Chapter Twenty-one

Anthony Ochudo was a correspondent in the Life and Arts section of the Vanguard newspaper, and, over the years, he’d garnered a lot of respect and accolades, not because of his contributions but because of his daring and open criticisms against the reigning governments of the times. He was extremely radical in his opinions, and he was often on the lookout for policies to lambast.

Now, he’d found the perfect victim in the movie actor, T. O. Phoenix. Lately, he had been complaining that there was nothing new and juicy to add to the column, and then when the stunning actor cropped up on the screens, he knew that he’d found the perfect face for his column. At first, his criticism of the guy was mild, but then, the derogatory opinion many people had of the guy then fuelled him on and he went on to write more saucy and damaging opinions of the guy. And his ratings went up with people.

As he wiped his lips with his paper napkin, Anthony belched with satisfaction. The meal he’d just consumed was extremely satisfactory, a token from some anonymous person who had requested to meet him. Already, the door was swinging open, and Anthony’s lips curled into smile and he relaxed back into his chair.

Three men stepped into the room, the door snapping shut behind them. There was a very noticeable disparity between them, because, even though they were all very well dressed, the two muscular guys flanking the younger man appeared to be bodyguards. They were both huge and beefy, but their hugeness was all pure muscle, not fat; their chests were roped with heavy muscles. The younger man in the middle was a beauty to behold, with a very well-sculpted, trim physique, hair that had been very professionally barbered, well-defined features that rendered him beautiful without being effeminate and a very sensuous mouth that rendered him a killer for the female folk. When he smiled, revealing a row of strong white teeth, he looked almost ethereal. He was that handsome.

‘Anthony Ochudo,’ the young man addressed the journalist in a very cultured voice. He moved forward towards the table, and the two other men hung back, confirming Anthony’s suspicions that they were just the bodyguards, hence inconsequential. This young man was the main koko.

Anthony was now fidgeting nervously with his hands, for there was this slight prickling at the back of his neck, telling him that there was something off about them. Even though the sculpted Adonis standing before him was smiling, there seemed to be an undercurrent of hostility flowing from him.

The young man’s smile turned into an O of surprise as he remembered something. ‘Sorry, but I forgot to introduce myself. But I feel it’s unnecessary. However, you remember T. O. Phoenix, the actor? I know you remember him quite well.’ And then the young man turned away from the room and faced the window as a babble of loud voices floated up from the street.

Anthony was unnerved by the sudden silence, so totally unmanned by the loaded menace that seemed to radiate from these men that he started to talk, supplying answers to questions that had not been asked.

‘If you’re talking about the articles I had written about the guy, I want you to know that I never intended to smear his character. As you know, people always love a little scandal, a little that’s out of the ordinary, so I try to supply them with what they want to read to spice up their days. The articles are all a joke.’

The young man who had remained fixated on the window turned to the room again, and this time, he stroked his smooth chin, his finger flashing a ring with a diamond as big as a mango. ‘I agree with you that it was a joke,’ he said, and then he smiled. ‘So is what I intend to do to you.’

As if from an unspoken signal, the two hefty men who had remained still and silent like marble statues surged forward swiftly and silently. Before Anthony could draw away from them, they were upon him and he felt hands as strong as iron grips grip him, and he opened his mouth to scream, fear ripping through him, but one powerful blow landed on his forehead, freezing the scream on his lips. He felt very dizzy as a pool of blackness rushed up at him, and then, through the fog of pain that clouded his mind, he felt his hands pinioned behind him. The young man who had the beauty of a Greek god was smiling at him now.

‘Now, let us get down to business. Phoenix is my dream pet, the guy I have personally invested a lot of money in, someone who is making millions for me. It would be extremely bad for me if I lose him, yes? And I do not want to lose him; make no mistake about that. Now, I have a new problem. You have not asked me what the problem is.’

The dapper reporter paled a notch, knowing deep within him what the problem was without having to be asked. He was the problem and he knew it. They were here to handle his fuck-up.

‘I stand the chance of losing the guy, Mr. Ochudo, and you know what that means, don’t you? It means that my millions will be washing down the drain. That will be very bad for me, and it’ll be because of all your insults. Now, if you’re piqued with him for his effeminate behavior and believe that he does not deserve the attention he’s getting, that’s understandable. But you go about calling the innocent guy a homo, a guy who has sex with other guys, yes? Nod your head please.’

What Anthony had felt previously was plain fear, but now, that fear was mingled with a bone-chilling horror at what he felt was coming to him. Still, he had to nod his head like the young man had instructed him to do. He felt within his bones that if he was to deviate from their script, then they may not hesitate to knock a few teeth loose from his mouth.

