Easy Motion Tourist by Leye Adenle: A Review

Leye Adenle’s novel titled after a ‘70s highlife hit song by ‘The Harbours Band’ unravels a plot of armed robbery, police shenanigans, ritual killings, and a thriving trade in human body parts while giving the reader a guided tour of Lagos. 

This spellbinding crime thriller narrates the story of a greenhorn British journalist, Guy Richards, who was sent to Nigeria to cover elections, and a ‘Street Samaritan’, Amaka. Guy finds the mutilated body of a young lady in a gutter on his first night in Lagos. The young lady was murdered and dumped beside ‘Ronnie’s’, a bar in the highbrow area of Victoria Island. He was arrested along with other onlookers at the crime scene and taken in for questioning.

Amaka is a young lady who has dedicated her life to ensuring that young women in the night business are safe as they go about their business. She shows up at the police station and rescues Guy from the clutches of ‘cell B’, Sergeant Hot-Temper, and Inspector Ibrahim. Together, Guy and Amaka form an alliance that helps to unravel the mysterious disappearances of some of the women Amaka had sworn to protect.

The author tells the story from multiple perspectives, giving the reader a clear insight into the various characters in the book, and the short chapters keep it fast-paced. Sufficient details on the secondary characters ensure the reader is engrossed. The use of funny aliases - Knockout, Catch-Fire, and Go Slow - douses the tension of the serious nature of the crimes in the book. The language is simple, and the prose flows with an ease that makes the book a much more enjoyable experience.

Easy Motion Tourist is a great book. It is easily the best Nigerian book I have read this year, and I look forward to reading the sequel and more of Adenle’s writings.

Rated 4/5

'Love Does Not Win Elections' by Ayisha Osori

A REVIEW
"Do not assess your chances based on how much people claim your opponents are disliked or [reviled]: love is not a currency at the ballot." (pg.239)

LOVE DOES NOT WIN ELECTIONS is a personal account of an aspirant on how to win elections in Nigeria. It is easy to read, humorous, and honest. The language is simple, with the use of beautiful metaphors that creates relatable imageries that engages the reader. 

In this book, the author places a floodlight in the murky waters of Nigerian politics. It gives an insight into some ingredients that may likely increase the chances of winning a primary election in Nigeria. Things like money, godfatherism, nepotism, and extreme begging are some of the oils that lubricate the Nigerian political engine.

After years of being a keen observer of the Nigerian political scene from her vantage point as the chief executive officer of the Nigerian Women's Trust Fund, a non-profit organisation focused on the increased representation of women in politics and decision making. Ayisha Osori decided to run for office as a member representing the AMAC/Bwari constituency of the Federal Capital Territory in the House of Representatives in 2015, on the platform of the People's Democratic Party (PDP).

The book details the foray of the writer into the Nigerian political arena. As she puts it, choosing a platform to run was difficult because "There is not much to distinguish between Nigeria's two main political parties.". She also faced with the unusual task of kneeling to beg delegates to vote and exchanging brown envelopes for favours.

In the end, Ms. Osori lost the primaries by a wide margin to the incumbent. Possibly because she could not get the endorsement of some party bigwigs, or mainly because there was an agreement amongst party leadership to return all incumbents. Either way, it benefits the political class that things should remain the way they are, there is less room for surprises.

On the other hand, the delegates and constituents, that should be more concerned about voting out non-performing representatives are more concerned with handouts given to them by politicians during electioneering periods. These actions leave one wondering about what the actual problem is. 

The problem is not a lack of information. Most people know what they expect from their elected officials as evidenced in the book when the writer met with the constituents. So, why do they continually listen to this money language spoken by politicians? 

The book is a must-read for anyone that wants to go into politics in Nigeria. It is also necessary for everyone that wants our democracy to thrive. Not only does it dish out tips for prospective aspirants and candidates, but it also forces the voting public to answer some difficult questions.

'Never Look an American in the Eye' by Okey Ndibe

I  thoroughly enjoyed this book. It was funny, instructive, and brutally honest even to the point of self-deprecation. The author told the stories with an ease reminiscent of after-dinner storytime rituals, which is a feature in most Nigerian homes. The humour and relaxed style of writing draws in the reader and makes it easy to forgive the use of highfaluting words where their 'lowly' synonyms could have easily sufficed.

