FINE BOYS, the New Novel by Eghosa Imasuen

Eghosa Imasuen, author of To Saint Patrick and Fine Boys

Eghosa Imasuen was born in Nigeria in 1976, and grew up in Warri. His first novel, To Saint Patrick, an Alternate History murder mystery about Nigeria’s civil war, was published by Farafina in 2008. His second novel, Fine Boys, is, in the words of Binyavanga Wainaina, ". . . the first African novel I know that takes us deep into the world of the children of IMF: those post-Berlin wall Africans, like myself, who came of age in the days of The Conditionalities, those imposed tools and policies that made our countries feral; the days that turned good people into beasts, the days that witnessed the great implosion and scattering of the middle classes of a whole continent. Fine Boys takes us deep into the lives of the notorious gangs that took over universities all over Nigeria in the 1990s and early this century. We saw our universities collapse, and we struggled to educate ourselves through very harsh times. It is a beautifully written novel, heartfelt, deeply knowledgeable, funny, a love story, a tragedy; an important book, a book of our times; a book for all Africans everywhere."

Buy the Kindle edition of Fine Boys here. Read reviews of the novel here and here. Read interviews with the author here and here.  Fine Boys is available in bookstores across Nigeria. For inquiries about the book, visit here. Published below is an excerpt from Chapter 17 of the novel. Read another excerpt here.

Excerpt from Chapter 17 of Eghosa Imasuen's Fine Boys

June 12 came and went. Very quietly. The World Cup distracted the rest of the civilized world while the Americans, who hosted the competition, changed their TV channels en masse to catch OJ Simpson trying to outrun the police at 40km/h. We kept busy watching football, not paying attention to the pressing issues that our country faced. Ken Saro Wiwa had just been arrested. 

Who heard? Who cared?

In Nigeria’s first match on the world stage we trashed the Bulgarians three-nil. Wonderful day it was. No one, not even those who maintained a fashionable aloofness when it came to football, could resist the euphoria. Banners of green-white-green, made with bed sheets or cheap plastic, flapped from the doors, boots, and bonnets of cars. We spent the evenings, as we waited for the matches to air, playing faux-match-ups between that night’s teams on our video game consoles or on the small pitch in the middle of Estate. It was the first World Cup I would actually watch.

The bloody Americans were six hours behind us and this made the match times particularly horrendous. Bleary-eyed from an evening of drinking we would stay awake until two in the morning for an 8PM match, east-coast time. Thank God, the Nigerian team was based in Boston. Eastern Time was easier to anticipate.

The armoured personnel carriers still stood at the junctions in school. The student leaders still ranted and raved. Nobody paid much attention. Democracy was having a hard time competing with football.

The days before Nigeria played Italy were fun. There was this real sense of yes-we’ve-arrived in the air. We had been telling them abroad that we were the funkiest, coolest Africans and it was true. Did you see Finidi and his doggy-style celebration in the Greece match? Or Amokachi and his funky groove, matched only by his funkier goal?

Tambo came back. He had been thrown out of Bulgaria and we added a short-lived suffix to his already long moniker. He was now Clement ‘Oliver-Tambo’ Unegbu of Sofia, Bulgaria. Considering the fact that he had spent his time there in and out of sleeping bags, he looked quite good. He smelled of jand; that supermarket/new/hotel-room smell that Johnny-just-comes had. And Tambo milked this for every kobo it was worth. At the late night drinking sessions before watching matches in which the Nigerians impressed and the Cameroonians embarrassed themselves, Tambo would be seen with two girls on either arm, his pockmarked face grinning ear to ear as he told them how clean Sofia was; how lovely the streets were. Streets that he had only glimpsed from behind wire mesh fences. But he was allowed to get away with it. After all, Nigeria was in the World cup. Everything was forgiven, wasn’t it?

I ran into Tommy just before Nigeria versus Argentina. NEPA had taken light and we had gone to Jowitz to watch the match at around two that morning. As Maradona and his compatriots stretched the limits of fair play at the expense of our countrymen, Tommy came up to me and asked how I was doing. I said fine. Then, just as Siasia scored, he said he wanted to talk to me about something. During the half-time break, we strolled outside.

