I Didn’t Turn Into a Goat

“Would you like any hot or cold drin-.”

“Hello, it’s your pilot speaking. We will arrive at London Heathrow airport in 45 minutes. Thank you for flying with British Airways.”

After the announcement, the flight attendant tried again. “Sir, would you like any hot or cold drinks, snacks, or…” she paused to take in his appearance.

The passenger had on a Nike tracksuit; he had a black pouch slung over his shoulder resting on his belly, and a notebook in his hands. His hair was freshly woven into six tight cornrows, his skin was a deep dark brown from a recent tan, and his eyes were closed. A thin moustache spread above his full lips, and a neat beard covered the tip of his chin.

“We also have an open bar.”

Popping one eye open, Lekan scanned the trolley of refreshments.

Nothing called to his stomach, so he shook his head. “No, thank you,” he murmured back. However, as she was about to pass him, his belly growled, and a smile stretched across his face. He remembered the money.

“Actually, erm, miss, I would like that Kitkat please, thanks.”

He opened his pouch, exposing a cluster of notes. He plucked out 2000 Niara and exchanged it for the chocolate. The attendant hurried away to serve the other passengers. It was around £4 for the scrappy thing, certainly overpriced, but he had the money to spare.

Scrunching up the red foil wrapper, the pounding of an intense migraine began to spread. Wincing in pain, Lekan settled back into his seat. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift.

His first visit to Nigeria had been the best time of his life. For a man going on 22, his parents thought his trip back home was long overdue. Born and raised in South London, he knew nothing about where his parents and older brother had grown up. He had no real connections to the place. Lekan did not understand the language, as they only spoke English at home, and knew little about the culture. Although, one thing he did have was a sound knowledge of Nigerian cuisine.

His mum would make Nigerian meals all the time. From Jollof rice and fried fish to pounded Yam and Egusi soup, he was well acquainted with it all, but his family never spoke much about where they came from.

Lekan had decided to visit just before his 22nd birthday, and with his brother Lanre as a personal tour guide and translator, it was the perfect plan. He had roamed the streets of Lagos in blistering heat, ate all the food his heart desired, and rode jet skis until the sun went down. Despite this, those were not the reasons why Lekan thought it was a life-changing trip. Yes, he did learn plenty about his heritage and his family roots, but it was not the icing on the cake.

Three Days Before

It was 5 am. The fan whirred in the silence, doing nothing to calm the heat. Hues of blue and orange spread across the sky, with few people outside to witness it. This was the perfect time to explore the beach. Walking softly around the room, Lekan gathered his things for the day; a fresh pair of clothes, sunscreen, and his little black notebook.

“You won’t need that.”

Lekan froze. He turned around to find his brother in the hallway of the hotel apartment.

“You won’t need the sunscreen. No one uses that here. Let the sun brown you a bit.” Lanre continued.

“Bro, you might be used to the Nigerian weather, but I’m not trying to have my skin burnt to a crisp,” Lekan replied. Grabbing the keys, he left for the beach.

“Such a Londoner,” Lanre mumbled and made his way back to bed.

The air was humid but lacked the usual blistering heat. Lekan strolled through the streets, making his way to the beach. As he had hoped for, the people were scarce. Slipping a foot out of his slippers, Lekan plunged it into the sand. It was warm and inviting, and with that, he set out to scout activities for the day and things to sketch in his notebook. Finding a spot near some rocks and bushes, he sat down and got to work on a sketch of the horizon.

Taking a break from his drawing, Lekan studied the area. He spotted something buried loosely in the sand. The green edges peeked out. He would have ignored it but he remembered a bin close by. Walking over, he wiggled it free from the sand. He instantly felt its unusual weight. It was a Milo tin.

He gave it a shake and heard the shuffling of paper.

He pealed back the lid.

Packed in a mess of rolls and elastic bands was what he guessed to have been 11 million Naira. He stared at the money in disbelief. It was at least £20,000.

Lekan pulled out his phone and tried to call Lanre. No answer. Feeling the weight of the tin, he knew he had to give it to the nearest police station. There was a lifeguard hut in the distance. That was enough.

“Bawo”

His poor attempt at a greeting in Yoruba gave him away as a foreigner. The man inside the hut chuckled at his pronunciation.

“What do you want, my friend?”

Lekan showed the lifeguard the tin. The man scrutinised it before taking a look inside.

His eyes glowed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take this off your hands. In fact, take this.”

The man plucked out one of the several rolls and placed it in Lekan’s palm.

“Go and treat yourself.”

Curling his fingers around the money, Lekan made his way to the door, but before he left, the man stopped him.

“Where did you find this money?” he asked.

“It was on the beach, buried in the sand.”

The man’s face instantly changed. All life and glee were gone in an instant.

“Come. Take this money. Keep all of it, just take it away.”

The man began thrusting the tin into Lekan’s chest in a panic. Confused, Lekan took the money and hurried back to his things on the beach. Maybe it was a part of the Yoruba culture, he thought briefly. The joy of his latest discovery quickly took over.