It tells a story of the contrast between the Nigerian and American cultures. The stereotypes, misconceptions and culture shock that is wont to beset a 'Johnny just come' to either location. He gives the experience of his first winter in America, his first experience of paying for an outing he didn't initiate, and how the police mistook him for a bank robber. 

 He recounts the bittersweet experience of editing a magazine (African Commentary Magazine) that was widely acclaimed for its content but perpetually dallied on the brink of collapse.

One way to look at this book is as a travelogue that takes the writer on a voyage from being Nigerian, being a Nigerian in America, to being Nigerian American.

Taduno's Song by Odafe Atogun

'Taduno's Song' is one of those books that will evoke strong emotions; it will either be well-liked or thoroughly disliked.

It is one of those rare books stuck in the delicate passage between 'Pure Genius' and incoherent rambling. It makes one feel like one needs a higher level of consciousness to understand the words of the author. The simplicity of the language instead of aiding understanding, adds a layer of difficulty to the comprehension process. The storytelling reminds one of 'tales by moonlight', where they repeat the lines to emphasize the moral lesson. In this case, it is to show that the protagonist is a 'good man', fighting for a just cause.

The best description of the book is a short story which stretched out its arms in search of that elusive element that would make it a great novel but never quite found it.

I will rate it 4 /10 just because the effort of the author was all so visible.

LOVE OR SOMETHING LIKE IT

 A friend of once asked me a question, Why is love so hard?

Today you see people who are head over heels in love, and two years down the line its all gone down the drain.

Here is my answer

It depends on what people refer to as love. For instance, I have loved my best friend for eighteen years, and in all these years, we have never had a fight where we did not speak to each.

I believe that when you say you love a person, that person becomes an extension of yourself. Who would willingly or knowingly do something to hurt themselves?

Let me give an example of what I mean. When someone has a favourite clothing item or a pet, it becomes apparent to the whole world that the person cherishes that particular item, because of the attention or preferential treatment that it gets when placed against others of its kind.

Now, someone would be quick to point out that a shirt or a pet is not capable of provoking one to anger the way an individual is capable of doing. To that I will say, no one expects you not to get angry and express yourself, but in expressing your anger, you do have to realize that this is someone you profess to love; armed with that knowledge, you can do no wrong.

Genuine love, in my opinion, is not abusive in any way (physical, verbal, or emotional). On the contrary, it seeks to affirm, encourage, and correct.

It is that simple! Most times we find ourselves saying love is not black and white, the truth is, it is! We are the ones who add the grey lines or encourage the grey lines. It is easy to differentiate between genuine love and imitation. We are just quick to accept imitations because we think the kind of love we know in our hearts that we deserve is too good to be true “an unattainable fantasy”.

It is necessary to understand what love is. If you do not know what something is, there is no way you can use or apply it correctly.

Love is a gift. It means that like any other gift, it should be given freely, not necessarily expecting in return, but as long as it is appreciated that should be enough. The truth is, only a few people are in relationships where love is reciprocal. It is a rarity to find two people who are in love with each other at the same time.

When you love someone without expectations, that kind of love can elicit loyalty and commitment on the part of the recipient or person who is loved, this in truth is what is attainable everywhere, and is often mistaken for the real deal.

And to the belief that a lot of people have that unrequited love can be very frustrating, I say it is not unrequited love that is the problem, but unmet expectations.

These are my thoughts on love, but then what do I know?

TWISTED

The meeting

I sat on the floor, in a corner of the room, naked in a pool of blood shivering, and sobbing those heart wrenching sobs that although inaudible almost threaten to take the sheer essence of your life. The only man I have ever loved, the only one that had ever truly loved me lay dead a few feet away from me a kitchen knife pierced to his side.

Anita still couldn't believe what had happened. Her Tunde was lying dead on the floor, it wasn't up to an hour ago that he told her he loved her, and that was the first time he had said it over their two year relationship. Her mind was still trying to process the information that this magnificent male specimen all 6 ft 5" of him was in love with her, and had just popped the question she had wished to hear from the first day she met him.