“Your father owns a Bureau de Change?”

Well, in the past, he had proven that he did not waste time. “Hmm,” I replied. I knew where he was going.

“I get this guy. Very cool chap. But his father is such an arsehole. I was wondering if you could do him a favour. For me. You see the guy papa has this bag of hundred pound sterling notes that the boy can have access to . . .” He paused when he saw the smile on my face, one of disgust, of sadness.

“Tommy stop. Why do you do this to me? I have always respected you, haven’t I?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tommy, there is nothing like a one hundred pound note. And even if there was, I wouldn’t switch anything with the real stuff in my father’s office. Just take am say I no fit.”

“You never even hear wetin I wan’ talk.”

“I no go ever fit, Tommy.”

He walked silently away, murmuring something about my not appreciating everything that his friendship could do for me. I thought nothing more of it and went back to watch Nigeria lose to two quick goals from the Argentines.

We still qualified for the second stage though. And everywhere in school the tension was palpable. We were going to play the Italians. Dirty sons-of-bitches who thought nothing of the odd dive here, the dirty tackle there; we knew that at the end of everything, like that British commentator said in the ’82 World Cup, “Skill will always prevail.”

At times, my mind went to the country itself. Nothing was happening. No strikes, no student riots, nothing. Ejiro had come back to school after less than a week at home, complaining of the boredom. They said that the winner of last year’s election had been abandoned by his friends. His running mate was serving in the junta as the Foreign Affairs minister. Governors, recently stripped of their offices, and from both political parties, were busy hustling for contracts outside the offices of the Military Administrators of the states. One little heard and even less listened-to rumour said that MKO was back from exile and that he was going to declare himself President of the Republic the day before Nigeria played Italy. Talk about poor timing.

Nigeria played Italy and we lost. Nobody knew that MKO had been arrested and thrown into detention a day before. That morning the rumours began filtering in. Not about MKO, no. They said that seven - I remember the number - Italians were drug cheats. Italy had been disqualified; Nigeria was going to meet Spain in the quarterfinals.

Yes! Good news!

But it was a fib. The euphoria disappeared quickly. We passed the Student Union leaders shouting from podiums at the school junctions beside the Military vans and finally stopped to listen.

What! They arrested MKO? For what?

I dodged the demonstrations when they began. They lasted for two days and the only hint we had of them in our flat was the smell of tear-gas filtering in through the windows. At night, when the students had been chaperoned back to the hostels and the town was quiet, my flatmates and I strolled to Estate, to Harry’s room, and listened to gist about the wahala.

“O boy, if you’d seen what Soalim did. That guy is a mad man,” Ejiro said. Soalim was a lunatic who passed for normal because he was so articulate and was always impeccably dressed. He went to FGC Owerri and was currently a Year Two Law student.

“What did he do?”

“If I did not see it, I would have thought it was a lie,” Ejiro answered. “I’m telling you when the tear gas canister landed right beside us, I thought I was dead. If you hear the odour. But Soalim, with a kerchief over his nose, just picked it up, danced around in front of the shocked policemen and threw it back. If you see how the policemen pick race helter-skelter. It was so funny.”

But it had been hopeless. The nice officers were replaced by korofos from the army barracks and these fired shots in the air. The students remembered that they had mothers waiting at home praying for their safe return, and ran. The moms’ prayers were answered. No one was hurt.

[The author retains copyright to this excerpt. Do not reproduce without permission.]

Samuel Kolawole: "Let Me Get Home Before It's Dark"

This is the promised excerpt from Samuel Kolawole's work-in-progress. We hope you enjoy reading it, as much as we did. Have a great weekend!

