Hi everyone, today we begin a new mini-series! *insert drum roll here* I have to warn you, this first post is a long one. Brace yourselves and be kind enough to drop a comment.
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Without a trace was composed by Mr. Svengali.
Tuesday August 12, 2014.
The unusual calm of the street as well as the opulence of the surrounding structures make it hard to believe we’re in the restless city of Lagos. The city is renowned for its notorious hustle and bustle, rowdiness and its seeming inability to be devoid of commercial activity regardless of the hour.
There are no BRT’s to be found here, neither can we hear any anxious conductor charging his prospective passengers to “enter with your change o!”, no corner shops selling recharge cards or the aboki run haberdashery that defines the typical Lagos neighbourhood.
The bold “No Loitering” signs explain why there are no pedestrians to be seen on any of the expansive streets and if we are to judge by the eerie silence, it would be hard to believe people live around here. There are no “Okada’s” to be found here either; this is a gated community.
This section of Lagos is not for the strugglers or pretenders to new wealth; this area is reserved for the crème de la crème of the society. It’s prime property where the rich and famous buy and build houses right next to each other just to rub shoulders.
There are some truly beautiful houses here; some so beautiful they can take your breath away. It’s even more impressive considering such perfect structures are sitting side by side. Even here, amidst some truly elegant houses; some houses dwarf others in terms of beauty and sheer size. The most impressive structure to be seen around here is definitely House number 42.
As it turns out, house number 42 has a rather short fence with a motorized gate which slides at the touch of an unseen button. The magnificence of the building is immediately arresting; it’s a three storey structure with beautiful columns. The front of the building is designed with gold floating mirrors that mirror the reflection of the sun.
The garage of house number 42 doesn’t disappoint, there’s an autobiography black edition of the Range Rover Sport and a metal black Toyota Camry keeping it company. There’s a lone coconut tree just beside the gate with its branches swaying back and forth to the gentle ministrations of a midday breeze.
There’s a huge generating plant at the extreme of the fence, a humongous machine housed in a soundproofed cabin; it’s just one of the telltale trappings of comfort in upscale neighbourhoods.
It costs a little over $4,000 dollars per month to be able to afford a small apartment here. Although it’s midday and a work week to boot, we can hear voices in one of the apartments.
When we follow the voices, it’s from one of the five apartments in the building. If the exterior of the house is beautiful, the interior makes it look downright shabby. It’s furnished quite simply with colourful chairs and a large television adorns the wall.
The voices belong to two stunning young women; you’d quite not get the picture if I do not call them ladies. We learn their names are Lily and Candy; we also suspect these aren’t their given names.
One look both of the ladies and you’d doubt if the good Lord made us all out of dust. These two are some of the finest specimen of the Lord’s creation and their mannerisms suggest a certain hoity-toity that cannot be found even among the most earnest of the nouveaux riche.
They are splayed in positions of ease in the spacious living room with the television providing background noise. For people who live in such expensive dwellings, you’d almost swear they would be hard at work at this hour.
“How is Emeka?” Lily inquires
“Oh well, he’s sulking as usual, I told him I need a break from his childishness” The reply comes with a hint of a mischievous smile.
“He’ll be fine, you’ve been with him for too long anyway and the poor lad isn’t worth much these days”
As if on cue, Lily’s rebuttal elicits a chuckle from both of them.
They chatter away in this manner for most of the day; it’s dark outside when Candy decides to leave. They’re both seen walking out of the apartment to the garage and as she hops into her car, they exchange a bit of last minute gossip.
“I’m going to see Mohammed tomorrow” Lily informs Candy. She misses the gleam of envy in her friend’s eyes.
“He’s in town again?” she asks, “what’s he giving you this time, another new Range Rover?”
“I don’t know yet, but he’s promised he would be generous and you know he doesn’t make promises lightly. “
“Don’t forget we’re having dinner Friday night, I’ll kill you if you don’t show up” Candy says before she drives off.
Wednesday August 13, 2014.
We can hear her phone ring and although she ignores the call, it’s easy to see she’s startled by whoever the caller is. She’s feeling particularly jittery this morning and although she’s not prone to superstitions, she finds it hard to shake off a bad feeling-a premonition maybe.
