Mr TT and the three robbers

Photo: Yao Ad

Ademola Street is one of many in Surulere’s complex and confusing interconnections of roads, back alleys, and pathways. Its uneven roads and open gutters are merely testaments to the incompetence of the officials of the Surulere Local Government area. At the end of this street stands a strange-looking house, enclosed by a barbed wire fence and high gates. Its sole resident is an old man of a quiet and elusive disposition, popularly known amongst the children living on the street as Mr TT, due to his tall and thin build.

Mr TT’s house, in all its magnificence, is visible from the start of the street. At night, one can only marvel in awe at the level of detail and attention given to the sculptures embedded in its walls, as the night lights illuminate the building modelled after the architecture of the old city of Timbuktu in ancient Mali. A West African historian, upon setting their eyes on its structure, may be tempted to draw striking similarities with the great mosque of Djenne. The topiaries took on the shape of various wild animals from the plains of the Serengeti to the jungles of the Congo and stretched out from the iron gates to the front door. Underneath a wide tent were parked expensive and flashy tinted-window cars of all sorts, and, however hard one strained their eyes, nothing could be made of Mr TT’s profile as he drove through the streets at night—and only at night.

***

The children who played football and “touch and go” in the open street were the originators and conveyors of the nickname Mr TT. None of them had actually seen or spoken to him, but all swore to Allah that they had at least one encounter with him. And strange tales that can only be conjured from the vivid imaginations of the young consequently followed.

A street football match of consequence took place on a cool sunless evening, one without the usual scourge of the West African sun. Segun, during the course of the match, shot the ball upwards, causing it to travel much farther and higher than originally intended and landing within the confines of Mr TT’s compound. Ignoring the protestations of the other players, Segun and his two best friends walked warily towards the huge gate and peeked through the gap between its rusty hinges. They saw the ball beside the front wheel of a Mercedes G-Wagon.

They looked around in vain for a gate bell before Segun picked up a nearby stone and tapped it against the iron gates. They stood in eager anticipation for a few minutes but heard and saw no movement from the house. They were slightly relieved when they decided to abandon the ball, each promising to contribute to the funds towards a new one. It was at that moment, however, that they heard the sound of bolts being unfastened and chains being removed from the front door of the house. They stared at each other hesitantly before hurrying back to the gap between the hinges of the gate. The three boys saw a man—who could only be Mr TT—wrapped in a black hooded robe that flowed all the way to his feet.

They watched as the man pulled up his robe, revealing only the lower side of his facial features: the tip of his nose, his lips, and his pointed-beardless chin. He stepped out of the house and stood in the veranda, as though unsure of what to do next. He pulled up the left arm of his robe, revealing only his fingers—long and thin, as though his skeleton were merely painted a dark brown—and stretched it towards the evening light. Instinctively, he retracted his hand as the tips of his fingers reached the evening light. He stretched it out again, but with more confidence this time, letting it play in the light for a few seconds. Then he tilted his head upwards, observing the evening sky.

Mr TT walked towards the gate, aware of the three boys watching him with curious fascination and sensing their anxiety from the hurried beats of their little hearts pounding against their small chests. Curiosity had trumped danger for the boys who could not avert their gaze from the slow and majestic walk of Mr TT now making his way towards them. For a brief moment, he disappeared from their sight but suddenly reappeared at the gap the boys were peeking through. The sudden reemergence of Mr TT created a moment of panic with Segun stumbling and dashing his knee against the concrete floor, causing blood to trickle down from the resultant cut.

“Hello children,” Mr TT said. “Sorry I took so long. I was . . .  feasting.”

A slight shiver went through the boys’ body as they heard the word ‘feasting’. For the first time, they observed the visible and peculiar facial features of Mr TT: thin red lips, lifeless tiny pupils that stared back at them, and spear-like teeth. The canines of his teeth were sharper and more pronounced than usual, like those of the Serengeti lions they occasionally watched together on Animal Planet. They watched his canines grow from his blackened gums as his attention was drawn to the blood trickling down Segun’s knee.

“You should . . . go,” Mr TT said as he pulled away from the boys. He picked up the ball and threw it over the fence before making his way back into the house. His walk no longer majestic but hurried, as though confused whether to walk or to run.

Or perhaps to turn back.

Snapped out of their trance the three boys ran away, testing the limits of their short legs. The ball became insignificant as they fled, forgetting completely about its existence. When asked about it by the other children, they simply stared at one another as they struggled to catch their breath.

***

Three men who planned to relieve Mr TT of some of his luxurious cars had very different opinions on the whispered rumours about the skinny, old, and defenceless man living all alone in a house that could only be inhabited by a demented fool who had more money than he knew what to do with.

