of doubt and conviction. “An Ezekiel can’t give birth to a Malik.”
I steered my gaze away from her as my mind drifted back to my undergraduate days. Late-night conversations, debates, and dreams replayed in my mind. Malik’s presence enveloped me, as if he stood beside me, his warmth and camaraderie palpable.
I turned back to Tosin, my jaw set and eyes locked on hers. “I’ll not let religious dogma dictate my decision.” My fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the armrest. “The bond I shared with Malik trumps any spiritual reservation.”
The name transcends religious boundaries. It represents something deeper: kindness, love, and unshakable brotherhood. These are the legacies I want to pass on, the memory I want to honor, and the values I want our children to inherit.
