Chapter 1: Papa

2:33 a.m. 

 Crossroads. 

Misty drizzle across Lagos city mainland. A beehive of pedestrians, vehicles, and cyclists streaming over the junction of bridge and weather-beaten roundabout called Ojuelegba. As random figures move along with single-minded familiarity or lurk about sidewalk shadows created by poor street lighting, encounters between them echo late-night doldrums as well as bursts of effervescence—exchanges and conversations that are sometimes cheerful, mostly loud, hardly considerate.

Other sounds are typical of the inner city: overnight bars insistently blaring their presence, cars and trucks slewing through road sludge, battered buses—the large, the small and the tiny—pulling up recklessly, splattering those waiting to board them while scruffily dressed conductors singsong various destinations. Having come so far from a past as the major artery linking the city’s crucial commercial and real estate centres, Ojuelegba remains a core transit axis, a useful jump off to places like Itire, Yaba, Mushin and Apapa Wharf, persisting despite all the extensions and ancillary routes carved around it over decades.

Someone once called Lagos a devil’s den. If so, Ojuelegba was once a dining area. However, gone are the days when it was a cynosure of boisterous nightlife, both shady and otherwise, a focal point for people of ambiguous moral character. Now, its buildings—nightclubs, motels, shops, mosques, and churches—seem aged as they lean against each other for support.

Yet, within the high traffic density and pockets of ill-formed seclusion, things and people can sometimes… disappear. To say precisely how many and how often is folly, and most who walk its length or reside within its limits know better than to wonder. Or ask.

 3:15 am. 

Unnoticed among the traffic flow, a sturdy black SUV rolls through the bridge’s gloomy underpass and then lurches to a sudden stop. A rear door swings open and a large bundle is ejected, landing with a heavy thud on the patch of soggy weeds beyond the broken tarmac. The door closes and the vehicle speeds away.

 4:35 a.m. 

The number and frequency of passersby along the spot have risen significantly. This is early work resumption hours, and they hurry to catch early buses up to the Lagos Island business districts. Few either see or, if having seen, care to linger over the bundle lying exposed by the road. None stop.

 6:12 a.m. 

A wandering scavenger, curious of eye and holding out the magnetised steel rod of his trade, approaches the bundle and pokes at it hopefully. The action rips a small hole in the plastic, which he bends to inspect. In another moment he straightens, backs off, and hastens away without looking back.

6: 45 a.m. 

An orange-shirted warden strolls up to and mounts the makeshift stand at the junction confluence to begin the day’s work of controlling the mounting traffic disorganisation. In a few minutes, the local bus park touts inform him about the mysterious roadside bundle, and he places a mobile phone call to the local council before going about his business. 

 7:10 a.m. 

Two men donning reflective yellow vests sidle up to the bundle and observe it briefly before beginning to unwrap it as a small group of spectators gather. The body inside is that of a child, a boy about twelve or thirteen, and he is completely n@ked. There are no marks anywhere on him to immediately indicate cause of death, but his once handsome face is distended in ghastly grimace against some terminal horror.

-------------------

In the musty backseat of a 2005 Toyota Camry, commonly used for cab hail service providers plying the city, Chiadi Nwogu exhales. His irritation at having to leave his BMW behind at home due to a sudden city-wide petrol scarcity is aggravated by thoughts of being late for his appointment on the distant Lagos Island.

Having driven through a narrow Lawanson Street populated on both sides by a progression of shops displaying household items for sale, his ride swings onto the only slightly wider Itire lane before heading for the Ojuelegba exit. 

“Don’t sign any dotted lines,” he is telling someone on his mobile phone. “I checked the agreement again and some things definitely need clarification…”

On the other end, a male voice forms a wry chuckle. “You and your nose for trouble,” it says. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“Not yet,” replies the man some call Dibia by name, and profession. “‘But since you’re about to invest my money on a virgin piece of Lekki peninsula real estate, best to tread carefully…”

“You’re the client,” relents his lawyer. “Just get here. We’ve been waiting for over an hour, and the other party is getting itchy.”

“Blame whatever caused this fuel shortage.” Gazing through the car’s windscreen Chiadi sees traffic building up ahead as they approach the busy roundabout and frowns. “And unpredictable traffic. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you.”

“Nah,” intones his friend and former schoolmate, before cutting off. “Just another beautiful day in Isale Eko.” 

The car slows to a stop as the traffic coagulates. For driver and passenger, it quickly becomes obvious that this is not the usual mainland go-slow. There is a mess of people out on the road, striding between the stationary vehicles. Some are holding up placards with words inscribed that Chiadi is yet to clearly make out.

“Na demonstration,” mutters the driver.

Their eyes meet in the rear-view mirror. “Demonstration?” Chiadi echoes. “Over the fuel shortage?”

