“Why dey run?” Showlogo asked, his eyes focusing on Ikenna, who had a big grin on his face. Showlogo sucked his teeth in disgust. “Dem no get liver for trouble.”
“Please-o. Forget Yemi, Showlogo,” Ikenna said, laughing nervously. “Make you calm down. He ran like rabbit. Here, take.” He held a stack of naira in front of Showlogo’s twitching chest.
Showlogo scowled at the money, flaring his nostrils and breathing heavily through them. Slowly, he took the stack and counted, nudging each purple-and-pink bill up with a thumb. The hot breeze ruffled the short, tightly twisted dreadlocks on his head. He grunted. It was the proper amount. If Yemi had given too little or too much, Showlogo would have left, found the disrespectful mumu, and beaten him bloody. Instead, Showlogo went home and put some new clothes on — jeans and a yellow polo shirt this time. Today, his fists would not tenderize flesh.
Showlogo owned a farm and he maintained it himself. It was good work. He’d inherited it from his adoptive father, Olusegun Bogunjoko. Twelve years ago, when his best friend Ibrahim was killed during riots between Ibrahim’s clan and a neighboring clan, Ibrahim’s father, who had no other male children, adopted Showlogo as his son. Showlogo had been sixteen years old. Olusegun had always loved Showlogo. The fact that Showlogo was so strong in mind and body and refused to join any side, be it a confraternity or a clan’s core membership, set the old man’s mind at ease as well.
Showlogo’s parents had died when he was very young and he already deferred to Olusegun as a father, so the adoption made perfect sense. Showlogo took over the coco farm and ran it with the strong, attentive hand of a farmer from the old precolonial times, before oil had been discovered in Nigeria and began overshadowing all other produce, before Nigeria was even “Nigeria.” Showlogo was a true son of the soil, and the death of his best friend and the love of Olusegun brought this out in him.
Showlogo worked hard on his farm, though it made little money. However, when he was relaxing and not playing ludo with his friends, he was smoking what the legendary Fela Kuti liked to call “giant mold,” a very large joint that was thick at the end and thin at the tip. When Showlogo rolled one of his giant molds, his friends would call him Little Fela, and he’d smile and flex his big muscles.
Few people in Ajegunle had not heard of the great and powerful Showlogo: the Man Who Could Not Die, the Man Who Could Fight Ten Men While Drunk and Walk Away Not Bleeding, the Man Who Was Not Right in the Head, the Man Who’d Chosen to Cut Off His Ear Rather than Join a Confraternity.
He’d once jumped from a moving fruit truck just to show that he could. “I dey testing my power,” he’d said as he climbed onto the truck, clamoring over its haul of oranges. “No pain, no gain. Na no know.” He had asked the driver (who’d been taking a Guinness break before driving his haul to Abuja) to speed down the road. When the truck was moving forty-five miles per hour, Showlogo jumped, hit the road, and tumbled to the side of it, where he lay for several seconds not moving. His friends had run up to him, pressing their hands to their heads and wailing about how terrible Nigeria’s roads were for always taking lives. But then Showlogo raised his head, sat up, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles, and smiled. “You see now, I no fe die. Even death dey fear me.”
He’d thrown himself down hills, jumped from speeding danfos, leaped from the fourth floor of an apartment building, fought five men simultaneously and won, been shot on three different occasions, lost count of the number of times he’d been stabbed or slashed with a knife, saved a friend from armed robbers by driving by and throwing a water bottle at one of their heads. Showlogo had even looked a powerful witch doctor in the face and called him shit. Some said that Showlogo was protected by Shango and loved by many spirits whose names could not be spoken. He only laughed when asked if this were true.
And, of course, there was not one woman who had not heard of his massive “head office.” Some said that he’d once visited a prostitute and she’d given him back his money just to get him to stop having sex with her. According to this piece of local lore, the prostitute “couldn’t handle his logo.” Nobody messed with Showlogo and didn’t regret it. Then, two days after he nearly killed Yemi, Showlogo moved from local celebrity into legend.
In Nigeria, farming no longer made one rich unless you were farming oil. So, to make ends meet, Showlogo took odd jobs. For the past two months, he’d actually managed to hold a job at the airport. He spent the day loading luggage into and off of planes. It was the kind of work he loved — physical labor. Plus, he rarely had to deal with his boss (which was when the trouble usually began for him at other jobs). The hours in the sun made his near-black skin blacker, and the loading of luggage bulked up his muscles nicely. In the two months he’d been working at the airport, he imagined he was really starting to look like Shango’s son.
Keeping out of trouble at work, however, didn’t mean he kept out of trouble elsewhere.
“I pay you next time,” Vera said as she got off of Showlogo’s okada.
Showlogo smiled and shook his head as he started the engine. “No payment necessary,” he said. He watched her backside jiggling as she entered her flat. Vera wasn’t plump, the way he liked his women. However, she was plump in some nicely chosen places. Showlogo chuckled to himself and drove off. It was always worth driving Vera wherever she needed to go. It was also a good way to end a long day at the airport.
He didn’t make it a mile before two road police ruined his mood. He stopped at their makeshift roadblock, a long, thick, dry branch. He was shocked when the police officers demanded he pay them a bribe in order to pass.
“Do you know who I be?” Showlogo snapped, looking the two men over as if they were pieces of rotting meat.
“Abeg, give us money,” one of the cops demanded, brandishing his gun, waving a hand dismissively. “Then make you dey waka!” He was smaller and fatter than the other, standing about five-six and looking like he had never seen a real fight in his life. The taller, slimmer one, who was closer to six-three, vibrated his chest muscles through his uniform and flared his nostrils at Showlogo.
Showlogo pointed a finger in the smaller man’s face. “You go die today if you no turn and waka away from me now.”
The moment the taller one took a step toward him, Showlogo jumped off his okada, engaged the kickstand, and stepped into the grass. He glanced at the bush behind him and then at the two policemen who were approaching. There was a red leather satchel that he carried everywhere; this way, he always had what he needed. He slung it over his shoulder and pushed it to rest on his back.
He knew exactly what he was going to do. He’d decided it as a god would decide the fate of two mere men. He slapped the smaller man across the face so hard that a tooth flew out. The trick was to open his calloused hand wide and arch his palm just so. He grabbed the other man by the balls and squeezed, then kneed the officer in the face as he doubled over.
Both men were in hot pain and bleeding, one from his mouth and one from his nose, as Showlogo wordlessly dragged them into the bush. The foliage was not dense and if there were snakes in the high grass, Showlogo didn’t care. Any snake dumb enough to bite him would die, and he would not.
“Abeg,” one of the policemen said as he coughed, his words wet from the blood on his lips, “let us go. Dis has gone too far. Wetin na dey do?”