They surveyed the compound for a few weeks, observing the activities of Mr TT closely. They limited their observations to evening and night times, having determined from the first week that most—if not all—of his activities took place at night. They observed his ritualistic and almost comical antics through a pair of binoculars from a four-storey uncompleted building a few hundred meters away from his house.

They saw when he drove out and came in at night—usually once a week—dragging huge transparent canisters filled with red liquid; they wondered why he was so obsessed with zobo. They saw when a stray dog wandered into his compound, squeezing its frail and skinny body through the gap between the gates and digging up what appeared to be a human hand from the backyard. They convinced themselves that it was merely a deformed stick, their sight being distorted by the lenses of the binoculars and the distance from which they observed. They also saw, once, the appearance of a bat-like creature emanating from the pinnacle of the house, but, to them, it could be nothing else but a large bird taking flight.

The most striking occurrence however—one that shook but did not break their firm disbelieving disposition towards the mystery around Mr TT—was his bringing home a casket. The three robbers thought little of this at first; after all, there was nothing unusual in Nigeria about burying your loved ones in the same compound. Surely a close family member must have died, they reasoned. Their resolute incredulity became strained when for the first time they saw, that same night, the silhouettes of two figures engaged in conversation in a dimly lit room in Mr TT’s house. But, of course, the binoculars they used once again distorted their vision; they hadn’t slept all night, and the mind played tricks on itself when deprived of sleep.

None of these strange events prevented them from attempting the robbery of Mr TT. Their attention, in truth, was too focused on the four luxurious cars and the possibilities of jewellery, TV sets, and cash within the magnificent house.

***

The night had come—the night of the robbery. They had gone over the plan multiple times. It was thirty minutes to midnight, and the streets were dark and empty. They will clean out the frail old man, celebrate the next night with champagne in one of the luxurious strip clubs in Lagos, and laugh all through their drunkenness at the stupidity of the stories told about him.

Gbenga was the trusted driver for every job and also the lookout for this particular one. He was to stand by the car outside the house throughout the robbery. Yemi was the most acrobatic of the three, and so his role, as always, was to climb the gate, break the padlock using a bolt cutter, and allow Tunde in. Yemi was also to rob Mr TT of his valuables by climbing through a window on the left side of the house; he would barely need his tall and muscular build to overpower the frail and weak old man. Tunde, the reliable car thief, would work on hacking the latest security features of the Mercedes G-Wagon and the Range Rover, to be driven away by him and Yemi. A surefire, foolproof plan!

The first oddity they encountered, which of course they attributed to luck, was the partial darkness of Mr TT’s compound. The night lights, which usually shone brightly, much to the intimidation of the entire neighbourhood, were turned off this particular night. Yemi and Tunde thanked God for this great act of providence as they went about their duties under the camouflage of the darkness.

Yemi climbed the gate with ease but found the padlock already unlocked at the gate’s bolt. He paused for a moment, reflecting on the second oddity of the night. The old man was indeed an old man, he concluded. He let Tunde in who immediately started working on the cars.

“Okay, I’m about to go in,” Yemi whispered to Tunde as he strapped on his backpack.

“Okay, no wahala,” Tunde replied. “I’ll probably still be working on the cars when you get back but if you need any help just call me or something. And be careful. Houses like these might have an alarm or something.”

“Yeah, no problem. If he tries anything . . . I doubt anyone would miss the old fuck anyways.”

Yemi crept silently into the darkness and hoped to make his way through the window by taking advantage of the Rodier palm sticks embedded within the walls of the building. He knew they typically should be strong enough to support his weight but feared some of them may have gotten weak over time. A misstep or breakage in any of them could prove fatal when landing on the concrete ground.

He began to climb, making sure to verify the strength of each stick before grabbing it with his hand or placing a foot on it. It was an easier task than imagined, for minutes later he was poking his head through the open window of the house—the open window made it the third oddity of the night. At the moment though, he paid no attention to this oddity as all his effort—and upper body strength—went into pulling his weight through the window.

He landed in the dark hallway and brought out a penknife and torchlight from his backpack. He took short and steady steps as he walked through the hallway, only realising after a few steps that he was walking on a highly decorated carpet. He curiously pointed the torchlight towards the floor and observed the Arabic inscriptions written along the edges of the carpet. There were also strange figures and symbols which were senseless to him. He proceeded along the hallway and reached the edge of a stairwell with paintings and pictures in golden frames evenly spaced along its walls on the way down. His destination was the living room on the ground floor where he had observed Mr TT spend most of his time at this time of the night.

