NINE LIVES

By EL NUKOYA

Nine Lives tells the story of “Olupitan Ogunrinu,” a bright, ambitious son of a common Nigerian fisherman who battles to assert himself within the social segregation of an elite university community. As he struggles with the moral contradiction, corruption and frivolity around him, he resolves not be a victim in the predatory race to success, even when the immediate battle to “belong” seems lost. A wild pursuit of romance turns to deceit, as Olupitan finds escape in America. But he also finds squalor, loss of dignity and, eventually, illicit wealth. NINE LIVES explores the trial of ordinary Nigerian youths and the despair that drives them across the borders... and beyond. It captures the historical culture of the Nigerian people and the new culture as evolved through decades of social hardship, corruption and misrule.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365271052

Book preview

MKO

Prologue

AN UNUSUALLY HEAVY RAIN HAD FALLEN that night and had gradually mellowed into a persistent shower.

Babatunde Aleshinloye swerved into the wide beginning of Allen Avenue and bumped into the fender of a stationary Mercedes 560 SEL. He failed to slow down even as the enraged driver came yelling out of the car. Instead, he shifted to a higher gear and pressed down on the accelerator. He was being reckless, he knew, but he was unrepentant. A man devastated by his self-inflicted failure, he had since shed such minor virtues as caution.

As he drove through the busy traffic, his mind wandered back to those months - seven years ago now - that marked the genesis of his political ambition.

•••

Unquestionably one of the wealthiest men in West Africa, Otunba Ayinde Aleshinloye wielded enormous influence. At twenty-five, he had married Alice Ikeji, the eldest daughter of a rich cocoa merchant, who had borne him two sons, Babatunde and his younger brother, Olabode. Coming from a poor family, Aleshinloye’s fierce ambition and brilliant entrepreneurial gifts had lain redundant for many frustrating years until he met Alice. After her father’s death, she became the source of the initial capital with which he financed his maiden business idea. Within three short years he was a millionaire. Within a decade he was one of the richest men in Nigeria, a shining example of grass-to-grace success. Alice, for her part, was highly esteemed for standing by her husband through poverty and obscurity.

Sometime during the third year of their marriage, Aleshinloye met a beautiful young woman during a business trip to London. It was she who approached him and introduced herself as a Nigerian student who had heard a great deal about him. She said what a wonderful coincidence it was to be shopping in the same store with him at that moment. Intrigued, he settled her bill and promptly invited her to dinner. After a two-day tour of the most expensive fashion stores in London and a romantic trip to the opera, they embarked on an affair. Before long, he was arranging regular visits to London to see his young mistress.

It naturally didn’t come to him as a shock when, the following year, she announced that she was pregnant. Aleshinloye was ecstatic and bought her a lovely house in suburban Lagos and furnished it with all the conveniences that would soothe any woman’s needs, complete with a BMW in the garage. By and by, Remilekun Davies was delivered of a baby girl, Toun. The chief managed to keep his affair secret for a full ten years until one day Alice received a strange phone call. The caller described himself as someone she knew and told her about her husband’s illegitimate affair and even his schedule. Alice was stunned but now understood the reason for her husband’s incessant business trips. A woman of volatile emotions, she was nonetheless able to calm herself down. Ayinde Aleshinloye was the loving, fatherly type. The possibility of an illegitimate affair was almost unreal.

Tormented by the precariousness of her situation, Alice took a taxi to the address given her by the caller. She saw her husband’s Mercedes as soon as the taxi turned into the street. Just then, she saw the gate of a house open and Aleshinloye stroll out hand-in-hand with a pretty young woman. His other hand rested on the shoulders of a smart little girl. Alice felt a sudden jolt in her heart. The girl’s resemblance to her husband was astonishing. Alice was initially tempted to jump out of the taxi but instead she smiled a queer, painful smile and told the driver to retrace his route. As she turned to look back, she saw her husband kiss his concubine before entering his Mercedes. Never in her entire life had she been so disillusioned.

