Welcome to Lagos. Chibundu Onuzo
her wide smile. The men knocked and entered before he said, “Come in.”
There were three, dressed in black, dark caricatures of hired thugs. They filled his office with a sharp, astringent odor.
“Yes, how may I help you?”
“Chief Momoh is not happy with the story you published about him.”
He had gotten phone calls before, but it was the first time anyone had physically been sent to threaten him. He felt a tense excitement as he waited for them to finish their business of intimidation, their presence a validation of his work. There was no place for a gun to hide. Not in their shallow pockets nor in their hands hanging loosely by their sides. They could beat him up but they did not seem inclined to.
“Chief Momoh has told us to warn you to get your facts straight. You know where his house is. You can come for an interview anytime you want.”
He did know the mansion in Palmgrove Estate. The chief and Ahmed’s father had rotated in the same circles for a while, and when he was younger, he had swum in the pool that occupied half of Momoh’s massive garden.
The man closest to the door, his stomach protruding more briefly than the others’, reached into a small briefcase that Ahmed had not noticed. Ahmed gripped the phone but did not lift it to his ear. Sudden movement. That was what always killed people in films.
“He also said we should give you this.” The man drew out two envelopes and placed them on the table with a small bow. “One is for your parents. Chief has been finding it difficult to reach them.”
“All right. You have delivered your message. Leave my office.”
And they left, the envelopes remaining cream and expensive against the stark white paper that cluttered his desk. He opened the one addressed to Chief Mr. and Mrs. Bọla Bakare first. He slid a penknife under the envelope flap, careful that his hands did not touch whatever was inside.
The families of
Chief Herbert Momoh
and
Admiral Joseph Ọnabanjọ
kindly request your presence at the union of their children
Jemima and Akin
He remembered Jemima. She had been two years his senior in secondary school. She had big breasts that ballooned out of her school uniform and a sharp mouth that teachers and students alike had suffered. He opened the envelope addressed to him with steady hands. It was an invite also, no death threat slipped inside, no warning. He felt sorry for Akin. He felt sorry for himself. His irrelevance confirmed by a flat, square invitation card.
His father thought him a fool for moving home to start a newspaper. His mother still loved him, a reassurance she had taken to repeating more often these days. How long before he called it a failure?
AHMED’S PARENTS’ MARRIAGE WAS strong, incongruously so. His father read widely, understood the foreign stock market, conversed with ease. His mother and her friends wore matching clothes to weddings. His parents were rarely seen outside together but in the domestic space they were courteous, loving even, attentive to how many spoons of sugar and how many cubes of ice. It worked for them, especially after the death of his sister.
Morenikẹ’s smile sketched outlines on the edges of his memory but he could never recall his sister’s face without the aid of a photograph. From her pictures, he knew she had been angular with bulging eyes, but the presence of those few hanging photos had not been a reproach to his childhood.
Ahmed wished she were alive, if only to shift the weight of his parents’ disappointment. He had left his good job in England. He was not yet married. He insisted on carrying on with this ridiculous newspaper project.
“The media mogul has arrived,” his father said as he walked into their living room. “What will he drink?”
Once a month, for his mother’s sake, he spent a Sunday afternoon with both of them.
“Bọla, stop teasing him,” his mother said.
“I’m not. I read the damn paper. I saw the piece on Chief Momoh’s alleged oil rig. Why did it take you so long to get to it?”
“We were gathering material.”
“Is that so? Perhaps you should rename yourself The Stale Journal.”
“Bọla, leave the boy alone.”
“I’m just giving him some paternal advice. If he’s going to try and embarrass my friends, at least be the first to the story. What are you drinking?”
“Star.”
“We only have Guinness.”
“Guinness, then. I’ll get it.”
“No. You’re a guest now. We see you once a month, so we have to be on our best behavior or your mother says you’ll stop coming.”
His father brought the bottle on a tray to him with a slim glass, setting it on a side stool.
“Dearest, what about you?”
“Orange juice. You know we shouldn’t be drinking so close to Ramadan.”
“Live and let live, Mariam.”
They drank in silence, his father tapping his feet as he sipped his port. When their glasses were empty his father stood.
“Right. Lunch should be ready. Let’s not keep the newspaperman waiting.”
As always, there was too much food. The table was heaped for guests that would never arrive: his dead sister, her imaginary husband, and their six obese children. The chairs were stiff-backed, with wrought copper arms uncomfortable to rest on. On the walls were paintings, trite European landscapes in greens and blues, and in the corner an aquarium bubbled softly, the pale fish darting behind its glass walls. He would have preferred to eat in the living room but his mother liked to create an occasion, complete with gold cloth napkins and heavy silver cutlery brought from storage each month.
“You remember Layọ Adenuga?” she said when they had begun eating.
“No.”
“You do. You went to primary school with her. Short, a bit chubby, very light-skinned.”
“Vaguely.”
“She got married last week. Such a beautiful wedding. Her colors were burnt orange and magenta. It was so difficult to find matching shoes. Your wife better pick simple colors.”
“Who will let their daughter marry this newspaperman? He’s not trained for this. He’s an amateur and it damn well shows.”
Ahmed would not let himself be goaded today.
“When is your next wedding, Mum?”
“Da Silva and Ajayi. Hundred thousand naira for five yards of a
“Yes, this is what your mother spends our retirement funds on.”
His father seemed relieved that he had not risen to the bait. For the next hour, conversation continued with little to disrupt it. At five o’clock Ahmed pushed his chair back from the table.
“Until next month, then,” his father said, shaking his hand and leaving the room. His mother walked him to his car, his trunk full of yams and plantains from her kitchen. He would give it all to his neighbors once he got home.
“Don’t mind him. He just wants you to do well.”