CHASING ROGUE (Part 2)

Previously on CHASING ROGUE…

***

The above was the exchange that took place right as I was about to board a bus back to Aguda.

As we texted back and forth, I’d alighted from the bus and was walking back to the bike stand to return to Yaba. It was past 10 am at this time. I was going to wait at home till 2. When I got home, I was starting to sink into depression and darkness. I desperately needed to stay afloat. There are a few numbers I carry off-heart and my recent ex-boyfriend’s number was one of them. I called him under the pretext that I wanted to hear his voice and tell him that I missed him and could we pretty please get back together. But really, I needed the warmth in his voice and the rumble of his laughter and the good cheer in his general attitude to keep me afloat. I needed a life raft, and he gave that to me in the near-30-minute conversation we had.

Another friend of mine, JBoy, called me right after I finished talking with my ex. I’d invited JBoy to the book club meet that day and he wanted to know if I’d be coming still. Of course, in telling him that I couldn’t go, I opened up about what happened. We talked at length, he listened and said encouraging stuff, letting me know that I could rely on him to help in any way he could.

With all these lengthy conversations, before I knew it, it was 1.30 pm. I texted Kayode to let him know that I was heading out to Maryland Mall. He didn’t text back. I called him. He didn’t pick. I stayed calling him all through my trip to Maryland. He never once picked. I walked into the mall and texted him, that I was there. He didn’t respond. I waited two hours in the mall, texting and calling him and feeling dejected and angry and miserable. This was when I started having murderous thoughts: when I started having legit visions of me killing this guy. I was playing out different scenarios in my head, everyone ending with me committing murder, depositing the body on some roadside and returning to my life without a care in the world. I texted him over and over again, the tone of my messages alternating from rage to bitterness to pleading. Chiedozie and JBoy called me (because I’d told them I was supposed to meet the guy) to know if I’d gotten my phone back.

By the way, back when Chiedozie did a Facebook search on the guy, he’d texted me earlier the only personal information he saw on the guy’s profile: that he worked at Fut Concemptus Manufacturing Nigeria Limited. So back to the mall, just before I gave up on my waiting, I texted JBoy the name of this guy who had so ruined my Saturday and the workplace, asking him to help me go through Google or whatever, to try and get me more personal information, some address or something. He texted back: the Fut Concemptus was located in Awaye House, Coker-Orile. I asked him how I’d get there. He gave me directions: get on a bus going to Mile 2, drop at Coker bus stop and get a bike to take me to Awaye House.

So, I left Maryland (it was 4 pm now) and got on a bus to Oshodi/Mile 2. I stopped at Coker bus stop and got on a bike to Awaye House. It was a large, slightly dilapidated, desolate complex that was supposed to house different businesses, but instead looked like the businesses were not looking to partner with it. There were lots of empty windows looking out into the late afternoon. I walked in to get accosted by some men who were clearly trying to hustle customers. I told them I was looking for Fut Concemptus. One of them asked me who I was looking for. I said my friend, Kayode Johnson Madariola. That we were friends who’d lost touch a long time ago, but he’d once brought me here. So now I was back in Lagos, I’d come here to try and reconnect with him. The guy said he didn’t know this Kayode, but that the entire complex belongs to their family, that it is actually called the Madariola compound. (Kayode’s late grandfather was apparently an affluent man.)

As we talked, the man led me to the place of business I’d come here for. But it seemed as though Fut Concemptus didn’t open for business that day. So the man offered to take me to see the person who he said is connected to the family and would be able to tell me what I needed to know. In the compound, there were, it seemed, a few residential apartments as well. The man took me to one of them; he knocked and knocked on the door, but no one answered. The guy was obviously not around. So the very-helpful man gave me the person’s name and number. Tunde, he said. That I should call him. I thanked him profusely and started out of the complex. I was headed back to the bike stand to get a bike back to Coker Expressway, when I called the Tunde. He picked, and when I began spinning the same story about looking for my long-lost friend, Kayode, he said I should come and see him so he can look me in the face before divulging any information. I asked him where he was. He said Awaye House. I said I’d just stepped out of the compound. He said he was outside the compound, in front. I turned and began walking back, eventually spotting a man wearing a neon-green shirt on the phone with me. I waved at him and disconnected my call.

I walked up to him and we began to talk. I was back to my rehearsed story, and he began asking me some questions to verify the identity of the Kayode I was talking about.

“Is he tall and black?”

I said yes.

“Skinny too, like very thin?”

I said yes.

“He does like woman too, used to do hand like woman?”

I chuckled at this. I hadn’t paid much attention to the guy who came to my friend’s house and stole my phone, to know if he “used to do hand like woman”, but if this was a descriptor, then yes, we were certainly talking about the same person. I told him yes.

He nodded. Apparently satisfied, he said yes, that the guy used to stay in the Madariola compound with his older brother. But they’d apparently had a disagreement that caused Kayode to leave a couple of days ago. So obviously, only his brother could tell where I’d find him, but that the brother had traveled to their hometown in Sagamu for the long weekend and holiday. He said the brother would be back on Tuesday, so I should chill until then, and come back. I nodded, asking if I could call him before Tuesday to ascertain the brother’s return. He said okay.

