A perfect day, he knew, to go unnoticed.
A shrill young voice called out from within the crowd.
“Heavy men!”
He smiled as he considered the pidgin meaning. Tough guy. A moment later the boy was walking next to him, a sweating bottle of coke in one hand and two skewers of blackened meat in the other. The boy held them up silently, his tiny face broken with a proud grin.
“Thanks,” he said, grabbing his meal. “Now, make you carry youself go.”
The boy flashed another toothy grin. “A dey see yu lata!” He shouted as he turned to his sidekicks and the three tiny bodies again vanished into the crowd.
He continued towards the center of town, slipping efficiently through the crowd as he chewed on the suya– steaming, pepper-hot strips of beef that were a local delicacy. He ignored the weight of the backpack that clung heavily to his shoulder. Occasionally a merchant would step out from his stall and grab onto him, urging him to see a carving or hand-sewn shirt. He dismissed them with a wave, never breaking his stride. He walked on for countless more blocks before finally, peeking through the smoky-blue haze of exhaust, his destination materialized above the market.
∞
The ten-story, immaculately finished façade of the Garden Landmark hotel stood in stark contrast above the squat, dilapidated squalor of its surroundings. Built just a year before, the tall, graceful building was a towering sculpture of glass and steel; so anomalous to its surroundings that it appeared as if a piece of New York City or Paris had suddenly fallen from the sky. He’d read that it was built to mark the beginning of a “new” Port Harcourt, but as he walked towards it, he thought once again that it seemed to only underscore the immense poverty of the place. To the majority of people here, the hotel was just a painful reminder of what they did not have; a mocking beacon of radiant, unattainable opulence.
He slipped easily from the stream of merchants and market-goers as he reached the entrance gate of the hotel, a large “GL” inscription elegantly emblazoned on the heavy steel gate. The massive concrete walls to both sides were intricately adorned with stylized reliefs of elephants, buffalo and lions; artfully masking their true intent of absolute security. A short, muscular security guard with a scar across his forehead eyed him with suspicion as he stepped up and wordlessly pulled his room key and ID card into view. The guard leaned against the gate and examined the card for a long moment before fixing his dark eyes on him intensely. He nodded calmly at the guard. Satisfied, the guard nodded back and opened the gate just enough for his thin frame to pass. He smiled casually as entered the courtyard, quickly appraising his surroundings as they transformed from the grimy, traffic-choked streets to a serene, open courtyard of rose trellises and flowering acacia trees.
The nearly empty atrium lobby of the Garden Landmark stretched across a reflective sea of black polished granite. The modern, minimalist décor was an austere landscape of chrome and leather furnishings, appearing to be made more for aesthetics than comfort. Large, stunningly intricate batik textiles suspended over the check-in desk exploded with hues of ochre and phthalo blue, offering the only homage to the local Nigerian culture.
He pretended to admire them as he strolled by the desk towards the elevators, smiling casually at the beautiful, slender young Nigerian concierge as he passed. Feeling her eyes on him, he wondered briefly if she, like so many of the young women in Port Harcourt, had been “trained” in the African style of customer service. He reached the elevators and stepped into the first one that opened its gold-mirrored doors. As the floors ticked off, he mentally re-checked the contents of his backpack, absently humming to a voiceless, synthesized version of Elton John’s “Your Song” that drifted from the overhead speakers.
The eighth floor hallway curved gracefully as it followed the hotel’s serpentine design. His footsteps drummed a fast rhythm that echoed out into the open atrium as he paced down the bright mahogany-walled corridor. Stopping at the door of suite 814, he glanced quickly to both sides before sliding the key card through the electronic lock and stepping inside.
Turning to close the door, he flinched in surprise as a man’s voice cried out behind him.
“Well good morning to ya, Chilly!”
Recognizing the thick Irish accent, he rolled his eyes as he stepped through the entryway. “Christ, I should have known it would be you,” he smirked, raising his eyebrows at the stout, middle-aged man sprawled across the couch. “Sleep well?”
“Fook yeah I did,” the man replied. “Nicest feckin’ place I’ve stayed at since I can remember. Never expected this in feckin’ Africa.”