“Okay boss . . . mean Layla.” He gives us another smile.
“The Boko Haram claim to be religious but they’re pure evil. There’s one spinoff group run by a guy you English speakers call Jeffrey. It’s worse than the rest. They kidnap kids, kill the boys who won’t help them, drug the ones who do to control them. They sell off girls to their men. They were just a small group on the Chad border but now they’ve gotten bolder, take over whole towns, raid further south,” explains Tim.
“Why were you the only driver willing to take us?”
“I like being happy,” another grin. “Boko give country, religion, bad name. Make me sad. Can’t let them win. Besides, I like the money—you pay too much but I keep it.”
Tim digs in his bag and pulls out some bills. “Speaking of money,” he says. “Here’s thirty dollars. If you slow down and miss the bumps and ruts, I’ll give it to you when we get there.”
“Sure thing, boss Tim. We got deal.”
Tim takes the front seat, he doesn’t think he’ll get sick up there. I climb over the still sticky vomit on the fender and nestle in the back. I watch the clouds cover the sun and feel the wind pick up. I wrap up in the blanket and give Tim my jacket and my Minnesota Twins hat.
* * *
We make steady progress. It’s just after five and we’re ten miles from the village of Tugo. Zack has slowed down and the ride’s less jolting. Tim gives him the money. “Here’s your bribe, Happy Zack. You’re doing about fifty percent on the potholes.”
“Hitting or missing?” He says.
We all laugh. Happy Zack is the right name. I curl up under the mangy blanket I found on the floor for the rest of the ride and Tim sits upright in front. We come around a sharp corner and Zack hits the brakes. I hear three sharp popping sounds and spring up from under the blanket. The echoes tell me it’s not firecrackers. I’ve done enough deer hunting to know the sound of a 30-30 rifle when I hear it.
There’s a white Nissan pickup blocking the road and a guy in the back resting a carbine on the tailgate. It’s pointed at us and he shoots twice more. The windshield shatters. One bullet misses me and hits the barf coated fender. The jeep slides, nearly tips, and hangs at a sharp angle in the ditch on the left side of the road.
Zack still has one hand on the steering wheel but it’s bloody and I can see a bone sticking out of his index finger. Blood’s coming from his mouth. There’s a hole in his cheek and some of his perfect teeth are gone.
I don’t see Tim until I lean over the seat. He’s on the floor and blood is turning the right side of my yellow jacket brown. The shooter has climbed out of the pickup bed and is slowly working his way toward us, keeping low in the ditch on the other side of the road.
Got to act, no time to think or feel. I leap the seat, toss Zack on top of Tim and throw the jeep into reverse. The wheels spin and we slide deeper into the ditch. I put it in first gear, hit the gas and the rear slides all the way down. Now I’m ninety degrees to the road and the guy with the rifle is thirty yards away in the other ditch. I put it back in reverse. The wheels spin and we move a few inches. Back to first gear we move a few more inches toward the road. The guy’s climbing out of the ditch and raising the rifle when I shift back to reverse again and mash the pedal to the floor. The wheels spin, then catch and we shoot backward, scraping a tree, over some bushes, and lurch into the middle of what looks like a bean field.
The gunman climbs out of the ditch and snaps off a shot. I hear a ping, then glass breaking. He must have hit a headlight. I keep it in reverse and floor it again. We need distance. I’m looking at the shooter on the road and we’re going backwards too fast. We smash into an old shed and rotting boards fly over the jeep. One lands on the hood. I hit the brakes and it rolls off. Tim and Zack roll too. They’re now a tangled pile of arms, legs, and blood.
The shooter runs back and gets in the pickup. We’re out of range in the middle of the bean field and safe for the time being. I untangle the bodies. Tim’s bleeding from his shoulder and the side of his neck. I pull off my t-shirt, rip it in half, wad up one strip and put it where the blood is leaking from his neck and secure it by tying the other half around his neck. I take the jacket off her, turn it inside out, and put it on his shoulder.
“Tim. . . Tim . . . Talk to me.”
“Hurts . . . bad.” His voice is weak and he’s shaking. He’s going into shock.