So I left. It was about 5 pm now. I hadn’t had anything to eat all day. I was starving. On my way on a bike to Awaye House, I’d spotted a restaurant along the road. So, I walked to the restaurant and got in, ordering some garri and egusi soup.

While I waited for my order, I texted Kayode. “You think you have gotten away with stealing from me, right? I will find you, even if it means me tracing you all the way to Makun, Sagamu. I will. Let me just gather enough information to give to the police. Thief!”

He replied swiftly (it would seem the way to get him to respond was by dropping nuggets of information that I knew more about him than he thought possible): “What are you talking about? I lived in Sagamu a long time ago. My dear, don’t bother yourself. I’m very close to you.”

I replied: “Oh I know how close you are. It’s amazing what knowing your MTN registration details can uncover about who you are. It’s not in Sagamu that I’ll find you. It’s right here in Lagos.”

I was tempted to reveal how close I’d gotten, to drop something about his brother and Madariola compound, but I didn’t want to show my hand.

He texted back: “You are making me laugh. You should be begging me.”

This text burned me to my very soul. I should be begging? I was making him laugh? I felt an intense rage begin to eat me up faster and faster than it’d been eating me up all day. The rage filled up my entire body, not even leaving any space in my stomach for food. I couldn’t even finish my late lunch; I just stopped eating halfway because of how ashy the food tasted in my mouth, paid and left.

I got on a bus and started the journey back to Yaba. By this time, my MTN Backup had kicked in and a few friends, who’d obviously now found out about my situation, were calling. But I simply wasn’t in the frame of mind to talk to anybody. But along the way, I suddenly remembered that I had a whole new exposure that this guy could hit me with: my social media accounts. Feeling a fresh surge of panic, I suddenly couldn’t wait to get home and get online using my laptop and modem. Around past 6 pm, I was finally home, where I logged online using my laptop and began going through the tedious ordeal of changing passwords. 4 Yahoo email addresses, 2 Gmail addresses, a Facebook account, four twitter accounts, four instagram accounts, a Tumblr account. With each password I had to retype, I sunk deeper and deeper into that black pool of hatred for Kayode Johnson Madariola.

When I was done, I returned to Facebook to browse on the guy myself. I found him quickly enough. Upon going through our mutual friends, I was a bit startled to see some standup gay guys I knew who were on his friend list. One of them was someone I’d even hung out with a few times and could call a friend. (For the purpose of this story, let me call him Shola). So, I called Shola, and when he answered, after a quick exchange of pleasantries, I asked him if he knew a Kayode Johnson Madariola. He said yes, that they are close friends. And so, I began to tell him the whole story of my ordeal. He was shocked. That moment when you’re an upstanding citizen and you find out that you are related to a criminal. He said that he would call Kayode at once to chastise him.

Whatever he said must’ve lit a fuse in Kayode’s ass, because a few minutes later, Kayode called me. For the first time since the whole situation started, he finally called me. But when I picked, as he began talking, the line got cut off. A couple of minutes later, he called me with another number and guess what he said first.

“Please can you call me back? I don’t have airtime on this phone.”

To say I was stupefied would be an understatement. This was a guy who had stolen from me and caused me so much pain and stress, telling me to call him back as if we’d gotten cut off while we were discussing something as mundane as a little bit of gossip. I should please call him back?!!!

I lost it. I began tearing into him, telling him I didn’t need to have any discussion with him. I simply wanted him to tell me where and how I can get my phone back. I was incensed. But nothing prepared me for the next thing he interrupted me to say.

“Look, mister man,” he cut through my tirade, “you have no right to give me any commands or conditions.”

For a few seconds, I sat there, speechless. Unable to comprehend how the universe had considered me so undeserving, that it brought this bastard into my life. When I responded, my voice was a hiss of rage. “Do you have any idea who you are dealing with, what I have in mind to do to you?”

And he replied, “Do your worst.” And hung up.

At this, I was actually now shaking with every imaginable negative energy and emotion: anger, hate, fury, and a sense of helplessness that made me even more furious. I wanted to find Kayode Johnson Madariola, grab his head and smash it against a wall. I wanted to get a club and whack it with a madness all of his body. I wanted to stand over him, bloodied and bruised, and watch the life seep out of him. I wanted to kill – and I wanted to kill him!

Shola called me, wanting to know if we had talked. I told him what happened. Shola lost his temper. He said he was going to call him back, and added that he was thankful that I even involved him, that at least he now knew the kind of person Kayode was, and he would know to keep his things away from him lest the guy gets it in his head to teach him a lesson for some other frivolous offense he might cause him in future.

He must’ve called Kayode again, because Kayode called me back again, this time to tell me curtly that the next morning, he would let me know where he is so I can come collect my phone. And then he said, “And please stop calling people about me. I don’t like that. You will get back your phone. Just stop calling people about me.”

When I get back my phone, a lot more people will know who you are, I said to myself. I will expose you for the thief you are. You just wait.