When Aleshinloye arrived home that evening she called him into the privacy of her bedroom and confronted him. Alice would never forget the shameful look on his face as he confessed to everything. Strangely, he didn’t offer any explanation or attempt to justify himself. He merely told her the truth.

Alice became hysterical. He watched solemnly while she ranted. When she was done he looked at her fixedly and in a few unsentimental words declared his love for Remilekun and his intention to take her as his second wife.

Alice was unable to assimilate what he was saying. It was such a rude awakening after twenty-six years of marriage. She grabbed at his suit and rained abuses on him. Aleshinloye lost all sense of decorum and slapped her.

All through the night Alice buried her face in her pillow and cried. The following morning she moved out of the mansion into an obscure, two-bedroom flat. A divorce was promptly arranged in her favour, although hardly enough to soothe her battered ego or douse her bitterness. She bought a small house in her hometown but when she came for her children Babatunde solemnly requested that he be left behind.

Alice was taken aback but put it down to the boy’s closeness to his father. What she didn’t know was that, small as he was, he was also greedy. He knew the implications of his position as the eldest son of this chief and what an impulsive act might cost him. He was ambitious enough to incur the grudge of his mother and secure his place, knowing that, when the time came, he would make it up to her. Mothers, he knew, were forever.

Two months after the public and very sordid divorce, the chief married Remilekun Davies in a flamboyant ceremony. Although angered by his father’s lack of etiquette, Babatude was outwardly in solidarity with him.

It took another six months before Remi moved into the Aleshinloye house - a period during which she had secured admission for her daughter in a London school and sent her off to an aunt. Remi was a beautiful, intelligent woman and Babs didn’t have much trouble liking her. However, because he was envious for his mother’s sake, he fought to keep his affection within acceptable limits. Pitching tent with his father was bad enough; monkeying around with his mother’s foe would be plain treachery.

For six years Babs lived with his father and his new wife, visiting his mother and brother occasionally. Gradually he began to win back their love although not their trust. He also never failed to notice the tinge of contempt in their voices whenever they asked how it felt living under the same roof with his mother’s adversary.

During those six years Toun returned to Nigeria only once, which caused her father great displeasure. That Christmas, he warned his wife that should her daughter refuse to come home before the next Christmas he would absolve himself of all financial and moral responsibility for her. Understanding the gravity of the threat, Remi hatched a plan to seduce her daughter back to the shores of her fatherland.

It took Remi another seven months to woo Toun home and the otunba threw an extravagant party to welcome her back. Babatunde watched in amazement how much his stepsister had changed over the years. She had grown into a mature woman. At a little over sixteen, she had the elaborate features of a voluptuous twenty-five year old. During the first fortnight Babs maintained a strict, distant relationship with her, partly because she was spoilt and ill-behaved but mostly because he felt physically attracted towards her, a feeling which he fought with all his strength to contain.

One evening he returned from the university to find Toun alone in the living room watching a classical romance movie. He flopped into a chair and gazed at the television for some time wondering how odd it was that he was her brother yet he felt nothing for her in that direction. He glanced at her and noticed that her whole attention was focused on the screen, apparently oblivious of him. He almost giggled at the ludicrousness of their brother-sister relationship. Bored by the movie and irritated by her silence, he got up and started for the stairs. What he needed was a cold shower and his bed.

‘You wouldn’t want to leave me here all by myself, would you?’ Toun whimpered.

If he hadn’t seen her lips move he would have sworn the sound had come from the television. He smiled indifferently. So his little stepsister could talk, after all.

‘I could use a shower and some sleep. Why don’t you just enjoy the movie? I thought you were doing that before I came in?’

‘This happens to be the fourth movie I’ve seen today. I want to do something different - maybe play a game. What about Scrabble?’

‘I told you I want to sleep, Toun. One can’t play Scrabble asleep!’

‘Come on, Babs, just a few minutes.’

‘Only if you insist.’

‘Well, I do.’

‘All right, all right, but not until I’ve had a cold shower. I’ll be down in a few minutes.’

‘You won’t have to come down,’ Toun offered. ‘I’ll bring it up to your room.’

