Into the Go Slow

by Bridgett M. Davis

  “Power is back,” he noted.

  She handed him two naira.

  “Thank you madam, thank you,” he said, backing out of the room.

  Angie sat on the bed. Slowly, methodically, she peeled off her shoes and clothes and dropped them into a pile on the floor as though they held her exhaustion in their fibers; she stumbled to the bathroom. When she turned the tap at the sink, brown water trickled out. She cranked the faucet all the way, but the water pressure remained weak. She ran her hands under the trickle and turned to wipe them on the hanging towel. It was used, dirty.

  When she looked in the mirror, she was startled. Her hair, which had been in ringlets held together by styling gel when she embarked on her trip, was now a voluminous frizzy halo. She hadn’t counted on the humidity, and now her hair was a defiant mess. She’d tame it tomorrow, somehow.

  She pulled the light blanket back on the bed and found crumbled, used sheets; she stood staring at the soiled white linen, debating whether to call the desk clerk. The desire to lie down after nineteen hours of plane rides and layovers—from Detroit to New York to London to here—overrode her disgust. She clicked off the bedside lamp, threw the blanket over the sheet, and lay atop the bed. She had the distinct feeling she’d gotten something wrong. But here she was.

  “I made it,” she whispered into the dark before falling asleep to the muted rumble of an oncoming storm.

  In the morning light, Angie noticed the hotel room’s best feature: a long, white-shuttered window. Enchanted, she slid out of bed and opened the shutters, discovering a tiny balcony. She stepped out to find a bright, azure sky. Everything glistened from the night’s rain, yet the sun was penetrating, lustrous. She looked down onto a narrow street bordered by tin-roofed stalls. Three men, all dressed in agbadas and matching cloth hats, stood in a circle below, talking to one another. The men’s robes were in promising colors—one a rich bronze, the other lavender, and the third turquoise. The sight buoyed Angie’s spirits, made her confident that she could indeed gather the clues that would help her stitch together Ella’s time in Nigeria; now she could finally know her sister with an intimacy that had eluded her, a knowledge that would, in its way, bring Ella back to her. All she had to do was wait, be patient, and Ella would return—as she did back in the old days at the racetrack. Even when Angie could barely see her, a dot on the other side of the stretch, Ella always came back round, horse galloping up to where little Angie sat crouched on the bleachers, waiting.

  She leaned over the railing. Each man’s posture was erect, confident, pride swirling up to greet her. The sun’s rays put white dots before her eyes. She closed them and let the heat warm her lids. She felt her body lifting, pulling away, and when she slowly opened her eyes and looked down, the men had moved on. A boy passed by with a small sewing machine atop his head. The soft yell of street vendors mingled with the honk of car horns. Through the wavy air she saw the recognizable form of a big-boned woman, this one in native print, hip swaying and casual, walking the narrow street. Angie widened the shutters, stretching out her arms. The sun felt curative, as though burning away the detritus of her old self. Below more women, full of girth, strolled up the road. She closed the shutters and stepped back inside the room, anxious to start her new life, to be out among them.

  TEN

  43, Broad Street

  International Bank of West Africa

  51 Broad Street

  Lagos Island, Lagos

  3 August 1983

  Hey Angie,

  You won’t believe this, but your big sister is now officially a journalist! Cool, huh?

  Nigel and I hooked up with this friend, Chris Olapade, who we met at FESTAC. He works for this bank, but it turns out he and some friends have started a newspaper. He asked us to help out, so now we’re working for the brand-new “Lagos Voice.” Lots to write about too! Nigeria is about to have its first free, democratic elections. My job is to do political stories from the woman’s perspective. Nigel does the Pan-African coverage. He gets to travel!

  We’re staying with Chris and his wife, Brenda. She’s black American too. And guess what? She went to Spelman just like Denise! She’s good people. Their new home is near the airport. It’s modern and big. Best thing: hot pink flowers blooming all along the front of the house. And at night, porch lights bathing everything in a lovely yellow glow. Pretty.

