About Dead Mad Men pt. 3

John listened, mistaken identity. Well here he was, a very middle class male, fulfilling the prerequisites for both schools of thought. Had he ever been mistaken for someone else? No. From preparatory school to the university, had there ever been any such incident? No. It might have been fun though, at least it would have given him a story to contribute to this conversation. But he had no story. Had no encounters. So he just listened. Apparently, the said Sadé had thought Teelé was the naked girl she saw all over her boyfriend’s phone, hence the malice, it had taken till the end of camp before she finally believed it wasn’t Teelé. Nkoyo had never had any such encounter, but besides him being rich, his arrogant ass would be hard to confuse with someone else. Mrs Ebere had never really been involved in any such case, but Mrs Ali attributed that to her big buttocks, just like wealth, big buttocks were a very distinguishing factor so she said.

The conversation went on and on, moving on to Christmas hampers, sports, sales, news, religion, etcetera with a few moments of thoughtful silence, usually preceded by Tunde saying something deep and insightful. His mother would go to the balcony every now and then, coming back perfumed and looking guilty. John would join in from time to time, agreeing with this person, disagreeing with that but basically just enjoying the food and listening.

“Thanks a lot ma for a great evening” said Nkoyo, rising from his seat, holding Teelé’s hand. “We should be heading home now.”

He shook their hands, Teelé hugged them and they left. John checked the time, 10:12pm. He went into the kitchen to drop off the last of the dishes while the rest of the company continued to chatter. He had planned to sleep over earlier but Mrs Ali was having car trouble and he offered to take her home. Might as well get home in the process. John kissed his mother goodbye, dropping the chocolates he got for her on the kitchen counter. The perfume didn’t do much to conceal the smell of tobacco but he wouldn’t say anything. He walked outside, Mrs Ali was already waiting in the car. He got in, started the engine and drove. Mrs Ali turned on the radio, The Beat FM was playing oldies. They drove on for 15 minutes, Mrs Ali drifting from her reverie every now and then to sing along to this line or that, reminding him of how her time was indeed the good ol’ days. Good music was so hard to find these days.

“John…” Mrs Ali said, in the middle of Misty Blue.

“Yes?”

“Something good will happen, you know. Something bigger than Chioma.”

John smiled “Okay.”

Ooooh Honey, it’s been such a long, long time, looks like I’d get you off of my mind… Mrs Ali had gone back to singing along. Ten minutes later, John dropped her off at her home. He turned off the radio and drove, taking the longer journey through Festac. Something bigger than Chioma… He didn’t want something bigger than Chioma, he couldn’t handle it… look where Chioma had got him. He was still trying to settle back into his old life. He couldn’t go into all that again.

John had just gotten out of street 148B when he felt the impact. A car had run into him. No, a car was running into him! His anger quickly gave way to panic. This was no accident, the person was doing this on purpose. John sped up, tried to outrun the car but it was no good, there was only so much his Peugeot 406 could do against the attacking Tundra. Eventually, his car engine gave up. These parts of Lagos used to be safe, what’s going on? John thought to himself as he arranged all his valuables, wristwatch, money, car keys, he didn’t want the robbers to think he wasn’t co-operating.

A tall, lanky man opened the car door and dragged him out, there was a gun in his free hand. John could see the silencer.

“Please, I’ll co-operate, please. Everything I have, I’ve placed them on the passenger’s seat.” John begged, trying desperately to sound smooth.

The man just looked at him, his face devoid of emotion—he almost looked bored—as he pulled him towards the truck.

John started to panic, they weren’t robbers. What were they then? “Please, please, I’ll give you anything, everything I have! Just don’t hurt me, please.”

“Shut up!” The man hissed, pushing him onto the back seat of the truck and placing duct tape over his mouth, binding his hands as well. They had company, another man in the passenger’s seat. All John could make out was his bald head, with folds around his neck. The lanky one got in the car and started the engine.

They drove for about 20 minutes, what seemed to John like eternity—and stopped. They both got down, the lanky one placed blindfolds over John’s eyes and they continued on foot, shoving him in this direction and that. John would have cried if his brain wasn’t working overtime trying to figure out what the hell was happening. The frustration of it all, the silence, the darkness, was mind-numbing. All John could sense was the dull pain in his wrists and the offensively strong smell of oranges.

They stopped. The bald man was panting somewhere in the distance. John could tell it was him because he could recognise the scent and the skeletal hands of the man shoving him as the lanky one. The lanky one then got out a polythene bag from his backpack, getting duct tape and binding John’s feet, laying him flat on the ground… John could feel the sand.

The lanky one looked at the bald one “You can leave.”

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