Stalled vehicles honked in the yellow glow of the midday sun. Their drivers, the ones with no air conditioning, stuck their necks out to spew forth words peppered with profanities. Some turned off their engines, quietly seething behind their steering wheels. Exhaust belching okadas tried in vain to wind their way through the confusion. Some drivers, unable to contain their exasperation, spilled out of their heated vehicles and surged towards the source of the gridlock. But then they already knew what the problem was -- motorists had gotten wind of the arrival of a petrol tanker at a nearby filling station, the first to come in three days. So they had been left with no option but to clog up the streets in their search for scarce fuel. The acrid smell of petrol and burning rubber filled the air.

Not too far from the gas station, near a record store with a monstrous speaker blaring afro beats- some Fela wannabe -- a great babel of pedestrians poured in and out of the food market. There were trudging load carriers, groaning under the weight of bags of foodstuff, sweat washing down their bodies, their guttural voices telling people to get out of the way. There were cart pushers carrying piles of farm produce from the market; handicapped beggars on wheel-fastened boards, impostors feigning disability, and hospital reports, speaking of ridiculous afflictions; yellow skinned mendicants from Niger shuffling after their prospective benefactors, stubborn as leeches; truant school boys pooling away their pocket money at gambling points and barefoot hawkers, trays balanced on their heads with high-pitched voices calling out to prospective customers and hard, sun beaten faces. Theses ones milled about, hoping to benefit from the jam, dangling whatever they had to sell. There were traders with makeshift stalls lining the road, measuring out bowls of grains while their grimy tots lapping at their bone-dry breasts.

A dusty path beside the market led to the motor park garage filled with saloon cars and buses with unstable bodywork. One bus bore the inscription “my enemies will live long to see what I will become” while “To be a man is not a day job” was boldly imprinted on the panel of a taxi. The vehicles that ply long distance routes; Mammy wagons, big-nosed trailers, and overloaded lorries were parked side by side. A trailer was embellished with rough paintings and the words, “Beware, many have gone”. Upon another was written “Satan must obey Jesus” and another “Allah is great”

Under a decrepit wooden shed, close to the heavy vehicles, four touts who had nothing to do but wait out the day, chatted while they grabbed lazily at their crotches, and drew on cigarettes. Their conversations were punctuated by raucous laughter. Close to them, five children, lice haired with clothes gray with dust, were flinging stones at a light brown monkey leashed by the waist to one of the trailers from the north- the type used for transporting cattle. The creature squeaked and leapt, an action which seemed to fascinate them. The children talked in tones of hushed excitement periodically breaking into giggles.

“Monkey banana!” one of the boys leered, waving his long skinny arms. They also found that amusing, their faces lighting up. Invigorated by the new name they repeated it again and again. Then they sang and pranced and clapped in a shrill chorus. Their frolics would have been likened to one of those song-singing and hand-clapping activities on the playground if they had been school children. But then this was their school. The world was their playground. The boys screamed “monkey banana” and lobbed stones at the agitated monkey till one of the idle touts broke off from the group, dashed into the zinc-roofed shed and came out flourishing a twig. The children pelted into the street.

The conductors had already begun work. They jostled for passengers, screaming and gesturing. Some employed the bold-faced method of snatching the bags of the prospective passengers and taking them to their buses to secure seats. Motes of dust danced in the sunlight. The conductors were mostly causal workers, pitching their tents with whoever could pay after the day’s job. A driver could do without a conductor but having one was regarded as a more efficient way of making money because of the swiftness of their operation.

Waheed Mudashiru alias Shaina Big Daddy had never felt the need for a conductor. For him paying a conductor was a waste of his hard earned cash. He valued cash as a means to satisfy his cravings and obtain what he desired and cursed whenever the touts demanded money from him. He cursed whenever the police stood at checkpoints for bribes. But he was known for his generosity at flophouses and sometimes whores fought themselves to bed him.

Shaina Big Daddy threw open a greasy metal tool box, and tumbled out some spanners black with oil as he prepared his bus to start the day’s job. His minibus was an old pale white Toyota HIACE bus with badly damaged fenders and a fractured windshield, its edge lined with stickers of his favourite Fuji musician “Pasuma wonder”. Just above the front bumper, in a well-ordered calligraphic rendition, his bus boldly bore the inscription “LET ME GET HOME BEFORE IT’S DARK.”