I wrap him in the dirty blanket and carry him to the back seat. The Minnesota Twins hat falls off and it’s suddenly clear. “I’m so sorry, Tim, they thought you were me.”
The Nissan is about five hundred yards away and bearing down on us. They’ve found a way into the field. Zack is still on the floor. His eyes are glassy and he tries to say something. I turn him on his face so the blood from his mouth won’t choke him. “Stay down. Don’t try to talk. You’ve got to hold on until I lose these guys.”
If I run, I’ll be an easy target so I aim the jeep at the oncoming pickup and hit the gas. Time for a game of Nigerian bean field chicken. The shooter hangs out the window and points the rifle but we’re both bouncing so hard he can’t aim. I hear the shot but he misses. We’re a hundred yards apart and I’m not going to budge. At fifty feet the truck swerves to the right. I don’t have time to calculate the physics but it’s a very close call. My front bumper swipes the pickup bed and he spins out.
I step on the brake pedal, shift to reverse, and ram him just in front of a rear wheel. The Nissan tips on its side and the shooter climbs out the top door. He doesn’t have his rifle. I put it in gear and zero in on him. He starts to run, but I’ve got the angle. I get him from the side and he flies over the jeep like one of those rotten logs. He’s still moving, dragging himself across the ground by his arms and the one leg that still works. I turn for another run, but don’t do it. They’re not going anywhere and I’ve got more important things to do.
Tim’s new suitcase is on top of the pile and I grab a new sport coat, dress shirt and cashmere sweater. Expensive bandages but I need to get something fast. The shirt is easy to tear. I make four strips, tie them together and bind Zack’s arm to his neck to keep his hand elevated. I fold the sport coat, put it over the hole in his cheek and prop him against the door. The sweater makes a pillow for Tim. I kiss his forehead and tell him he’s going to be fine. He’s half awake and mumbles something I don’t catch.
* * *
I want to race to Tugo but have slow down because of the bumps. It takes almost fifteen minutes to get there. It’s not much, just some run down shops, a central market, and a brick building that’s a combination post office and city hall. Most of the people are at the market so I pull over and leap out of the jeep.
“Doctor, hospital, emergency,” I shout.
The crowd backs away and stares at me. No one says anything.
“Help. I need help. Two gunshot people in the jeep.”
They back away further. I become aware that I’m down to my bra, my hair’s messed up, there’s blood on my arms from bandaging, and not everyone understands English.
An old man with a long white beard finally comes forward. He takes a look inside the jeep and grabs my arm. “The doctor’s only here Tuesday and Thursday. He’s at the hospital in Bigahib the rest of the time.”
“How far is that?”
“Fifty kilometers. It will take you at least an hour.”
“Too long, too far. You know North Star Girl’s School? How do I get there?”
“Seven kilometers.” He points to an intersection at the end of the square. “Turn right and stay on that road.”
I jump back in and tear away. The still silent crowd turns and watches me squeal around the corner and shoot down the road.
I’m going so fast, I almost miss a small sign, mostly blocked by bushes, that says “North Star Girl’s School.” I turn so sharply that the jeep’s rear end spins and almost knocks it over. I see the main building, set back from the road, across a lawn of dried out grass and weeds. I blast up the horseshoe
shaped driveway that loops back to the road and slide to a stop behind a school bus parked in front of the main entrance. Not the way I planned, but I finally got here.
PART III: NORTH STAR NIGERIAN GIRL’S SCHOOL
Chapter 28
I scoop up Tim, stagger to the front door and kick. No one answers and I kick again, much harder. The door opens and I’m facing Mrs. Selby.
“Layla? . . . What in god’s name? . . . Who?”
“No time. Need Doctor Mason. Another one in the jeep.”
I watch her face go pale. Her lips tremble and no words come out. She backs up and I move forward. I’m standing there in my bra, holding Tim who’s covered with my bloodstained t shirt and jacket when Andy walks in. His back straightens. His eyes open wide and a strange warbling sound comes out of his mouth, “Uhaaa … uhaaa . . . uhaaa . . .”
“Can’t talk. Get your dad.”
He blinks and looks at me. “Now,” I scream
He pivots and runs out of the room.