The day I met him, it was at the airport on my way from Port Harcourt to Abuja. I was sitting at the waiting lounge, my flight had been delayed for four hours, I was sitting down there angry and hungry with a book in my hand, but I could barely get past the first page. I closed my eyes and opened them at intervals impatiently awaiting the announcement of my flight. During one of the many intervals when I opened my eyes, I was looking directly at this Adonis. He was trying to get through security at the entrance of the waiting lounge. I stared at him from that moment till he got through the door, took a seat opposite me and concentrated on a newspaper. I stared at him until my flight was announced thirty minutes later. I was so sorry to leave.

 Anita couldn't stop thinking about him all through the fifty minutes flight. He wore a brown blazer casually thrown over a white shirt, tucked into blue jeans and held together with a brown belt; he finished off the look with a pair of lovely brown loafers. She loved a man who knew how to dress his body, and there was no doubt this one sure knew how. She could picture them together, no, scratch that! She’d pictured them together in every single position from the moment she saw him at the door, she saw them at the cinema, having lunch, and sharing bodily fluid. It was love at first sight. Love, that word again.

I was in love with the handsome stranger, and that gave me the creeps, the last time I was in love with someone we both ended up at the hospital, he in intensive care and me for psychoanalysis.

****

Anita had been seeing Peter for a while; he was kind, supportive and understanding. He was the kind of man every woman wished for, reliable. He was always there whenever she needed him, he told her he loved her, and she believed him. Everything he did was proof of his love.

He understood me from the first moment we met; he knew I had deep trust issues. I would snoop through his phone, e-mail, Facebook inbox messages; I would even stalk him on twitter. Everything usually checks out, there was never anything out of place. The first time he caught me going through his text messages, he was so angry that I had invaded his privacy; however, from then on, I had free rein on his ‘privacy’. I would ask questions that could only be as a result of snooping, and he would laugh, and say, 

“Snooping again, are we?”

It used to make her laugh when Peter called her “Sherlock Holmes”, he would tease her about wasting her detective skills on him, and she usually responded by saying, ‘Fortunately for me, you are as clean as a whistle’. So, it came to Anita as an utter shock one beautiful Saturday morning when Peter walked in looking as though someone had just died. He sat on her couch, she immediately rushed to his side, wondering what could be wrong.

‘You know I love you, right?’

‘Of course baby, I know you love me’

What was wrong, where was he going with this. When he finally spoke up, I was shocked, to say the least. He told me he was getting married in two weeks, I believe he said some other things after that, which might have been an explanation or maybe not, the truth was all I heard was his getting married in two weeks.

Anita could still feel the goosebumps on her skin from Peter’s betrayal, how do you tell someone you love them and that you were getting married to someone else all in one breath? The events of the weeks that followed were still a blur in her mind. 

 They told me that I ran him over with my car the week before his wedding. I was taken into police custody for a few weeks when the police couldn't get any word out of me, I was taken to a specialist hospital for psychiatric evaluation.

****

Fifty minutes later, her flight had arrived Abuja and she was waiting for her luggage at the baggage claim area. The arrival of another plane was announced; she decided to pay attention to the entrance just in case “Idris Elba” was on that flight. 

He strode through the entrance as though he owned the entire airport, there was something about him, an aura of entitlement, it wasn't quite arrogance, but it was a confidence that almost seemed as if it was overstepping its boundaries. I realized that I could actually stare at him all day without getting tired.

Her luggage arrived but instead of leaving she decided she couldn't wait for fate to bring them together, she had to do something. She took a few short steps into the arrival lounge, took a seat and waited patiently.

For the third time that day, I watched him walking into a room, I took a quick glance at myself. I had on a dark blue tiny outfit that was a cross between a blouse and a dress; usually, because it was too long to be called a top and too short to be a proper dress. My tiny braids were held in a bun on top of my head. I was wearing very little jewellery; tiny studded earrings, a dress chain with a round pendant, it had a butterfly on one side, and the words “Quantum Science, hope for the children” on the other side. , the only make-up I had on my face was lip-gloss, my beautiful full legs were on display for all to see my feet were covered in sequined silver-coloured ballet flats. I am beautiful there was no doubt about it, I have been told severally that my smile could light up a room, I thought to myself that it wouldn't be a bad idea to test just how true that statement was.   

‘Excuse me, do you have a car waiting for you?’ he turned at the sound of my voice,

‘Erm, not really… you?’ that was said as an afterthought, he probably didn't want to seem rude by ending the conversation abruptly.

