Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love

by Abby Winter Flower

  Sammy’s the best shot, stealthiest woodsman, and most resilient person I know.

  “Good thing you never went back to Warroad. I had to teach you how to shoot a rifle and hunt. Learning all that from a girl would have been an embarrassment to the town.”

  “All that I am, I owe to you.”

  The monotony gets to all three of us. We stop talking, I close my eyes and drift into a twilight zone, neither awake, nor really sleeping.

  * * *

  I wake up to the feel of Andy’s tongue exploring my ear and pull him toward me but he pushes back. “No time for that. Quick, we have to sneak up to first class. Word is that Mia’s initiating Levi into the mile high club.”

  “What’s that, some straight ritual?” asks Sammy.

  “Don’t play dumb. I’m sure lots of gays are members. The only requirement is that you have sex in an airplane a mile off the ground Hurry up, they’re in the bathroom. Let’s greet them when they come out.”

  The curtain separating first class from the rest of the plane is pulled back. We join three other volunteers peeking into the cabin. I don’t see any sign of a flight attendant and everyone seems to be sleeping.

  “They’ve been in there three minutes,” says Sophie Reed.

  “How long’s it take?” asks Sammy.

  “How would I know?” she says.

  “Shut up,” whispers Andy. “They’ll make us move back”

  We’re there for another eight minutes watching the illuminated “occupied” light. “Must be some kind of a record,” says Zoe Aaron. We all laugh and I see two first class passengers turn toward us. Just then the light goes out, the door opens and Mia emerges.

  She sees us and moves to back to the passage. “What’s so funny? I didn’t know I had an audience.”

  “Tell him to come out,” says Sammy. “We know he’s in there.”

  “Who’s in where?” says a voice behind us.” It’s Levi. “Just took a walk to the back of the plane to stretch my legs—see how the other half lives.” He looks at me.

  “False alarm,” says Andy, pulling my arm. “Let’s get back before you cause trouble again.” He guides me back to our seats and away from Mia.

  “I don’t know how that rumor was wrong. Sophie told me that Mia said she was going to do it in the bathroom with Levi—even invited her to keep track of the time.”

  “It doesn’t pay to believe anything Mia says,” I respond, already drifting back to the twilight zone.

  PART II: LAGOS NIGERIA

  Chapter 18

  From the plane window, Lagos looks like an endless checkerboard of rundown buildings, brown dirt, and dried out foliage. It reminds me of Desperation Hollow on steroids— massive steroids—it’s about twenty-million people. Finally, I see a lonesome patch of green that surrounds a runway of Murtala Muhammed International Airport. The Boing 727 makes a smooth landing and taxies to the terminal. Finally made it—I’m in Africa.

  * * *

  It’s seven in the morning and I watch my fellow volunteers yawn and stretch as they join long lines that lead to immigration check points. Sammy uses his navigation skills to guide Andy and me to the shortest line. It’s filled with pushy people wearing rumpled clothes, in dire need of showers and massive doses of deodorant. Sammy’s first, then Andy and I bring up the rear. I don’t like closed spaces so I keep a few feet between us. After a minute, I feel a nudge behind me and ignore it. A few seconds later, I feel a harder shove. I turn and see a very large, slightly overweight, middle-aged black man wearing a pressed, well-tailored blue suit with a crisp white shirt, red tie, and matching handkerchief. He’s overdosed on aftershave but he smells better than most others in the line.

  “No need to push,” I say. “The line’s not going to go any faster.”

  “Keep it closed up. No gaps.” He slides a small suitcase into the back of my legs with a well-polished Italian Oxford.

  It’s early in the morning, I haven’t slept much and need coffee. I’m in no mood for diplomacy. I kick the suitcase three people back in the line. “Damn, I hate it when that happens. Got a trick nerve in my leg and I can’t control it when something bumps into it.”