  So you must be all packed for school by now! Write and tell me which dorm you’re staying in. And please go by and say hi to Prof. Jordan for me! I really must write to him soon. He’s the reason I came to Africa in the first place. It’s so busy here, it’s hard to find time to do anything. It takes a full day to get from point A to point B. Crazy!!

  Tell Mama she’s next. I’ll write her soon. Promise!

  Luv,

  Ella

  By mid-morning the streets of downtown Lagos were teeming with life. Tall buildings rose up around Angie as she moved along the hot, crowded streets. Cars, buses, and trucks crawled through one long traffic jam, horns blowing nonstop as men on motorized scooters wove in and out. Exhaust fumes drifted up, thick and smelly, yet the sun cut through the smoke, glaring off of car hoods. A rickety yellow bus filled with people, some hanging out the door, careened past her, hitting a puddle and spewing dirty water. Meanwhile men, women, and children navigated walkways bifurcated by gutters of open sewage as they hawked mangoes, coconut chunks, fabric, videocassettes, newspapers. More children, some with dangling limbs, held out begging hands as Angie gave out kobo and naira bills. Working women in traditional garb strode in high-heeled pumps, their bare ankles covered in the swirling dust, and men in three-piece suits swung their briefcases so high nothing could be inside them. Angie inhaled the chaos. So this is Lagos, she thought.

  The desk clerk at the hotel—the same one from the night before, now bleary eyed—had told her the International Bank of West Africa was just a few blocks away. When she found the bank, Angie hurried inside its spacious lobby, navigating around long teller lines. She approached the first man she saw sitting at a desk. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Chris Olapade,” she said. “He works here, I think. I know he used to. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

  “Eh, Chris? Yes, I know him, yes,” said the man. He picked up his telephone and called a number. “My friend, there is a young woman here asking for you. And she looks very much like an akata, so I am thinking you are a lucky man. You did not tell me about your second wife, O.” He laughed. “Yes, yes I will.”

  He hung up the phone, grinning wide. “I will show you.”

  Angie followed the tall, suited man to the elevator, bemused by his joke. She felt instantly accepted, liked.

  “Take this to the twelfth floor and you will find him there.”

  “Thank you,” said Angie.

  “Indeed!” he said as the elevator door closed between them.

  When the doors opened, he was waiting for her. A man of average height, with a thin mustache, he was dressed impeccably in a brown, silk-blend suit and a striped, cuff-linked shirt.

  “I’m Chris Olapade,” he said. “You’re looking for me?”

  She nodded, nervous. “I’m Ella’s sister. Angie.”

  Surprise shifted his features. “Ella’s sister? From Michigan?”

  She nodded.

  “Ah-ah, I cannot believe it!”

  He moved to hug her. Unsure what to do with her own arms, she kept them at her sides.

  “Come,” he said, and she followed him to his office. There they both stood as he shook his head. “Wow. This is a surprise. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He gestured toward a chair. “Sit, sit.”

  Angie sat in the chair facing his desk.

  “How did you find me?” he asked, sitting behind the desk.

  “Well, Ella wrote to me on bank stationery while she was here and—”

  “Right!” He laughed. “I’d just gotte
n this job and I was giving out letterhead left and right.”

  “Lucky for me you did that,” she said.

  He stared at her. “It is very good to meet you. Very good.” He paused. “Can I get you anything? Are you thirsty?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “You don’t look like her.”

  “I’m her sister,” said Angie. “Trust me.”

  “I believe you.” He leaned forward in his seat. “So, what brings you here?”

  “I just wanted to see Lagos,” she said. “I always did. Want to see it. This.” She was so nervous.

  He nodded. “You’re traveling alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s very brave.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.” He leaned back. “You’re staying where?”

  “At the Bristol Hotel.”

  “Ah. And how is it?”

  “Well, I’ve just spent one night there, and it’s a lot more money than I expected.”

  “I’m sure. This is Nigeria.” He shook his head. “You’ll need to get out of there.”

