The Event

By Ude Walter Uchenna

The tale brings about a myriad of characters, each interwoven with the others in a story of suspense, betrayal, lust, love and, at times, humour.

Nobel laureate Frederick Ekene is going to be honoured at a gala in the city of Abuja, an event that will herald his climb from disgrace back up into the public eye. The event is slated to be a grand one attended by the important and not-so-important of the city, many of whom plan to attend with other intentions aside celebrating Frederick Ekene.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Mar 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493142118

Ude Walter Uchenna

Uchenna Walter Ude, a trained Biochemist, cannot remember the last time he was in a laboratory. His stories and essays have appeared online, including in the anthology, So We Do Not Forget. He dabbles in poetry, and was awarded the accolade of the Amateur Poet of the Year 2003 by the International Society of Poets. He was a participant of the 2013 class of the Farafina Creative Writing Workshop. He also runs the Wordpress blog, MyMindSnaps: a smorgasbord of stories, news tidbits, opinions and entertainment snippets, the latter stemming from his being an avid fan of the E! Channel on TV.

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Copyright © 2014 by Ude Walter Uchenna.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/17/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Book One

The First Day

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Book Two

The Second Day

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Book Three

Six Months Later

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Acknowledgements

Out from the vastness of space and immensity of time, I was fortunate enough to know these people who saw me through this book; the men and women who provided support, talked things over, read, offered comments and answers, and assisted in the editing and proofreading. These are the people to whom I would like to express my immense gratitude.

I would like to thank especially my SARTian family, friends whose lives and personalities inspired most of the characters in this book.

I would also like to express great appreciation to Ebuka Igbokwe, Emmanuel Essien, Eketi Ette, Ifeanyi Obiagwu and Ememesi Ette for the time they spent furnishing me with knowledge that helped me in the course of my writing; especially Ememesi, who I refer to as my ‘Mesyclopedia,’ simply because he was an enduring source of vast information.

Thanks to Kelechi Njoku, Ada Unachukwu and Tomi Owolabi for helping me in the process of selection and editing.

Much thanks also to Isemede Ojealero, the friend who showed me a way and helped me along that way, when it seemed there was none available to me.

And to my family and several friends who cheered me on and encouraged me through every process of this endeavour. It was a long journey, this work, but it was a good one simply because I had these wonderful people in my corner.

I beg forgiveness of all those who have been with me over the course of the years and whose names I have failed to mention. Even without the mentions, every contribution to this book is greatly appreciated.

Prologue

The shots rang out in the distance, twin staccato bursts that caused the stir in the room to freeze, all ears straining to ascertain the exact nature of the shots. Then the bodies unfroze and there followed a muted buzz as glances were thrown warily at each other. You could see the questions in the eyes of the people in various positions of sitting and standing: could it be a car backfiring? Certainly not gunshots, were they? Did that even come from inside the hotel?

For the briefest moment, the man standing at the podium stayed distracted by the sound of the shots and the murmur of slight trepidation roiling across the room. Then he regained his sangfroid, gripped the lectern and peered avidly into the sea of faces eddying before him. His intensity gradually captured the general attention, and once again, he was the focus, the droning baritone of his voice, when he commenced speaking, weaving an allure that was spellbinding, and his words holding centre stage once again.

I have had so many request of me the blueprint of success as a writer, as an artist, as a person. Now if I am to say the secret of my, well, ‘success’ lies in my exercise regimen every morning—fifty push-ups—they get prostrate. If I am to say it has to do with my daily jogging, they strap on their boots. Now, let’s take it a bit further; I married my first wife because she was the first one who gave me positive reviews for my work. She was an angel, but I realized later, not my angel. Do they do that too? Ape my blunders, too? But I also know my writing is shaped by my life, the sum total of my experiences, and as such, everything is ‘good’, helped shape my literary depth, and got me to where I am. Getting my blueprints, and applying them to your life would only make you a second-rate me, instead of a first-rate you. You end up giving the world an unfair rendition of what it already has while depriving it of the best of what it never had—you. Note therefore that the point is that successful writing—and almost all other life endeavors—is a personal, dynamic experience. Everyone has the aptitude for greatness; one only needs to find that personal recipe that will work for one.

At that time, there was a rush of feet right outside the ballroom; it was followed by a click as the doors were opened slightly to admit a nondescript-looking man. The man at the podium glanced briefly at the new arrival, only mildly interested in him.

He continued, Sometimes, life isn’t a quest for the right answer. Sometimes, you need to find the right questions. And in that quest, it is important to note that one shouldn’t expect victories in life, because the little-known truth is that there are no victories in life. There are just battles. And the best you can hope for is that you find some place where you can make your stand. And if you’re lucky, you find someone to stand with you. Someone who you can say to: ‘If this is your stand, then I’ll stand by you.’

He paused to look around, to let the words settle, to drive his point home. His gaze spanned the room, settled on the new arrival, and had begun to wander away from him, his mouth opening to continue speaking, when the man withdrew his hand from inside the jacket of his suit, his fist clenched around the barrel of a gun, the purpose on his face set on one of the guests. The speaker’s eyes widened with terror, and his words had taken the shape of a cry of alarm when the shots rang out, their booming resonance wrecking pandemonium inside the room.

Book One

The First Day

Finish every day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense. This day is all that is good and fair. It is too dear, with its hopes and invitations, to waste a moment on yesterdays.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Chapter One

FRIDAY, 6: 35 AM

LONDON

The wintry December morning light filtered into the room through the curtains from the snow-laden atmosphere outside, carrying with it a frisson of cold that caused the man lying on the bed to unconsciously burrow into his bedcovers. The alarm shrilled and Nobel laureate Frederick Ekene turned wearily over, punching it into silence. He lay back on his pillow, arms folded behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling.

