Into the Go Slow

by Bridgett M. Davis

  She wanted to stay angry but the heat was zapping her resolve. She wobbled a little.

  He gripped her more tightly. “Let’s get something to drink.”

  He guided her toward a vendor set up on the beach. The smell of something fried wafted toward them, carried by the ocean’s breeze, making her hungry. Nigel bought them each a puff-puff and she tore gingerly into the doughy bun as they made their way back to their spot on the sand. Eating helped her mood. As she looked out onto the ocean, she breathed in its beauty: how the sun swooned over the water, creating diamonds of shimmer. She’d never seen the Atlantic Ocean before. It stunned her anew that she was in Africa.

  Once, at Wayne State’s library, Angie had spread out an atlas and stared at the continent for a long time, country upon country sprawled before her, each in its own alluring, sinuous shape, each carrying an exotic name: Burkina Faso, Gabon, Mauritania, Sudan. She had no idea there were so many, and counted an astonishing fifty-four countries, including seven tiny islands dotting the waters around the continent. Hovering over that map, she traced her finger along the North African border, then along the eastern, Indian Ocean shoreline before running it across the continent to the western coast. Her finger paused. She traced Nigeria, so angular and large in comparison to the countries it bordered. Its shape reminded her of a rough-hewn heart. And now here she sat.

  She stared out at the horizon. It pained her to confront that Africans had been pushed off from these very shores, made to travel like cargo in slave ships across the vast endlessness of the ocean. During the plane ride over, she’d read several chapters of Beloved and those haunting images of Sethe and her torture perched inside her mind, tenacious and unrelenting. “Can you even imagine the horrors of slavery?” she said.

  “Yes and no. I’ve been to both Gorée Island and the slave pens in Ghana,” said Nigel. “Seen the hovels they kept all those Africans in before they dragged them onboard.”

  “What were you thinking when you saw that?” she asked.

  “Thank God our ancestors got on those fucking ships.”

  Angie frowned, incredulous. “How could you say that? That’s horrible.”

  He kept his eyes on the ocean. “It’s no more horrible than what Africans do to their own people.”

  “Nothing compares to hundreds of years of slavery, Nigel.”

  “Hmph. Who knows?” He squinted as if spotting one of those very slave ships making its way to shore. The waves rolled in, rolled out. Nigel nodded at the water. “This is where the military used to execute prisoners.”

  “Lola talked about that.”

  “Once a month on Sundays, they’d bring them out here, and while a crowd watched, they’d shoot them. They say their bodies would fall back with a thud onto the sand.”

  Angie imagined she could hear the “pop, pop” sound, dark men in prison attire dropping to their knees.

  “It was a popular event too,” said Nigel. “And they say that sometimes, you might sit here as we’re doing, days later, enjoying the view, la dee da, and a body would wash up to the shore.”

  Angie closed her eyes against the image but it persisted, conflated with that of the dead woman she’d seen on the side of the highway.

  “Do you think their souls are at peace?” she asked. “With their bodies floating out there?”

  “I guess as much as those poor souls sold off by their own people, then thrown overboard during the Middle Passage.”

  She couldn’t bear the image. “You’re relentless, you know that?” she said. “I don’t remember you being so jaded before.”

  “You were a child back then.”

  “So?”

  “So, I was young too. We all were.”

  A hawker approached them, holding up a batik, his skinny arms stretched wide to accommodate its width. The batik was a series of monkeys—soft pink against a saturated indigo background. Each monkey was engaged in a different activity, one playing a horn, one drumming, one carrying a basket of fruit, one dancing. Each had the same eyes, pink dots of vivid expression.

  “That’s beautiful,” she said.

  “You want it?”

  She’d given no thought to souvenirs. What would be her proof that she’d even come here? What would she have to prove it to herself? “Yes.”

  Nigel haggled with the man, got him down from the fifty naira he demanded to the twenty naira he reluctantly accepted. The hawker snatched the money, and then carefully folded the batik into a perfect square, handed it to Angie. “For you madam.” He walked away quickly, in search of the next customer.