  He moves his face so close I have a hard time focusing. His breath smells like peppermint mouthwash and I can see beads of moisture on his lips. “Best watch your step girl. Once you get through that checkpoint you’re in my country, on my turf. Your smart mouth will get you in great trouble.” He talks slowly, in a low monotone with a British sounding accent.

  “Always nice to get a warm welcome from a cheerful local.”

  “I advise you to listen to me, girl.”

  “Name’s Layla, not girl.” His forehead is nearly touching the top of my head. I’m feeling crowded and not used to looking up to make eye contact. “Better go back and get that fancy little suitcase before one of the unwashed peasants makes off with it.” He doesn’t move so I give him a sharp shove and he reels backward. I’m ready for more but he only smiles, showing me perfectly aligned, amazingly uniform white teeth.

  “Have a nice day,” he says, moving back to recover his suitcase. Once he gets it, I hear him shout, “Ahmed, over here.”

  I watch a slender man in a black suit carrying a thin briefcase, push through the line, shake his hand, and escort him to the front.

  “Hey big guy” I shout. He stops and looks back. “Yes, you, Mr. Clean. My compliments to your dentist.”

  * * *

  Sammy goes through immigration first. I take off my pack and dig for my passport. He gets his stamped and sails through in less than thirty seconds. Andy goes next and I’m still digging. It’s not in the pocket where I left it so I dump the contents on the dirty floor and still can’t find it. Andy’s done and the immigration officer waves me forward. I’m still rummaging through the pile when I feel a finger jab my back. It’s attached to an old woman with a faint mustache over a withered lip who smells like stale onions.

  “I can’t find my passport. Wait a minute.”

  I don’t think she speaks English. She shakes her head, points to the immigration booth, and prods me again with a long, dirty fingernail. I give up, toss my belongings in the pack, and stride into the immigration booth.

  “Can’t find my passport,” I yell at the immigration official. He’s skinny with a bald, elongated head and wears a pressed, starched uniform. He looks at my messed up hair, baggy slacks and rumpled blouse like I just emerged from sleeping in a dumpster.

  “Please be calm mam and don’t shout at me.”

  His tone is condescending and I get a sudden urge to rip off that tailored shirt and stomp on the hat with the polished bill. “My passport is missing. Someone stole it,” I calmly say. “I just got off an eighteen hour plane trip,” I add, running my fingers over my rumpled blouse, then wondering why I needed to say that.

  “Show me another form of identification.”

  He haughtily looks down from his elevated stand while I rummage through my pack and make another discovery. My wallet and airline ticket aren’t there either. “They took my godamn wallet and ticket too,” I bellow.

  “No profanity and I must remind you again to restrain your shouting.”

  “Let me remind you of something, you arrogant scarecrow. I’m in a strange country with no money, no identification, and no passport. How the fuck am I supposed to act?”

  He doesn’t answer, just picks up a phone and talks to someone in a language I don’t understand. He hangs up and says “Wait.”

  “I haven’t got time. My group is—”

  He slams the window shut and turns his back. Across the room I see Andy and Sammy herded out an exit by Mrs. Selby. They turn and look back, but she hustles them through the door and out of sight.

  * * *

  After a five minute wait two burly guys in cop uniforms arrive and escort me to a corner room with three folding chairs and a metal table. They lock the door and leave me there. The room feels closed in but I try to keep calm. I don’t have to
wait long. In a few minutes the cops return with Rolf Olson.

  “Mrs. Selby had to take the group to make the connecting flight to Abuja. I told her I’d help you out.” He whispers so the cops can’t hear.

  “Someone took my passport, my money and my ID.”

  “I don’t know how that could happen but I’ll see what I can do.” He turns to the cops. Keep her here. Get Ahmed. He’ll handle it. He walks toward the door and looks back at me. “You’re in a lot of trouble but if anyone can find a way out it’s Ahmed,” he says before walking out.

  The cops leave too. I slump down on a chair and rest my head on the desk, fighting closed room panic. Then it comes to me. Damn it Levi, you took my stuff. When Mia pulled off that mile-high distraction to get me out of my seat, you rifled my pack.