This would be the first normal sleep he’d had since his car accident six months ago. No crazy dreams. No being awakened by his own groans as he tossed and turned. He actually felt rested. But he knew that feeling of languor wouldn’t last. When the day began fully, and he got out there to join the hustle and bustle of the London streets, he knew he would sink back into his funk, that state of nervous depression that had threatened his entire being during his recuperative days. The deep well of sadness that yawned inside him, threatening to swallow him up. The flashbacks that pulled him back to the scene of the accident where the simple but dangerous act of him making a phone call while driving had ended in the ghastly car crash that resulted in the fatalities of the other driver and his passenger. He’d escaped with minor injuries and a crushing guilt that would not let him be.

Frederick Ekene. Worldwide celebrated author and playwright. The Literary Review had termed him ‘a man with a wide cultural perspective, who uses his abundant fictional overtones to fashion a spellbinding drama of existence’ when he’d won the Nobel Laureate, an honor that put him in the echelon of the few Africans to win the distinction, and Litro Magazine had hailed him as the next Wole Soyinka. After earning a goodwill ambassadorship at the United Nations, his star had flown high ever since, with younger and even established authors from his home country, Nigeria and other African countries seeking him as their mentor, and doors of the international community of literature opening to him. And all this while he was still in his forties. He was celebrated. Lauded. Led a charmed life. Or so, everyone thought. People saw him as a demi-god, blinded by the glory of his star to the human that lay underneath it all. And that was why when the news of his accident—complete with his mistake behind the wheel—had been picked up by the London media and filtered back home, the reports had been ruthless, eviscerating everything about his character, and leaving his reputation limping along. He winced each time he thought about the account where London Times had termed him ‘a reasonably more intellectual version of Paris Hilton’.

He also had to battle his personal demons and the prospect of manslaughter charges and a civil suit brought against him by the Director of Public Prosecutions and the victims’ families respectively. If not for Terri, he wouldn’t be the liberated man that he was now. The woman who had managed to become the single most important person in his life right now had pulled strings that got the DPP off his back, settled with the injured family and got him into a rehabilitation centre that healed him. Or at least tried to do so.

And now she was in Nigeria, organizing an event where he was a guest of honor who would speak to an audience made up of those who admired him and those who now scorned him. And yet others who couldn’t care for him either way. When Terri suggested this, he’d been vociferously against it. But she’d insisted. When he asked why she was so insistent, she rested her azure-colored gaze on him and said, This would be the commencement of a comeback for you. And it would be good for you. For you to stand there on the podium, strong and proud, saying the things you know, looking into the eyes of those who love and hate you… it would be your very own cathartic experience. Trust me.

And he had. But during moments like this, when he was alone with his thoughts, he wondered if he should have.

ENUGU, NIGERIA; 7: 00 AM

It was the sound of someone ringing the doorbell to the boys’ quarters’ apartment that awakened Simon Nnadi. He opened his eyes with some reluctance to find Janet—or was it Janice—stirring beside him, and although he wanted very much to ignore it, the sound just wouldn’t go away.

Who the hell is that? he muttered, turning around to burrow deeper into the warmth of his bedcovers. It’s the middle of the night!

A chuckle alerted him to Janet’s—yes, that was definitely her name—mirth. It’s seven o’clock, she corrected him gently. And as the bell rang again, she said, Do you want me to see who it is?

Please, he said, rising a bit from the bed. And get rid of whoever it is. He planted a lingering kiss on the corner of her mouth. I haven’t finished with you yet.

Giggling, she rose, sweeping up a robe to cover her naked form and padded out of the room, her gait every bit as assured and as comfortable as someone who felt at home in his place.

The thought startled Simon into complete wakefulness. A woman feeling at home in his place? Unacceptable! Next thing you know, she would start cooking for him in his kitchen, arranging and moving his things around, ‘forgetting’ her stuff in his place, and hanging up frilly and feminine things in his closets. And when that invasion was complete, she would start hinting for a ring on her finger. And these days, women weren’t shy about asking the ‘what’s next for us’ question. Benson, one of his guys, had admitted to his friends the other day that his fiancée—the same woman who he was going to be married to in a week’s time—had practically shoehorned him into domesticity. James—they called him Mr. Whipped because of his nauseating devotion to his marriage and wife—had admonished Benson, saying he just had a case of cold feet. Pre-wedding jitters, he’d called it.

Pre-wedding jitters my left nut, Simon now thought caustically. Benson was right. Women these days were now aggressively on the hunt for men. And they didn’t just get them and stop there, waiting for the men to chauffeur the relationship to the altar. No. They snatched that prerogative from the men and rode roughshod to the ‘I dos’. He blamed this frightening new culture on Hollywood. Ever since that pop-star Beyoncé came out with that song ‘Single Ladies’ which had promptly become adopted into the pop culture, it was now all about some chick giving you grief about when you were going to put a ring on it. And some times, after a few dates, for heaven’s sakes!

Darling, Janet’s voice preceded her into the room, it’s some guy from the movie company. Says it’s important he sees you. She had arranged her mouth into a pout, as though unhappy over the fact that someone had not budged when she’d said ‘shoo’.

Simon groaned inwardly. A messenger from the studio? He didn’t need a lucky guess to know it was one of Wilson’s minions. Ever since that scriptwriter, Jide what’s-his-name, turned some bestselling writer’s novel—Weights & Measures—into a dynamic movie script, and he’d been hired to direct the movie, his boss, Wilson Irabor, who happened to be the producer of the project and one of the most powerful men in Nollywood, had been on his case. He had insisted on being hands-on with the project, and was presently meddling with the selection of the cast, expressly demanding for the right to recruit the male lead himself. Simon hated to work in such stifling conditions, but had made an exception for this movie, because he’d read the script, and he knew that, with the right touch and the right cast, Weights & Measures could very well be the next blockbuster since Ije.

