Easy Motion Tourist Read Free

back of his head, ‘No, not Three Barrels. Hennessy. No ice.’ The girl said she wanted the same. Waidi waited for me to nod, then he glanced at the girl whose cleavage had fascinated him so much.
    Without looking at me, he said, ‘That is three thousand five hundred for the two.’ This ticked off my new friend. ‘Did he ask you for the price?’ she said – loudly enough to attract attention. I was already fumbling in my pocket for the money. I’d done the maths: it was about fourteen quid and sounded about right – I’d been told that Lagos was expensive.
    Waidi said something to her in a language I didn’t understand and it must have been rude. She began poking her finger in his face, looking around for support as she cursed, screaming, touching the tip of her tongue with the index finger of her right hand and pointing the wetted finger to the ceiling over her head. The barman just stood there grinning. At one point, it looked as if she was going to reach over and slap the smirk off his face.
    I counted out the money. He took the notes and counted himself, and then he went about fixing the drinks. The girl in the pink tank top sat back down, her face gathered into a snarl. She said something like ‘wait for me’, then stood up and started off through the crowd. I didn’t like the look on her face when she turned back to look at him. He didn’t see it, but I’m sure if he had, he’d have been alarmed like me. I’d seen the look before: the look of a lad going off to find a bottle during a pub brawl.
    Waidi brought the drinks and my change. I was already standing up. I downed the brandy in one go, immediately regretted it, and left him the dirty, crumpled notes he’d placed on the bar with my receipt. I only made it halfway to the exit.
    Like fans invading a football field, a mass of people rushed in through the entrance. I stopped for a moment, not sure what was going on. People were being pushed to the ground by the newcomers who ran in screaming and shouting. I was almost knocked off my feet but I managed to sidestep the mayhemand backtrack to the bar. From there I watched as even more people hurried in looking shell-shocked. Bodies quickly piled up on the floor and others were climbing on them. A profound chill came over me when I saw a head rolling over the backs of the fallen; then I realised someone had only lost their wig. The shouting got louder, and I became acutely aware of my situation:
    I was a white boy in Africa for the first time, on assignment to cover a presidential election that was still weeks away, the outcome of which was a foregone conclusion. This was only my second day in Lagos and the first night I’d gone out alone – exactly what I’d been advised not to do.
    ‘Hey!’
    The barman turned round from placing bottles on the top shelf. He scanned the commotion with the excitement of one reading IKEA instructions, and dismissed it all with a hiss that folded his upper left lip.
    ‘Prostitutes,’ he said. His face was sufficiently animated to show his disapproval, as if the place he worked in wasn’t a pickup joint for all sorts of working women, and maybe even men; as if his wages didn’t depend on their patronage. ‘The police are doing a raid and they think they’ll be safe in here,’ he added.
    I looked around to find the bouncers for reassurance but they too were staring helplessly at the gatecrashers.
    The large speakers kept blasting out R&B songs at near deafening decibels but no one was dancing. Scantily dressed girls and young men in colourful outfits gathered in groups, talking loudly and with urgency, and prodding the people who had rushed in for information.
    Waidi took another stab at reassuring me: ‘Anytime the police raid them outside, they always run in here. The bouncers willsoon chase them away.’ He sounded confident.
    It’s funny how the mind works. In those few seconds when the frightened people ran in, I’d already concluded that war had broken out