  “If you could recommend a cheaper place,” she said. “That would be great.”

  Chris was silent for several seconds, staring at her, as if weighing the possibilities. She jumped into the silence.

  “Are there youth hostels here? Or maybe a YMCA?” She felt stupid as soon as she spoke, realized suddenly the risk of having come so far, on such an off chance.

  “Of course, you’ll stay with us,” he said.

  Angie shook her head. “I don’t want to impose. I mean… I know I just showed up, unplanned. It was sort of a spur-of-the moment thing. I mean, not really, but I…” She let her voice trail off, afraid of how she must look to this man, appearing out of nowhere, needy.

  “African hospitality is real,” he said. “You will stay with us.”

  “Thank you,” she said, quickly. “Just a few days.”

  “As long as you need.” He picked up the phone and began dialing. “My wife won’t believe this.”

  He stared at her, eyes smiling, as he spoke into the mouthpiece. “Bren! Ask me who is sitting in my office right now. Nooooo. No. Listen: Ella’s little sister. Yes, that Ella. Angie. Yes. That is correct. Just now. She is. Undetermined.” He laughed. “I doubt that. OK. We will see you shortly.”

  Together they left the building and walked the block to a car lot. As she stepped around rain puddles, she thought, I am walking alongside Ella’s Nigerian friend. In Nigeria. Chris paid an area boy in a filthy T-shirt a few kobo and the two got into his late-model Peugeot. Chris plunged them into the maze of traffic. At one point, they idled beside a mountainous pile of garbage and she swore she could see it moving. Overhead, a billboard showed a woman spraying air freshener, its slogan beneath proclaiming, Glade Freshness Instead Of Bad Odours. Only when Chris sped off did Angie see that the pile of garbage was covered in maggots.

  They stopped by the Bristol, where she picked up her bag. Luckily the elevator worked. A different man was helming the front desk and he only looked up when she dropped off the key. Back in the car, the roadway clogged again and Chris inched his car forward, into the congestion, amid the cacophony of horns.

  “Is the traffic always like this?” asked Angie.

  “Ah, this is the hallmark of Lagos life,” said Chris. “The go-slow.”

  “That’s a great name for it,” she said.

  “We are a clever people,” said Chris. With or without irony, she wasn’t sure.

  They snaked along as an industry of men and boys wove in and out, arms filled with wares. The hawkers’ merchandise ranged from silver trays to Tiffany-style lamps to babies’ booties. One man approached Chris’s side, flashed two videocassettes of the movie E.T.

  “Oga, Oga, for you! For you Oga!” he chanted, extraterrestrial’s big eyes staring out from the video jacket. Chris shook his head just as another man appeared, holding an entire water faucet. Chris ignored him, and the hawker walked away.

  “What do you think of my country so far?” he asked, his voice a tease.

  She eyed a man holding a dead chicken by its limp neck, watched him thrust it into the passenger window of the car in front of them. “I don’t even have the words to describe it.”

  Chris laughed softly. “Yeah, it’s a trip. I grew up here, but Lagos has changed a lot since then. I lived in the States for over a decade before we came back. Hell, it’s changed a lot in the time we’ve been back.”

  A hawker reached his arm into her window, showed her an array of animal-skin wallets and plastic key chains, some inscribed with the words “I love Jesus,” others just big smiley faces. She shook her head and the man drew back his arm.

  “What made you come back?” she asked.

  “My wife and I were living in Atlanta, and we got married just as the military regime stepped down here. Suddenly Nigeria had its first civilian president and I said, ‘Let’s go back. I want to be part of my country’s rebirth.’ So here we are, eight years later.”

  Angie watched a hawker through her side-view mirror as he headed to the car behind them. The traffic lurched forward. “Are you glad you came back?” Based on the traffic alone, she wasn’t sure she could live here for eight years.

  “It was the thing to do,” said Chris. “A lot of young Nigerians came flooding back around that time.” He pushed out his chin. “With our fancy degrees from abroad stuffed in our suitcases.”