What did Wilson want now? He thought grumpily as he threw back the covers of the bed and stood, the mirror that was part of his dresser catching his reflection as he reached for his boxers and put them on. Simon Nnadi was a good-looking man with a slightly-oblong, coffee-coloured face and eyes that were set rather too close together. In his early thirties, he had managed to maintain a trim, lanky build and concave abs that he wished would be ripped with the famous six-packs that muscled men were known for. Still, he was proud of his frame, as evident in his slouch as he walked out of the bedroom, down the small corridor, across the living room and out to the verandah where the Harmattan fog hung dense in the air and the morning caller waited. It was, indeed, one of Wilson’s numerous assistants.

Hey, Joe, what’s up? Simon said by way of greeting, stretching out his hand to shake the other man’s hand.

Nna, nothing much oh, my brother, Joe replied. How far your side?

I just dey, Simon said, wincing inwardly. He hated it when he had to resort to Pidgin English to communicate with people. Wetin carry you come my house this early morning?

Na oga oh. Him hear say I don enter Enugu to ready for Christmas, come call me say make I tell you say make you enter Abuja sharpaly-sharpaly.

Simon stifled another groan. He knew it. Whenever Wilson called, it usually involved a displacement from where you were to where he wanted you to be. Him talk wetin im wan make I do for Abuja?

Na one function like that wey him too dey go. Say na unto that film levels. Say im dey very important and na tomorrow night the function dey happen. So you gats march today-today.

Simon sighed and shook his head. This man sabi change person plans…

As in eh! Joe concurred with exuberant commiseration. See me nah. Just wake me this early mohmoh, drag me comot bed enter this Harmattan as if say I no get better things to do. Even my babe just dey—

Yes, yes, yes, Simon cut in hurriedly, unwilling to listen to the other man’s litany of woes. No wahala. Later today, I go enter Abuja.

The two men shook hands once again, and the assistant turned and left, the director shutting and bolting the door behind him. Then, shivering slightly under the onslaught of the December cold, he darted back inside the warmth of his home.

ABUJA; 7: 30 AM

Emem Ekong Odii-Akpan was sitting alone at the dining table, having a Spartan breakfast—wheat bread, no eggs, and no sugared tea—because she’d just turned thirty-one and was beginning to notice that the pounds didn’t magically melt away the way they had when she was twenty-one. She could still run a six-minute mile and slip—OK, struggle—into a size 8, but thirty-one was fundamentally different from thirty. She spent more time arranging her abundant dark hair to earn those second glances. And if she indulged during lunch, then dinner was going to have to be simply a fruit salad. She sighed heavily as she lifted her cup of honeyed tea to her mouth. It wasn’t easy being a single parent to a six-year-old, shouldering the responsibility of the second-in-command at The Daily Report, a small but thriving and reputable newspaper house in the capital. And endeavouring to look good in a city where appearances told the story that people wanted to hear.

The gentle toot of a horn jolted her out of her reverie and she stood and walked over to the window of her living room to look out to the front of her compound. Mrs. Okoye next door—who usually dropped off her daughter at school, right along with her children—was alerting her to the fact that they were almost ready to leave.

Idara! Junior’s mum is ready! she hollered, arching her head in the general direction of the rooms inside.

No response came from the room in the furthest corner of the corridor.

Idara! Hurry up, young lady, or you’ll miss the Okoyes.

I’m ready, mommy! A small voice whined. I’m just looking for my Maths book.

As the car outside sounded three short blasts on its horn, Idara ran out of her bedroom and grabbed the lunchbox her mother had prepared. I’m sure I will get a 100 percent on the test today, she said excitedly.

That’s wonderful, honey. Emem bent and kissed her daughter, then watched the child race out of the apartment. Take care, OK? she called after her.

She sighed as she poured herself a second cup of tea and contemplated the morning ahead. There were beds to be made and dishes to wash. Then she had to report briefly at work, make her presence known, then dash back out to Wuse market to shop for some foodstuff and restock on the provisions. Her sister, Victoria, was coming into Abuja on her long-sought-after two-week vacation time, and she’d be staying with her. Emem gave a small sigh of nostalgia. She hadn’t seen Victoria in such a long time. Being the star media personality that she was, the woman was always where the action was, and if it meant touching down on the conflict-ridden marshes of the Niger Delta or reporting live from the hostile suburbs of the North, or simply anchoring from the H2O studio in Lagos, Victoria Odii-Akpan just had to be there. The camera loved her, and she loved the camera right back.

Her phone rang just then. She answered. Godwin, hi, good morning. I’m just on my way out of the house now.

No, you’re not, the gruff no-nonsense voice of her boss droned through to her ears. But I’m not calling about your lateness. You know Terri Williams, right?

Who didn’t? Anyone who was familiar with the social and political circles of Abuja knew about Terri Williams, the former British ambassador stationed in Nigeria. She had long since been replaced, but she was still a relevant power broker in both her home country and here.

Emem rolled her eyes as she responded, Seriously?

A chuckle preceded Godwin’s next words. "Well, she’s throwing a gala tomorrow night at the Oasis Hotel. It’s supposed to be in honour of the Nobel laureate Frederick Ekene. I want you to represent The Daily Report there."

But I have no invite… Emem protested.

I’ve pulled some strings, Godwin cut in. When you get to the office this morning, your invite will be on your desk.

But… you’re asking me to do this on such short notice, she grumbled.

It’s your job, Emem. Her boss’s voice had cooled considerably. I’m asking you to do it. Simple. And he hung up.

