Armani and Cynthia St. Hilaire, his Barbados girlfriend, lived large and wallowed in endless champagne party. Cynthia was truly and dashingly pretty. Soft spoken, emerald eyes, dimple, tall, busty, and well spoken.
By Taju Tijani
The church was packed. Yes, the Methodist Church in Mushin was heaving with worshippers who had come to celebrate the goodness of God with evocative thanksgiving. It was a yearly fanfare. Mr and Mrs Adodo were in a happy mood. They took their two other daughters along. But all eyes were on young George. George was born shy, respectful, bright, friendly, handsome, cheerful, and extraordinarily gifted. He had an uncanny connection with drums and could beat the drums for the heavenly angels to start doing a foxtrot. Such was his drumming dexterity that the church pastor made him one of the leaders in the choir section at the age of seventeen.
George Adodo drumming genius travelled wide. Pastors along Idi-Oro, Ojuelegba and Oshodi seek out his service. They all knew that drumming was George’s gifting in the body of Christ. Side by side George combined his drumming skills with his education. He did not do well in the WAEC exam. He made another attempt; it was the same. After three attempts, Mr and Mrs Adodo agreed to put George through the mill of apprenticeship to learn another skill.
Fours years later, George became an electrician. He was equally good at the trade and had many satisfied customers who recommended him to other people. Mr George Adodo drove an expatriate who worked for Lever Brothers in Apapa. Mrs Beatrice Adodo was a homemaker looking after four children. She sold petty daily needs right at the doorstep of their tenement apartment in Mushin. George’s mum had a special liking for him. To her, his birth was a special divine blessing. She reckoned it was the reason God gifted him with drumming ability to announce His greatness through his drums. She adored George and treated him differently.
In 1991, Mr & Mrs Adodo and other children were at the Murtala Muhammed Airport to send George abroad to go and chase a greener pasture. They were there to support, pray and drum life wisdom to live by while abroad to young and impressionistic George. Beatrice Adodo sobbed throughout the departure ceremony. She loved George dearly. She is her first son. And third child. She kept warning George not to join the wrong crowd. Not to join drug gangs. Not to join scammers. She sowed the seed of greatness in Armani. Armani nodded in affirmation. “Motigbo ma,” he kept on saying.
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Armani lived in Neasden in the early nineties. He settled with a friend. Tall, handsome, dashing, stylish and friendly. The friend was a cab driver. Odd jobs here and there, Armani saved up and bought his gold Rover 213 banger. The car was a game changer. He joined the cabbing fraternity with a blast. Sainsbury’s Store in Ladbroke Grove was buzzing with shoppers. Nigerians, West Indians, Pakistanis, and other African nationalities who were cab drivers sat in their cars waiting for their fare.
Ladbroke Grove was a Caribbean heartland in the 90s. Beer joints, spare ribs hangout, cab houses, rum houses, craft shops and Rastafarian restaurant businesses were owned by enterprising West Indians people. We had many marijuana dug outs. Junkies roamed the streets of Ladbroke Grove. Drug dealers drove around in expensive Benz and Beamers with gleaming wheels fitted in Forest Gate. Every August the streets of Ladbroke Grove play host to carnival revellers who had come to enjoy the world-famous Notting Hill carnival.
Heavily stoned Caribbean women dressed scantily and in high heels prowled the streets at night looking out for men who wanted “business”. They claimed the streets at night doing the “work” as material girls. Daily, Armani was being sucked into these volatile mix of drug, prostitution, easy living and ‘Jamo’ culture. The Rasta culture ruled the social scene.
R Kelly’s “Your Body’s Calling” 1994 was blasting through Armani’s groove house speakers in his one roomed apartment in Neasden. Tastefully furnished with all the mod cons. The rug carpet was like 4inches thick. He had the latest stereo set in town. He could load 8 CDs into his Panasonic stereo set for endless listening. Big, black leather settee gave the room a posh look. Armani ate with gold cutlery set. He loved the good life.
