Free Easy Motion Tourist by Leye Adenle Page A

shot and killed for no reason, raped and tortured for sport. Ibrahim told the person on the phone a story of how they once relieved an elderly pastor of his S Class Merc. They made the terrified man of God pray for them and bless them, before shooting him in the leg and asking him to pray for a miracle that would instantly heal the bullet wound. They left him bleeding on the road and sped off in his car. A few kilometres into their getaway, the car stopped. It had ananti-theft immobiliser. They set it ablaze, snatched another car, and went back to find the pastor – to teach him a lesson for deceiving them. The pastor barely survived the beating. They told him they only spared his life so that his congregation would buy him a new car, which they would in turn return to collect. They were a bunch of disillusioned, disaffected, drug-crazed, violent gangsters.
    The gang had been on a crime spree that night. They had snatched several cars, probably to order, and then driven their loot in a high-speed convoy, picking up more cars on the way, heading out of Lagos. The men of Fire-for-Fire were out on their nightly patrol and the gang drove into them. The gunfight that followed saw motorists abandoning their cars to flee on foot. In the end, two of the criminals fell and the rest were arrested.
    Ibrahim asked for details and shook hands with the officers. He wanted to know who fired the fatal shots: it was Sergeant Hot-Temper, as usual.
    Hot-Temper, a lanky fellow with deep lacerations that spread from the corners of his mouth to his cheekbones, was standing straight, arms folded across his chest, grinning toothily through glazed eyes.
    Ibrahim slapped a loud handshake onto his palm.
    ‘Hot-Temper, why didn’t you waste all the bastards?’
    ‘Oga, my bullets finished. Before I reload, they don surrender.’
    The men burst into laughter.
    This man, this Sergeant Hot-Temper, who stood less than a metre from me, had just come back from ending two lives. I shouldn’t be here.
    A short man with a tiny face like a squirrel’s eased his way into the room. He tried to catch his boss’s attention amidst thetaller, harder looking combatants. He waited until the inspector noticed him and beckoned. I listened to their conversation while pretending to admire the plaques on the wall.
    Squirrel-face told his boss that a woman had trekked barefoot to the station and asked to see the officer in charge. Her car had just been snatched. She ‘spoke well’ and looked like a ‘big woman,’ so the constable thought it wise to inform his boss rather than ask her any further questions.
    ‘Where is she?’
    ‘She is at the counter, sir.’
    ‘Has she written a statement?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘OK. Ask her to write her statement and when she finishes, bring her here.’ He turned to me. ‘Mr Collins, as you can see, we are very busy here tonight.’ I nodded. More than one of the terrifying-to-look-at officers had given me the once-over. I really didn’t want him drawing attention to me right then.
    ‘What you witnessed tonight, at the club, I advise you to forget. These things happen in our country, but even worse things happen in yours, we see it on TV all the time. My boys will take you back to your hotel and you will forget everything that happened tonight. Understand?’ I nodded.
    ‘As you can see, we the police are doing all we can to get rid of the miscreants in our society. What you witnessed tonight will not go unpunished. The life expectancy of armed robbers in this country is less than thirty. We will catch the culprits, and when we do, we will bring them to justice. You do not need to worry about it. This is a local problem and we will deal with it locally. Understand?’ I nodded. ‘Just forget everything, OK?’
    I’d been so busy dealing with my own predicament that I hadactually forgotten about the girl in the gutter. I wanted to believe that this man would do something about it. That he would find the bastard who did that