I tried to have a good sleep that night, but my sleep was tortured with dreams of violence, blood and screaming voices. I woke up very early on Sunday morning, around 4 am, feeling very exhausted and unrested, and simply lay there on the bed, watching the ceiling and waiting for daybreak.

When it was 7 am, I called Kayode. He didn’t answer. I texted him, asking where I could meet him. He texted back, asking me what bus stop I would want the phone delivered to me, that he’d be sending the phone back to me through a bus driver. Send my phone to me through a bus driver?! What sort of nonsense was this?! It was early and I was starting to get angry again. I called him, because I was tired of the limitation texting was placing on my ability to say what I wanted to say. When he answered, I snapped at him to simply tell me where he was so I could come get my phone. I wasn’t about this handing over my phone from a thief to an unreliable source. In response, he laughed, and said, “Well, do you want to come to Ibadan? Because that’s where I am.”

I took in a deep breath to calm myself. At this point, I had no idea what was the truth or a lie coming from this guy. I decided to simply continue playing by his rules. He said he wanted to send the phone back through a bus driver heading to Lagos. Fine. He said the driver would stop at Oshodi and call me to come collect the phone. Fine. He said I would have to pay the driver 1,000 naira to collect the phone. (At this, I paused. I’m supposed to pay to get back my phone?) Sure, fine. I was simply playing by his rules.

Just wait until you get back your phone… Just wait until you get back your phone… I was repeating these words inside my head like a mantra.

I was indoors all day, until 11 am, when I got a call from someone who wanted to know if I was the one he was to give a phone to. I said yes. He told me to come meet him at the motor park at Oshodi Underbridge. I got dressed and set off for Oshodi. I got there soon enough, and after a few calls, was able to locate the driver, who gave me the phone in exchange for his 1000 naira.

I went into a bus heading back to Yaba and turned on the phone. A pattern lock prompt came up. I was startled. Kayode Johnson Madariola had put a pattern lock on my phone. I called him to let him know I’d gotten my phone – and could he tell me what pattern I needed to trace to unlock the phone. He told me. I disconnected and traced the pattern.

Only to get back into a phone that had been entirely wiped clean! Everything in the phone was gone. My pictures, music, documents, work files, applications – everything was gone! The phone was as devoid of digital matter as a new phone waiting to be used. Wait, actually it wasn’t that empty. The gallery had a few selfies Kayode had taken, probably sampling the phone camera, after he wiped it clean with every intention of making it his own. His intent wasn’t simply to teach me any lesson. He wasn’t going to give me anything at Maryland Mall. He was just a thief – who had one mission: to steal when the host isn’t looking.

A calm descended on me as I typed a text to him: first of all, telling him what a wicked person he was, how he was a common thief who would never amount to anything greater. And then I told him what I intended to do to him, how I was going to expose him through Kito Diaries and the social media. How I was going to ensure that his family would know who he truly is. I was in the place where the taste of payback was the only thing I wanted to know. It was a burning desire in me to pay him back as much pain, even more pain than he caused me. I hated him and I was determined to treat him with the same wretchedness reserved for a hateful person. And it’d both be personal and a service to the gay community: if it happened to me, it could happen to anyone who is foolish enough to trust Kayode Johnson Madariola.

FINAL WORD: Ever since Kito Diaries published the Kito Alert on this guy, I have heard through several sources all the stories that Kayode has been pushing forward to try to cover himself. Stories which his friends have believed hook, line and sinker, taking it to war against those who believed Kayode to be a criminal.

It has been said that I was a setup guy, who was trying to kito Kayode. (Apparently, the story there is that I invited him to my place, and when he came, I brought out three hefty guys and we began to beat him up. And somehow, he managed to escape with my phone.) This guy clearly hasn’t been kitoed before; if he had, he wouldn’t insult the pain of actual kito victims, by using such a fallacious story to justify his crime. Besides, who has ever heard of a kito story where the victim escaped from three hefty guys and also had the presence of mind to escape with a phone belonging to one of his captors? Who?

I have also heard that I was blackmailing him. For him to pay me money or else I would tarnish his image on Kito Diaries. First of all, why would I blackmail someone I barely know with a story that isn’t true? I didn’t blackmail him. After I sent him my text telling him what I would do, he replied with this:

It was my money. Spent chasing him around. I deserved a refund. I also owed him nothing. Paying me back my money was no guarantee of my silence. Because to not say anything would be doing a disservice to a community that should be alerted on the dangers of harbouring criminals like him in their personal spaces.

He says he wanted to teach me a lesson to never ignore someone in my house. Well, I decided to teach him a lesson to never feel so entitled that you’d want to steal from someone simply because of the minor offense of him ignoring you.

So there. This is my story. It is exactly all that happened. Any one of Kayode’s friends who does not believe this – well, this is what I have to say to you: may you experience a similar situation in your life. May you welcome someone into your house who, upon leaving, will steal away your belongings. Let me see how you’ll like that.

Since what it takes is to experience pain for Nigerians to believe someone else’s truth.

Written by Lexus