Mr Jones – Chapter I

Sotonye Dickson – Mr custom suit, had declared his intentions of being a professional footballer at the age of 8. His parents however had other ideas. His mother hoped he’d follow in the footsteps of her brother and become a priest, while his father wanted him to be a banker. In the end, nobody got their wish as a series of events led to Tonye studying law and becoming a rather brilliant lawyer; not that his parents would ever publicly admit it.
He rose through the ranks of his law firm and quickly became the youngest partner in its history. His office was located on Allen Avenue and it was the need to clear his desk before 10am that necessitated the early trip to the office. For some reason however his two week old 3 million Naira Toyota SUV had refused to start and his wife had left with the other car. Swallowing his pride, Tonye walked to the bus stop and was prepared to take a BRT bus when to his annoyance he saw a long line of commuters ahead of him, also waiting to board the buses as they arrived. He joined the slow moving queue and was already frantic when he discovered it was 8:30, just as a danfo bus parked in front of him with three male passengers in it. When the driver shouted ‘Maryland’ he didn’t hesitate to board the bus but was surprised when the men inside quickly locked the door and subdued him when he tried to stand up. The last thing he saw was a huge fist that connected with the side of his head and knocked him out cold.
At least 3 hours had passed since then and Tonye was sure that his most important client – and the reason for him clearing his desk- would probably have come and gone. The implications of missing that meeting sent shivers down his spine as he remembered the penalty. In the three years since the man had become his client he had never cancelled their standing Monday at 10am meetings but Tonye couldn’t stop offering up a silent prayer that today would be different.
* * *
‘So gentlemen, said Doc, I hope you will cooperate with us fully and hereby reduce the risk of forceful persuasion.’ He glanced at the man with the bruise who had replaced a poker face with one showing belligerence. ‘Now let me tell you a little story. Two years ago 3 keys were stolen from me. The keys are worthless without the single box they open so the thief separated the keys, biding the time he could get his hands on the box.’
‘I tried to get the keys back of course, and I would have succeeded if not for a rather over zealous bodyguard. To cut the story short, the
thief gave the keys to people who he thought were trustworthy enough- You Gentlemen.’
There was silence in the room until it was broken by Mr Bruised Face- Tayo Adepoju. ‘É wo! E wò ni gbo gbo wanran wanran yi’? ( what sort of rubbish is this?) he shouted in Yoruba, a language he only delved back into upon provocation. Having spent four years trying to shed the ‘street boy’ image he had developed after spending years as an agbero (hooligan) in Mushin, he didn’t want to be forced into old habits. He forced a rein on his temper and switched to English, albeit with a strong south western Nigerian accent. ‘What do u want from me. I don’t know you and I don’t know what stupid key you are talking about. Just let me go!’
‘But Tayo, replied Doc, when you left the garage and the name Suraju Alada Nla behind, surely you knew you would have to pay your benefactor back eventually. He gave you the golden opportunity and you grabbed it with both hands. A pity your whore of a mother didn’t leave with you though.’ Tayo lunged at Doc wanting to grab his throat and choke him for daring to insult his mother but Doc was faster, dodging Tayo’s hand and simultaneously reaching into his own pocket. The other men seated at the table winced at the sound of the gun shot and sat down tighter, not wanting to also be at the receiving end of the silver gun.
Doc removed a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and cleaned off the blood that had sprayed his face. ‘I did warn you about unwilling cooperation and forceful persuasion’ he said, with his lips set in a grim line.