ASABA; 8: 00 AM

Even though the messy weather of the rains had given way to the harsher climate of the early Harmattan, in some Southern parts of the country, the last rains were still falling. And on this morning, the Delta State capital was under a squally assault. Rain swirled across the town, streaks of lightning shattering the raindrops into dazzling diamond waterfalls that lent a picturesque vision to the town. When Chidi Emelue awoke, his body jerking awake in tandem to a particularly uproarious rumble of thunder, his arm thrown over his girlfriend’s smooth back, a dull, throbbing hangover working its way down the back of his neck, he could hear the rain falling steadily outside. The curtains were billowing, stirred by a thick wet breeze at once chilling and comforting. He was also aware that the woman that lay beside him was awake, because of the taut way she held her body. Alicia was a hyperactive woman and never completely relaxed unless she was asleep. Even then, when he watched her sleep, she displayed little tics, her body giving out small sporadic jerks, her hands twitching, as though she had gone with her ubiquitous pen into the dream world and was working her magic in worming out whatever story she had set her mind to.

Lying beside the man she’d been dating for about eight months, Alicia Irabor was indeed awake. For the past few minutes, she had lain there, listening to the wind whip the rain into a frenzied maelstrom, and trying to decide how best to slip out of bed without disturbing Chidi in his slumber. Her dilemma was solved when he asked in a mumble, Are you awake?

Yes. And stifling the sigh of relief that jumped up ready to be let out, she slid out from beside him and pulled on a bathrobe flung carelessly on a chair beside the bed.

Hey, hey, Chidi cooed, reaching for her hand, not so fast. Where are you going?

I’ve got an important phone call to make, Alicia replied, sweeping her hand away before his fingers could find purchase.

Chidi sighed, a little undercurrent of irritation working its way through the suspiration.

What? she said a little defensively, picking up on the emotion. I had a report to finish yesternight, but you insisted we go out to town for drinks and dinner—

It was my birthday yesterday, Chidi cut in exasperatedly. After a long day of work, how did you expect I’d like to spend the evening—sit around and watch my girlfriend work some more?

Well, I went along with what you wanted, didn’t I? Alicia retorted testily. Drinks, dinner, some more drinks, home, a little foreplay before the TV, sex, and then bedtime, with a little bit of morning-time snuggling. She reached for her mobile phone as she spoke. Well, it’s a new day, dear, and I’ve got work to do.

You always have work to do, Chidi complained. Work, work, work…

Excuse me for being the one in this relationship with a demanding schedule, she snapped caustically. She was a notable journalist who wrote for the National Tribune, one of the topmost newspaper houses in Nigeria; she owned a column titled The New Wave, a weekly piece that proved to be the newspaper’s most-read page.

What is that supposed to mean? he roared, stung by her tartness. Outrage snapped him up into a sitting position on the bed. Just because I’m into photography and you’re such an esteemed reporter—he nearly spat the word out as though it had a bad taste—doesn’t mean your job is more important than mine.

Alicia tried to tune off her boyfriend’s tirade, concentrating on the phone call she was making. The ringing at the other end continued. Philip, pick up the phone already, she thought irritably as Chidi’s irate voice droned on in the background. She held the phone as the staccato sound buzzed and buzzed in her ear. Finally, it stopped and a nasal voice said ‘Hello?’ at the other end.

Alicia, are you even listening to me? Chidi’s voice intruded.

She gave a little wave, pointed to the phone, and held up a single finger. As Chidi lapsed into a sulky silence, she spoke into the receiver, Hey, Phil, good morning.

Good morning, Ali, the man speaking from the other end answered. He coughed and then continued, What’s up?

My, you sound terrible, she said. Are you OK?

Just woke up this morning with a fever, cough and catarrh combo. It feels terrible, Ali. I feel like my damned head is going to crack. It goes wam-wam-wam, like that. Oh God, will I survive it?

No. Alicia grinned. Philip Anwana always had a propensity for theatrics. He was a good friend of hers and worked in an events company in Abuja that handled all sorts of charity functions and high society affairs. Better start making funeral arrangements. Have you made your will yet?

Don’t be naughty, Ali. I’ve taken some drugs. Yet, I feel terrible.

You’ll live. Just wrap yourself up in bed and pretend you’re some monarch from outer space. Great idea for colds and fevers.

The speaker on the other end made a noise between a snigger and a sigh of exasperation. What do you want, Alicia? I know you didn’t call just to prescribe silly medical solutions.

I’m calling about that small favor I asked from you the other day.

You mean the one where you want me to get you an invite for Terri Williams’ gala tomorrow night?

Exactly. Well, should I start shopping for an evening dress?

That depends. Have you dumped your boyfriend yet?

Alicia chuckled. Philip was also an incorrigible flirt and never missed an opportunity to tease her about her relationship status. I wish, she said, throwing a covert glance at Chidi, who was studiously ignoring her. Bit of a rocky patch here and there, but it’s all still good.

Damn! Oh well, you can’t win ’em all. Anyway, I’ve got you the invite. If you can get into Abuja today or tomorrow, you can come to the office and collect it in time for the event in the evening.

Oh thanks, Phil. You’re such a sweetheart, she enthused.

Yea, yea, tell that to all these Abuja girls. His voice trailed off as he was suddenly forced to take a deep breath, followed a moment later by a violent sneeze. Alicia took the phone away from her ear and regarded it deprecatingly as if the piece of plastic had been responsible for the recent immodest gesture.

I’m sorry, Ali, Philip’s strained voice came back over the line. Ugh, just don’t know what to do with myself.

Alicia grinned. Lots you can do. Let me leave you to it. Get well soon, OK?

Yea, bye. See you soon.

She turned to face Chidi. He had a carefully-blank look on his face that put her back on the defensive. What now?

Chidi stared at the woman he’d grown to love in the past couple of months, and he couldn’t help but realize how little she’d changed from how she looked when they first met. And how much he still desired her. His first impression of her, when they met during a photo shoot that the National Tribune had organized, had been of intellect and a certain haughty severity—brown hair she wore low, a high forehead, unsmiling eyes behind wire-rim glasses, a thin, somewhat regal face. He still didn’t know how it happened, but the aloofness of her appearance had attracted him to her big-time. It was also what was causing the cracks in their relationship now. Even after eight months of going steady, she still didn’t know how to let down her guard completely and enjoy some intimacy with him. So you’re still going to Abuja for that event, right?

