The Most Wanted Man in Nigeria

By midnight, there was a bounty on his head.

He learned it from the radio. A tinny voice crackled out of the transistor on his shelf, between a Fela track and an ad for a hair relaxer: "...the Senate President's daughter, Zuwaira Danjuma, was last seen near the Transcorp Hilton. Police believe she was abducted by a local street vendor..."

Emeka dropped his tongs.

"Abducted?" said Zuwaira, rising from behind the cooler. "By you?"

"I did nothing!"

"They think you kidnapped me!"

"I sold you a stick of suya!"

"...The vendor, described as a tall man in his late twenties, wearing a blue apron, is believed to be armed and dangerous..."

"Armed?" He looked at his tongs. "I have a spatula."

"They'll shoot you!"

"They won't shoot me."

"Emeka." She grabbed his arm. "My father is a very powerful man. He has the army on speed dial. If he thinks you took me, he'll have you hunted down."

"But I haven't done anything!"

"That's never stopped him."

A long, awful pause. A nearby generator coughed. The grill sizzled, sending a plume of smoke into the night. From the Hilton, a new set of sirens began to wail.

"We have to go," said Zuwaira.

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

"I have a stall."

"You have a stall and a death warrant."

He looked at his grill. At the coals, glowing orange. At the tarpaulin he had stretched with his own hands. At the faded sign he had painted: EMEKA'S SUYA. FIVE STAR MEAT. NO CREDIT. He had stood there every night for six years, rain or shine. He had paid for his sister's school fees with it. He had named every dent in the cooler.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

He tipped the unsold meat into a bag. He scooped the coals into a bucket and doused them. He folded the tarp, slung the cooler on his back, and pulled his motorbike from the shed behind the stall. It was a rusted Honda, with a cracked headlight and a sticker that read GOD IS ABLE.

"This is your getaway vehicle?" asked Zuwaira.

"It is a very reliable machine."

"It looks like a carcass."

"It is a carcass that works." He kicked the stand. "Get on. Hold the bag."

She hesitated. Then she hitched up her wedding dress, tucked the tulle under her knees, and climbed on behind him. The skirt billowed like a parachute. She wrapped both arms round his waist.

"Go," she said.

The Honda sputtered. Coughed. Died.

"Go!"

"I'm going!"

He kicked it. It roared. They shot out of the alley onto the main road, trailing smoke, and swung left, away from the Hilton. The wind caught her veil and flung it into the night like a white banner. She whooped. It was a short wild joyous sound, and it surprised them both.

"Where to?" he shouted, over the engine.

"Anywhere that isn't Abuja!"

"Lagos?"

"Too far."

"Jos?"

"Too cold."

"Kaduna?"

"My uncle lives in Kaduna."

"My village, then?"

"Where's that?"

"Enugu State. A place called Oba. It has no road."

"Perfect," said Zuwaira, and laughed into his shoulder. "Take me to the middle of nowhere."

They rode through the night. They went by the back routes, along red laterite tracks, through sleeping villages, past roadside shrines hung with strips of white cloth. At three, they stopped at a petrol station and bought two cups of Milo and a loaf of bread. At four, they stopped by a river to rest, and she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, dress rumpled, mascara smeared, while he sat awake and watched the first grey light creep over the water.

At six, as the sun came up, a red Toyota Hilux drew alongside them on the narrow road.

A window rolled down. A man in a black suit and sunglasses leaned out.

"Emeka Obi?" he called.

Emeka swallowed. "Who is asking?"

"Federal Intelligence Bureau." The man held up a badge. "You are under arrest."