Mudashiru had bought the bus off a roadside mechanic who was in the business of searching for abandoned vehicles and putting them in working order. So he was unsure who the owner of the bus was. He however imagined him to be a man not given to spending late nights. Maybe he was a devout Muslim with burqa-wearing wives. Maybe he needed to be home early, in time for the evening prayers. Maybe he prayed five times daily according to the tenets of Islam. He must have been everything Mudashiru was not, but then he didn’t really care. He was the man of the moment and the owner of the bus. It was as simple as that. And to prove that, he recently added his own words to the literature of the vehicle, an unashamed declaration of his daily mantra stenciled on the fender in yellow letterings “ENJOY YUR LIFE NOW, NO ONE KNOW TOMMOROW”.

Mudashiru pulled up the driver’s seat to expose the engine and bent over it, poking and screwing and tapping. For an instant, he rubbed his eyes with the crook of his arm then continued his work. His eyes were red, unblinking. Thick, drawn-out veins stuck out at his temples. In the early hours of the morning Shaina Big Daddy had tried to sleep but in vain, now he feared he might doze off. The night before had been filled with spirits, Fuji music and talcum faced girls although he had no precise memory of the details. He had found himself in a shallow gutter, his cheeks submerged in the pool of his own vomit. He demanded from a strung out stranger to be told the time (he was not sure what the stranger told him) and wobbled to his bus where sleep eluded him and his skull thumped till the break of dawn. Before preparing his bus for work in the morning Mudashiru bought sachets of schnapps from a roaming vendor with a big backside to cure his hangover. But even that did not work. 

Mudashiru finished his work, slammed the seat back into position and wiped his greasy hands with a rag. He then used the rag to clean the glittering droplets of sweat on his face. He was ready. He tried to ignore the discomfort in his head. He had to work. He had to earn a living.

Mudashiru swung the door in the passengers section open and began calling out his route, his voice hollow and hoarse-an inevitable consequence of the habitual smoking of marijuana

Ayankunle Ayangalu was the first to arrive. A squat individual with a talking drum clasped to his side, Ayankunle hit the drumhead slightly with his stick-holding hand, creating a gentle rhythm as he approached. He took the seat beside the driver and rested his drum on his lap. He whistled a jubilant tune and bobbed his head.

After Ayankunle, came Rainbow Mama, accompanied by three ala-barus bent by the weight of the sacks and baskets of tomatoes and pepper on their shoulders. She was big, with a wide face blotched with acne, brawny forearms and dark patches of sweat around the armpits of her cheap blue dress. Rainbow Mama wore a flowery patterned scarf around her head and gave off a sooty, firewood smell. The ala-barus quickly relieved themselves of their burdens, dropping on one knee, and heaving their burdens onto the ground with loud thuds. The men, sturdy and strong, crouched on the ground, their hands planted on their knees, their dripping chests heaving hard and fast.

Shaina Big Daddy took a visual inventory of the goods and named his price. Rainbow Mama promptly disagreed, then told him the amount she was willing to part with. The driver talked about how they would have to stretch out the seats at the back to accommodate her things. He emphasized the implications of that; a ten-seater bus would now only allow four passengers. He spoke about the inconveniences of conjoining man and goods. He complained about the fuel scarcity and how the fuel in the bus came from the black market. The conversation went back and forth. After several moments of contemplation by Rainbow Mama, a compromise was reached and the hefty men loaded the foodstuff into the bus.

Rainbow Mama paid the burden bearers and clambered in, heaving her body into one of the window seats. She shifted the angle of her body to make herself comfortable, and fit her bottom into the seat. Once she was seated she removed her slippers, and stretched her dusty legs as long as the bus could accommodate. She let out a violent sneeze, and jabbed her finger into her right ear to scratch something deep inside as she rubbed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She sneezed again and wiped mucus with the hem of her clothes. For a few moments Ayankunle looked over his shoulders to regard her with mild disgust. She grumbled about how dusty the market was and wondered if the soldiers were doing anything in government apart from distributing money in sacks and organizing campaigns for the president’s self succession plan.