  Chapter 19

  I’m alone in the windowless room. The walls are squeezing me in, the air is stale, and I’m having a hard time breathing. I’ve got to get out of here now. Twisting and jerking the knob does nothing so I make a running leap, plant my left foot and smash the heel of my right beside the door latch. The flimsy plywood wood cracks and the door crashes open, making too much noise.

  I step into a large room jammed with people crowding around two luggage carousels. I’m walking away from the smashed door when I almost knock over the two cops and see Ahmed, Mr. Clean’s buddy, ten feet behind them.

  One of the cops lunges for me. He’s off balance and misses. I catch his arm, use his momentum to swing him into the other one, and sprint toward the crowd.

  “Stop her,” shouts Ahmed.

  I feel like a deer caught in open meadow during one of Jack’s midnight shining poaches. I make a sharp left turn and join a group of Japanese tourists heading for their luggage. Bad choice, I’m bigger than most of them and sure don’t look Japanese. Ahmed and the two cops are spread out, coming at me in a row. I pivot around an old Japanese woman and head for Ahmed. I pick him because he’s smaller than the other two and seems to be in charge. It’s no contest. I give him a forearm shiver to his chest and he drops to the floor. His briefcase opens and his papers fly across the dirty tile.

  The two cops slow down to help him round up his papers. I duck behind a carousel spitting out luggage, snatch an empty cart, and pick up a suitcase.

  “Hey, that’s my bag!” A guy pops out of the crowd and pulls it off the cart.

  “Sorry, they all look the same.” I don’t look at him and move quickly away, deeper into the crowd pushing toward the carousel. I move to the other side, randomly choose another suitcase and throw it on my cart. This time I get one without an owner nearby.

  I try to blend into the crowd heading toward an exit where a very bored customs woman randomly checks the contents of luggage.

  A hand emerges through the crowd, grabs my backpack and pulls me to a stop. It belongs to one of the cops and he’s got a .45 in the other. He must have circled around and come up behind me. The other cop is pushing people aside and coming at me from the front. I’m trapped between the two cops and the carrousel.

  I don’t think the cop will fire his gun in the middle of the crowd. I twist sharply and jerk his hand away from my pack. The motion throws him off balance. I’m wrong about his not pulling the trigger. A Japanese tourist gets a hole blasted through her designer suitcase, the noise echoes off the high sealing, and everyone stops moving. Before the shooter gets to his feet, I push the luggage cart between us. The second cop is almost on me when I pull my borrowed suitcase off the cart and fling it at his knees. He falls, and I take a large suitcase from the cart of a woman next to me.

  “Sorry, I wouldn’t do it unless I had to.” I open it and spread underwear, dresses, slacks and sweaters across the floor.

  The nervous crowd closes in to see what’s going on and the two cops are momentarily blocked. As they push their way toward the dumped clothes, I drop to my hands and knees and crawl along the side of the carrousel toward the exit.

  The customs woman sits on a high stool, her arms folded, and her head nodding to the beat of whatever music she’s listening to on her earphones. She’s oblivious to the commotion. With agents like her, I can see why Lagos is haven for drug dealers. I take off my backpack, carry it like a suitcase, and barge to the front of the line. Just as I walk past her and enter the main terminal, I hear an alarm go off and see three more cops move to block the exit behind me.

  * * *

  The main lobby reminds me of the midway of the Minnesota State Fair, people of all ages and dress, pushing, talking, crowding shops and vending stands. I duck into a women’s room change into denim shorts, flip-flops, and a Minnesota Vikings t-shirt. I put on my Christian Dior shades and top off my new Minnesota tourist look with a Twins cap. I look in the mirror. Not great, but it’ll have to do. I turn the cap backwards and stride back to the lobby.

  I see three exit doors. Two have cops scanning people on their way out. Ahmed and two more cops stand by the main door. I spot one of the big guys searching through the crowd. No telling where his buddy is.

