him dug her fingers into his fat hairy chest, ground her groin against his, and asked him to say her name. He tried to remember what it was but another pair of breasts appeared over his head, dangling close to his lips, and he forgot the name all over again.
The second girl took his earlobes between her fingers and rolled them the way his mother used to, and then she placed her lip-gloss-wet lips on his ear and whispered, ‘Say my name.’ He tried to remember but his phone was ringing and he had to answer it. He feared that if he didn’t say their names, the one would stop playing with his ears and the other would cross her leg over his belly and roll away.
The ringing phone was vibrating on the mahogany bedside table, making a knocking noise that made it impossible to think. Soon, it would rattle its way to the edge, fall off, and break into pieces on the marble floor, and the person calling, whose call he had to take, would get upset.
He woke to the phone still ringing. He sighed, reached for it on the table, felt a body, and remembered the two girls he had met at Bacchus, whose names he did not know, who now lay oneither side of him, and who had inspired the interrupted dream. He folded back the duvet from his naked body and began to shiver. The phone continued to ring as he considered where exactly he’d left the remote control for the air-conditioner.
He leaned over the girl on his left side and enjoyed the warmth of her body. Once the call was over, he would play out the dream with both of them, then, after a glass of Hennessey and a Viagra, he would do it all over again until they had to leave at five a.m.
He didn’t check the caller display – it could only be one person; a man whose voice he knew but whose face he had never seen. The Voice would probably ask him if everything was OK and he would say yes and that would be it. After the call, he would wake the girls who had spanked each other, called him Daddy, and sniffed cocaine from his belly-button.
‘Hello.’ His spare hand found a breast and started fondling it. The girl stirred and searched for the duvet.
‘We have a problem.’
The Voice always went straight to the point, just like the first time they spoke many years ago when the Chief was not yet a chief and had a different name.
‘What kind of problem?’ His hand found its way down to the girl’s thighs. He tried to push her legs apart.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘The man we used the last time, the one who calls himself Catch-Fire, he’s been talking.’
He took his hand away from the girl and climbed over her to get out of bed. His toes curled as his feet landed on the cold marble tiles. He walked into the adjoining room, fat deposits wobbling under the folds of his skin with every step.
‘Is he talking to the police?’
‘No, not the police, but they’ll soon hear something. He’s a risk. You need to take care of him.’
‘OK.’
He first spoke with The Voice during Christmas in 1989. He’d been a tenant of Kirikiri Maximum Security Prison back then, awaiting trial over a robbery. His gang, the police alleged, conspired to rob one Emanuel Ofoeze of Onipanu, Lagos. The victim was in possession of a large sum of money he had withdrawn from the bank earlier in the day. The cash was for the payment of salaries at Omo-Boy Sawmill Ltd. in Maryland where he was chief supervisor. When the gang broke into his house at around midnight, the late Mr. Ofoeze refused, under pain of gratuitous torture, to reveal where he had hidden the money. The gang proceeded to axe off each of the victim’s fingers. After his toes, they gouged out his eyes, and sliced off his ears. His tongue was the last to go, before he died, the police said in their report.
A tip-off led to a member of the gang and subsequently to the mastermind of the operation who had inflicted the devilish wounds observed on the victim – one Okafor Bright Chikezie, an apprentice sawmill operator where the dead man
The second girl took his earlobes between her fingers and rolled them the way his mother used to, and then she placed her lip-gloss-wet lips on his ear and whispered, ‘Say my name.’ He tried to remember but his phone was ringing and he had to answer it. He feared that if he didn’t say their names, the one would stop playing with his ears and the other would cross her leg over his belly and roll away.
The ringing phone was vibrating on the mahogany bedside table, making a knocking noise that made it impossible to think. Soon, it would rattle its way to the edge, fall off, and break into pieces on the marble floor, and the person calling, whose call he had to take, would get upset.
He woke to the phone still ringing. He sighed, reached for it on the table, felt a body, and remembered the two girls he had met at Bacchus, whose names he did not know, who now lay oneither side of him, and who had inspired the interrupted dream. He folded back the duvet from his naked body and began to shiver. The phone continued to ring as he considered where exactly he’d left the remote control for the air-conditioner.
He leaned over the girl on his left side and enjoyed the warmth of her body. Once the call was over, he would play out the dream with both of them, then, after a glass of Hennessey and a Viagra, he would do it all over again until they had to leave at five a.m.
He didn’t check the caller display – it could only be one person; a man whose voice he knew but whose face he had never seen. The Voice would probably ask him if everything was OK and he would say yes and that would be it. After the call, he would wake the girls who had spanked each other, called him Daddy, and sniffed cocaine from his belly-button.
‘Hello.’ His spare hand found a breast and started fondling it. The girl stirred and searched for the duvet.
‘We have a problem.’
The Voice always went straight to the point, just like the first time they spoke many years ago when the Chief was not yet a chief and had a different name.
‘What kind of problem?’ His hand found its way down to the girl’s thighs. He tried to push her legs apart.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘The man we used the last time, the one who calls himself Catch-Fire, he’s been talking.’
He took his hand away from the girl and climbed over her to get out of bed. His toes curled as his feet landed on the cold marble tiles. He walked into the adjoining room, fat deposits wobbling under the folds of his skin with every step.
‘Is he talking to the police?’
‘No, not the police, but they’ll soon hear something. He’s a risk. You need to take care of him.’
‘OK.’
He first spoke with The Voice during Christmas in 1989. He’d been a tenant of Kirikiri Maximum Security Prison back then, awaiting trial over a robbery. His gang, the police alleged, conspired to rob one Emanuel Ofoeze of Onipanu, Lagos. The victim was in possession of a large sum of money he had withdrawn from the bank earlier in the day. The cash was for the payment of salaries at Omo-Boy Sawmill Ltd. in Maryland where he was chief supervisor. When the gang broke into his house at around midnight, the late Mr. Ofoeze refused, under pain of gratuitous torture, to reveal where he had hidden the money. The gang proceeded to axe off each of the victim’s fingers. After his toes, they gouged out his eyes, and sliced off his ears. His tongue was the last to go, before he died, the police said in their report.
A tip-off led to a member of the gang and subsequently to the mastermind of the operation who had inflicted the devilish wounds observed on the victim – one Okafor Bright Chikezie, an apprentice sawmill operator where the dead man
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