Well, I kind of have to. It’s my—

Job, right. Who’s the person of interest here now? I mean, you’re still enjoying the acclaim from that story you did on that actor. Shouldn’t you stop and relax for a while?

Alicia gave him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look and said, You’re not serious?

I am.

You’re asking me to relax? Do you think the other million or so journalists in the country are relaxing? Hmm? There’s that CNN Multichoice African Journalistic Awards coming up next year. You don’t think I should work harder to nail that one, do you? she snapped, allowing some acid to leak into her voice. I should just relax and—and do what exactly?

It’s just a job, Alicia. There are other things in life you should balance it out with. The joy of living, the time to pause and smell the flowers, the life we share together. These are things that you should also focus on, but— Chidi forced out a breath, giving up trying to explain.

Alicia pressed on, asking, But what?

He chose his next words carefully. You’re missing it all, when all you do is concentrate on the next big story.

Her expression shuttered and she said flatly. It is my job, Chidi. It’s what I love to do.

He shrugged, lifting his shoulders and bringing them down in an admission of defeat. Fine. You win. To Abuja we shall go.

She arched an uncomprehending brow. We?

I’ve got some vacation time. I might as well join you to soak in the sights of the capital city.

She smiled. That is great. We should get off to an early start then. Packing up and stuff, because I was thinking about leaving today. I’ll go get started on breakfast. And she turned and walked out of the room.

Sighing again, Chidi rolled over and opened a drawer on the bedside table to retrieve something he’d hidden inside: a small black box inside which nestled a piece of jewelry he’d been waiting for the right time to bestow on his girlfriend’s finger.

LAGOS; 8: 15 AM

The woman’s voice sailed out from the public address system like an automaton: This is the first boarding call to all passengers traveling to Abuja/Kaduna, with the 7: 30 AM time written on their tickets. Passengers are to proceed for boarding onto their bus with the number 805. ABC Transport sincerely apologizes for the delay, and any inconvenience it may have caused you.

An exhalation of irritation and impatience roiled around the terminal amongst the travelers, some voices were lifted in complaints and there was a gradual exodus towards the railing separating the lounge from the park where the buses were waiting. Walter Inyama broke away from the group of star-struck men who had been chattering away with him about his past successes in the world of literature.

Past successes, Walter thought sourly. One of the men had actually used those words. And he remembered it now with some bitterness that accrued in the pit of his stomach like bile. The implication was that he was washed-out, a literary has-been, someone who was now riding on the waves of what used to be an illustrious career, however weak and petered out those waves were.

As he dragged his luggage upon its rollers towards the gate, a strong gust of the Harmattan wind blew across the lounge, flipping his muffler from around his neck. He caught the woolen fabric before it could flutter to the ground and secured it back in its former position. Walter was a man who wore his age well, boasting a full head of hair lightly salted with premature grey and a body that so far had avoided the paunch that seemed inevitable in men who’d passed the forty-year mark. He worked at looking fit and younger than his forty-two years, because in a society preoccupied with youth, age had suddenly become synonymous with disability: the older you were, the less you knew. Which, of course, was the complete reverse of the way it used to be and the way he believed it should be. Once upon a time, age equaled wisdom, youth connoted inexperience. Then, for some absurd reason, the world turned on its axis and decided youth was cutting edge and everyone on the far side of forty could be cut out. He didn’t understand it, nor would he ever accept it, but he was doing his damnedest to keep up. Even Chimma, his fifteen-year-old daughter, had told him once that some of her friends thought he was ‘hawt’. That’s right; ‘hot’ now spelt H-A-W-T.

Walter shook his head. It was astonishing how the new generation was affecting everything. From language to fashion, from books to appearances. Everything was on the up and up. New, but not necessarily acceptable. It had shocked him when Dozie, his thirteen-year-old son, had strutted past him one day with his jeans—which were, by the way, so skin-tight he wondered about blood flow through the legs—tugged down so low he could see the undergarments of the boy. When he instantly reprimanded his son and ordered him to pull up the trousers, the boy grumbled, Daddy, it’s fashion. It’s called ‘sagging’. Everyone’s doing it. Indeed, everyone was, he soon came to realize. The young people—and some unabashed middle-aged men too—, that is.

He shook his head with deprecation as he handed over his ticket to the man manning the barricade. The man scrutinized the ticket, tore out one half of it and handed him the other half. He walked past him toward the bus he knew was destined for Abuja. The park was milling with people, passengers, attendants and other staff of ABC Transport. The atmosphere was filled with the din of raised voices, and the steady thrum of the engines of the different buses threaded its way through the chaos. He lugged his traveling bag to the side of the bus where the luggage compartment was open, with passengers jostling to get the young male attendant there to place their baggage and all sorts of packed items in proper positions. When his case had been stowed safely inside, he walked around till he got to the door of the bus, where yet another man ran a metal detector over his body, before letting him proceed inside. The temperature inside the bus was nippy, and it mixed the faint musty smell of use with the predominant cool freshness of cleanliness. Walter located his seat which was by the window. He got settled and looking out unseeingly through the tightly-shut glass window at the activities going on outside, he again was lost in the perturbing sea of his thoughts.

He thought about his vocation as an acclaimed writer, a renowned career which had dominated the literary scene for years, because of his unique style of writing which mixed biting wit with in-depth histrionics and high-minded sentiments. He’d been amongst the first-timers who proved that one could make a career out of writing in Nigeria and not have to fall back on any other means of livelihood. At first, it had been scary for him to give up his job as a branch manager of a bank, but he had his wife Deborah then, who supported the family and encouraged him to pursue his dream. So he did, and his dream had turned into soaring accomplishments.