  Angie opened up the batik, stared at the monkey playing the horn, ran her finger over the waxy image. “I’m going to Fela’s club tonight,” she announced.

  “Oh no you’re not,” said Nigel. “That area’s too dangerous.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Well, I care.”

  “I’m going,” said Angie. “Tonight.”

  Clouds had rolled back in. “I haven’t been there in years,” said Nigel.

  “I’ll let you know how it is.”

  He looked at her, head tilted askew, as if unsure what to make of her. The clouds cast his face in half-shadow. “Are you a mirage?”

  “I’m real,” she answered.

  His gaze held. She knew that he was seeing her anew, this brave young woman he’d once known as a little girl back in Detroit, traveling alone in Nigeria, finding him. She saw the admiration in his eyes.

  “We shouldn’t leave too late,” he said.

  FOURTEEN

  It was late afternoon by the time they inched back to campus in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  “We’ll come down here,” Nigel told the taxi driver. “No way we’ll get any closer to the entrance tonight.”

  As the two walked alongside the high fence guarding the university, they passed a line of Mercedes and Volvos and army jeeps snaking their way up to the main gates. Every car stereo seemed to be blasting Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.” Angie watched as young women spilled out from the dormitories, overnight bags slung across their bodies, and ran to the idling vehicles. Girl inside, each made a dramatic U-turn, and headed off campus into the sun-setting twilight.

  “Acada girls,” said Nigel.

  “Brenda told me about them,” said Angie.

  “Ogas whisking away their kept women for the weekend.” Nigel nodded his head in that direction. “Notice all the goddamn government vehicles.”

  Angie watched the girls, thinking of the chances she’d missed to be whisked away from campus, of her commuter-college routine, its extended high-school feel. It made her want to remain at the University of Lagos for a while, to grasp at a life that had eluded her. She wished she could be the recipient of the “Ella Mackenzie Fellowship for Black American Female Journalists.”

  They made their way across campus to Nigel’s flat. Angie walked behind him as they climbed the stairs. When he opened his front door, he stood still for a second. “Oh, hey!” he said. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “Surprise,” said a woman’s voice.

  Angie approached the doorway. The woman sat at the little kitchenette table, a mug in front of her. Angie quickly took in her dark skin, short-cropped frizzy hair, and wide-spaced eyes. She smiled at Angie, revealing a gap between her front teeth. The smell of something sweet and banana-like permeated the air.

  “This is Regina,” said Nigel. Angie saw it in his face. His girlfriend. “Regina, Angie.”

  She and Nigel entered the flat as Regina stood. She was tall, and wore a West African-print crop top and jeans that Angie had sold a million times to curvy women, the kind Ella had brought with her to Nigeria. Angie felt her breaths becoming shallow.

  “It’s so great to finally meet you!” Regina said to her. “How was Bar Beach?”

  “Good
,” said Angie, her voice cracking slightly. “Interesting.”

  “Filled with pathetic white folks trying to make the best of it,” said Nigel, closing the door behind them, and stealthily moving away from the women.

  “Come, sit,” said Regina. She thrust her arm toward the table, like a tour guide. “Tea?”

  Angie nodded, sat in one of the café-style chairs.

  “I’ve been thinking of doing a piece on Bar Beach,” continued Regina as she placed a kettle on the stove. “I want to focus on how it’s all these different things, you know?” She used her fingers to count. “A place of commerce, a respite for foreigners, a hangout for the locals. And of course, a former execution spot.”

  Nigel had darted over to the tiny stereo set up on a snack tray; Angie followed him with her eyes. Why had he told her nothing? Not only did he have a girlfriend but she was a journalist and black American. And tall. And big boned. Really, Nigel? He rifled through cassette tapes piled into a woven basket. When he scratched his eyelid, another gesture she remembered from back then, she knew he was nervous and that made her feel strangely guilty.

  “I got us some dodo from that little buka near campus,” said Regina. “Have you had dodo yet?”

  “No, not yet,” said Angie.