Anita responded that she also didn't have a car waiting for her; they decided to share a ride into town, as it happened they were both staying at Wuse II. They sat quietly throughout the drive, just as he was about to alight in front of a two-storey building on Aminu Kano crescent, he stretched out his hands for a handshake,

‘The name is Tunde Ayoola, sorry I wasn't such a good company, I have a lot on my mind. May I have your mobile no?’

‘Anita Esaro, and you weren't a bad company, I loved the silence.’ They exchanged numbers; by the time the cab got to her street, there was a satisfied smirk on her face.

DAWO (DREAM)

“Those heart hammering nightmares that start to lose coherence even as you are waking up from them, but that still manage to leave their mouldering fingerprints all across your day” Mike Carey

                                                                                 ***

Shekira stop!   Shekira stop!!  Shekira stop!!!

Was that her name or a chant, she couldn't tell. She was running, running like her life depended on it, and at that moment it did.

Things got serious so fast she couldn't tell the exact moment it happened, one minute she had her little nephew Dagogo on her laps listening to his ridiculous tales from school, the next minute she was crying over a broken bottle of perfume, and the very next minute she was in the race of her life.

Shekira!  His voice again. Was that actually her name? She kept running, three blocks ahead she saw a lady seated on a bench between two houses, and somehow although she wasn't close enough she saw that the numbers were 87 and 89. How she spotted the numbers was nothing short of a miracle because the street was unusually dark, and everything seemed surreal at that moment.

She ran to the woman who sat between 87 and 89, sat on the bench with her and tried to catch her breath, in a flash the young man who was after her in hot pursuit; the same one who had been screaming the name, he also stopped. He gave her the briefest of glances, and immediately walked past her into 89, when he came out he was accompanied by a fierce looking cutlass, from the looks of it, it had recently been sharpened.

A shrill sound so evil pierced the air, it was like nothing she had ever heard; it was a laugh, his laughter. The look on his face was so grotesque, it could only be described as “pure evil”, and as she looked closely into his face she could also dictate a smirk of satisfaction.  She took in the rest of his diminutive frame, and half-naked body made decent with briefs that had undoubtedly seen better days.

She sat transfixed as he inched closer, an involuntary move forward brought her leg in contact with an object beneath the bench, and she quickly picked it up and discovered it was a knife.

All the while the fat lady on the bench had a knowing smile on her face.

‘Shekira come to us’ he said with the  cutlass aimed at her heart, she moved suddenly, and he narrowly missed, she tried to fight back with the knife and managed to give him a cut on his hand before she knew what was happening she was ceased in a death grip by the fat lady. Her aggressor repeated the sound he made earlier, even as she struggled against the lady some part of her noted that that was the ugliest laughter she had ever had the misfortune to hear.

Her aggressor, Mr Diminutive frame and ugly laughter, started digging the floor, right in front of 89, she pleaded subtly with the fat lady, ensuring to keep all the fear out of her voice.

“Please Ma let me go, please I beg you in the name of God”

The fat lady gave a laugh that was devoid of any mirth and somehow filled her with more dread than either of the earlier ones had done.

The fat lady said, “My dear girl, this is what I do, I hold the girls while he digs up their graves”

She felt like a cornered animal at that moment, her heart was in her mouth all of a sudden, she struggled with all her might, wriggling from side to side. Like a miracle she found herself free from that vice-like grip of the fat woman, she made a mad dash for the road ahead, after a few blocks she discovered that no one was after her, but she didn't break her run.

Freedom, at last, that was what came to her mind when she saw some other people only a few blocks ahead in the street. It wasn't to be. She realized there was a clay pot in the middle of the street with fire coming out of it and human figures in white and red dancing around it, she could also hear they were singing, but she had never heard any song like it.

She was stuck in that place; between the devil and the deep blue sea. She couldn’t go forward for what seemed like a cultist celebration and behind were people after her life for some unknown reason.

Fortunately, as was the way of humans when stuck in a nightmare they are determined not to endure further, she forced her eyes open.

She was on her bed, and the clock, by her bedside, said she had only been asleep for 3hours.

                                                                       ***

“My sleep wasn’t peaceful, though. I had the sense of emerging from a world of dark, haunted places where I travelled alone” Suzanne Collins