But the times changed. Readers started clamoring for books with funkier characters and edgier themes. Profundity was displaced by levity, and understated wit made way for black humor. As Hollywood peddled blood, gore and sex, writers evolved in that same direction. Walter hated change, and was especially reluctant to evolve, if it meant compromising his beliefs. But the society wasn’t patient, and when you dragged your feet, it abandoned you. It had taken him six years, three novels that failed to make it to bestseller status, and a broken marriage for him to realize how far down his life had sunk.

But his salvation was at hand. Frederick Ekene. His classmate and friend from back in the days of secondary school. All he needed was the man’s permission for him to do a biography on his illustrious life, and he knew he would make the sparks fly, lighting up his career again. That was the reason he was going to Abuja. To the event that was being held in the man’s honor tomorrow night. Walter didn’t know how he was going to convince this man whom he hadn’t set eyes on in over twenty years to let him write about him, but he would be damned if he was going to go on this trip and not achieve anything.

9: 00 AM

Victoria Odii-Akpan was a good-looking woman, and she knew it. Tall, slim, always immaculate, with a generous bosom that was a tad disproportionate with her frame, she had a cool, insolent beauty that most people found intimidating. Growing up, she knew she wanted to pursue a vocation where that beauty would be sampled and advertised for all to see. But a tone deafness and an inability to stop herself from preening in front of a camera had put a stop to her aspirations for either music stardom or a career in acting. She wasn’t skinny enough and her breasts were too big: the words of modeling agents before they slammed the door on her wish to strut down the runway. TV journalism had become her last resort, and given her aptitude for words and a gift of weaving them together in the narration of a story, it was only a matter of time, since she graduated and got her first job as a features writer in Tele-beam TV Galaxy in Calabar, before she climbed the corporate ladder upwards until she became an anchorwoman on H2O Television in Lagos, sometimes broadcasting from the field when the news was big enough to merit her attention. She was big now, a media star, a staple in the network industry.

This morning, she was in her office, an air-conditioned, medium-sized, luxuriously-furnished space she shared with Ransome Coker, the anchorman who she shared the spotlight with during the evening news. She was clad in a cream-colored silk suit with an ivory silk blouse. The shoes strapped around her feet and the bag slung carelessly on the sofa nearby were in the same vanilla colors. With the wavy tresses of her new Brazilian hairdo tied tidily at her nape, she looked the epitome of the modern woman. With the red-tipped fingers of her left hand wrapped around a can of coke, she hunched over the monitor of her computer, her right-hand fingers dancing over the keyboard as she opened up folders and files. Her last assignment had been in the thick of yet another Jos crisis, and yesterday, Tayo Obasanjo, her producer, had hinted that she might be hitting the road again. That meant that she’d have to postpone her vacation yet again. That wasn’t the issue; the problem was calling her sister, Emem, to inform her that she may not be coming to Abuja to hang out with her and her niece after all, news she knew Emem would not take kindly to.

Quirking a penciled eyebrow up as her confusion deepened, she hunched closer to the screen. Click… click… click. Nothing. No assignments. Usually, when there was something for her, the higher-ups just emailed it to her. But there was nothing here.

Just then, a dribbling sound turned her attention to the desk, where she saw with horror that her coke was slowly spilling from its container due to the fact that she’d bent her hand whilst inclining her body towards the computer. The dark-brown liquid was now splattering on her desk and bouncing off unto her outfit. Letting out a strangled shriek, she slammed down the can and leaped backward, as though both the desk and can represented a monster she needed to get away from. She stared with dismay down at her suit. There were dark splotches all over the jacket and skirt.

Shit! she cussed, having no idea how loud she’d been until the door to the office swung open to let in her assistant.

The young woman took one look at her harried boss and her eyes widened with shock. That lovely suit—oh my God, she gasped. How did that happen?

Never mind that, Victoria snapped irritably. I remember leaving behind an extra dress here the day before yesterday. Is it still in the closet?

Yes. The assistant was already moving toward the small compartment on one side of the office; she opened the door and brought out a navy-blue silk dress.

Victoria took one look at it, looked down at her vanilla-colored shoes—which didn’t match—and wanted to cry. Run down to the fashion department and get me a pair of black shoes, will you? she instructed. Something classy, please.

The other woman nodded, laid down the dress and left the office. Victoria quickly undressed, and as she slid into the other dress, there was a knock on her door. Come in.

The door opened to admit Arinze Chiwike, her closest friend in and out of the studio and the only cameraman she trusted to make her look her very best. He was tall, towering in fact, and thin; he looked brittle, breakable. He was dark and sported a neatly trimmed mustache. He wasn’t movie-star handsome, but there was a quality of attractiveness he possessed that made her—in those moments when they laughed and drank and just enjoyed the easy camaraderie between the two of them—want to reach forward and plant her lips on his. It was a dangerous thing to feel, especially given that she was in a relationship with one of the most powerful industrialists in the country, Humphrey Uba.

Hey, hey, Arinze gave a theatric yell, shrinking back and lifting his hand to cover his face, you don’t invite a guy into your room when you’re half naked. Unless there’s something you’re trying to tell him.

Victoria chuckled. Puhleeze! It’s a good thing you’re here. Could you come zip this for me? She struggled with the zipper on the dress. It wouldn’t budge, and she wasn’t about to risk her three-thousand-naira manicure on a reluctant zipper. Arinze? she urged.

OK, OK. He came forward and she turned her back to him. You realize it is things like this that we do that puts your boyfriend in a rage about us working together.

How will he know?

Arinze yanked the zipper into place. He has spies in the studio, don’t you know? And mimicking a hollow voice, he continued, Humphrey is all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing…

Victoria burst into laughter. "Stop that, joor. Why are you here, anyways?"

I ran into Tayo downstairs. He told me what your new assignment is.

What is it?

We’ll be covering that event Terri Williams… know her right?—Victoria nodded—is throwing in honour of the Nobel laureate Frederick Ekene tomorrow evening in Abuja.

We are supposed to go to Abuja for a story?

Great, isn’t it? A nice place to cover a story for a change.