It’s enough to make her call Bashiru, her makeshift driver who doubles as her bodyguard for any risky nocturnal outing. It’s a long established routine so it doesn’t take long before she sorts out the details with him.
There’s nothing to do for the rest of the day so she turns the television on and starts to channel surf. She settles on CNN and listens with remarkable patience to the retinue of scary news; Ebola virus, the ISIS crisis in the Middle East.
There’s an indefinable unease about her this morning and she surfs to Silverbird Television; a Nigerian station where there’s news about the recent abduction of fifty boys and the introduction of a new toll free emergency helpline 112.
This piece of information seems to hold her attention and we see her reach for her phone and dial the number; she’s seemingly surprised to hear it ring. She disconnects the call just as the agent on the other end picks up.
She has quite a lot of time to kill before her meeting with Mohammed and she spends the rest of it lazing around.
We spy Bashiru as he comes in a little after seven o’clock. Although he’s a typical Lagos hustler who could do absolutely anything to earn an extra buck, he has come into a stroke of good luck with his easy business of accompanying certain ladies like Lily to and from late outings.
His greeting is polite as he asks for the address and how long she plans to stay; he’s not at all surprised by her less than cheerful nature tonight, they all seem to have unpredictable moods.
He settles for waiting in the car while she gets ready and as usual, it takes another hour before she exits the house. It’s hard to believe someone can look so radiant and appealing in such a simple black gown but she pulls it off effortlessly.
It’s a short distance to VGC especially because there’s little vehicular traffic at this hour. It’s easy to spot Mohammed’s house because it reeks of old money. It has the kind of overstated elegance; the kind of -in your face- needs to impress beauty that comes off as garish.
Bashiru figured out a long time ago that Lily and her circle of friends are Runs Girls, he’s not one to judge though, anything that provides a car this expensive and a luxury crib is perfectly justifiable.
Parked right in front of the house, with a good view of the front door, he settles in to while away time on his phone. In his experience, these things could range from as short as an hour to almost the entire night.
He would get his pay either way and to him, that’s all that matters.
Barely an hour into his uneventful watch, a shrill scream pierces the silence of the night. He’s not one to be scared easily but the scream continues and it’s coming from within the house.
In one swift movement, he jumps out of the car and makes for the front door and before he even gets there, the door swings open violently and there’s Mohammed looking like a frightened deer.
His words come out in stutters;
“I…don’t know…she’s screaming”
Bashiru brushes past him and bulldozes into the house. Although he’s braced for the worst with a local pistol tucked safety within reach under his bulky jacket, there’s no apparent cause of danger in the house.
Instead there’s a panic stricken Lily behind one of the chairs screaming for her life; her words are clear, but it’s so confusing
“They’re trying to kill me” She screams again
She’s tugging at her hair now, and Mohammed is behind Bashiru, looking even more perplexed.
“Wetin happen” Bashiru turns and asks Mohammed unceremoniously.
His still shaky voice explains “We were in here having a conversation and all of a sudden she just started screaming”
Bashiru moves towards her and tries to soothe her, she quietens for a while before she starts to go off on her tirade again “You don’t understand, they’re trying to kill me!”
“Who’s trying to kill you?” Mohammed inquires as he flanks her behind the chair and holds her forcefully.
She resumes her screaming and the look on her face is unmistakable; it’s a look of unbridled fear, it’s not one that can be faked. It’s the look of a deer that knows it’s breathing it’s last portion of air when cornered by a starving Lion.
“Just take her out of here before my neighbours start to wonder what is happening” Mohammed spits at Bashiru in panic; “Just take her home”
Bashiru tries to guide her away from behind the chair but she adamantly stays put. She seems to suddenly realize her phone is in her hand and she gets on the phone.
She’s telling the person over the phone “They’re trying to kill me!”
She keeps repeating it to whoever she’s talking to over the phone and while Bashiru contemplates how to get her back home without any further drama, she suddenly makes a dash for the front door.
I have never seen a woman run that fast but suffice to say, by the time Bashiru gets to the front door, she’s nowhere to be found.