“Baba, e don dey shele o,” he opened as I walked in. “Bawo, ki lo nshele.” “Mio se caby mo, mo ti nshe odu,” he blurted out matter-of-factly. “What, odu uke?” He smiled at me and pointed to six brand new laptops on the table. They were for sale. I saw Giro booklets lying carelessly on his chair. He took out a small briefcase beside his safe and showed me cloned credit cards. Armani had this strange trust in me that I could not grass on him and alert the Police over his fraudulent lifestyle. In between our chat, his phone was ringing endlessly. I could hear Jamaican patois at the end of the line.
Two years later, Armani moved out and rented a flat in Waltham Cross in Hertfordshire. Now he was a big boy. A big boy running errands for drug dealers, laundering drug money to purchase luxury and expensive items. He was a clearing house for Giros. Giro was the paper cheques issued in the 80s and 90s to the jobless for cash at the Post Office. Survival money meant for the old, the infirm, and the jobless was routinely intercepted and Armani cash them all for his personal use. He was now a big scammer. A thief. He was also an identity fraud superstar.
He bought himself a graphite black Porshe. Armani and Cynthia St. Hilaire, his Barbados girlfriend, lived large and wallowed in endless champagne party. Cynthia was truly and dashingly pretty. Soft spoken, emerald eyes, dimple, tall, busty, and well spoken. He understood Armani and stood by him like a guardian angel. He wore expensive gold chain, designer jeans, watches, and trainers. The memory of the cab years was erased by his new opulent living. Armani was now a rich playboy throwing a dice of fate and luck daily. People wondered on his street what this power couple did for a living.
“Uncle T…Uncle T…Uncle T, you are welcome sir,” chorused Mary Adodo, Armani’s younger sister. “Haba, you did not tell us you are coming to Nigeria,” Mr and Mrs Adodo added. I offered my apology argued that I like surprises. I had been bringing largesse from Armani to his parents for years. Money, laptops, clothes and other sundry stuff for his parents and siblings. Then….
I made my way into the Pentonville prison. Armani remembered to include “Baba” among the list of his visitors. I was frisked at the door for firearms and sharp objects and ushered into a holding place where visitors meet prisoners – father, mother, baby mamas, slay mamas, girlfriends, friends, and neighbours. The handcuff was removed from Armani’s wrists. He flashed his innocent and disarming smile at me. I pursed my lips not to betray teary emotion welling in me. He betrayed no emotion. Baba, baba, baba he kept repeating as he approached me. “Georgio Armani…Armani..Armani”, I finally responded. He grabbed me. I felt his now bushy beards coursing through my neck.
“Baba, I was caught and charged for multiple offences of identity fraud, money laundering, drug dealing, handling stolen goods and credit card fraud,” he said. I kept silent. I wanted him to reveal more. “It was that stupid girl – Cynthia – we had a row and she threatened to grass on me, and she did. She did that to me and fled to Barbados to evade justice. I will be here for 12 years. I am so sorry Baba that I disappointed you. I remember your advice to me not to go this way. Cynthia introduced me to some hard-core druggies and their lifestyle blew me apart – their cash, cars, fine apartment, designer clothes and shoes. I thought I was invincible. I took a risk on life in London and now I am doing the time for my impatience to get rich and look after my parents and siblings back home,” Armani sermonised.
“Your mum called yesterday to ask of you” Armani could no longer control his tears. He broke down into my arms and wept. I held him tight with tears in my eyes. I started wondering what sort of demon could have turned his life around so disastrously. Some rows from me, I counted five other Nigerian inmates talking with their loved ones in Yoruba, Ishan and Igbo.
I had been telling Armani’s mum that I lost touch with her son and that I did not know where he lives anymore. That is our pact – never to tell his parents that he is in jail in His Majesty’s Pentonville prison serving time to make life better for her and the family.