Victoria’s cell phone just then sprang to life and she snatched it up from her desk. What’s up, darling? she cooed without preamble, pressing the phone to her ear.

I’m fine, babe. How are you doing? the deep voice of her boyfriend reached through to her across the millions of miles that separated her from the United States, where he’d traveled to on business.

I’m doing OK, she said, smiling because Arinze had started making faces, miming the stance of a giant and mouthing ‘Humphrey is all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing’. How’s business in Houston?

Hectic. But thankfully I’m almost done. I should be back to Nigeria in a couple of days.

That’s great. But I may not be in Lagos to welcome you. Arinze and I have been assigned to a story in Abuja. We leave today.

There was pregnant pause. Then Humphrey snarled in a low tone, You’re still working with that guy?

Victoria heaved a sigh, feeling a spurt of irritation spark to life, a reaction to Humphrey’s tone. Don’t start, please.

What do you mean I shouldn’t start? His voice had started climbing. I’ve told you several times I don’t want you working so closely with that guy, but you just won’t listen to me.

With reason, Victoria snapped. Ever heard of that little thing called independence? It means you can’t tell me what to do. You have no right.

Maybe I can’t tell you what to do, but I can damn well put a stop to that relationship.

Her voice frosted over. Don’t you dare threaten me, Humphrey.

Her boyfriend’s voice was equally just as cold. Who said I was threatening you? And he clicked off.

HOUSTON, TEXAS; 2: 00 AM

Humphrey Uba stood in the centre of his luxurious room in the St. Regis Hotel in Houston, his hand still clasped around the phone through which he’d just finished speaking to his girlfriend.

Arinze Chiwike. His anger at the man pounded through his veins like venom. Ever since Victoria began working with him, he had suddenly become a thorny issue in their relationship. Victoria expected him to understand that nothing was going on when they hung out late in bars after work or jetted from one corner of the country to the other together. She talked about him a lot, doted on him when he was indisposed and even invited him to stay at her place for a few days when he went through a break-up, so she could take care of him. For heaven’s sake, a brother and sister didn’t even have that kind of close relationship, let alone two heterosexual people who claimed to be just friends. If something wasn’t already going on between them, it was bound to start in no distant time. And he’d be damned if he would stand by and watch some guy ruin the beautiful thing he had going with Victoria.

He glanced at the Rolex strapped to his wrist. It was 2. 00 a.m., and outside, the night was still thick, broken though by the city lights and noises. He had just returned from a business meeting with some Texan oil men, and his deal with them was almost done. Humphrey Uba was touted as being one of the top three richest men in Nigeria, making it to the top ten in Africa. Heir to a huge family fortune, but also one of the shrewdest businessmen in the country, he had vastly increased the wealth that he had inherited. He kept his hands in almost everything: newspaper and magazine business, real estate, banking, motion-picture production, transportation, a variety of high-technology industries, broadcasting, agriculture, oil, and probably anything else that made money. He was widely and well regarded, a political power broker, a philanthropist who annually earned the gratitude of a score of charities, a man known for his hardheaded pragmatism.

But it seemed he could handle every aspect of his life with admirable aplomb, except when it came to his women. He’d been married once before, a union that had ended quite as precipitously as it had started. When his divorce was concluded, he worked hard not to fall into the category of wealthy men who were notorious for skirt-chasing. No matter how many times the media dubbed him the most eligible bachelor in the country, no matter how many enveloped mails with photos and phone numbers attached inside sent to him from scores of adoring females that his assistants thrashed, he was never once tempted to indulge his carnal desires too loosely. He was no saint by any means, but he kept his affairs strictly private and away from the public eye.

Then he met Victoria at a benefit. He took one look at the stunning newswoman, and he knew she was the one. He’d pursued her relentlessly, using his wealth and all it put at his disposal to sweep her off her feet. And for the first five months, their relationship had been idyllic. Then that Arinze showed up in the picture.

Humphrey cussed under his breath as he loosened his tie and lowered his shirt—which was badly wrinkled—down three buttons; his ex-wife had said that she could send him out the door dressed in fine linen and he’d look like a rumpled bed before he made it to the end of the driveway. It was big-man’s syndrome. At 6 ft, he had never been what they called svelte, though as a younger man he had carried his weight like an athlete, in his shoulders, legs and chest. But come forty, gravity had taken over, and everything seemed to be slipping to his midsection and butt. Dieting was out of the question—he loved to eat too much. And if getting up at the crack of dawn to jog was his alternative, well, then, he’d rather be fat.

Suddenly feeling tense, he went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff shot of brandy. He drank it, then waited until the liquor took hold. In the meantime, his thoughts raced around in his head with the fury of Texan horses pounding about in a ranch. He had to do something about the situation before it got out of hand. Victoria was not the kind of woman who was impressed by his prosperity and it would just be like her to cast him aside and carry on with that no-good fellow with no scope into the future beyond his camera. Arinze Chiwike had to be eliminated from the equation, before he lost his woman to him.

Humphrey took up his phone again, keyed in some numbers on the keypad and placed it against his ear, listening to the buzzing sound that preceded the ‘Hello, sir?’ from the tired voice of one of his managers who he’d brought along with him on this business trip.

Oscar, I want you to make arrangements for me to fly back to Nigeria this morning. Ready my plane, I intend to leave the States at the latest 6 a.m.

As you wish, sir, the voice, now alert, replied. Hope there’s nothing wrong back home, sir?

Nothing I can’t handle, Humphrey said grimly.

What about the Texans?

Well, we’re almost done with them, aren’t we? I’m sure you can handle whatever questions they have left and get the documents signed appropriately.

I can, sir. That won’t be a problem.

It’d better not be. And Humphrey clicked off.