...To be continue.
_____________________________________________________________
Without a trace was composed by Mr. Svengali.
Tuesday August 12, 2014.
The unusual calm of the street as well as the opulence of the surrounding structures make it hard to believe we’re in the restless city of Lagos. The city is renowned for its notorious hustle and bustle, rowdiness and its seeming inability to be devoid of commercial activity regardless of the hour.
There are no BRT’s to be found here, neither can we hear any anxious conductor charging his prospective passengers to “enter with your change o!”, no corner shops selling recharge cards or the aboki run haberdashery that defines the typical Lagos neighbourhood.
The bold “No Loitering” signs explain why there are no pedestrians to be seen on any of the expansive streets and if we are to judge by the eerie silence, it would be hard to believe people live around here. There are no “Okada’s” to be found here either; this is a gated community.
This section of Lagos is not for the strugglers or pretenders to new wealth; this area is reserved for the crème de la crème of the society. It’s prime property where the rich and famous buy and build houses right next to each other just to rub shoulders.
There are some truly beautiful houses here; some so beautiful they can take your breath away. It’s even more impressive considering such perfect structures are sitting side by side. Even here, amidst some truly elegant houses; some houses dwarf others in terms of beauty and sheer size. The most impressive structure to be seen around here is definitely House number 42.
As it turns out, house number 42 has a rather short fence with a motorized gate which slides at the touch of an unseen button. The magnificence of the building is immediately arresting; it’s a three storey structure with beautiful columns. The front of the building is designed with gold floating mirrors that mirror the reflection of the sun.
The garage of house number 42 doesn’t disappoint, there’s an autobiography black edition of the Range Rover Sport and a metal black Toyota Camry keeping it company. There’s a lone coconut tree just beside the gate with its branches swaying back and forth to the gentle ministrations of a midday breeze.
There’s a huge generating plant at the extreme of the fence, a humongous machine housed in a soundproofed cabin; it’s just one of the telltale trappings of comfort in upscale neighbourhoods.
It costs a little over $4,000 dollars per month to be able to afford a small apartment here. Although it’s midday and a work week to boot, we can hear voices in one of the apartments.
When we follow the voices, it’s from one of the five apartments in the building. If the exterior of the house is beautiful, the interior makes it look downright shabby. It’s furnished quite simply with colourful chairs and a large television adorns the wall.
The voices belong to two stunning young women; you’d quite not get the picture if I do not call them ladies. We learn their names are Lily and Candy; we also suspect these aren’t their given names.
One look both of the ladies and you’d doubt if the good Lord made us all out of dust. These two are some of the finest specimen of the Lord’s creation and their mannerisms suggest a certain hoity-toity that cannot be found even among the most earnest of the nouveaux riche.
They are splayed in positions of ease in the spacious living room with the television providing background noise. For people who live in such expensive dwellings, you’d almost swear they would be hard at work at this hour.
“How is Emeka?” Lily inquires
“Oh well, he’s sulking as usual, I told him I need a break from his childishness” The reply comes with a hint of a mischievous smile.
“He’ll be fine, you’ve been with him for too long anyway and the poor lad isn’t worth much these days”
As if on cue, Lily’s rebuttal elicits a chuckle from both of them.
They chatter away in this manner for most of the day; it’s dark outside when Candy decides to leave. They’re both seen walking out of the apartment to the garage and as she hops into her car, they exchange a bit of last minute gossip.
“I’m going to see Mohammed tomorrow” Lily informs Candy. She misses the gleam of envy in her friend’s eyes.
“He’s in town again?” she asks, “what’s he giving you this time, another new Range Rover?”
“I don’t know yet, but he’s promised he would be generous and you know he doesn’t make promises lightly. “
“Don’t forget we’re having dinner Friday night, I’ll kill you if you don’t show up” Candy says before she drives off.
Wednesday August 13, 2014.
We can hear her phone ring and although she ignores the call, it’s easy to see she’s startled by whoever the caller is. She’s feeling particularly jittery this morning and although she’s not prone to superstitions, she finds it hard to shake off a bad feeling-a premonition maybe.