Several moments passed and she began complaining of the heat but there was also the smell of sweat and rotten tomatoes and pepper about which she said nothing about. Shaina Big Daddy pushed down the dust-stained window a little to let fresh air in. One hand tugged at the glass while the other hand supported it to prevent breakage.

“Na wa o, with all the money you people make, common window you cannot repair,” she said. Rather than reply her, he fished out a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and began smoking. He then continued calling out to his prospective passengers, pausing now and then for a puff on his cigarette.

It was not long before a flock of hawkers, merchants and scroungers besieged the bus with their pleas and petty goods, clamoring for the passengers’ attention. Sweets, cigarettes packets, sliced bread, wrist watches and belts with shiny buckles were offered for sale by the hawkers. A beggar squeezed through the swarm and stuck her neck in through the side window.

Her eyes, protuberant, staring, were milky with blindness. One arthritic hand rattled a dry stick at the passengers, while in the other she held a plastic bowl that jingled with coins, the fruit of her begging. She raised her voice in spurious invocations. “May you not be annihilated before your time! “May the road not yawn open to claim your souls!” “May you not sow for another man to reap”. The blessings rolled off her tongue in a singsong moan, her bulbous, glaucoma-eaten eyes staring directly at Rainbow Mama. If Rainbow Mama felt any pity for her at all it was overwhelmed by the feeling of unpleasantness at such a repulsive sight. Rainbow Mama dug frantically into her purse and dropped a folded bill into her bowl. The beggar rolled back her lips and disclosed her terribly decayed teeth. She thanked her profusely and fumbled her way to the next bus.

No sooner had the female beggar gone than a hunchbacked Hausa man emerged. This one again occupied that vantage spot close to Rainbow Mama. He was holding a placard, a harsh gabble spewing from his throat. The placard seemed to accomplish the task his larynx strived so hard to do. It was clear that the dumb fellow’s miserable attempt to speak was simply a ploy to stir up sympathy. On the piece of cardboard was written a poorly spelt message:

HELP ME; I AM A DEAF AND DUMB. I HAVE 2 WIFES AND 13 CHILDRIN

Rainbow Mama turned her face away from the window. The Hausa drifted off then appeared seconds later standing beside the front window where Ayankunle was seated, searching his face for the slightest signs of sympathy. Ayankunle grimaced when he read the inscription on the cardboard. Could it be true that he really had two wives? How did he get them to marry them? How did he win their hearts? How did he manage to produce thirteen children? The idea that the beggar’s message might be true disgusted him to his core. He could not keep his irritation to himself.

“What did you tell them to make those women agree to marry you?” he spewed. He neither expected him to hear nor reply. He just wanted to let out his displeasure. It was not really about the beggar at all. It was something deeper, a pent up bitterness, some suppressed feeling within looking for an opportunity to be expressed.

“I don’t blame you! It is the wives I blame. Serpents, that’s what they are, these women. Wicked, slippery, serpents. If they cannot get all your money till you become wretched they will go after the thing dangling between your legs till you cease becoming a man. Who knows, maybe they are the ones responsible for this your affliction? Who knows what women are capable of these days?”

“Look here, Mr Man! I cannot sit down here and watch while you insult women!” Rainbow Mama lashed out from behind.

“Busybody mind your own business!” he said, looking behind him.

 “See me, see trouble oo... na me you dey follow talk like that? Do you have a mother at all? Don’t you have sisters at home? You this son of a worthless harlot!” her voice rose.

This time Ayankunle whirled around, craning his neck, his eyes blazing with anger, “It is your daughter that is a harlot. God punish you!”

“God punish your father, mother and all your family members. Born fool!”

“Enough! Take your fight outside!” Mudashiru plunged in.

The beggar vanished while insults continued to flip back and forth between the two passengers as they faced one another, their faces twisted with anger.

[The author retains copyright to this excerpt. Do not reproduce without permission]