South London, 15:32

Finally arriving home, Lekan immediately made his way to the post office to change the money.

“That’s exactly… £20,000, cash or bank transfer?”

He felt exhilaration pulse through his veins. “Can I get £19,000 on my card and £1000 in cash? Thanks, lovely.” He replied, winking at the cashier. She blushed and sorted out the money.

Strolling back home, he whistled tunelessly, bopping his head, with his hand clutching an envelope. His birthday was soon approaching, he had planned for a modest gathering in his cramped flat, but he had 19K in his account and 1k in his hand. A man with that kind of money had to celebrate big. 

With 22 years of life to celebrate on a Saturday evening, Lekan sat back in the cream leather seats of a luxury Uber with his brother and two best friends. The Uber hadn't cost him much, just under £170. Lekan scratched at his chest.

“22 years in this cruel world.” Sultan garbled, already drunk from the pre-drinks.

Sultan’s drunken speech was abruptly cut short by the ringing of Lekan's phone. His dad was calling. He answered, putting him on loudspeaker.

“Olamilekan, my favourite son-” Lanre rolled his eyes. Lekan chuckled. “I’m just calling to wish you a happy birthday!” Their dad shouted.

“And many blessings!” Their mum cut in.

“Thanks, guys. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, I’m out with the boys and Lanre,” Lekan replied, itching his chest with more vigor.

“Ooooo, how exciting, Olanrewaju, how are you?” Their mum asked.

“I'm fine,” Lanre returned.

“My dear, leave them be.” Their dad chastised. “Enjoy your evening,” and with a short bye, he ended the call.

“That shirt is fake!” Sultan blurted, noticing Lekan pick at himself.

“Ask Lanre. It was a gift from him.” Lekan shot back.

The three of them turned to Lanre.

He raised his hands in defence. “Whoaaa whoa, I wouldn't buy it if I couldn't afford it. It's legit.”

It felt like fire ants ate at Lekan's chest. He lifted the shirt.

“Agh gross!” Sultan gagged.

“Bro what is that?” Lanre questioned.

Scabby green and purple hives covered the expanse of Lekan’s chest. He stared at it perplexed.

“I swear it wasn't like that before I put on this shirt.” Yanking his shirt down, he tried to move the attention away from his chest. Lekan leaned forward towards the driver’s seat. “Turn up the music, now.” He demanded quietly.

As the noise filled the car, the boys fell back into their drunken stupor. The hives, long forgotten.

With the ear-splitting music bouncing off the club walls, the boys sat around each other, laughing and scanning the place for girls to flirt with.

Swaggering up to the bar, Lekan made a show of ordering several bottles of Champagne and three bottles of Don Julio tequila, 1942. The bartender paused to look at the man behind the order. He leaned over.

“Listen, buddy, you look like a smart man,” he whispered, “it’s just a club, don’t go spending your savings just to show off.”

The widest smirk crept over Lekan’s face. “It’s my birthday. I’ll be paying by cash.”

He fanned out the money on the table. People nearby stared in awe. Lekan relished the attention. He gave the bartender his table and made his way back, not bothering to check if he had overpaid. He hoped he had.

Not long after his performance, he felt a sharp pain and a wave of nausea wash over him. He rushed off to the nearest restroom.

As his hands met the sticky handle of the bathroom door, he faltered. Something rolled around in his mouth. A salty metallic taste covered his tongue. He pushed open the door and stood in front of a mirror. He opened his mouth.

Four blood-ridden teeth fell out of his mouth and into the sink below.

Drunk club-goers stumbled around him.

The music faded.

He felt wide awake.

Red fluid trickled out of his nostrils, his head started to throb, and the air became thick.

Lanre looked around anxiously for his brother. He had been gone for a while, and random expensive drinks arrived at their table. He knew Lekan was doing ok financially, but this definitely set him back at least £1000. Ready to give his brother an earful, he saw Lekan swaying out of the bathroom.

“What’s wrong with your mouth? Are you drunk?” Lanre shouted.

The other two men at the table were busy guzzling alcohol, slurring naughty sweet things into the ears of women.

Lanre grabbed Lekan, bringing him close. He could smell the bitter scent of blood on Lekan’s breath. He saw it coat his tongue and teeth. Blood was smeared on his cheeks, brown flakes crusted around his nose.

“My teeth fell out,” Lekan mumbled.

“What happened? Where did you get the money to buy drinks?” Lanre hissed.

Lekan remained silent.

Lanre shook his brother.

“In the sand. On the beach. In Nigeria.” Lekan said breathlessly.

Lanre’s soul left his body.

“No one told you the saying?”

The rise and fall of Lekan’s chest slowed.

“Take the money from the ground and you will turn into a goat. It’s cursed. Forbidden.”

“You believe in that juju nonsen-” Lekan was cut off by the growing ache of his gums. He groaned in agony.

“May the Lord save your soul Lekan. You’re already dead.” Lanre whispered, eyes wide in horror.

The people kept dancing.