The other man scoffs. “No, na campaign rally. For MC Akinyele; you know am na— the former oga of STU.”

The State Transport Workers’ Union. Chiadi knows who it is; no one who witnessed the machinations of the ruling ARP party during last year’s state elections was likely to forget the squat man in jumper and jeans who had stared coldly out of a tik-tok video and vowed to deal decisively with anyone who dared come out to vote against his principal. All the while a couple of armed mobile policemen—dispatched to ensure free and fair polls—stood nearby, cowed-looking and powerless in the face of brazen electoral malpractice. 

Many knew how Akinyele had risen to the top and favour in the eyes of the state governor; how, from beginnings as a low level enforcer for a local underworld figure out of Shomolu, to deposing his boss at the behest of an ARP chieftain and being rewarded by being given free rein over the state chapter of the national union governing the running of all the state motor parks. Persisting in a position which normally never lasts more than a couple of years before its holder is forced out, he’d been ruthless and cunning enough to remain for a good five years before handing over to a hand-picked stooge. Now, after three more years of dubious service to the powers that be in Lagos he was about to be rewarded with a position that would effectively grant him a seat at the table.

“Municipal election is this weekend, abi?” Chiadi asks, watching the incoming crowd. Now he can see the mix of mostly youngish people—males and females, but mostly men—the kind one would find prowling the side streets of Mandilas and Broad: lean, thuggish-looking despite sporting faux designer jeans and slippers. Their hand made placards bear declarations that are either crass praise for Akinyele’s brilliance and worthiness, or taunts daring anyone else to go up against him.

“Looks like he’s got it wrapped up,” Chiadi observes. 

Before his driver can respond, noise like several thunder cracks erupts from at least sixty metres ahead. The small crowd reacts with startled looks and confused queries. Some immediately began trotting forward, their Lagos survival instincts kicking in. 

Chiadi peers out. The sky is dull but completely clear of clouds. A wave of visible consternation rolls across the motley group of rally-goers around his cab. 

“Gunfire?” he wonders, as more of the crowd began hurrying past with looks of alarm. 

When more cracks come across, his driver twists his head round, seeking any means of reversing as he snorts his disgust. “F*cking cult members done start again…”

It's no use. The Camry is hemmed tight within the scores of vehicles massed at the two-mile circumference of the roundabout.

“Sure about that?” Chidi asks, looking round. On all sides ARP faithfuls are openly fleeing. Most have ditched the placards so proudly displayed moments before.

The driver utters a peculiar hiss of disdain. “Election done come, so therefore competition among the cult them gangs done increase and… oh, hey! Oga! Where you dey go, na?”

Having alighted from the car, Chiadi begins heading towards the source of the shooting. “To see what’s up. I’ll be right back.” 

He gives his driver a small wave, as much to reassure the man as to prevent him from following—not that any Lagos cab driver in his right mind would head in a direction others were actively running from. He strides past other vehicles, inside which people either sit petrified or with at least one hand on their doors, ready to bolt at any sign of approaching threat. One thing remains clear: no one is driving away from the sprawl of hot metal and exhaust fumes.

He soon passes vehicles whose occupants had already absconded. Saloon cars, vans, trucks… even tricycles stand devoid of people who had obviously joined the flight. 

When the smell of tear gas and cordite hits, he knows it wasn’t a mere fancy that someone—or group of someones—had fired off crowd deterrents and hand cannons. His eyes begin to water and visibility worsens. He places his handkerchief over his mouth and tries to keep his breaths shallow. Within a dozen more steps he comes across what seemed like a host of figures in identical dark garb circling several others.

Drawing closer, he finds they are ‘Mopol’—mobile policemen—each one with sweat dripping from under their foliage green helmets as they stand with automatic rifles covering several young men in a huddle on the road before them. The captives have classic ‘Area Boy’ looks about them, and all show signs of violent encounter: torn, dishevelled clothes streaked with what could be blood, features swollen and sweat-oiled, eyes swollen and burgundy, teeth-stained crimson.

A Mopol swings at him, rifle raised, and barks, “Stop there! Oya, turn ‘round before we fire you!”

Both hands raised, Chiadi utters the first thing that comes to mind—a lie he’s used before. “No wahala officer… I’m a reporter from Arise news.” 

The weapon lowers only a fraction, and the eyes remain hostile. True to his bluff, the police officers don’t even ask for further evidence. Who would claim to be that, who wasn’t?

“Oga reporter,” continues his gruff challenger. “Nothing dey here. Na case of political thuggery, but the situation is under control. Leave the area.”

Chiadi’s gaze falls on one thug in particular who is motionless, sprawled between the others—so motionless, in fact, he looked dead. 

