short narrow corridor experiencing an increasing odor of urine and the progressively louder buzzing of house flies. This led me there better than the hand-painted “Latrine” sign with the crude arrows pointing the way. The toilet was an avant garde affair with a door smaller than the frame. The dark interior was visible from outside. The door hung by a single hinge on one side and a latch on the other. I knocked out of habit and unhooked the latch with two fingers. To my surprise I did not gag.
A single bulb hung from the ceiling along with a pull-switch. It shone grudgingly, light wavering as if it might go off any minute. There was a bolt, and I slid it home with the same two fingers. The toilet bowl was porcelain (there was no seat), but it wasn’t a water closet. There was no water level. Instead, there was a hole with a u-bend that led to a pit. The buzzing of fly wings came from within said pit. Streaks of old feces outlined the path of shit from the bowl to the final destination. No tissue paper in sight, but to the left there was an ominous bucket of water with a ladle. The floor was made of wood, and there were outlines from previously-dried pools of fluid that had warped and eroded it over time.
I undid my belt and was about to pull my trousers down when I heard loud banging behind me.
“Open up!” said a voice.
“I’m not finished,” I said in Yoruba.
“Open up, now!”
The door crashed open and into my back. I yelped brief outrage before a black-clad figure swiped me across the face.
Which I had had fucking enough of.
I kicked out behind me, like a mule, and spun around. He was there, lean in slimming black, narrowed eyes, no wrist watch, shaved head. He came for me in a boxer’s stance, with hands raised. When he punched, I welcomed his fist into my space and grasped him at the forearm, stepped into his body, and slammed my elbow into the center of his chest. He clutched his chest and started coughing wildly, face crumpled up like a wad of toilet paper. I was wondering whether to kick him in the gonads for good measure when I heard multiple clicks of safeties flicked off.
Three men pointed pistols at me. They were dressed like the one I had just hit with similar hairstyles. I thought perhaps I should let them shoot because the way they were deployed, friendly fire was inevitable. Behind them was a man dressed in a military uniform, with epaulets, faux medals, tassels, and the like. He had a patchy beard and a haughty look, eyes that glowed with neither life nor intelligence. Not even malevolence. Only death of the kindly variety, the sort you dispense to diseased animals.
“Take him outside,” he said, “and burn him.”
This was, of course, Field Marshall Craig, and I was, of course, about to be grilled alive.
Then Abayomi was behind him, whispering into his ear urgently. A few words filtered through to me, and a sharp pas possible! from the propaganda man ended the intervention. Craig nodded. The men who I presumed were his bodyguards moved away from me.
“Mistah Kogi, you are welcome,” said Craig. “Normally, nobody touches my bodyguards and lives, but I see your MI-6 training has helped you overcome.”
“I’m not—”
“Your Excellency, I’m sure you are quite pressed to use the toilet,” said Abayomi. He came forward and pulled me by the arm. “I also still have a few things to cover with Mr. Kogi.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
Craig wore Chanel in copious amounts, and Abayomi pulled me though a cloud of it. The bodyguards shot me down several times in their heads. Back in the canteen a heavy-set man was seated in front of my plate, examining the remains of my iyan, tilting, sniffing. He wore short, unruly plaits on his head. I aimed myself for him, blood still up from the previous confrontation, but Abayomi firmly guided me away, toward the exit.
Outside we watched fruit bats flying out of their baobab trees, away from the sun, looking for food.
“You’re not
A single bulb hung from the ceiling along with a pull-switch. It shone grudgingly, light wavering as if it might go off any minute. There was a bolt, and I slid it home with the same two fingers. The toilet bowl was porcelain (there was no seat), but it wasn’t a water closet. There was no water level. Instead, there was a hole with a u-bend that led to a pit. The buzzing of fly wings came from within said pit. Streaks of old feces outlined the path of shit from the bowl to the final destination. No tissue paper in sight, but to the left there was an ominous bucket of water with a ladle. The floor was made of wood, and there were outlines from previously-dried pools of fluid that had warped and eroded it over time.
I undid my belt and was about to pull my trousers down when I heard loud banging behind me.
“Open up!” said a voice.
“I’m not finished,” I said in Yoruba.
“Open up, now!”
The door crashed open and into my back. I yelped brief outrage before a black-clad figure swiped me across the face.
Which I had had fucking enough of.
I kicked out behind me, like a mule, and spun around. He was there, lean in slimming black, narrowed eyes, no wrist watch, shaved head. He came for me in a boxer’s stance, with hands raised. When he punched, I welcomed his fist into my space and grasped him at the forearm, stepped into his body, and slammed my elbow into the center of his chest. He clutched his chest and started coughing wildly, face crumpled up like a wad of toilet paper. I was wondering whether to kick him in the gonads for good measure when I heard multiple clicks of safeties flicked off.
Three men pointed pistols at me. They were dressed like the one I had just hit with similar hairstyles. I thought perhaps I should let them shoot because the way they were deployed, friendly fire was inevitable. Behind them was a man dressed in a military uniform, with epaulets, faux medals, tassels, and the like. He had a patchy beard and a haughty look, eyes that glowed with neither life nor intelligence. Not even malevolence. Only death of the kindly variety, the sort you dispense to diseased animals.
“Take him outside,” he said, “and burn him.”
This was, of course, Field Marshall Craig, and I was, of course, about to be grilled alive.
Then Abayomi was behind him, whispering into his ear urgently. A few words filtered through to me, and a sharp pas possible! from the propaganda man ended the intervention. Craig nodded. The men who I presumed were his bodyguards moved away from me.
“Mistah Kogi, you are welcome,” said Craig. “Normally, nobody touches my bodyguards and lives, but I see your MI-6 training has helped you overcome.”
“I’m not—”
“Your Excellency, I’m sure you are quite pressed to use the toilet,” said Abayomi. He came forward and pulled me by the arm. “I also still have a few things to cover with Mr. Kogi.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
Craig wore Chanel in copious amounts, and Abayomi pulled me though a cloud of it. The bodyguards shot me down several times in their heads. Back in the canteen a heavy-set man was seated in front of my plate, examining the remains of my iyan, tilting, sniffing. He wore short, unruly plaits on his head. I aimed myself for him, blood still up from the previous confrontation, but Abayomi firmly guided me away, toward the exit.
Outside we watched fruit bats flying out of their baobab trees, away from the sun, looking for food.
“You’re not
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