  “Oh, you’re gonna love it! But it’s only good if you eat it while it’s hot, so I’ve been warming some in the oven.” She lifted her chin toward the living room. “Baby, come on. Help me with this.”

  “Coming.” Crouched in front of the cassette deck, he pushed a button, rose, and joined Regina in the little kitchen. Al Jarreau’s jazz-tinged, soulful voice sang I hardly had a bellyful and sliced at Angie’s heart. Never knew a new bicycle. Ella had played the same song that last night at home.

  They stood side by side, their backs to Angie, arms touching. Unable to bear it, Angie got up, walked over to the room’s big picture window, and looked down at the lagoon front. A few students lay sprawled alongside its tiny shore. It wasn’t that she expected Nigel to stop living; she’d known for years that he’d gone on with his life. It was that she was being forced to bear witness to it, to see what could have been, should have been his life with Ella.

  “We’re all set,” said Regina. Angie turned from the window and joined the other two at the small table with its three mugs, tea bags hanging out. In the center sat the diagonal slices of plantain, nestled on top of old newsprint. She could still make out the newspaper’s name. The Punch. Lola’s paper. The food’s sweet aroma was strong. “Looks good,” she said. What else could she say?

  “Oh my God, it’s so good!” said Regina. “The best thing about traveling is discovering yummy local food!”

  Regina’s enthusiasm oppressed Angie, reminded her of the young black women at Wayne State who stood before hallway bulletin boards, jotting down contact info for opportunities they planned to take full advantage of.

  Nigel stuck his hand in to grab a plantain, and Regina lightly slapped it. “Wait for our guest!”

  Nigel feigned embarrassment, placed a hand over his chest. “Sorry, no home training.” He gestured toward Angie. “Please.”

  Angie sorrowfully speared a piece with her fork.

  “Blow on it first before you bite into it,” advised Regina. “It holds heat.”

  Angie blew as instructed, then bit into the dodo; the crunch of the outside contrasted perfectly with the soft sweet inside. “It is delicious,” she offered.

  “See?” said Regina. “I told you!”

  “I’ll take some fried plantain over all that pounded yam and fufu any day,” said Nigel.

  Angie kept quiet. She said nothing about the local food at Funke’s that hadn’t agreed with her. She’d planned to tell Nigel everything that had happened to her in Lagos, including Chris’s assault and the harrowing walk along the expressway. Not anymore.

  Regina poured hot water into their mugs, holding the top of the pot with her index finger. Angie noticed how long her fingers were, felt a rush of relief that the third one on her left hand, the finger Ella had lost, was devoid of a ring. As they ate, Regina asked Angie about her time in Nigeria. Angie told her about staying with Funke, prompting a peppering of Regina’s reporter questions: What kind of home did she have? What food did she cook? Did she seem to have a hard life?

  “And before that you stayed with Chris and Brenda Olapade,” said Regina.

  Did she want Angie to know that she knew? “Yes, I did.”

  “I’ve met Chris,” said Regina. “In passing.”

  Nigel cut his eyes at Regina. She met his gaze. “What?”

  “Yeah,” said Angie. “Chris told me all about how Ella and Nigel worked with him at The Voice.” There, she’d put Ella’s name in the room.

  “She was amazing,” said Regina. She paused. “I heard she was amazing.”

  Nigel looked at Angie for the first time since they’d arrived at the flat. His sad eyes flickered, the color of wet granite.

  Regina quickly looked back and forth between Nigel and Angie. She put her hand atop Angie’s. Her fingertips pressed down, warm from her mug. “I’m really sorry about your sister.”

  Angie felt a sudden melancholy, the same feeling she had when people in Detroit came up to her and offered condolences, as if her very being showcased loss. It made her feel exposed and disheartened that this most private of things in the world, her personal grief, couldn’t be felt without public scrutiny. She always wished she could keep it a secret from others. She felt that way now. But of course Regina knew. Everyone knew. Ella’s death was, Angie understood, the thing that defined her. That girl who died in Africa? That’s her little sister.

