CHAPTER II
Lekann’s Pot was a one-storey restaurant located in one of the commercial centers in Ikeja, just thirty minutes away from the airport. While relatively new, it was argued that it catered to half of the workforce that had their primary place of business in that area, and during lunch it was transformed into a concentration camp packed to the teeth with humans in an atmosphere that contained a vast array of spicy aromas that attacked people’s sense of smell, something that was deeply frowned upon by similar businesses nearby and other concerned individuals who simply despised the idea of being close to a business that attracted a notoriously large crowd. Twice, the business owner had been reported to the authorities for a wide range of offences and twice the hands of the law had not found them guilty, at least not so much that they were asked to vacate the place.
Some people whispered that it probably had more to do with the owner’s well-heeled family than with a proper lack of evidence or their lawyer’s skillfulness. Lekan-Ola Macaulay was a second generation restaurateur whose grandfather had gotten wealthy from poaching and selling off exotic animal parts to his partners in Asia, Europe and The Middle East. For some weird reasons, he scorned the advances made by interested buyers in Africa, most of whom consisted of mobsters, militants, pirates, politicians, or oligarchs with an eye for vice. This gutsiness earned him more enemies than he could battle on one hand, while using the other to steer his way through an endless stream of court cases brought upon his empire by the government for his illegal business. So far he had avoided prison and even outlived some of his “homegrown” enemies who had vowed to drown him in debt for disrespecting them. His reign had spanned two generations and in the twilight of his life, he was gradually becoming something of a myth, too cumbersome for the government to bring down and too worrisome to be completely ignored.
His son on the other hand was a complete disappointment. He lacked the dispatch, tact, and discipline to manage his father’s affairs, instead preferring to indulge himself in the company of prostitutes and wastrels, and throwing lavish parties on boats and private jets. He was the typical spoiled brat whose destiny in life seemed south of their parent’s, and once Bimbo Macaulay discovered that his son would not succeed him in the fashion that he hoped, he acquired a chain of restaurants for him and hired seasoned executives to run them in his name. Lekan-Ola was Richard’s first child by his estranged wife, an ex-Military governor’s daughter, born on the same day Bimbo Macaulay miraculously survived a car accident that claimed four lives including his driver’s. Bimbo would, from that day, call his first grandson Iyanu and nothing else, for he believed that the birth of the boy was his saving grace. Acting with the fervent belief that he had finally found his heir, he diversified his assets and after investing heavily in the boy’s education, transferred ownership of Richard’s chain of restaurants to Lekan, who dedicated his life to erase his father’s ignominy.
Potted trees of various sizes were scattered about the upper-floor, a combination of vinyl flooring and calligraphy wallpapers helped set the tone of the expansive room. I identified a corner and took my seat. Five minutes later I received my order, a bottle of freshly chilled palm wine and a gourd cup. One of the merits of Lekan’s restaurants was that it served almost anything you could possibly conceive, from your local delicacies to some of the most exotic dishes on earth. There was always something for everybody.
It was almost noon, hungry people with sad faces had started to trickle in, some in twos and threes, and then fifteen minutes later, halfway through my drink, my guest arrived. He was wearing a pinstripe jacket with a grey shirt and a pair of ill-fitted jeans. He also happened to be my brother, Korede Marcus, excon.
I could not stop myself, “Why are you dressed like that?”
Buttoning up his jacket as he sat across from me, he replied, “Leave my dressing alone”. He pointed at the table, “Is that Palm Wine? Why are you taking Palm Wine in the afternoon?” There was a hint of concern in his tone, or maybe it was just the drink.
“Leave my drink alone,” I responded. I refilled my cup and made a show of taunting him, then pressed it against my lips and swallowed. Then I belched loud enough for a man seated four feet away to flinch, turn around and eyeball me.
My brother and I had recently reached an agreement to meet at least once a week at the restaurant for lunch, to play catch up with ourselves and try to mend the wreck of a bond that existed between us. Our mother had died in a car accident a year ago, while he was in prison for a crime he certainly knew nothing about. Being at the wrong place at the wrong time was enough reason for the police to indict him as part of a drug dealing gang who sold dope laced with some foreign substance that caused severe brain hemorrhages when consumed in large amounts. He had been waiting for me to pick him up at that location, and I arrived late because I was with his then-girlfriend in a hotel room. I still haven’t brought myself to confess my sins to him, and the longer I wait the heavier the burden it places on my heart.
I told him all about the new case I was working on and the misgivings I had about the innocence of my clients.
“I don’t envy you brother,“ he quipped, “Next to the President, you probably have the second hardest job in the world.” I was surprised he did not laugh after that statement.
“You are wrong about the President. He has aides who help him scratch every itch on his body, what is hard about that? All he does is read speeches and make promises he cannot or isn’t willing to keep. A really hard job is being married to a woman. Any dude who crosses the two week mark deserves a medal.”
For the first time in a very long time he chuckled. A low bubble of laughter that died no sooner than it had erupted. But it was there nonetheless. “So dad deserved one?”
I wasn’t expecting our father to come up and I certainly wasn’t expecting my response. There was an abrupt silence that marked a sharp drop in my mood as tension seeped into the air that surrounded us. The reference had thrown the floodgates open to an avalanche of long-forgotten memories along with a sea of emotion that almost shut down my nervous system. I held on to the table to prevent myself from shaking.
We never discussed our father, not as a rule or principle, we just simply never thought of him enough to deserve being mentioned. It was almost like he existed beyond the reach of our consciousness, at least so I thought.
“I’m sorry I mentioned him,” said Korede, noticing my discomfort. He immediately began to tell me about his job and a recent meeting he had with an old friend who had a bar and requested that he come work for him as a mixologist. Then he spoke about a girl he met at the gym who could speak four foreign languages expertly and how he had become besotted with her. Good for him.
“And then I heard from cousin Malik. He says his mom would like to see you.”
“You mean his mom directed him to order me to appear before her,” I retorted without disguising my disgust.
According to the story we were told, my father had come from a family with a history of producing warriors who went to battle and claimed many victories. However in modern times, by some quirk of Darwinism, this gift had been transformed into a combination of short, easily-irritable tempers and a very loud mouth, both of which my father shared with his vile sisters.
Malik’s mother was the eldest of them all, and as such the most likely to have the shortest temper, which was somewhere between nonexistent and a nanometer. She suffered from a profound lack of personality and was often compelled to make up for it by giving out commands and instructions to any living thing within sight. I have always considered her a spiteful creature made up of nothing but fangs and hubris.
“Maybe it is time to just tell her what I feel about her. These elders do really need to be told the truth sometimes.”
“Especially if it kills them,” he added with a sly smile.
We ordered for our meal, and when it arrived we helped ourselves to generous heaps of eba and egusi soup with peppered chicken and goat meat.
After the meal Korede continued, “About your case, there was this guy in prison who kept mouthing off about pulling off one of the most difficult robberies in history. He always moved around with a gang so I avoided him, but I remember once during fellowship he claimed he had been approached by someone to steal an object that will never make him worry about stealing again. He was doing a side job, while taking time to consider the offer, when he was caught and sent to jail. He was supposedly asking God to take away his memory of that meeting so he won’t be tempted to accept it when he got out.”
“That’s interesting. Might come in useful later on. Meanwhile, I have a few stops to make. Will be seeing you later Champ.”
I left the building without confessing my sins, or telling him about the other thing. That I had been having conversations with our dead mother. Funny
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