With the call and the things it had set in motion taken care of, he suddenly felt marginally better. He looked at his watch again. 2. 11 a.m. If he was going to leave by six, he should catch some sleep now. Turning to the bed, he quickly undressed, leaving on only his boxers. He turned back the bed-sheets, climbed in, paused only to set his alarm, and then rested his head on the pillow, and was soon asleep.

OWERRI, NIGERIA; 9: 15 AM

Nnenna Duruaku finally took a break from the cooking and cleaning she had been doing since the crack of dawn in the kitchen, stepping out into the living room to observe with some irritation that her cousin, Mark, had not moved an inch from his position before the video game he’d been playing all morning. Nnenna was twenty-nine, but she didn’t look it. You wouldn’t call her pretty, but she had a slight, well-proportioned build, big serious dark eyes and a big, generous mouth. She was the kind of girl any man would want to marry and not just fool around with. She used to say that meant she hadn’t a scrap of glamour, and must look like a good cook. Maybe she didn’t have glamour, but she was kind; you could see that just by looking at her.

But, at that moment, she wasn’t feeling very kindly towards her cousin. Mark, what kind of lazy guy have you decided to become today, eh? she railed, stomping from the living room, down the small corridor. As she flung open the bathroom door, she heard him snap off the television. She had turned on the tap to fill the bucket in the tub with her bathwater and got started with brushing her teeth by the time he slouched over to the bathroom doorpost to watch her.

You’re in one of those moods today, aren’t you? he teased, switching on that smile he used to make conquests out of females the length and breadth of Owerri.

Why wouldn’t I be? she said through foam. You know my flight to Abuja takes off from Port Harcourt in the afternoon today, and I haven’t even finished with my packing. The least you could have done was help me finish up the chores I had to do.

Help you where? In the kitchen? He gave an exaggerated shudder. Seriously, cuz, I figured you had all that covered. It is after all your domain.

Nnenna spat into the sink, and then looked at Mark in the mirror. You are such a man. Better pray you find a truly domestic woman to settle down with, and not one of those bimbos you like to fool around with.

Ouch. He gave a mock-gasp and put one hand theatrically against his chest as if to quiet his heart. You hurt me so. Nnenna laughed and went back to brushing her teeth. He continued, I hope you do get to have some fun in Abuja oh. Just because Aik invited you as part of your business arrangement with him doesn’t mean you should go there to be his slave.

Oh come on, Aik is not a slave driver.

He is too. Ever since he became the hottest novelist in town, he’s become a major divo. With a massive ego and an attitude to boot.

Well, that comes with the territory. He has slaved for a long time to be recognized as a talented writer by his peers and the literary world at large. Now that it’s all working out for him, he has to bask in his success.

A little modesty wouldn’t hurt, Mark countered.

Celebrities are not made to be modest. It’s in their nature to demand from a society that adores them, Nnenna said. She rinsed her mouth and plopped her toothbrush into the water glass business side up.

Nnenna was a literary agent who represented the bestselling fiction writer, Aik Obiozor. She negotiated contracts regarding his publishing rights, advances and royalties. Her latest coup had been getting In-Sync Studios to turn his latest bestseller, Weights & Measures, into a movie. She was as valuable to Aik Obiozor as the right arm he used to write his life’s work.

I knew you would support him, Mark continued, following her out of the bathroom to her bedroom. He never seems to do any wrong in your eyes.

That’s because he’s my bread and butter, Nnenna said, laughing. What is your problem with him anyway?

He shrugged. Nothing. Just don’t like the guy very much. And he’s such a playboy.

Takes one to know one, she riposted, flipping open the cover of the traveling bag atop her bed. Princess, her large gray cat, slithered past her legs from under the bed, jumped on the bed, circled twice and settled. Nnenna reached forward to lightly stroke behind her ears; the cat purred.

Well, I make it a habit not to chase married women or wreck marriages, Mark pronounced with some rectitude.

What are you talking about?

You know Walter Inyama, right?

Nnenna nodded. Yes—what about him?

"Well, his marriage to Deborah Banks, the editor-in-chief of Status magazine ended about six months ago. The divorce was finalized just last month. And soon after, guess who she’s seen cavorting with all over the streets of Lagos, where she lives, and Port Harcourt, where he lives…"

No way! You’re saying Aik was having an affair with a married woman and was the reason she left her marriage?

Her cousin shrugged. "I’m just saying what City People reported and heavily hinted at. But it’s good you arrived at the same conclusion all readers did."

Oh come on, Aik would never do that. He’s an incorrigible skirt-chaser, that’s a given. But he has his limitations.

You’ve obviously not seen Deborah Banks. The woman is so hot she could make the pope divorce Christ just to be with her.

The cousins laughed together, soprano and bass. Then Nnenna turned and lifted the first batch of items that she was going to throw into her suitcase. Something fell out from her burden, and she bent to pick it up. It was a photo, taken long ago, of her and a man, both of them beaming happily at the camera lens. Suddenly, her mirth was extinguished and the lightness she felt just moments ago nosedived. Her temples throbbed, and the photograph melted together in a meaningless kaleidoscope of colors as tears sprang into her eyes.

Don’t cry, Nne, Mark said gently from beside her.

I’m not crying, she denied angrily, brushing away a tear as it dared to trickle over her cheek.

He moved closer and folded her into the warmth of his arms. For a moment, she leaned against him, breathing in the comfort of being held.

It’s been a year, Mark, she said huskily. It’s been a year since he died. Why does it still hurt?

Eric was the love of your life, he soothed. It takes a while to let go of all the memories you built with him and all the expectations of the future you expected to have with him.

She remained a moment longer in her cousin’s arms until she was sure she wouldn’t break into tears again, then she broke the embrace. At the inquiring look he gave her, she said, I’m fine. Really, I am. Besides I have to start packing. I still have to get dressed and drive to Port Harcourt. She’d been unable to secure a flight reservation at the Sam Mbakwe Airport, and was scheduled to fly out from the airport in Port Harcourt by twelve.

"Try and get an autograph for me from the Nobel