She told Nigel about Chris’s visits to her guest quarters, his advances, the slap.
“I have a mind to go to Ikeja right now, and kick his punk ass,” said Nigel. “I never liked that motherfucker!”
Angie basked for a moment in his chivalry. “He claimed he had a relationship with Ella,” she continued. “That they were planning for her to become his second wife.”
“That lying son of a bitch! He and Ella didn’t have no damn relationship! And what black woman you know is gonna be some man’s second wife? That’s some bullshit!”
Angie was glad to hear it. She couldn’t imagine her sister would ever choose Chris over Nigel. Regardless. “So that’s when Ella left and went to Funke’s?” she asked.
“Yeah, she went to stay with her for a minute.”
“I had a weird time there,” Angie admitted.
“Pretty basic standard of living, right?”
She nodded, choosing not to tell him about her harrowing experience on the highway.
“I begged Ella to come with me to Vic Island and stay in a decent place with running water,” said Nigel. “She refused. She was angry, said she needed to get away from me.”
Nigel and I are cooling it.
“That was the worse thing,” said Nigel. “Because at the Olapades’, we’d go our separate ways but we’d always end up back in those servant’s quarters together.”
“Did you even try to get her back?” asked Angie.
“Hell yeah! I showed up at Funke’s a few times, but that crazy-ass woman wouldn’t let me in. So I started going back to the newsroom just to see Ella. And by then, shit was getting deep. You could feel the coup in the air. No one knew when it would come, or how, but everyone felt it coming. Would it be bloody or not? That was the only real question.”
“You should’ve made her leave,” Angie insisted. She hated that this part of the story was where one different choice would’ve changed everything. Her chest tightened, gripped by that fact.
“Believe me, I was begging her to leave,” said Nigel. “She would not go. And you couldn’t make Ella do anything. But I wasn’t returning to the States without her.”
That must have been around the time she’d written the last letter.
16 December 1983
Dear Angie,
I’m missing you guys so much, wish I could be there for Christmas! God, what I wouldn’t do for Mama’s oyster dressing and homemade rolls and some collard greens. Nigerians are good at a lot of things, but cooking is not one of them!
Romare sounds great. Good to hear my little sister is in love! My advice: go slow. It’s better that way, because then you’ll know if it’s the real deal.
I’ll write a long letter after the New Year. This is a very busy time at the paper. So many troubles with this place, believe me, there’s a whole lot to report on! It’s endless.
Maybe you should wait and come visit during Spring Break. They say March is a nice month in Lagos--Harmattan winds have calmed down, and the rainy season’s not quite in full swing. When you come, we can just take off together, see the North & maybe a few other countries on the continent. That is, if I’m still here.
Merry Xmas!
Love you,
Ella
December 25 came fast. “A lot of expats had gone home for the holidays, or headed off to some fabulous vacation spot,” Nigel remembered. “I’ve always been a sucker for Christmas, and the idea of spending it alone was something I couldn’t fathom. I wanted to be with her. Plus, I had a plan.”
This time when he showed up at her place, he was prepared to push Funke out of the way and barge in if he had to. But she wasn’t home. Ella was there with Funke’s mother, who was visiting from her home village. But the woman was old and feeble, stayed in the back room. Ella let him in. She looked exhausted, spent. She’d lost weight. He was worried about her.
Angie again thought of that summer when Ella was fourteen and dropped a lot of weight with the help of speed, remembered how terrifying it was when she swallowed all those pep pills, silencing Denise’s protests.
Ella and Nigel sat on the bed next to one another. “Wow, this is soft,” he said.
“It’s filled with feathers,” explained Ella. “Funke gave me her nicest bed.”
He held her hand. “Aren’t you tired of all this?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
He cocked his head, reaching for eye contact. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m worn out,” she admitted. “Doing the page is hard work.” She shrugged. “But it’s my responsibility to—”
“It’s not your goddamn responsibility!” He couldn’t take it, this way she’d become so engrossed in other people’s struggles. “Nigeria is not your problem,” he said. “You have to take care of yourself, for Christ’s sake.”
She looked up at him. He saw fear in her eyes.
“What?” he said, squeezing her hand. “What is it?”
“I’m afraid of letting somebody down.” She sounded chastened, like a scolded child. “A lot of people are depending on me.”
He guided her head to his shoulder. “Still, you said it yourself Ella, you’re tired.”
He could feel her nodding. “I’m a little scared too. We keep getting threatening phone calls at the newsroom.”
He gingerly lifted her head, put her chin in the crook of his finger. “Listen to me. It’s time to go. We’re leaving.”
She shook her face free from his touch. “I’m not going back to Detroit yet, Nigel. Not yet.”
He held her by both arms. “I didn’t say go home. I have a better idea.”
“What?” Her eyes were distrusting.
“Go with me to Guinea tomorrow. I’m interviewing Kwame Ture.”
She brightened. “Stokely Carmichael?”
“Yep.”
She smiled big and he saw glimmers of the old Ella. “That is so damn cool!”
“So you’ll come?”
She hesitated.
“I already got you a ticket.”
