Luckily for Daw Red, the guy in the wide pants was a clumsy runner. He kept clutching at his inner thigh as he hopped after him. Daw Red had no trouble putting a lot of distance between him and the retard.
He passed the side street and came upon Durosinmi Etti Drive. This area had people going about their business like regular humans, and it would have drawn unwanted attention for him – fully suited as he was – to come charging down the streets like the hounds of hell were on his tailcoat. So he slowed to a jog, checked behind him twice to make sure he had lost his chaser, and then began to walk.
“Christ”, he breathed hard. “Fucking clowns on the streets these days.” He absent-mindedly picked up his phone again. The bitch still hadn’t called. Another disappointment for the day.
He bought pure water from an aboki selling at the gate of a house. Just as he was paying, he saw some policemen step out through the gate. Quickly averting his face, he strode away, leaving his change in the palms of a very perplexed Hausa man.
He heard the vrooom sound in the background, but he was too focused on leaving the vicinity that he didn’t pay attention until a bike crashed into the dumpster in front of him and a man lunged at him.
The guy in the wide pants. Fuck.
Both men came crashing into the dumpster. Daw Red tried frantically to break free of the guy – “Let go of me, you prick!” and the guy kept scrambling to replace the pieces of green suit that kept leaving his grip.
Daw Red slammed a punch across the guy’s mouth. He spat blood, and returned the favour. Daw Red saw red.
Then there was that k-chuk! sound that signaled end of discussion – the sound of guns.
Both men stared into the noses of cold steel guns. Farther up were two unamused policemen.
“As you dey see me so, I no get time for bastards. Idiots, stand up! Ba lokacin.”
An hour later (Well, not an hour. Could be 59 mins later. Or an hour ONE MINUTE later. Heck, did you come to read this to satisfy your pedantry?)
Daw Red stared at the guy seated across him with much hate. They had been transported to the Victoria Island Police Station’s holding cell. After the policemen had collected their ridiculous statements, they were given the privilege of one call. Daw Red made his call. The guy in wide pants said he had no one to call.
The guy in the pants was dozing off on his bench, drool already gathering at the corner of his mouth. The holding cell was empty apart from the two men; ‘policing’ business wasn’t ‘moving’ these days. People had either become law-abiding citizens all of a sudden, or they had gotten better at covering their tracks. This was definitely no reflection on the efficiency of the police.
The guy snorted, and it was sheer torture for Daw Red to hear the 3D-noise of mucus exchanging caverns in his nose as the fluids sought level ground in his throat.
He stood up and slapped the guy awake. Lapping up drool, the guy blinked and squinted at Daw Red.
“You were drooling”, Daw Red said simply.
Both men stared at each other; Daw Red with revulsion, the guy with curiosity.
“What’s your name?”, Daw Red asked, more to break the silence than from any real curiosity to know.
“Marcus. Marcus Kwame.”
“Kwame? You’re Ghanian?”
“What brings you to Nigeria?”
“A…business conference. That’s what it was supposed to be, at least.”
Daw Red sighed. There’s a story here, and the dweeb wants me to ask.
“What happened then? And why were you chasing me?”
“Why did you run?”
“Reflex. You see a mad man chase you, you gotta run, dude.”
Marcus sighed. It was obvious that Daw Red was born suspicious. He surely needed to win his trust.
“Listen. I came into Nigeria because I was supposed to attend a three-day business conference sponsored by the company I work for. I spent the evening with a . . .lady, and then things went haywire. Several things led me to you, and I know they are not coincidences. I just want you to help me out here.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Say everything again, only this time in English.”
“Daw, whoever you are, I am not an enemy. I am a victim of circumstances.”
Daw Red gave an award-winning poker face.
“Come on, man!” Marcus was exasperated. “Okay. I guess you won’t budge. See, I came into Lekki to spend the night with a lady-friend who was recommended to me for ‘a good time’. I spent the night with her, and the next morning, I woke up a monster.” Marcus then went on to tell Daw Red about how he had chased the girl and how she had died and how he had found the clue which led up to him.
“Wait,” Daw Red interrupted. “Wait a bleeping minute. What you’re saying basically is that you’re Sherlock Holmes and you want to recruit a Watson, right? Not interested.”
“Listen, man! You’re my only link to what all this happened. See, I’ll show you…” and Marcus dropped his pants.
“Holy fucking shit-caressing vomit-inducing fuck!” Daw Red jumped as he saw the 14” penis. He frantically clanged on the prison bars. “Rapist! Help, officer! I’m about to be raped with a monster dick!”
Marcus shook his head and put his pants back on.
“Shut up, if you don’t want me to drill another hole near your ass!” a faceless policeman yelled.
Daw Red slumped against the bars.
Marcus said, “you see what I mean? This woman…she caused it. And your name was in her purse.”
“You say what?” Daw Red’s eyes lit up.
“The prostitute. The woman who made me…big.” Marcus averted his eyes.
Daw Red was already sitting up. “Listen to me, Marcus. Are you listening?”
“Yeah, I guess”, Marcus replied.
“No homo, but before your…er…’accident’, did you have a small dick?”
“Small as in teeny weeny?”
“Hey! I don’t like it being described as such, but yeah.”
“Really small? Like my thumb?”
Marcus sighed. “You’re really gonna milk this, aren’t you?”
“Listen!” Daw Red whispered excitedly. “I think I know the lady who did this to you
“I may be able to help you”.