  “I just graduated from college,” she offered, not sure why she was sharing this fact with him.

  “Yeah? Then you know that feeling—I’m sure you have it now—of possibility waiting around every corner. That’s how it was in Nigeria those first few years! Right away, we launched a newspaper, The Lagos Voice. Ella worked for it when she came here. Do you know about all that? You must.”

  “Yes, I knew. We all knew.”

  “The paper was four years old by then, and sadly at the tail end of its run.” Chris shook his head. “Ah, but those last six months of its life were its best! The Voice was like nothing this country had ever seen! A radical newspaper that wasn’t some bloody mouthpiece for the government? Ah! We were very successful, right away. People were ready for a free press.” He went on, leaning into the memory. “My dear brother Jide, may he rest in peace, was editor-in-chief. The best, ah, just the best. I was political editor. Very good, if I must say so myself. And when Nigel and Ella arrived, he became the Pan-African correspondent and she eventually became the women’s page editor.”

  “She wrote and told me all about it,” said Angie.

  Ella had composed her third letter on a manual typewriter from the newsroom, complete with strikeouts and typos. It was Angie’s favorite of the seven.

  c/o The Lagos Voice

  PO Box 3071

  72, Ranfu Williams Crescent

  Surulere, Lagos

  18 September 1983

  Hey Ang--

  Sorry I haven’t written in a while, but it’s been crazy O!

  So Shenu Shagari won the election, but it wasn’t so democratic after all--a lot of African-style vote rigging. No one’s surprised, really.

  Bigger news: Thanks to some investigative reporting, I’ve uncovered a scandal! Women here feed their babies formula that’s past its expiration date. Western companies export it here precisely because it would never pass inspection in their countries (shameless!). The piece caused some controversy and now the editor-in-chief has written an editorial demanding the government change its import policies. Breaking the story got me my very own page in the newspaper. I’m now officially the women’s page editor! Make copies and share it with Denise and Mama, OK?

  You should think about coming to visit too. Maybe a post-graduation, Christmas present?

  Gotta go--news never takes a break (smile!)
.

  Luv,

  Ella

  P.S. I’m calling my new page Woman to Woman. You like it?

  The neatly folded clipping had fallen out when Angie opened the letter, pirouetting to the carpeted bedroom floor. It was a two-page spread, with UNESCO statistics and quotes from Nigerian mothers, NGO workers, and a female government official, all confirming the horrific practice. She’d read it greedily while sitting cross-legged on her bed. She was riveted by the photo—of a Nigerian woman bottle-feeding a malnourished, wide-eyed baby juxtaposed with that of a white woman breastfeeding a cherub-looking infant. And the byline—“by Ella Mackenzie”—had been circled in red ink. To think how far her sister had come, to think that just two years before, she’d been a heroin addict. Angie had done as Ella asked and shown it to her mother, then made two photocopies and sent the article to Denise in Atlanta. The other copy she’d taken to school and shared with her world history professor.

  “Ella was a damn good reporter too,” said Chris. “Also a fine editor. She was a natural.”

  Chris pulled behind a gigantic lorry loaded down with bales of some unknown substance. Angie was stunned by how rickety it was, how unstable its load, and felt certain its freight would fall off the back and crash into their windshield. He pressed his car horn. Nothing moved. Unnerved by the teetering bales in front, she closed her eyes against the sight. The smell of gas fumes was intoxicating. She imagined Ella was there, telling her to chill, roll with it.

  Angie sat up, turned to Chris. “I’d like to hear more about her work on the paper, and about the whole scene, you know? What it was like, different things she did.”

  “I can tell you all about it,” he promised.

  “Good.” She settled back against the headrest. If this were just a few years earlier, they’d surely all be in the car right now, Ella, Nigel, and Chris headed to the newsroom to work.

  “Do you think I could see the office?” she asked suddenly.

  “It’s gone,” he said. “We had a beautiful four-year run with The Voice. But we had to fold the paper after the coup.”