  I need to get out one of those doors without being spotted. I don’t stand a chance without some help and I don’t want to throw the dice on that cop missing again. Scanning the lobby, I spot Mr. Clean from the immigration line. It’s been over an hour since Ahmed greased the skids and walked him through immigration and I’m wondering why he’s still hanging around the airport. He’s standing with a group of three other guys. They’re middle aged and all wear suits that are a bit shoddy and ill-fitted, not nearly as well tailored as Mr. Clean’s.

  Standing in a corner where I hope the cops don’t spot me, I watch the group. In a few minutes a skinny guy about my age approaches the group and gives one of the suits a stack of bills. Mr. Clean surveys the crowd and nods his head. The skinny guy takes the fancy small suitcase and moves to a row of benches about forty feet away. He takes out a small package and brings the suitcase back to Mr. Clean. Two minutes later another guy shows up and the same thing happens. Damn, they’re doing drug deals right out in the open.

  It looks like they’re about done. Mr. Clean looks at his watch and one of the shoddy suits gets on his phone. Just then another guy wearing dark slacks and a faded Bat man t-shirt joins them. He seems different; they give him high fives like he’s part of the group and he takes out his package and hands over the cash without going to the benches.

  I move fast, sticking to the walls and using the crowd for cover and reach them before they split up. “Really glad I found you. I want to apologize for my rude behavior. I certainly don’t want to be the ugly American,” I say to Mr. Clean.

  The others close in on me and I’m inside a circle of bodies. Just what I want to happen, hard to spot. “I warned you girl,” he growls. “Get out of here before you find trouble you can’t handle.”

  “I was hoping you could help me out and—”

  “Why would he want to do that?” asks the new arrival.

  “Someone stole my wallet and passport. The cops are looking for me. I don’t have money but I’ve got this watch.” I take the slightly battered Rolex that Jack gave me for my birthday out of my pack.

  “I think I’ll just keep it. It’s a man’s watch anyway. You probably stole it. If you want it back, complain to those guys over there.” He points to the cops watching the door.

  “I might just do that and while I’m at it, I’ll ask them to check out the package Mr. Clean here,” I jab my finger into the silk handkerchief decorating his lapel, “just sold you.” I poke Batman in the belly with the finger of my other hand. It’s hard as a rock.

  They close in even tighter. One of the suits puts my left arm in a hammerlock another tries to grope me. I push him away with my free hand. “Keep your damn hands off me or I’ll scream rape. I assume that would get those cop’s attention and put an end to your airport drug dealing.”

  “Leave her alone,” orders Mr. Clean. The groper backs off and his friend lets go of my arm. They keep a tight circle around me and begin to argu
e, shout, and wave their hands. I don’t have a clue what they are saying. Finally, Mr. Clean says a few words and they all shut up.

  The young guy steps in front of me and holds up the watch. “A fake Rolex isn’t enough. We’ll get you out the door and talk about payment in the parking lot.”

  “It’s not fake. My brother only steals high quality stuff.”

  “Keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk, Just smile and nod your head and walk close to us. Don’t look at the cops on the way out. Bend your knees and slouch so you don’t look so tall.”

  We move in a close group to one of the side doors with one African suit on either side of me, the younger guy in front and another suit behind. When we reach the door, Mr. Clean talks to the two cops. They laugh, slap hands, and I catch a glimpse of bills being exchanged during one of the slaps. I crouch, keep my head down and we’re out the door. We keep moving until we’re in the back of a parking lot.

  “What else you got in that pack?” asks one of the suits in heavily accented English.

  “Just some clothes, toothbrush, stuff like that.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Mia didn’t take my phone or my mad money. The money’s hidden in the lining, but he finds the phone. “Cheap phone but we probably get about ten thousand Nairas for it.” He hands it to the young guy.

  Young Bat Man turns to me. “That’s about fifty bucks U.S. That plus the fake watch, those Christian Dior glasses you’re wearing, and that baseball hat, ought to be a small down payment for getting your white ass out of our airport.”