Babs hesitated momentarily then, finding no adequate reason to protest, agreed. ‘But give me enough time to shower, okay?’

Ten minutes later, he stepped out of his bathroom to be met by the cold breeze of the air-conditioner and the unmistakable smell of marijuana.

Toun was sitting Arabian-style on the thick carpet on the bedroom floor, arranging the Scrabble pieces and pulling leisurely at the base of a deftly wrapped joint.

Babs went to a corner of the large room and, shielding himself with the doors of his wardrobe, slipped into a pair of jeans. As he settled before Toun and held his tile-rack, she offered him the smouldering joint.

‘What gave you the impression that I smoke?’ Babs asked defensively

‘Your eyes,’ Toun said with confidence. ‘Come on, cut out the bullshit.’

With a shy smirk on his face, Babs dragged expertly. Meeting each other’s eyes, they smiled in solidarity.

‘Not bad,’ Babs said in a husky voice.

‘Yeah,’ Toun nodded.

The game was slow. Toun took her time and Babs was reluctant to hurry her up since he had a comfortable lead. Toun, however, didn’t seem to be paying much attention to scoring points. She lost several turns at a stretch as she gambled for tiles which she would later arrange to form such words as ‘kiss’, ‘caress’, and so on. Initially, Babs sensed a peculiarity in her choice of words but, observing the seriousness on her face, was forced to dismiss them as mere coincidence, although some faculty in his mind told him these words were several coincidences too many. He found himself smiling ambiguously when Toun played her next word, ‘rut’, and, in return, she pulled a sly smile. He played his turn and, as he waited again for Toun to make up her mind on her next lewd word, he closed his eyes and fell into a weed-induced sleep.

A kiss on his lips roused him. Before he managed to open his eyes he felt a tender touch on his face and a woman’s body against his chest. And so it all began.

About two blocks from the house, Otunba Aleshinloye was being chauffeured home in one of his limousines. As he pulled delicately on his cigar he allowed his mind to wander over the prospects of the fax he had just received from Japan and the potential merits of the contact he was about to make. Having earlier directed his secretary to arrange a flight to Tokyo, all he needed to do was collect some of his personal effects before he departed.

As he climbed the mansion’s twisting stairs with the butler he was informed of his wife’s absence. Confirming that his son was home, he decided to leave some instructions regarding vital domestic affairs while he was away. As he strutted along the first-floor corridor he passed Babatunde’s bedroom door and decided to give his instructions to the boy at once.

Ayinde Aleshinloye opened the door to encounter a sight that left him overwhelmed. His honour had never been so violated. Turning around sharply, he continued hurriedly to his room, his body trembling with rage, his face contorted by strange emotions.

Babs scurried out of the room and found his father sitting on the edge of his bed watching his fidgety assistant pack his suitcase. On seeing his son, Ayinde breathed fire.

‘From today onwards I disown you! Get out of my house. Pack your things and leave. I reject you as a son. You’re nothing but a bastard.’

News came from Japan the following week that Ayinde Aleshinloye had suffered a stroke and had been flown to Britain for surgery. Remilekun and her daughter joined him and remained with him for the eight weeks he spent recuperating. On his return, Ayinde Aleshinloye summoned his lawyer and amended his will. Babatunde Aleshinloye was vilified and disinherited, but the scandal was kept within the family and their confidants.

Afterwards, Babs made fervent attempts to see his father and narrate his version of the story. But on all occasions he was turned back at the mansion’s heavy gates. He found himself imagining how much hatred the old man had allowed to foment in his mind. He didn’t try to understand. Why must he be the only one to be punished? How about Toun? That was when he learnt from one of the gatemen of his stepsister’s version which his father had swallowed hook, line and sinker. At that point, Babs tried to burst into the otunba’s office to recount exactly what had happened that night, not because he cared anymore what the old man thought of him but because he wanted to rip the veil off his ‘maiden’ little sister’s face - for the record. But the old man had given his security staff strict instructions and Babs was physically ejected from the premises.

