The
Toyota Corolla stood out like a sore thumb, or more like a shiny Schauss pink
one. It was way past 2 a.m. and Apóngbòn Under Bridge isn’t the usual hanging
out spot for blinging Toyotas, especially
not at foolish-o’clock.
The
driver brought the car to a stop just at the ascent to Èkó Bridge by a cluster
of makeshift sheds that looked deserted.
In the dark, two forms peeled themselves from the shadows and approached the
car. The thugs wondered at the audacity of the person who had dared wander onto
their territory without invitation.
One
of the thugs went over to the driver’s side and grabbed the door handle, trying
to force it open. When he couldn’t, he slammed the tire iron he had with him
into the window in anger and it shattered.
“Ògbeni, cooperate, àbí you wan chop bullet!” the thug said to the driver, his voice
hoarse like stones scraping over slate.
One
by one, like moths drawn to a flame, more thugs slunk out of the shadows,
surrounding the car and before long, there was more than a dozen of them.
The
first thug thrust his gun in the driver’s face, ready to start spewing more
threats. His gun stopped a hair’s breadth from the driver’s nose and they
stared at each other for a few moments, one face registering a mixture of shock
and fear, the other deadly calm and unflinching.
“Kílónselè? What’s happening now?” one
of the other thugs demanded, already impatient.
“Ask him to bring out all his money.”
another said.
“Abeg give am bullet if he no wan cooperate jàre!” someone else said, slamming
the metal rod he had in his hand on the side of the car and denting it.
“Shey
he get powder àbí booze?”
“How much we fit get for the car? Na
tear rubber!”
“Commot
am for the car before you shoot am oh, make him no dirty the seat.”
The
gunman didn’t reply his cronies. He simply slid slowly to the ground with his
free hand clutching his shirt over the bullet hole in his chest and his
lifeless eyes forever frozen in their shocked mask.
It
took a moment for the others to register what had just happened. Blame it on
the rounds of weed they’d had earlier. Blame it on the excess Apeteshi they’d
already consumed. Blame it on the fact that the script had never gone that way
before. But that tiny bitty moment saw another three thugs hit the ground in
quick succession. The others scattered then, scrambling for safety but not
quite fast enough. Another one took a shot to the head and one in his kneecap.
He dragged himself over a low barbed wire fence, screaming for his mates to
help him. Of course, no one waited to offer any help.
The
driver sat calmly in the car and watched them scamper away. With the same
unhurried movements with which he’d shot at the thugs, he disconnected the
silencer and put it and the Glock into the glove compartment. The whole thing
had taken less than five minutes. He got out of the car and surveyed his
handiwork. He took one disinterested look at the body lying about three feet in
front of his car and blocking his path down the road.
As
if nothing had happened at all, the night remained dark and quiet and not a
soul stirred. Absently, he took out a pack of Mentos gum from his breast pocket
and popped a couple into his mouth. He got back in the car and started up the
engine, Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze starting to pour out of the speakers. He
hummed under his breath as he cut the wheel all the way to the left. He drove
on towards Ìgànmú, his front right tire narrowly missing the sprawled body in
his path.
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