“Looks like that one chewed more than he fit swaller,” someone says from the side of the otherwise deserted road. 

Turning, Chiadi sees a lean, tall figure standing next to a crooked traffic light at the edge of the dirt encrusted pavement. The speaker is oddly dressed for the sweltering late morning heat in a tan fedora hat—an actual feather stuck in its band—as well as a long tweed jacket and a waistcoat that looks made of leather. On his hands are fingerless white lace gloves, with one hand resting on a sturdy ebony cane (walking stick?) with a gleaming brass head. Above a ruffled neck scarf are the features of an older gentleman, one whose lean and lined face sprouts wiry curls of white to match the woolly hair under his cocked hat. Beside him is a dog, a large black mongrel type that sits on its hind legs quietly observing.

There is absolutely no one else around, but the Mopol goons somehow fail to acknowledge the only other presence at the scene—one in full view with only a couple of paces between them.

"You this civilian,” growls another Mopol. “Final warning. Go back or we arrest you.”

“Better do as dem say,” the old man advises. “The one who shot that boy dead? He still crazy high on dirty weed.”

Without another word, Chiadi backs a few steps away from the ‘arrest’ scene, then turns around. He tries not to keep his eyes on the lone figure on the roadside but is not too surprised when the old man steps off the pavement and makes for him, dog trailing close. 

In a moment they are in lockstep, the old man clearly not needing his walking stick to keep up as they meander between the vehicles congesting the road. 

“Hot,” remarks the stranger, wafting himself with a gloved hand. “Hard to believe it was a-raining last night, yes?”

Chiadi says nothing, at first. He has an idea who it is but needs to be certain. “Been so long gone, haven’t you Papa?” he inquires after a few more steps.

The old gent’s response is a wan smile. “Why say so, young blood?”

The Dibia grins back. “Well, I’ve lived in Lagos for over six years and never had an inkling you were walking these streets yet again.”

“Not really,” says the immortal gatekeeper of the Ghede Loa. “I stick with the crossroads. I stick by ilu mi won.” He bends to fondle the canine’s head with a ring fingered hand. 

Right. Do you even know where your ojobu—your spirit shrine—is now, eldren? Chiadi wants to ask but didn’t. Over the years, the Awori sect of Lagos had tried to keep worship of Eshu Papa Legba alive but had seen its dominance over the square area of land inside which the crossroads stood gradually diminished. The only remnant of a once revered orisha was a squat concrete hut attached like a carbuncle to some nondescript boutique on the south end of the ‘fly-over’ bridge.

They soon approach his cab. Behind its steering wheel, the driver blinks out at them.

“Did you come to escort that boy’s soul through the gates of life and death?” Chiadi asks.

His companion looks around. “Hardly anyone making rites needed to seek such guidance these days,” he replies. “Too few remember, and many have become lost.” He sounds a little sad.

The Dibia nods. “Will you share my cab, then?”

“Depends.” Nestled in speckled growth, the old man’s smile is wily with yellow teeth. “What is your offering?”

Chiadi thinks fast. Cigars and candy, tobacco, and rum. Four of this Voudon Loa’s favourite things. Luckily, Lagos mainland was the sort of place where street hawkers always plied their wares in traffic and, sudden street violence or not, some would still pursue sales along the road. It isn’t hard to spot one nearby with a basketful of sweets and other confectionery, as well as one touting cheap alcohol in sachet tubes. He beckons both over.

“Chocolates and gin are what I have,” he says. “And my sincere veneration, if you will.” After purchasing some better-quality chocolates and a couple of tubes of ‘Seaman’s’ Schnapps, he offers it to the non-human before him with a slight bow and a few words of respect spoken in an ancient tongue.

The old man accepts the gifts, first sipping the alcohol before taking a few bites of the dark chocolate. The rest he feeds to his dog. He then steps forward and grasps the rear door handle of the cab. As he swings it open to let his dog jump in, a gasp of surprise escapes the driver seated within:

“Hey-y-y-y!” he splutters, “I been lock up my doors. How you…?”

Sliding into the back of the cab now smelling of old earth and incense, Chiadi grins to himself. Silly, he inwardly muses, to even think that one who easily bestrides the paths between the lands of the living and the dead would be hampered by a cab door latch. 

As they watch some of the other car owners return to their abandoned vehicles, he knows they will soon be moving once more. He also knows that his impromptu guest from the Loa may not tarry long in the vehicle confines, but that is all right.

When his phone starts to ring, he puts it on silent mode. James’ land deal could wait. This was more important. Something had gone wrong enough to invoke the intermediary between the spirit and human worlds, and he suspects it has a lot to do with the extra-judicial shooting he just witnessed.

“So tell me, Papa Legba,” he begins, “where on earth have you been?”