As he climbed into his car and started the engine, Babs had to suppress a sinister inclination to return in the dead of night and set the building ablaze. Instead, he drove out with a resolve never again to set foot in any of his father’s properties. One sweet day, he vowed, the stupid old freak would plead for reconciliation, but by then it would be too late. On that vengeful day, he, Babatunde Aleshinloye, would be the one to call the guards. The day would come, he assured himself. All he had to do was put himself there.

And that was when Babatunde Aleshinloye began to lay his plans for attaining the most exalted seat of political authority in the country.

•••

The Porsche obeyed its uncouth master all through the busy Allen road and brought him to a halt in front of Club Arcade. Aleshinloye unfastened his seat belt and lit a cigarette. He gazed uninterestedly at the wet pavement in front of him punctuated by an array of empty beer cans. He paid scant attention to the hookers who sought his attention. He smoked his cigarette halfway then flung it into a puddle and got out of the car.

As he approached the club entrance one of the muscled minders recognised him and made way for him. He parted with some fifties as he went past them into the club to be met by the usual heavy music and frenzied crowd of tipsy, happy youths.

Pushing his way through, he emerged at the back of the club and ducked into an obscure passage under the stairs. At the end of the passage he arrived at a thick mahogany door marked ‘Private’ and rapped sharply. There was a click and the door opened.

‘What do you want?’

Babatunde Aleshinloye was just about to blow his cool when he remembered it had been almost a year since he had come here. The little thug was not to blame. Besides, he knew the protocol of the house. He reached under his jacket and produced his complementary card. A hand snatched it and disappeared, slamming the door behind him. Babatunde Aleshinloye felt unimportant, undignified.

The door opened again. Aleshinloye was frisked by a big black man dressed in a black suit that, without doubt, harboured a weapon. He was invited in.

‘Sorry for the inconvniencies, sir,’ the man said. ‘Necessary protocol.’

Aleshinloye nodded irritably and followed him down a wide corridor dotted by a small army of stern-looking minders. They travelled up a flight of stairs that brought them to a landing with two doors on either side, one of which was manned by two well-dressed men. Aleshinloye was ushered into an enormous office, complete with a sitting area and a conference table.

The albino behind the giant desk rose and took Aleshinloye’s hand firmly. He was six-foot-two and well proportioned. He presented a remarkable sight in his white linen suit and dotted black shirt. Pulling a bright smile, he offered his guest a seat.

‘Babatunde Aleshinloye. Long time,’ the man said.

In the Lagos underworld he was fondly referred to as ‘Admiral’. Aleshinloye was among less than fifteen men outside the organisation who had direct access to him and the only one who knew his true identity.

‘I heard the news,’ Admiral said. ‘It’s regrettable.’

‘That’s an understatement, Admiral. It’s a disgrace,’ Aleshinloye said sadly.

‘I appreciate your displeasure,’ Admiral said. ‘It’s no great achievement losing an election to that rural mongrel.’

‘I was poised to win,’ Aleshinloye protested, his voice edged with an uncontrolled hatred. ‘He only managed to pull that publicity trick on me. If not for that unfortunate publication, thirteen of his type couldn’t have stopped me.’

‘But it was your deed, anyway. You blundered, as we all do sometimes, and you had to pay for it.’ Admiral reached for a cigar and pushed the box across to his guest. Aleshinloye picked one and fiddled with it subconsciously.

‘He will forever regret pulling that dirty stunt on me,’ Babs raved. ‘He has to pay.’

Admiral blew smoke into the air. By instinct he knew that his slighted guest was about to become a client. But he hated time-wasting.

‘So what exactly do you suggest we do?’

Babatunde didn’t mince words. ‘I want his filthy rural life terminated!’

Admiral wasn’t surprised. It was why people came to him. For over a decade he had controlled an underground cartel engaged in organised crime, from drug trafficking to armed robbery to assassination. The few who knew him feared and respected him. For the majority who didn’t, his military sobriquet was mentioned with a mixture of mystery and awe.

The Admiral’s face was granite-like as he spoke. ‘When do you want it done?’

‘Left to me, I’ll say tonight. But that would make it easy for those bloody police boys to come knocking on my door. So I’ll be patient and we’ll wait till all this fuzz clears up.’