The curiosity to unravel the mystery of this strange man ran wild. With each step down the stairs, he inspected the paintings along its walls. In one painting was a man amidst thirty-odd women, half-naked with tribal markings across their bodies and faces, wielding spears and arrows, as though prepared for war. Yemi focused his torchlight against the signature and date of the painting—dated 1826. He admired the quality of the canvas and frame used although he thought nothing much of the painting itself. He moved onto the next frame, a picture in which the striking similarities between the man in the painting and a man in the picture were undeniable. It showed him among a few white people, smiling and shaking hands with one of them—dated 1909. The picture in the next frame was not dated, but the red, green, and black flag with a rising sun in its centre that was raised behind the group of men in military uniform gave him a sense of when the picture was taken. Yemi was no student of history, but he surely knew a Biafran flag anywhere he saw one. Amidst the group was the same man from the previous two pictures but in a different uniform from the rest of the soldiers, one that spoke of a higher authority and distinguished him from the others. The man had not aged a single day. Yemi took in two deep breaths and continued making his way to the living room downstairs, ignoring every instinct within that screamed run.

I really should get out of here, he thought to himself, but his disbelieving nature warred against this instinct.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, after resisting the urge to glance at more paintings and pictures, for fear of drawing ridiculous and absurd conclusions. The living room lit up as he approached, and Yemi noticed that it was filled with more paintings, sculptures, and statues—more than he had ever seen in one place. The aesthetics of the room was however drowned out by the figure that was sitting in front of him, his robe fully drawn back and a sinister grin planted on his face.

Undoubtedly, it was the same man in the paintings and pictures; his face pale and unimpressive although he appeared similar in age to Yemi himself.

Yemi’s hands began to tremble at the sight of Mr TT. He had folded the penknife back into its handle while looking at the first painting. The torchlight dropped to the floor as he desperately tried to unfold the penknife with both hands. The knife gashed the middle of his index finger, more than enough to draw blood. As drops of blood trickled down his palm and fell unto the floor, Mr TT’s face came alive.

“Welcome, Yemi. Hope your journey here wasn’t too stressful? I made it as easy as possible, you see. You could have even walked through the front door if you wanted to,” Mr TT said, rising and pointing towards the front door.

Yemi saw that the man was indeed tall and thin, the robe hanging loosely around his frame enhancing his menacing appearance. Yemi was unable to speak; sweat dribbled down his face as Mr TT walked towards him. He dropped the penknife and staggered back until his back met a wall. It was clear to him that there was nowhere to run, and screaming would only hasten his demise, and, even worse, bring Tunde and Gbenga rushing towards the house to the same fate.

“Who . . . what . . . what are you?” Yemi stammered.

Mr TT was now inches from Yemi’s face. “Don’t worry about that now. My story will take many years—no, many decades—to tell. Your small and puny human mind will never be able to grasp my origin, my history, my people. It’s all too late for that now anyway. But, come, I hope you taste better than you look.”

Yemi tried to suppress his scream in those final moments, but the horror of Mr TT’s face as he widened his mouth erased any sense of composure or dignity. His scream, in the end, was only stifled by the firm hand of Mr TT on his mouth.

***

Annoyance quickly turned into worry for Tunde who had heard nothing back from Yemi since he left half an hour ago. Tunde had gotten through the car’s security system much easier than he could have imagined.

What is that idiot doing this time? He thought. Yemi was to have bound the frail old man and opened the front door by now.

Tunde went outside to Gbenga who was putting out a cigarette with his foot.

“I’m going to check on Yemi. I haven’t heard anything back from him since he went in,” Tunde said. He noticed the sober and reflective countenance on Gbenga, then quickly added: “You dey alright?”

“Yeah,” Gbenga said as his hand felt for the rosary around his neck. “Just can’t wait for this night to be over. Everything about this just feels . . . somehow. But maybe Yemi is just being stupid, playing games with the old man. Honestly won’t put it past him.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m actually done with the cars.”

“Really? That fast?”

“Yeah, the fool must’ve switched off his security features. You know how old people are with technology.”

“Hmmm,” Gbenga said. “Don’t waste your time going in. Trust me, Yemi is just being a fool and will probably be out soon.”

“Won’t hurt to check. Will just peek through the window and call him out.”

“No wahala,” Gbenga said, his hand reaching agin for his rosary. “Give the fool a knock on the head for me when you see him. Should teach him not to waste our time anymore.”

As Tunde contemplated how best to climb through the window of the house, the front door opened, seemingly of its own volition. Light from within the house spread out through the darkness. He approached the door, steady in his steps while calling out for Yemi. Getting back no response, he walked into the house, through the antechamber and into the living room. He looked around the living room, distracted from his trepidation, for a brief moment, by the artworks of the masks of Benin, the Ifa sculptures, and even more recent works of modern Nigerian painters. His eyes then fell upon the most ghastly sight which at first appeared to him as a dark and provocative type of art form. He crept closer to the figure lying face down with blood seeping through its neck—blood that turned the white carpet beneath a bright red. Only after the initial shock of the violence and barbarism of the sight did Tunde recognise that the mangled figure before him was, in fact, Yemi.

