Who is Anisa Haque?

Chapter 5

I paced my room for nearly 10 minutes looking for nothing in particular. I had tried to log onto instagram for my daily dose of poking into other people's lives but I couldn't concentrate.

My mind kept wandering off to that black Mercedes. I needed answers. Why was I being followed and what did they want? What did they know?

My thoughts kept getting interrupted by the delicious wafts of garlic and cardamom seeping into my room from the cracked window  downstairs. My stomach growled angrily, responding to the aroma and reminding me that I hadn't eaten all day. But I had to focus on my stalker. 

I did a mental flick through my last few cases but nothing fishy jumped out at me.

My last case was a widow who felt her children were being cheated out of a large chunk of their inheritance. Piece of cake.

It took me just 4 days to give her a comprehensive summary of all her husbands properties and financial portfolio across Nigeria.

No one knew of the case except me and her, and she seemed really grateful with the results.

The case before that was a little more complicated. I had to work undercover for a few weeks at the Minting department of the CBN.

Apparently some of their employees were suspected of pinching a few bundles of 200 Naira notes, so I had to go in there, disguised as a morally bankrupt secretary willing to cover up for anyone if it guaranteed me a few bundles.

I found out it was actually a highly placed director that masterminded the thefts and the employees he uses to carry out the heists get nothing out of it but job security if they agree and blackmail if they refuse.

Unfortunately I was employed by a deputy Director who was hierarchically lower than the director so he couldn't do anything.

I get very emotional when my hard work doesn't yield the desired results, but he was satisfied, even impressed and we parted on the best of terms.

I have always been strict with client confidentiality, so apart from the random slip to my Mum, Dad and maybe Maryam, all information that reaches me, stays with me. Besides, there's no way Maryam and my parents will have me stalked.

Have I offended anyone? Not to my recollection. Although, I do have a talent for offending people when I don't mean to (it's the sarcasm, my mum says). But I can't recall any incidents where I inadvertently insulted anyone in the past week or even month.

'Anisa!' Dad knocked and as usual, poked his head through the door before I could answer.

'Welcome home, Baba,' I smiled.

'Dinner is ready, we are waiting for you.'

'Sorry, I'm a little busy, can you all eat without me?'

'Why does a CCTV seller need to work over time?' He chuckled.

'Baba I told you, I'm a private investigator.'

'Sure, if you say so!'

I rolled my eyes. This is probably the 100th time I've told my father what my profession was, but for some reason he has refused to register it in his old retired brain.

'Dinnertime is family time. Now come downstairs!

'OK. I just need to make one phone call.'

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'Mama,' I said between mouthfuls of lamb pepper soup. 'Do you know anyone that drives a black Mercedes?'

Let's seeeeeee....black Mercedeeeeeeeeeees...,' she scratched her head a few times as if she was shuffling through her memory files. 'Sorry, I can't recall. Your uncle Luqman drives a silver one. But black? I don't know.'

'Baba?' I turned to my Dad who was already tapping his index finger in deep thought.

After about ten seconds he sat up triumphantly.

'Our neighbors at number 26 have a black Mercedes. What model are you looking for?'

'Yes!,' I sat up in excitement. He was right! The house with the Spanish tiled walls. I remember now, a black Mercedes was one of the many cars in the building.

In fact, Salim, the 30 year old son from that house has been on my case for years.

According to him our names had been written in the stars, millions of years ago.

How cheesy. 

He's refused to take no for an answer even when I knew he was dating other girls. I'd dismiss them in a heartbeat if you say yes.

No, I insisted and he threw the biggest hissy fit ever until he eventually moved to Lagos months ago.

Could he be in town and be stalking me? The nerve! 'I am so going to teach him a lesson!' I thought, Thinking it was a job for Muda.

It's times like these that I really appreciate baba's nosiness in our neughbours' lives.

Ever since Baba got retired 3 years ago he had appointed himself as the prefect of the neighbourhood.

He gathers tidbits of information about the inhabitants of Macadamia Close from basic info like the number of children in each household to personal info like which schools they attended and which days they wash their clothing  to creepy info like which wife was on duty in polygamous households and the colour of bed linen used in some homes.

He learns these during his twice daily strolls (more like patrols) of the area.

He parades the street nearly every morning at 8 and evening at 6, wearing a jalabiya (it's more approachable, he says) and carries a walking stick (it's more dignified, he says).

Surprisingly most people he encounters seem to love his nosy, persnickety nature and always stop him for a chat on his walks and sometimes, even come to our home to have their disputes solved.

He was the neighbourhood Oprah Winfrey!

'I think it was an E Class.'

'Ah, sorry! Number 26 have sold their black E class. Now it's just a C class. Black one.'

'Oh,' my excitement fizzled out, it might not be Salim. 'Its not it then.'

But who could it have been?

There was a loud clunk of heavy metal. Someone had opened and closed our pedestrian gate.

Mama and I sprinted to the front window to see who it was while baba went to answer the sharp chimes of the doorbell.

Baba returned to the living room with a knowing smile across his face.

'Anisa it's for you,' he turned to mum grinning like a gambler on payday. 'Its a boy!'

'Relaaaaaax,' I said. 'It's for work.' I left quickly to meet my guest in the receiving room, leaving Mama and Baba murmuring animatedly.

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