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take fifty per cent since you’re the one running on the road.’
    * * *
    I was thinking about this first meeting when I arrived at the store today. Eleven months later it’s still open. For this I must take some credit, though the office that opened down the road also has something to do with its solvency. I read the sign outside and as usual, it made me smile. On one side was written in pink, italic letters: Aunty Precious and on the other side in cramped block letters: BLESSED FOOD STORES . Coming from one direction, you could be walking past a beauty salon or, when it was night and the script blazed into the dark neighbourhood, a brothel. Coming the other way, it was a shop that sold olive oil and locust paste.
    When I walked in, Aunty Precious was sobbing at the till and a strange ox of a man was on his knees. They both looked at me. Her face was tear-streaked, her eyes swollen into two red moons. The strange man looked like he was about to cry.
    ‘Emeka, you have to leave,’ Aunty Precious said to him.
    ‘But—’
    ‘Please leave me.’
    ‘Pre—’
    ‘I’m sorry, sir, but madam said you have to go.’
    He looked at Aunty Precious. She turned her face. When he walked out with his eyes fixed to the floor, she put her head down on the till and continued sobbing.
    ‘Aunty Precious, what’s wrong?’

    Chapter  9
     
     
    ‘So, Abikẹ, where have you been?’
    My father rarely asks such a direct question without knowing the answer.
    ‘The car had a fault so Hassan went to fetch a mechanic.’
    He was standing but the distance between us made it seem like we were level. Tall, without being thickset; handsome without effeminacy: physically, most would say he is perfect. I have always thought there is a worrying sharpness about him.
    ‘What about this friend of yours?’ I had seen the IG many times in this study. Perhaps my father was now using his network.
    ‘Oh, the hawker? He’s just someone I buy stuff from. He’s very handsome though.’
    I knew the last part would annoy him. He is like a normal father in some respects.
    ‘I’m not sure this is the kind of person you should be spending time with.’
    He had stopped asking questions.
    ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, picking up a leather-bound book that was lying on the cabinet. Crime and Punishment , I read off the spine.
    ‘Abikẹ, you know perfectly well what I mean.’
    I put the tome down, smiling at the fingerprints I’d left on its dusty surface.
    ‘Well, usually I would agree but there’s something special about this hawker.’
    I turned my back to him, facing the trophy cabinet where he kept his accolades, the yellow lighting caressing the oiled metals. Best Student: King’s College, 1974, I read off a recent addition.
    ‘You mean he’s handsome.’
    My eyes darted to the image of him reflected in the cabinet glass. He was standing under a painting of himself and both pairs of eyes were looking into my back.
    ‘Yes,’ I replied, waiting for the reflection’s mouth to open before adding, ‘Also because there’s something odd about him. He doesn’t look like he belongs to “our kind” yet he acts like it.’
    ‘Don’t be naive. Anyone can pick up posh manners.’
    ‘Like you, Daddy?’ I asked, turning to stare directly into his face.
    He is very proud of the fact that no classmate of his has ever recognised him. The Olu Johnson we know and love has come a long way from Olumide Jolomijo of fifty years ago.
    ‘Yes, like me, Abikẹ.’
    ‘Well, Daddy, don’t you think that someone smart enough to reinvent themselves deserves some curiosity? Like you.’
    He smiled as we sat.
    Mr Johnson: 1
    Abikẹ: 1
    * * *
    ‘So who was that?’
    ‘A Lagosian Senator.’
    ‘Why did he come?’
    ‘He is looking for a rather large amount of money to rig the next election.’
    ‘What did you tell him?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And if he doesn’t win?’
    ‘I’m sponsoring his rival.’
    In the stories he selects for me, he is always the