“What a pity,” a voice said from behind, with frightening genuineness. “I bought it centuries ago from a Persian merchant. They just don’t make carpets like this anymore you know.”

Tunde wanted to turn, but the fear of the deep voice behind him induced a paralytic effect on him that prevented him from doing so. He stood still, aware of the presence that drew closer and closer until he felt its breath down the side of his neck.

“Ah yes,” the voice whispered. “I can almost taste you from here. The fear, the guilt. All so sweet.”

Tunde felt a firm hand over his mouth, a sickening wet tongue caressing the back of his neck, and a piercing of his skin by two sharp canines. There was no scream; there was no struggle.

It was now Gbenga’s turn to become worried. Having heard nothing back from Tunde, he made his way to the gate of the house and peeked inside the compound. He never voiced it to his other two companions, but the tales he had heard of Mr TT had a disturbing effect on him. His hand reached for his rosary again, an unconscious act he performed when extremely concerned or frightened—in this case, it could have been both. He approached the compound warily and stopped short when he noticed the front door of the house open, as though daring him in. He took a few steps back with his eyes still fixated on the door. His back met with the frame of Mr TT and he jumped and turned, barely suppressing a scream.

Mr TT was in his black robe, and Gbenga made out a vertical red line from the tip of his lips to his chin. It was blood, and Gbenga saw that it was blood. He ran past Mr TT and made for the gate, but Mr TT was there staring at him with eyes that gleamed with voracious hunger. Gbenga’s eyes widened in disbelief as the canines of Mr TT grew a few centimetres, and his scream was only silenced this time with the thin but firm hand of Mr TT who held him down with supernatural strength. Gbenga struggled desperately, but such an action was futile against the strength of Mr TT now licking his lips as he stared at the bulging vein on Gbenga’s neck. During the struggle for his life, the neckline of Gbenga’s shirt tore open against the sharp nails of Mr TT revealing the rosary around Gbenga’s neck. Mr TT shrieked and screamed at the sight of the rosary. He ran away as fast as he had attacked Gbenga, giving the illusion of sudden disappearance. Gbenga picked himself up and ran towards the gate, running as fast as his legs could move. He forgot the parked car and ran down the street, panting until he reached the start of the main road. He kept running until he flagged down the first night bus he saw, not caring about its destination.

The bus ride gave Gbenga a moment to reflect, part of him hoping he would soon be awakened by his phone alarm. The tales of Mr TT, the strange sights during their surveys, and the events of the night all resonated at that moment, producing a sudden, terrifying epiphany within. Movies about him (or of his kind) were numerous, novels even more so.

But they are here? In the city of Lagos?

This conclusion was a battle Gbenga’s mind still waged against itself. The name started on his parched lips, but couldn’t bring himself to complete it.

‘Vam– Vam–’ he muttered to himself but could say no more. The consequences of accepting such a reality dawned on him. He also decided never to think of this night or Mr TT ever again.

***

Gbenga woke up late afternoon the next day on the bed of his self-contained flat after exhausting all the weed he had left. It was the only way to stop the events of last night replaying itself in his head. He rushed out of the house, eager to integrate himself back into the real world, to assure himself that last night was an unfortunate nightmare, brought about by the amount of weed he smoked. He deliberately ignored the urge to call Yemi and Tunde’s phones.

He began hearing strange voices in his apartment and hurried out of the house to drive to the supermarket. On his way, the traffic warden waved at him with thin skeletal-like hands. On a Range Rover that sped by, the plate number read MR TT. He shook his head vigorously at every such occurrence, his hand reaching for the rosary around his neck as he repeated the Lord’s prayer. In the supermarket, the cashier smiled at him with sharp canines and dull red pupils. A bottle of wine he picked up read: ‘Yemi and Tunde’s blood/Est. Last Night.’ The security guard at the supermarket sipped a bottle of zobo and winked at him. On his way home there was a drizzle and the screen wipers appeared to be wiping away tiny droplets of blood.

He got into his flat, locked the door behind him and pulled out his dusty Bible from the bottom drawer of his closet, holding it close to his chest. He switched on all the lights and sprinkled, all over the flat, the anointing oil his mother had gotten him months ago. He curled himself into a corner and repeated the Lord’s prayer to himself, rocking back and forth while his eyes repeatedly scanned the flat.

A month later Gbenga was forcefully admitted into Yaba Left—the popular Psychiatric Hospital in Lagos—mumbling strange tales about bats, coffins, dead men talking, and blood-drinking demons.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Damilola Olagunju is a 24-year-old graduate of Computer Science who reads an unhealthy amount of horror and romance novels. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria.