Excerpts from Vaults of Secrets by Associate Editor of The Nation, Korede Yishau on the day a reporter met his friend’s wife in his publisher’s hotel suite.
It was a Friday. I had just come out of the cinema at the Novare Mall in Sangotedo where I had gone to see Alakada Reloaded when my phone rang and the caller ID showed that it was my boss, Nonso, whose name instilled fear into top bankers, A-list politicians and every other who-is-who with skeletons in their cupboards.
He asked me to see him by 9pm. Looking back now, I wish I’d found an excuse not to see him. If I had not seen him, I would not have become the hostage of a secret which destroyed my best friend.
I checked my watch and saw that I could make it to Banana Island the time he asked me to see him.
As I made my way to the expansive car park of this beautiful mall some forty minutes away from the Island town of Epe, the image of my controversial boss filled my head.
Nonso, heavily-built and with a protruding belly that made it difficult for him to wear a pair of shoes on his own, was a man of questionable character. He had been a politician in the aborted Third Republic. His foray into publishing after being a politician gave him the leverage that only a few publishers had. Many feared his newspaper, This Country, rather than respect it. The fear of Nonso was the beginning of wisdom for business people and politicians. Bank executives worshipped the ground he walked on and paid good money for his favours. Nonso got paid piles of money for adverts in advance, but it all went to support his lavish lifestyle.
Nonso could lease a jet to fly to the UK to suck a girlfriend’s breasts. He could camp a girl in Eko Hotel for weeks so she could fiddle with his penis. He was a perfect example of what success should not be. But in an abnormal clime like Nigeria, Nonso was a kingmaker, a man to be reckoned with if one wanted to secure his ascent or upturn the progress of others.
Paying staff salaries was not Nonso’s priority. There were instances when staff down-tooled and he quickly paid them, but he always found a way of hitting back. He was fond of telling reporters that he knew they were using his newspaper’s identity card to make money. And to top that, Nonso was reputed for wanting the same women his employees wanted. His liaison with the wife of one of his former editors led to the collapse of the editor’s marriage. When he attempted to export his business model to London and South Africa, it ended in calamity. His assets were sold off in South Africa to pay the workers he owed.
I wondered why he wanted to see me. Of recent, I had been lukewarm about my job and if my plans had worked, I would have relocated abroad.
I made my way out of the mall in my green Toyota Corolla 2005 model after dropping the tally number with a guard who said ‘have a good evening’ as if he was saying ‘find me something for the weekend’.
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The traffic was smooth all the way to Victoria Garden City, but when I got to Ikate-Elegushi, my car was stuck on one spot for 27 minutes. Hawkers made brisk business selling bottled water, sachet water and soft drinks. Beggars too had a field day canvassing for alms. I could see many in commercial vehicles sweating out their frustration. The clog of yellow-rusted buses hooting their horns added to the confusion on the Lekki-Epe Expressway. It was a tug of war passing through Circle Mall, and hell escaping into Lekki Phase 1.
The hordes of young people usually soliciting for customers shortly after the Lekki Phase 1 second gate had cleared out because the Canada Visa Centre, which they served, had closed by the time I got there. Five hours earlier, when I passed through the gate, tens of young men had besieged my car, asking if I wanted a passport or needed photocopying. They had a way of assuming everyone at that spot was trying to leave the country.
After passing the church called THIS PRESENT HOUSE, I ran into another traffic jam caused by the toll gates on the beautiful Lekki-Ikoyi Bridge. Vehicles moved at snail’s pace, and street hawkers were not in short supply. From handkerchiefs to potato chips to Tom-Tom, all were on sale. One could even buy knives and cutlasses.
My attention was drawn to a couple in a Range Rover Evoque; the glasses were wound up, and I could not hear what they were saying, but it was clear they were in a heated argument. The man slapped the woman, got out of the car and started walking away. The poor woman, who obviously could not drive, sat there crying while other cars horned around her. I found my way out and quickly moved towards the gates. Five minutes later, I was paying the N300 toll fee, collecting my receipt from the smiling female attendant and zooming off into Ikoyi. I checked the time. It was 8.31pm. I smiled, sure that I would be on time for my appointment with my boss in his Banana Island residence.
Soon I was on Onikoyi Road, the gateway to Banana Island. I cruised past the Redeemed Christian Church of God, where Professor Yemi Osinbajo pastored before becoming the vice-president. At the first gate, I was asked who I wanted to see.
‘Mr Nonso Ejiofor,’ I said.
They asked for my name and what followed showed that Nonso had given them my name as a guest. I was given a password, ‘giraffe’, which I would tell those at the second gate before they would allow me to proceed to Abia Street.
The Island reeked of wealth: well-laid out road network, well-mowed lawn, perfumed air, well-built and glossed mansions and an ambience comparable to Seventh Arrondissement in Paris, La Jolla in San Diego and Tokyo’s Shibuya and Roppongi.
There were no pot-holes, no house with peeling paint; no form of shabbiness had room in this rich’s playground.
I was in front of Airtel’s headquarters when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Nonso; it read: ‘Wait for me, I will soon join you.’
It was a confirmation the man was not at home and I would have to wait. Waiting for Nonso was not a strange thing. His editors always waited for his authorisation every day before going to bed. There were times they would have finished production and patted themselves on the back for a job well done and he would tear apart all they had done. He would ask the editor on duty to take a pen and he would dictate what would lead the paper for the following day. A former editor once told me that Nonso always made him feel like he was just a figurehead.
As I drove around, I wondered which house was Mike Adenuga’s and which was Sayyu Dantata’s. I noticed that on the residential side, there were no four-storied buildings. I drove past Ocean Parade Towers, a series of 14 luxury tower blocks, and wished I could own a piece of it.