Admiral nodded assent as he puffed on the cigar. ‘I’ll put my best man on it.’

Aleshinloye hesitated momentarily as though considering the appropriateness of his next statement. ‘I wouldn’t know, Admiral, but maybe I need to speak to this best man of yours personally...’

‘Go ahead,’ Admiral cut in.

‘You mean…?’ Aleshinloye was puzzled.

‘Yes, me, so shoot.’

Babatunde couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘You mean you’ll handle it personally?’

Admiral casually tapped the ash at the end of his cigar into an ivory ashtray. ‘It will be a personal pleasure.’

He lay down his cigar, lifted his left hand and peeled off the black leather glove to reveal a badly mangled appendage. The tissues at the centre of the hand were drawn together in a heavy stitch that was intended to cover a gash in the middle of the palm. The forefinger had been amputated; the remaining digits were spread apart and bent at the tips like an eagle’s claw. It shook uncontrollably as he held it out to Babs. When he spoke, his voice was a cold, sinister drawl.

‘That rural bastard is the cause of this. Twelve years ago I thought I’d done him in. By some miracle he survived. But this time he won’t. He will be feast for the bugs.’

Babatunde stared speechlessly at Admiral, wondering what manner of anger could so easily rob him of his composure.

Dudu - for that was Admiral’s original name - rested back in his chair and pulled lingeringly on the cigar. ‘Now, friend, shall we proceed with the details of this little business? Let’s begin with his full name, Taofeek Olupitan Ogunrinu. Correct?’

As Babatunde leaned forward to answer he knew his job could as well be regarded as done.

BOOK ONE

LAGOS, SEPTEMBER 1981

CHAPTER 1

THE YOUNG MAN WALKED MEEKLY through the merry crowd in the university main bowl, his posture hunched, his stride awkward. He searched the cheerful faces hoping for a smile of recognition or the sudden holler of a long-lost friend. For one full hour he wandered fruitlessly through the crowd, yet he was not about to give up. There must be someone in this gathering he knew, someone other than his colleagues.

The lapel of his old suit was limp from use and abuse. His broad tie was tainted with old dirt stains. His heavy black brogues had weathered the storms of time and slime. His dress code was queer – he couldn’t have been more aware of it. But even as he gave the first impression of an oaf he struggled within himself to feel dignified.

The son of a rural fisherman, he was faceless in this gathering of the Lagos elite; lost in the very exuberance of the occasion. He marvelled at the pageantry around him. It was a fiesta. Friends ran into each other’s arms, families took photos, people yelled at old friends: it was like a big reunion. Everybody seemed to know one another; everybody except him. Suddenly, he turned around sharply certain someone had called his name. A warm smile appeared in front of him and he grinned in return just as a man brushed past him and grabbed the warm smile by her shoulders. He bit his lower lip. He should have known better.

He was a nobody, an alien in this rare gathering of sophisticated city people. He was out of place but, knowing there was no escape, he battled to feel among. The event was the forty-ninth matriculation ceremony of the prestigious Herbert McCauley University and he was a freshman. That alone gave him licence to belong. That was his ticket to the show.

He roamed aimlessly around the main bowl for another hour until he ran into his father and two siblings. They had actually spent the past half-hour looking for him! He would never forget that critical point in his life. Now he stood proudly beside his father, smiling gleefully. He was on top of the world. This was his greatest moment.

At seventeen, he could have passed for twenty-one. Six-foot-two, handsome – as far as the poverty lines on his face would allow – and well proportioned. He stole a minute to re-arrange his garb before the photographer’s shutter was released.

‘Can I say something, Father?’ he said as the older man paid for the Polaroid. ‘Somehow I wish I could return to the village with you and come back after the weekend.’

‘Really? Why would you want to do that?’ his father said. ‘On a day like this, you should be rejoicing with your friends. Just look at this crowd! I wouldn’t leave all of this if I had a choice.’

‘You don’t seem to understand, Father. These people are strangers; people I hardly know. It’s going to be lonely, Father. I’d rather have some family around me on a day like this.’