Mrs. Selby finds her voice. “Put him down there.” She points to a couch. “Get those filthy things off him. I’ll find some towels.”
Tim is out of it. His breathing is shallow and there’s drool running down his chin. I pull off my bloody clothes and Mrs. Selby replaces them with clean white towels.
Dr. Mason comes in the room followed by Andy and a thin Nigerian woman with very short, grey hair. He strides across the room, takes one look at Tim and another at me. “What happened?” His voice is very calm.
“Shot with a rifle.”
“When?” He’s bending over Tim, looking at his two wounds.
“About a half-hour ago on the road to Tugo. We—”
“Why’d you do it? Was it a rifle? Why—”
“No, no you got it wrong. Wasn’t me.” I move closer, bend over and grab his shoulder. “Our driver—kid’s still in the jeep. He’s hurt bad. You have to help him, too.”
“Andy, get my medical bag. Rita, run to the dorm and get some help. Both of you, move fast,” he orders. “Mrs. Selby, Please see if Arnie can join us.”
I run back to the jeep to check on Zack. His hand looks like he got it caught in a lawn mower and a patch of skin on his cheek is loose and flops over his wound. He’s still slumped against the door. When I try to sit him up, he starts to scream. He doesn’t stop. They grow louder and more frightening. I don’t know what to do and head back inside. Halfway there I nearly knock over Dr. Mason. A very big Nigerian is behind him. He’s wearing grey khaki pants and a matching shirt with a name tag that says Security: Arnie.
Mason quickly checks out Zack’s hand and cheek. “Arnie, see if Rita got some volunteers and bring them out here. Bring along a stretcher.”
He turns to me. “Layla, I always thought you were a violent girl, but I never pegged you for someone who’d shoot people.”
“Wasn’t me. We were ambushed. I already said—”
They take me by surprise. Arnie has a forearm around my neck in a choke hold and another security guy pulls my hands behind my back and cuffs me.
Three volunteers dash out the door. The first is Joe Catelli, a friend of mine and the goalie on our hockey team. The next two are Sammy and Mia. They’re carrying a stretcher.
“Keep her back, out of the way,” says Dr. Mason, gesturing to Arnie and his friend. “Joe get in the driver’s side and get his feet. Mia, get his shoulders and Sammy try to hold his head still.”
They move Zack to the stretcher. He screams even louder. Mia takes one look at his face and runs to the bushes making retching sounds. That leaves Sammy and Joe to handle the stretcher. Sammy has the back by the head. He’s shorter than Joe and Zack keeps sliding down. Dr. Mason has to hold his shoulders to keep him from falling. The more they lurch, the louder he screams.
Mia is still barfing in the bushes. “Nice to hear your voice again,” I yell.
She pushes his way through the branches, looks me over and checks out the battered, blood stained jeep. “Quite a dramatic entrance Squaw Girl. Looks like you went on the warpath again.”
* * *
Rita brings me a hoodie and I put it on. The room gets crowded. The word is out in both dorms that I’m back, along with the rumor that I brought along a couple of people I shot. Levi seems to enjoy the scene. He takes in Tim on the couch, moves to Zack on the stretcher against the far wall, and gives me that sick smile.
Dr. Mason kicks the spectators out and Arnie makes sure they leave. The people left in the room besides Mason are Mrs. Selby, Rita, me, the two security guys and Andy, who’s helping his dad.
“He needs to get to the hospital in Bigahib tonight,” Mason announces after looking at Zack. “They’ll evacuate him to Abuja tomorrow. He needs a hand specialist and a plastic surgeon. If he’s lucky he’ll only lose one finger. We’ll take him on the bus. Andy, you come too.” He turns to me. “Your shot hit him at an angle. The bullet just took out some teeth and came out his cheek. A few more inches to the right and you would have blown out his brains and—”
“Godamn it, I told you it wasn’t me.”
He turns to Arnie. “Shut her up, I’m not done.” We both get the message and I zip-up my mouth.
“This young man here was even luckier. The neck shot just grazed his skin. Missed his jugular and spine. I’ll stitch it up. He may have a slight scar but no damage. Even more lucky with the shoulder. The bullet plowed straight through—nicked his collar bone and some muscle. He may lose some mobility and he’ll be in a lot of pain for a few days. We’ll keep him here tonight and monitor his progress.”
