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My first glimpse of him was his towering frame above that of the market crowd. He had to be 6 foot 3 easily because he had to stoop entering Mama Iyabo’s Buka. Years earlier I would have called him nothing short of drop dead gorgeous, but now that Mother Time had seemingly caught up with him or was at least present in his rear view mirror - I hesitantly had to down grade him. Nevertheless it was just a slight notch down to “very handsome”, and that only because of the slight padding his frame now carried and because the “salt and pepper” in his hair only added to his dignity. Despite his size which had to be around 250 lbs, I noticed he moved with a regal combination of confidence and a precise deliberation normally reserved for the young, rich and the sure.
Actually make that very rich and very sure.
He was dressed in pleated Banana Republic Khakis and a loose white linen shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves. His watch was a rugged Invicta and he wore a solitary crocodiles tooth around his neck on a shimmering gold chain. His eyes were brown, deep and warm and even though they held mine just for a few seconds ; they were like 2 huge whir pools in which I could have been easily swallowed if I continued to hold his gaze.
For the first time in a long time I felt faint at the knees and quickly looked away in annoyance. “What was this rubbish?”, “ Stop acting like a 15 year old!!” and “Please behave professionally ” were among the questions I used to compose myself as my heart beat like a big base drum. His complexion initially made him Arab, probably Sudanese or Egyptian mixed with some Nubian or Dinka strain by calculating the density of his curls - but his manner was definitely West African
Standing from the outside of the Buka right next to the huge frying pans that were searing an army of plantains for lunch, I watched him while pretending to be talking on my cell phone. Even through the blue smoke I could see that his smile was as infectious as an infants laugh, and he soon had the little slut of a waitress falling over back wards to please him. His ice water appeared in record time, and when he asked for extra fresh pepper to support his plate of “Jollof and Moi Moi” that bitch actually started grinding them right within sight - letting her wrapper fall open so he could see he unshaved mound and that cheeky protruding tongue. I could have almost slapped her back to Dakar or from whatever part of Francophone West Africa she came from.
For an infinite decimal of a second his face blushed slight red reassuring me that he was “Thank God” not gay, but most importantly his refusal to acknowledge her indiscretion or the “fly” she had thrown him also suggested that he was no pedophile.
I was becoming more intrigued by the minute but even more unsure .
The bark of an Okada exhaust brought me back to reality just as the meal was finally over and I quickly cut through the back lane and slipped out into the Abuja crowd and continued tailing him more than likely to The Hilton judging by his Taxis direction.
In the back of Nnamdi’s range Rover I pulled up his file on my Blackberry and opened it up. I verified that he was the same person on the Washington DC Driver’s License I had received in the diplomatic pouch, and again cross referenced his blood group and that he was listed as a donor. With satisfaction I noted that my assessment skills were still as sharp as a Swiss army knife and that I wasn’t off by much. He was listed as 6 feet 5 and though the weight on the ID was 235 lbs, I confirmed that it had been taken circa 2 years ago and that he had probably put on some weight since then.
And then I saw his name. It wasn’t Arabic. It wasn’t even Francophone. It was as Igbo as mine and I immediately felt instant remorse and a suffocating sense of impending doom.
Something here just didn’t add up and I sure didn’t like it. The “Senior Oga” handling this case had some serious explaining to do and I needed to know what was happening and know now. Nnamdi seemed to read my mind as I pointed my finger in the rear view mirror and waived it in the circulatory universally acceptable signal for turn around. The Rover did exactly that , screeching unto the nearest exit off the Herbert Maculay Way and commencing the spurt to a certain low key Mosque deep in the Garki District that also acted as the auxiliary Staging Center for the Nigerian Secret Service.
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Posted by Robot| 17.12.2007 16:55