‘Okay,’ his father said. ‘Come back with us if you’re so intent.’

‘Thanks, Father,’ he said, winking furtively at his younger brother and sister who were intrigued by this new development.

Olupitan Taofeek Ogunrinu was the joy of his family. Born on the twenty-second day of the rainy month of July, he had achieved rapid progress in his academic career, serving as a shining example to his siblings, Akintunde and Yemisi.

His mother couldn’t attend the ceremony. She had stepped on a rusty fishing hook three days previously and her leg was now swollen.

She and her husband had spent the whole night before the matriculation ceremony talking excitedly about the event.

‘You remember, don’t you?’ Taju began. ‘This is the forecast of Baba Iludun coming to pass. That was why I insisted that we take the boy all the way to Iludun for the naming rites. My father’s predictions always come to pass.’

‘It’s as though you’d been reading my mind,’ Apeke said as she rolled over to face her husband. ‘I’ve never doubted Baba’s abilities. Why do you think I kept maintaining we send the boy to school?’

‘I remember vividly. If it hadn’t been for your doggedness, Olupitan would now be fishing on the lagoon like all his cousins. One decision I’ve always credited myself for: marrying you. Because of your foresight, we are both happy parents today.’

•••

The ceremony had come and gone and it was time for the Ogunrinus to return to the village. Olupitan had to dismiss his friend – Adebowale Johnson – under the pretext that he was merely seeing his family off. He hated to lie to his friend but Debo had been a great pain in his neck for the past two days. Being a second-year student, Debo was better accustomed to the university norms and had made it a point of duty to enlighten Olupitan on the expectations of him as a freshman. Debo, a law student and union activist, was popular on campus and Olupitan became very fond of him. In one week, they had become the best of friends and Debo invited him to share his apartment – a comfortable two-room affair in the staff quarters of Dr. Tunde Johnson, a reputable don at the institution and, luckily, Debo’s uncle.

‘What’s the big idea going back to the village with your family?’ Debo asked. ‘How do I explain it to the guys when they turn up? It doesn’t have to be a party, just some snacks and drinks. That’s the custom, pal. You’ve got to partake in the matriculation ritual.’

‘What is there to celebrate?’ Olupitan had said. ‘Let’s leave all the celebrations till graduation.’ However, deep inside him, Olupitan actually wished he could throw a party; yet, where would he get the money from? His father had already spent a fortune on fees and books. To add a party would simply be callous. He even had it in mind to request some money for new clothes but feared it might be too heavy a burden. For two difficult days he had tried all manner of tricks to get the idea out of Debo’s mind but since Debo was unyielding he concluded that the only alternative was to slip away and return with his family to the village.

They arrived at the Ogunrinus’ compound. Akintunde and Yemisi ran ahead to warn their mother of the impending surprise. Their house was a small bungalow in a row of similarly constructed houses. However, theirs was built with red clay blocks while the others were built with mud. A large fishing net hung on the front wall like a giant weaverbird’s nest. A young mango tree flourished in a corner and, under its benevolent shade, small basket cages waited idly for the poultry to return at dusk.

Such was the simplicity of Kajola homes, population one thousand. It was a typical Nigerian rural setting lacking all the modern comforts. Electricity and pipe-borne water were elusive except to the privileged few who had been to the city. The roads were over-sized footpaths that had to be hoed collectively during the rains lest they should disappear. The only visible evidence of modernity was the one-block primary school. It employed two teachers and had a maximum of twenty-one students at any given time. The only tangible contact with the outside world was the antique lorry that came fortnightly (except as otherwise arranged for a special fee) to transport the fishermen and their marine goods to the city. In good weather the journey took five hours; ten in the rains. The city could be linked through the lagoon but that took two days of hard paddling. The village way of life was taxing. But the villagers never complained. Knowing no other way, they had learnt to believe that life was meant to be tough and demanding.

Tajudeen Ogunrinu and his son were met at the door by the inevitable odour of fresh fish, a smell that sent a nostalgic feeling down Olupitan’s spine. As they entered the house, Apeke appeared from nowhere, a grateful smile wreathing her face, her arms thrown wide apart.