It’s enough to make her call Bashiru, her makeshift driver who doubles as her bodyguard for any risky nocturnal outing. It’s a long established routine so it doesn’t take long before she sorts out the details with him.
There’s nothing to do for the rest of the day so she turns the television on and starts to channel surf. She settles on CNN and listens with remarkable patience to the retinue of scary news; Ebola virus, the ISIS crisis in the Middle East.
There’s an indefinable unease about her this morning and she surfs to Silverbird Television; a Nigerian station where there’s news about the recent abduction of fifty boys and the introduction of a new toll free emergency helpline 112.
This piece of information seems to hold her attention and we see her reach for her phone and dial the number; she’s seemingly surprised to hear it ring. She disconnects the call just as the agent on the other end picks up.
She has quite a lot of time to kill before her meeting with Mohammed and she spends the rest of it lazing around.
We spy Bashiru as he comes in a little after seven o’clock. Although he’s a typical Lagos hustler who could do absolutely anything to earn an extra buck, he has come into a stroke of good luck with his easy business of accompanying certain ladies like Lily to and from late outings.
His greeting is polite as he asks for the address and how long she plans to stay; he’s not at all surprised by her less than cheerful nature tonight, they all seem to have unpredictable moods.
He settles for waiting in the car while she gets ready and as usual, it takes another hour before she exits the house. It’s hard to believe someone can look so radiant and appealing in such a simple black gown but she pulls it off effortlessly.
It’s a short distance to VGC especially because there’s little vehicular traffic at this hour. It’s easy to spot Mohammed’s house because it reeks of old money. It has the kind of overstated elegance; the kind of -in your face- needs to impress beauty that comes off as garish.
Bashiru figured out a long time ago that Lily and her circle of friends are Runs Girls, he’s not one to judge though, anything that provides a car this expensive and a luxury crib is perfectly justifiable.
Parked right in front of the house, with a good view of the front door, he settles in to while away time on his phone. In his experience, these things could range from as short as an hour to almost the entire night.
He would get his pay either way and to him, that’s all that matters.
Barely an hour into his uneventful watch, a shrill scream pierces the silence of the night. He’s not one to be scared easily but the scream continues and it’s coming from within the house.
In one swift movement, he jumps out of the car and makes for the front door and before he even gets there, the door swings open violently and there’s Mohammed looking like a frightened deer.
His words come out in stutters;
“I…don’t know…she’s screaming”
Bashiru brushes past him and bulldozes into the house. Although he’s braced for the worst with a local pistol tucked safety within reach under his bulky jacket, there’s no apparent cause of danger in the house.
Instead there’s a panic stricken Lily behind one of the chairs screaming for her life; her words are clear, but it’s so confusing
“They’re trying to kill me” She screams again
She’s tugging at her hair now, and Mohammed is behind Bashiru, looking even more perplexed.
“Wetin happen” Bashiru turns and asks Mohammed unceremoniously.
His still shaky voice explains “We were in here having a conversation and all of a sudden she just started screaming”
Bashiru moves towards her and tries to soothe her, she quietens for a while before she starts to go off on her tirade again “You don’t understand, they’re trying to kill me!”
“Who’s trying to kill you?” Mohammed inquires as he flanks her behind the chair and holds her forcefully.
She resumes her screaming and the look on her face is unmistakable; it’s a look of unbridled fear, it’s not one that can be faked. It’s the look of a deer that knows it’s breathing it’s last portion of air when cornered by a starving Lion.
“Just take her out of here before my neighbours start to wonder what is happening” Mohammed spits at Bashiru in panic; “Just take her home”
Bashiru tries to guide her away from behind the chair but she adamantly stays put. She seems to suddenly realize her phone is in her hand and she gets on the phone.
She’s telling the person over the phone “They’re trying to kill me!”
She keeps repeating it to whoever she’s talking to over the phone and while Bashiru contemplates how to get her back home without any further drama, she suddenly makes a dash for the front door.
I have never seen a woman run that fast but suffice to say, by the time Bashiru gets to the front door, she’s nowhere to be found.
...To be continue.
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