He turns to me again. This time he’s not calm. “You’re damn lucky you didn’t kill one of them. You’ll still be spending a long time in a Nigerian prison. I hope it’s a run down, ruthless, hell-hole. Even that’s more than you deserve. You can lock her in her room now, Rita.”
Rita, the schools resident headmistress, leads the way down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, down another hallway to a corner room. Arnie holds me while his buddy takes off the cuffs and they shove me in the room.
“Security will take turns guarding the door,” says Rita. There’s nowhere to go if you do get out. The rooms clean, there’s a shower and we’ll bring you some food later. Welcome to North Star Girl’s.” She shuts the door and I hear the lock click.
After ten minutes, the door opens and Arnie’s assistant brings a plate of sandwiches, my backpack and Tim’s new suitcase. I don’t get up. I’m lying on my back with my fists clenched and eyes watering. I don’t know whether to give up or fight. I don’t even know how to give up or who to fight.
It’s torture to stay on the bed any longer so I get up and start to unpack. Halfway through, I dump everything on the floor and pick up Tim’s suitcase and throw it at the door. I follow up by tossing the plate of sandwiches. It smashes and the floor is strewn with broken glass, hunks of bread, wads of tuna and my clothes.
“Not . . . fair I . . . came here to help out . . . just like the other volunteers . . . not fair.” I try to shout but it comes out as sobs.
I’ve been without a shirt since I used the one I was wearing to bandage Tim. I strip the borrowed hoodie and the rest of my clothes, add them to the mess on the floor and head for the shower. I keep the water as hot as I can stand it and stay under it until I’m able to think things through. First, I’ve got to convince them that I didn’t shoot Tim and Zack, then I’ve got to get Gus’s package and figure out who’s trying to kill me and why they want to do it?
Chapter 29
Arnie brings me a breakfast tray with toast, pancakes, and bacon. I’ve cleaned up the broken glass and sandwich remnants and put them in the wastebasket. “Sorry for the damage. This suitcase belongs to Tim, seems to have made a dent in the door last night. Sorry about that, too.”
“Okay,” he says, sitting on the bed and watching me devour my breakfast.”
I hand him the tray. “Thanks, that was great.”
“Okay,” he says again, carrying the suitcase and tra
y out the door and locking it. Arnie seems to be a man of few words—like only one.
It’s almost noon before they come and get me. My escorts are Arnie, Mrs. Selby, and Rita.
They take me to the front room. I see Dr. Mason and a bald headed cop with a blue uniform and a leather strap running across his thick chest and round belly sitting next to each other on one side of a table in the middle of the room. Arnie leads me to an empty chair across from them. Mrs. Selby, Rita, Andy and Mia are in a semi-circle of chairs facing me. Arnie, stands behind me.
“Layla, this is Mustafa Clarence Balounca. He’s with the Nigerian National Police but his nickname is Constable Clarence. He’s fine with that. You can use it too,” says Dr. Mason. I reach out to shake the constable’s hand but he just gives me a floppy handed salute.
“First some good news,” continues Mason. “We did some x-rays at the hospital last night and Zack has a good chance of keeping all of his fingers. He’s being transported to a first class hospital in Abuja today.”
“He’s a good kid. Always cheerful. We called him Happy Zack. That’s really great.” They look doubtful. Mia raises her eyebrows and smirks. “He was a bad driver but we liked him. I didn’t shoot him, you’ve got to believe—”
“We?” says Andy.
“Tim and me. We hired him to drive us here.”
“I stitched up this Nigerian guy you call Tim and gave him something for the pain. He had a good night. We’ll take him to Bigahib for x-rays this afternoon, then get him back to his family in Lagos.”
“No you can’t send him back. He doesn’t have a real family, only his two brothers. He came here to help at the school. He wants to talk to Mrs. Selby about how to get in a college in America. He’s very smart. It would crush him to go back and—”
“Sounds like you’ve got a personal interest,” says Andy.
“His older brother’s a hoodlum and the younger one’s a delinquent but all three helped me out. I only want to give Tim a chance to start a new life.”
Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love Page 14