“I go show you my logo,” Showlogo muttered. “You asked for my logo and I go show you. Stupid set of people.”
He continued dragging them for several minutes and neither man tried to fight his way to freedom. They had realized who he was; they knew better now. Soon, their bleeding slowed but they were bothered by mosquitoes buzzing around their heads. Now they stood before the trunk of a tall palm tree. Showlogo held their hands together as he brought out a coil of rope from his satchel.
The policemen never spoke to anyone about how one man was able to tie two gun-carrying officers to a tree so well that they could not undo the knots. This was understandable, because it was so humiliating. Even if it was the madman Showlogo, how could they have not tried to take him or at least run away? It was shameful. Nevertheless, this was what happened. Showlogo tied them to a tree and then returned to his okada and drove off.
The policemen were stuck to that tree for two days. No food, no water, mosquitoes and other biting insects feasting on their blood. They sat in their own urine and feces and sang songs they’d learned from the powerful and violent university confraternities they both belonged to. It was this singing that eventually attracted the group of women coming from a nearby stream. Those men could have easily died there, but luck was finally on their side.
Word about the incident spread like wildfire.
“Why you dey ask me dis nonsense again?” Showlogo said several days later. “I don move on with my life-o. Na thunder go fire those yao-yao police.” He took a giant pull off his giant mold. He was sitting with his cousin Success T at the restaurant they fondly called the cholera joint, a plate of roasted goat meat and jollof rice in front of him. He exhaled and grabbed his spoon with his left hand and shoveled rice into his mouth. It had been a long day of work at the airport and the food tasted like heaven. “Next time they will stay out of my way,” he added through his mouthful.
“People dey talk about it,” Success T said, smiling. He was the only person on earth Showlogo trusted. The two had grown up together and then lived in the same flat for years when they were older. Both even had access to each other’s bank accounts. “How you dey tie them? Everyone wants to know.”
Showlogo paused as he ate more rice and drank from his bottle of Coca-Cola. He belched loudly and pounded a fist against his chest. “I be One Man Mopo. I no need help and no dey fight in group,” he responded, biting into a piece of goat meat. “You no believe me?”
“I do,” Success T said. He leaned forward, the smile wiped from his face. “Showlogo, I no want make you go to jail. Those police be cultist. Their people haven’t forgotten-o.”
Showlogo chewed his goat meat and smiled. “Jail no be for animal. Na for human person. But don worry. Jail no be for me.”
He wasn’t stupid. He thought about it. The police always had each other’s backs. And they held grudges like old women. And the fact that those two idiots who’d had the nerve to ask him for bribes were also part of confraternities was not good. So Showlogo decided to lay low for a bit. No partying or playing ludo outside with his friends for a few weeks. Go to work and then go home, that was the plan.
Then the Igbo shop down the street was robbed. Showlogo held his phone to his ear as he got on his okada that evening. Hearing about the incident first, Success T had called to warn him. “Watch out, o!” Success T said. “That kobo-kobo Igbo shop nonsense. Word on the street is that they caught the guys who did it and they said they knew you.” Showlogo blinked. Time to disappear. He would stay with Success T for a day or so until he figured out a better place to go for a while. He put the phone in his pocket and quickly drove home.
As he tried to pack up a few things, he heard cars arrive outside his building. When he looked out his window, he saw that one of the men who exited the police car was the very cop he’d left to die in the bush, the one with the fat wobble-wobble belly. They’d arrest him, and once in police custody Showlogo knew they’d find all sorts of reasons not to release him. He’d rot in jail for months, maybe years. He escaped from the back of the building just before the police came to his flat’s door.
He fled to the most hidden place he could think of — the airport tarmac. The shaded area beneath the mango tree on the far side of the strip was where the luggage loaders took their breaks. He’d once spent a night here when he was too tired to go home. Now, he sat down on the dirt to eat the jollof rice he’d bought from one of the lady vendors on his way there. He leaned his back against the tree and let out a tired sigh, thinking about his flat. Would the police force their way in and ransack the place?
As he sat in the early-evening darkness, chewing spicy tomato — flavored rice, Showlogo made a decision in the way he made every decision: fast. He stared at the 747 across the tarmac. He knew the schedule; this one would soon be bound for America. It was still glistening from its most recent wash. The water droplets sparkled in the orange and white airport lights. The airplane looked fresh, new, and it was headed to new lands. The sight of the clean airplane combined with the spicy rice in his mouth made the world suddenly seem ripe. Full of potential. Offering escape. For a while. He drank from his bottle of warm Coca-Cola and the sweetness was corrupted by the pepper in his mouth. He smacked his lips. He’d always liked this combination.
An hour later, he bought another container of rice from the same woman, demanding that she pack it into the plastic container he normally used to carry his toothbrush, toothpaste, and washcloth when he worked late hours. He went to his locker and brought out the heavy jacket he used when he worked during chillier nights.
“Success T, how far?” he asked, shrugging on the jacket as he held his phone to his ear.
“I’m good,” Success T said. “I dey study. You dey come out with us tonight. Where are you?”
“Look, I’m going for a little while. These yao-yao police need to calm down. Have Mohammed and Tolu watch my farm.”
“Where no dey go?”
“Away.”
After a pause, Success T said, “Good. I dey call you before. Some police dey wait outside your place. I drove by half hour ago.”
“Make you no worry about me. I fine.”
After the call, Showlogo stared out at the tarmac and pushed his phone deep into his pocket. He moved quickly. It was dark but he knew where he could walk and remain in the shadows. The New York — bound 747 would be pushing off soon, so he had to be quick. He climbed up the undercarriage, pressing a foot against the thick wheel. He hoisted himself into the plane’s landing-gear bay. In the metal space around him there were wires, pipes, levers, and other machinery.
He positioned himself in a spot where the wheels would not crush him and he could hang on to a solid narrow pipe. He’d have to grasp it tightly upon takeoff because the bay would fill with powerful sucking air as the plane picked up speed and left the ground. “One Man Mopo,” he said aloud with a laugh as he practiced his grip. He positioned his satchel at his back. Inside it were his phone, charger, the container of rice, a torch, his wallet, and a few other small things. All he’d need.
Showlogo’s mind was at ease when the plane began to move. In a few hours, he’d be in the United States. He’d never dreamed of going there. Nigeria was his home and the city of Lagos was his playground. But he understood change and that it could happen in the blink of an eye. He’d learned this when he was seven years old: one day his parents had been there, then the next, they’d died in a car crash. Since then he’d learned this lesson over and over. One day Chinelo had loved him, the next she was marrying his cousin and pretending she didn’t know him. One day there was food to eat, the next there was none. One day he had no money, the next his pockets were stuffed with naira and he had two jobs. One day he could buy fuel for his car, the next his car had been stolen and this didn’t matter because there was a fuel shortage. He’d lived his life this way, understanding, reacting to, and riding the powerful and weak waves of the universe’s ocean. He was a strong man, so he always survived.