The bliss on the Island did not prepare me for the storm to come. By 10pm, I was still outside Nonso’s imposing white mansion. I was getting sick and tired. Something told me to call Nonso’s bluff and head home. After all, Saturday was my work-free day. But another voice asked me to wait it out. I was later to understand that it was my special gift at work!
In the house opposite Nonso’s place, the garage boasted a Rolls Royce Phantom, Bentley Continental, a Ferrari, Range Rover and Porsche 911. I wondered who owned the house and why he needed all these luxury cars. I imagined that the person must have a private jet parked at a private hangar in Ikeja. I imagined the owner inside the house holding a champagne flute from which he sipped copiously.
I took myself inside Nonso’s mansion, mentally. I imagined that the furniture would be imported; I imagined some domestic hands doing one chore or the other. I was sure there would be no kids or wife because they all lived abroad. I imagined the living room would be massive—like Nonso. I wondered what would be going on in the kitchen because Nonso ate out most of the time. I wondered if Nonso liked his life or if he was not in control of it any longer. My attention was diverted when around 11pm, my phone rang. It was Nonso again.
‘Come to Eko Signature. Tell the receptionist you want to see me,’ he said and hung up before I could complain.
This man must be mad, I said to myself, took a deep breath, exhaled and began to drive out of the well-lit road of Banana Island. The roads were no longer busy, so in less than ten minutes, I was standing at the reception of Eko Signature, the latest addition to the Eko Hotels and Suites. I admired the imposing reception area, the bar, the lights, the wood panels on the wall and the giant-rolling door that let me in.
After I was cleared to go up to see Nonso, I dashed to the elevator and an attendant, obviously called by the chubby-cheeked, fair-complexioned beauty who was the receptionist, followed me. I tried to operate the elevator, but with no success. The attendant looked at me and smiled as though saying this must be a Johnny Just Come.
‘You can’t access the elevator or any floor here without us or a guest letting you in; that is why it is called Signature. You can’t enter without the signature,’ he said and brought out a card, pressed it somewhere near the elevator and it opened. A minute later, I was inside Nonso’s suite.
‘How are you?’ Nonso said. He was in a pair of shorts. His beer-belly was uncovered, his feet bare and his grey hair uncombed. I returned his greetings and could immediately smell the presence of a female. And just before we could start any discussion, a young woman, probably 22, walked out of the room, shouting ‘Nonso, Nonso’.
I felt like the ground would open and consume me. How could this girl call someone old enough to be her father by his first name?
‘Good evening sir,’ the girl said to me and I was infuriated. Nonso had sold his honour to the girl. I still had mine.
The voluptuous girl walked back into the room, leaving Nonso and me in the sitting room. I looked forward to hearing why Nonso called me.
“Emmanuel —”
Nonso’s phone rang and he held the phone to me. ‘Sorry, this is Okowa calling.’ He picked the call and said: ‘Your Excellency. Good evening, sir.’ He listened. ‘Thank you, your excellency. To what do I owe the honour of this call?’
For reasons I could not understand, Nonso put the call on speaker. Perhaps he wanted me to confirm that he was truly speaking with the Delta State governor.
‘We are holding this economic summit in Asaba and I want you to chair the occasion,’ the governor said.
‘That should not be a problem. Tell your boys to send me the details by mail and I will be there live and direct,’ said Nonso.
‘You will have the details first thing tomorrow morning. Good night, my brother,’ the governor said.
‘Good night, your Excellency.’
Immediately he dropped the call, another of his phones rang. He told me later that the call was from a bank MD who wanted some editorial favours.
‘That is a small thing, but you know how it goes,’ Nonso said quietly, before bursting into a guffaw.
‘All right then,’ Nonso said and added: ‘Good night, my brother.’
The girl soon came out again to whisper something into Nonso’s ear and he burst out laughing. I felt like standing up and slapping the girl for not staying inside until we were through with the business at hand.
‘Will you like to go to London?’ Nonso asked, catching me unaware.
‘Yes sir,’ I said without thinking.
‘It is for a conference. You will get the details tomorrow.’
The door opened again, and I assumed it would be the bosomy girl; it was not. Walking into the sitting room from the same bedroom the small girl entered was Dunni, my best friend’s wife of five months.
Like me, Dunni was shocked but summoned the courage to come and whisper to Nonso. She greeted me as though we were meeting for the first time. I played along. She went back in and Nonso dismissed me by saying: ‘I have urgent and pressing national matters to attend to inside.’
I didn’t allow myself to think about what three people would be doing in one room. I knew what a threesome was, and I knew that it was not one of my fantasies. What bothered me more, however, was what kind of married woman got involved in a threesome with an older man and a slip of a girl. What kind of woman did my best friend marry?
It was way past midnight when I sped through the Third Mainland Bridge and went home to my apartment in Mende, Maryland.
Sleep did not come easily that day. Ozolua and I had spoken earlier, and he had told me that Dunni was out of town for a conference. That night Dunni sent me a WhatsApp message pleading with me not to tell Ozolua. Nonso, she said, was an old benefactor who insisted on seeing her one last time. I did not respond.
A week later, I flew out to London. As is typical, friends saddled me with a list of what they wanted me to get for them. Ozolua drove me to the airport, and Dunni came along saying she wanted to see Uncle Emmanuel off.
As the two of them held hands and gave me a joint hug at the departure hall, I was tempted to drop some hint to my friend, but I did not want to break a home. That day, as my flight took off and Lagos gradually became smaller and turned into a map, I knew that my tongue would remain fettered. My silence had made me complicit.