‘My dear boy,’ she cried clutching Olupitan to her bosom. ‘I feel you’ve been gone for a decade.’

Akintunde surfaced at the door with his brother’s childhood friend, Kehinde. Kehinde and Olupitan greeted excitedly and went to sit on an old log under the mango tree. At the outdoor kitchen behind the house, Apeke harnessed the ingredients of Olupitan’s favourite: egusi soup.

‘So, how are you finding university?’ Kehinde asked. ‘How is Lagos?’

‘Lagos is another world, my brother,’ Olupitan said, ‘and the university is a strange country. The society is wild. I assure you, it’s not like here in the village. It’s very materialistic. Kehinde, it isn’t easy.’ Even as he spoke he realised once again the truth of his words in the little time he had so far spent in the big city. It wasn’t easy at all.

Initially he had enjoyed campus life, mingling easily with the other students in spite of his rural background. Although he wasn’t the only freshman from the village, he quickly understood that it required special skills to blend in as a regular freshman, let alone one from the village – a newcomer to city ways. But he was smart and determined. With the little understanding he had gained of the city dwellers while studying at the Federal Government College, he knew just what to do to disguise his origins. But as the days swept by his true identity was discovered. By then, the new students had fully recognised the various social classes and the deck of friendship was reshuffled. Olupitan struggled to remain among his new friends, most of whom belonged to the rich class, but they began to avoid him.

He was soon to find new friends in other students who, like him, had to settle for the lower class, and a unique few who found themselves straddling both, among them Adebowale Johnson. Debo was frank with him from the beginning.

‘Look, you don’t have to worry about the situation out here,’ he had said. ‘It’s just the way things are. No point pondering over it. People have just got to find their levels. Look at those so-called happening guys. Imagine how much time and energy they waste trying to maintain their status. No point, pal. They end up spending six years on a four-year programme; or, worse still, get expelled. They don’t have much to lose, though. They’ve got the silver spoon. But can we afford to fail? Of course we can’t! Certainly not. We don’t have rich fathers working things out for us. We’ve got to work things out by ourselves. The major thing is: don’t feel inferior. Those guys are not any better than we are. They’re just lucky, that’s all. Just lucky.’

That was one of the greatest speeches Olupitan had ever heard from a colleague. Although he still marvelled at the so-called happening guys, he kept Debo’s words at the back of his mind.

However, one hot afternoon as he was heading for the cafeteria something happened which he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. He ran into an old friend, Babatunde Aleshinloye – or Babs as they called him back at the Federal Government College. Babs and Olupitan were in the same dormitory during the last two years at the school and, though they were not the kind you would call intimate, they were friends. Olupitan still clearly remembered those days. He was actually very good to Babs. His inexhaustible stock of garri was always available whenever Babs ran out of money, as were his brains whenever maths got tough. In return, he got nothing. But he was content. He was Babatunde Aleshinloye’s friend.

Overly excited at seeing an old friend he approached Babs with good cheer, his hand held out impatiently. What a great feeling it was – running into an old friend!

‘Hey, Babs, long time...’

To Olupitan’s outrage, Babs merely nodded a greeting, ignored his out-stretched hand and walked over to a girl who was waiting obediently with some snacks she had bought for both of them. For a whole minute, Olupitan stood with his hand hanging in the space in front of him, his mouth agape with shock.

On his way to the cafeteria, various thoughts crowded in his mind, and by the time he finished his drink he resolved that nothing – not one thing in the world – could have warranted such behaviour. Not even his threadbare shirt.

Olupitan and his friend talked deep into the night, neither running out of experiences to share. After dinner, Olupitan saw Kehinde to his house which, in fact, was adjacent to the Ogunrinus’. The twosome had been great friends since they were kids. Kehinde had lost his twin brother at the age of five and Olupitan had naturally filled the space. They had since remained like that, sharing virtually everything, including their deepest secrets. Eventually, their friendship created a bond between their two families.