  They carried their mugs over to the small living room. Al Jarreau sang on. But we got by, Lord knows we got by. Regina and Angie sat on the sofa, Nigel in the rocking chair.

  “So what’s next on your agenda?” asked Regina, curling her feet up under her body. “What else do you plan to see?”

  Angie cradled her mug in both hands. “I’m going to Fela’s club tonight.”

  Regina’s eyes widened. “Not alone, I hope!”

  “If I need to, I will.”

  “There’s no way in hell I’d let you do that,” said Nigel.

  “Nigel’s totally right,” said Regina. “We’ll go with you.” She sipped her tea.

  “You’ll come?” Nigel asked, incredulous.

  Regina looked at him from over her mug. “Is that a problem?”

  “I’m just surprised, since you hate his music.”

  “I do, but I think it’ll make a great feature story. I’m sure I could sell it to Ebony.”

  “Hmph, I doubt that,” said Nigel. “Black folks don’t care about nothing African unless it’s got something to do with their”—here he used his fingers to mimic quotation marks—“roots.”

  “That’s not true,” insisted Regina.

  “No? You had no trouble selling that piece on the little black girl who joined a Maasai tribe, initiation mutilations and all, but you couldn’t get a single publication interested in that profile on Doyin Abiola.” Nigel blew air from his lips, making a half-whistle sound. “Nobody cared about Nigeria’s first woman newspaper publisher.”

  “You’re being cynical again,” said Regina. “Not a good look, Nigel.”

  “I’m just telling it like it is.” He took a gulp from his mug. “In fact, the American press wants to read one thing about Africa—stories of untold suffering. Preferably told through the eyes of one person—a boy soldier, a woman raped by an entire rebel force, a child prostitute supporting her family, a man who’s seen his wife and kids hacked to death by tribal enemies. Those stories get sold.”

  “I’m ignoring you.” Regina turned away from Nigel, faced Angie. “You don’t mind if I come to see Fela, do you?”

  Angie was startled by the question. Regina didn’t need her approva
l. Girlfriends don’t need approval. “Why would I mind?”

  Regina patted Angie’s thigh. “So it’s settled. We’ll all hang out at the Shrine tonight!”

  Nigel said nothing, pulled out a cigarette. The music shifted to Steely Dan. A mixtape, Angie thought. All his favorite songs.

  “You know,” Regina said, “I’ve been admiring your hair since you walked in.”

  She touched her new braids. She sometimes forgot she had them. “Thanks.”

  “Did you get it done here?”

  She told Regina about the Fulani woman running her impromptu hair shop in the open air beside her squatters’ home.

  “Wow, I’d love to do something like that,” said Regina. “Have an authentic Nigeria experience.”

  “You make it sound like you’ve been holed up in a fancy hotel on Vic Island,” said Nigel. “This campus is authentic you know. It’s not a movie set.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I want to get to the real stories that matter, that show Nigerians in the full range of their humanity.” Regina turned to Angie. “I want to do right by your sister, really take seriously the honor of this fellowship. It is in her name after all.”

  Nigel leaned forward and quickly stubbed out his cigarette as Angie turned to him, mouth slightly agape. He wouldn’t look at her.

  Regina’s eyes moved rapidly between them. No one spoke. “You didn’t know,” she finally said.

  Angie, eyes still on Nigel, slowly shook her head.

  “Nigel?” Regina’s entire face was a question mark.

  He looked at Angie, brow furrowed, widow’s peak inching down his forehead. Still he said nothing.

  “How could you not tell her that I was awarded the fellowship?” Hurt bunched up Regina’s words.

  “I planned to,” he finally said. “I just hadn’t gotten the chance.”

  “You spent the whole day with her at the beach.” Regina spoke this fact with new awareness, her voice devoid of its former benefit-of-the-doubt gaiety. She stared at Nigel so long her eyes seemed to move even farther apart.

  Angie felt a tight fury. How flagrant could Nigel be in his replacement of Ella, using this younger version to usurp her sister’s memory? He was the selfish bastard her mother had said he was. Angie was sorry she didn’t have her own room on campus. She was trapped and could do nothing but endure.