‘That’s perfect. What you’re doing is bringing him to public ridicule. You are setting the guy up for the public ridicule and the insults that will be heaped upon him. If you were Phoenix, would you like to have your mother reads the kind of articles in the papers about him? Answer me, please.’

Anthony swallowed past the lump that had risen in his throat and the sweat that was trickling down his back. He shook his head, meaning no. And he knew that he was sealing his fate.

The young man smiled, but it was a very cold smile, and though he still appeared very cool and controlled, the look in his eyes was of a maniacal variety that scared the living hell out of the reporter.

The young man nodded. ‘I wanted to hear that.’ And from within his pocket he drew out a dagger that gleamed silver in the hard light of the sun. ‘Now, I am going to play a little joke on you, one that will prevent you from ascribing such libel to the name of the actor again.’

Knowing that this was no joke, that he was trapped in the hands of those that may do him great harm, Anthony felt the primal need for survival kick in. With a surge of adrenaline, he lunged forward, his mouth opening to let out a scream of desperation, a call for help. But the man standing in front of him sucked him so hard in the solar plexus with a soccer punch that would flatten a wrestler and he nearly passed out as he collapsed back into the chair like a rag doll.

The young man smiled ruefully. ‘It is too bad that you’re making this hard,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry; it’ll be over before you know it. Now, I am going to cut off your balls.’

Anthony let out a sobbing breath and squeezed his eyes shut as he felt a pair of iron hands fumbling with his zipper, pulling at his boxer briefs roughly, and then pulling his flaccid penis out. ‘You cannot do this!’ he cried out, but one iron blow to his mouth shut him up fast as he tasted the blood in his mouth. He could swear that some of his front teeth had come unglued from their gums.

‘Your thing looks good,’ the young man continued almost pleasantly, bending forward to cradle the organ in his hand. He put the sharp edge of the dagger to it, smiling as Anthony flinched. ‘Maybe I will spare your lovely thing for your wife and break a bone instead. What do you say to that?’

Through the cloud of sweat that trickled into his eyes, Anthony opened his swollen mouth to talk, but then he felt his left wrist being gripped in a vice-like grip. Oh no, he thought, for he felt it in his bones that something really bad was about to happen to him and screaming would only make it worse; this was Lagos, after all, the No-Man’s-Land where everybody minded their own business and would do nothing to help out anybody else.

‘I know you’re right-handed, Anthony, so I think I will spare that hand for you to continue writing your wonderful articles and stories. I will break the left one.’

‘No!’ the journalist shrieked, but it was already too late because, right then, something big and black swung through the air, and then there was a loud snap as the thing connected with his wrist. Scorching, unbearable pain sliced through him as his eyes caught a glance of his wrist which had been manhandled, and then he screamed.

The thing descended again, and his scream broke into a wail. He was on the carpeted floor, thrashing about, his right hand clutching at his useless left hand. He opened his mouth and the screams filled it so he couldn’t breathe, rising and swelling in his throat like bubbles. They were hurting him mercilessly, with a deliberate slowness and sureness that was decidedly brutal, each blow landing like the thump of a sledgehammer on concrete. He was crying now, whimpering like a baby, and he wanted them to stop so he could tell them how sorry he was.

Then the beating stopped, and the three men stood over his broken body. He was trapped in the most embarrassing situation of his entire life, and he’d even pissed all over himself to prove it. He could smell the piss on him, and he had the humiliating question cross his mind as to when he had last pissed on his shorts as a kid. Oh God.

‘Now that we’re done here, let me say this,’ the young man continued in that same gratingly pleasant voice. ‘The next time you go about smearing the reputation of Phoenix is the day I will hunt you down and burst your kneecaps so you’ll never walk again. I hope we understand each other well. And please do make sure that you call the guy and apologize to him about what you did. You have just two hours to do that. If you don’t, we’ll be back, and we’ll smash your body to tiny bits and throw the pieces into the Lagos Lagoon. As for your arm, there is a doctor on his way up right now, so no need to worry about it. Another thing: please go and wash yourself up; you reek of piss. I think this discussion is over; we’ll let ourselves out. Enjoy your meal, Anthony.’

And then they turned round and were gone.

Blood pounded in Anthony’s ears and a scream clawed at his throat. He lay there in a puddle of his own urine, and he felt the shame for the way he’d acted; the tears, the begging, the sweat, the moaning noises－ he was a disgrace to himself. And he was in great pain, but that only helped him to better understand the ramifications of what had just occurred. He had two hours to call that effete, ass-licking, penis-sucking, gross, disgusting, ineffectual man-bitch of an actor and say sorry, otherwise his protectors would be back for more iron treatment. He knew that they meant it, that they would come back for more of him.

Then the door opened, and there was a man, looking kindly at him as if he knew what the reporter had suffered but could not help him out. The elderly man seemed unmindful of the stink of his piss as he came into the room and started to open his white bag.