The weekend was short but fulfilling. Olupitan almost regretted having to return to the university. Every morning he had set out with his father to help on his fishing trips. On their first trip Taju caught something abnormally heavy. If not for the persistent tug he would have concluded it was a log. But experience told him that he was in for a big surprise. With the combined efforts of father and son, the line was gradually drawn in and they found, to their astonishment, a half-grown crocodile! Olupitan recovered quickly enough to deal the creature a powerful blow with his cutlass. In the struggle that ensued, the crocodile broke the line and vanished into the depths. For a regretful moment they thought they had lost their catch but decided to wait a little longer. They kept vigil over the bloodied water of the Kajola lagoon for fifteen minutes before it occurred to Olupitan to look over the other side, whereupon he burst into laughter. Floating with its yellow belly upturned was their prize. Hauling it into the canoe they rounded off the day’s work.

When it was eventually time for Olupitan to depart, his entire family, as well as his friend, Kehinde, escorted him to the lorry. His luggage, containing a bag of fried and roast fish, a quarter of the crocodile meat, and the inevitable bag of garri was secured to the roof of the lorry with ropes. Olupitan settled close to the rear entrance and, as the lorry’s antique engine spluttered into life, Apeke’s eyes clouded with tears. Fearing to create a scene, she struggled to control herself, waving frantically until the lorry disappeared over the horizon.

‘So long, son,’ Taju Ogunrinu muttered as he summoned his family for the short journey back home.

As the lorry laboured along the meandering Lagos road, Olupitan experienced conflicted feelings. On the one hand he was happy he was returning to the university – the only evidence that he was making some progress in life; the only reminder that he still stood a chance of breaking the bonds of poverty and moving into comfort and – possibly – wealth. On the other, however, his mind was plagued by a peculiar misery. Once again he would be exposed to the humiliation of the rich boys on campus. Both feelings combined within him to create a strange uneasiness. Returning to Lagos left him as happy as he was sad.

Eventually, as they put the miles behind them, he resolved to be happy. At least he had managed to collect some money from his father for his new clothes. Possibly a better wardrobe would do the magic. He giggled as he remembered the impossible fees he had levied on his poor, illiterate father – welfare, entertainment, sports – but a sudden consideration of the troubles his father would have gone through gathering the money cleared the impish smile from his face. For the first time since he had collected the money he actually felt remorse. Then he consoled himself with the thought that his dear father would have done the same to his dear grandfather and his dear grandfather to his dear great-grandfather. Why then was he different? In this justification he found solace from his guilt and, leaning back on the hard wooden bench that served as a seat, he fell asleep.

He had barely slept when a sharp tap on his shoulder woke him from the depth of a sensational dream. It was like snatching a half-drunk cup of water from a desert nomad. Olupitan reluctantly opened his eyes into the glare of the lorry-boy’s bloodshot eyes and felt an immediate rush of resentment.

‘Ogbeni, pay your money!’ the lorry-boy yelled in pidgin over the noise of the vehicle, his breath a nauseating smell of fish and cheap tobacco. ‘No waste my time, I beg.’

Olupitan knew better than to argue. Turning away from the latter’s foul breath he reached in his trouser pocket for his wallet.

‘There! That’s your money,’ he said, handing him a ten-naira note.

The conductor collected the fare with a sneer and proceeded to the next passenger.

Olupitan looked through the rear of the lorry to discover that they were already in Lagos. That was when he realised he had actually slept for hours. The skyscrapers, the traffic, the crowd, the impatience, the struggle, the inevitable fury; all bore witness.

Half the passengers were already on their feet when the vehicle pulled into the terminal. The man closest to the exit jumped down before the lorry came to a halt, bumping into a food hawker and spilling her wares. In the ensuing argument a crowd was drawn to them like iron filings to a magnet.

Olupitan disembarked and, after claiming his luggage, set off for that obscure section of the Oshodi market which sold second-hand clothing. Brand new clothes were out of the question but he had long decided that used clothes could actually be as good as new ones.

Oshodi was a huge bus terminal, the largest in Lagos. It was surrounded by an overpopulated