“You did?” She looked at him as if it were the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her. “I’ll come.”
They hugged. “Merry Christmas, Baby,” he said, kissing her as they fell back on the soft feather bed. With Funke’s mother in the next room, separated only by a beaded curtain, they made love quietly. But that didn’t damper his desire. He’d been aching for Ella, and he had to muffle his cries in the crook of her neck. Afterward, they sang Christmas carols to each other, not caring whether they woke up the old woman. Ella sang “Oh Holy Night” in a surprising vibrato. Nigel sang, Hang all the mistletoe, I’m gonna get to know you betterrrrr, in a funny Donny Hathaway imitation: This Christmas, fireside’s blazing bright, and we’re caroling through the niiiiiiight! She laughed out loud.
As she drifted off in his arms, she said, “I missed you.” He held her all night, so in love he couldn’t sleep. He never heard Funke return, and the mother never made a sound. He finally dozed off.
He awoke from the movement of Ella rising to get out of bed. Morning sun barely filled the room. She was putting on her clothes. He yawned, rubbed his eyes. “The flight’s not until late in the day,” he told her. “We can just chill.”
She didn’t look at him as she slipped on a simple shift in a purple print. “I’m going to the newsroom.”
He sat up. “It’s Boxing Day! Nobody’s going to no damn office today.”
She didn’t say anything, just kept dressing.
He didn’t want to argue, knew how tenuous their makeup was. “So listen. Pack your bag now. I’ll take it with me, then swing by the newsroom later, pick you up on the way to the airport.”
She put on one sandal before she said, “I can’t go to Guinea.” She busied herself with buckling it. “So many staffers have abandoned Jide already.
He needs me.”
“Are you serious?” Nigel couldn’t believe she was choosing Jide over him. Again.
“He says this coup could jump off at any moment, and we need to make sure folks understand what’s up, what to do, where to go.”
“But we had a plan.”
She held the other sandal aloft. He could see her weighing her decision. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, slipping it onto her foot. “Try to understand.”
Nigel threw off the bed’s thin blanket with such violence it landed on the floor in a defeated hump. He swung his feet around, sat on the edge. Ella moved slowly toward him, leaned in between his legs and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him. It was a long, passionate kiss.
“Listen, when you get back, we’ll go to Kano,” she told him. “We can spend New Year’s Eve there. Promise.”
He liked hearing that. “OK. I’ll be back by the thirtieth.”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll get our tickets while I’m at the airport today.”
“Sounds good.”
She waited while he dressed, and the two left together. He hugged her before she walked off, toward The Voice office. After he lost sight of her, he got into a taxi, and headed to Ikeja.
Nigel and Angie sat in the darkness and watched the defiant tree’s shadowy low leaves skim the water’s surface.
“I let her go,” he said. “I will always regret that I let her go.”
“And that was the last time you saw her,” said Angie.
Nigel was silent.
“And then what happened?” She hated his silence. As long as he talked, Ella was still alive.
“You know the rest, Angie.”
“Tell me.”
He spoke in a robotic voice. “I was in Guinea with Ture for a few days. Like I said, he’d just had a son the year before and he was in good spirits. We hung out, I did my interview, it went well.” Here his voice shifted, became shallow. “But the whole time, I had this nagging, bad feeling. I couldn’t shake it. Turns out it was actually a premonition, because that was exactly when the police raided The Voice newsroom and dragged Jide out of there.”
“He died in police custody,” said Angie. “Chris told me that.”
Nigel nodded. “Ella barely escaped arrest. She went to hide out at Kalakuta, Fela’s compound. And two days later, New Year’s Eve, the coup finally did jump off. And then—”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Angie. “Fela’s compound? The others didn’t tell me anything about that.”
“The others don’t know everything,” said Nigel.
“How do you know that’s where she was?”
He didn’t answer at first. “I heard.”
“But why would she go there?”
“Because Fela’s wives adored her.”
“His wives?”
“Yeah. He married twenty-seven women all at once, back in ’78. He wanted to make a statement about Yoruba tradition, whatever. Anyway, one of the extraordinary things Ella did with Woman to Woman was a huge profile on the wives. She interviewed a lot of them, then did a feature spread with pull quotes, gorgeous photos, the whole nine. They loved her for that, because it legitimized them, gave them a chance to tell their stories.” He smirked. “The elite class hates Fela and they call his wives prostitutes.” He paused. “The piece was controversial as hell. But it endeared those women to her. When she needed a place to hide out, they took her in. Took good care of her for those few days.”
“I can’t believe the things I didn’t know,” said Angie.
“How would you know?”
She shrugged, helpless. “I just—”
“You want me to stop?”
She shook her head hard. “Go on.”
“OK,” he said nervously. “The next day she was on Agege Motor Road in Ikeja, right by Kalakuta.” He hesitated. “That’s where the accident happened.”
There was a pause.
“That’s it?” she wasn’t ready for the story to end, not ready for it to be over.
“That’s it.”
“But, where were you? You promised her you’d be back for New Year’s Eve.” She was beside herself. If only he’d kept his word. “So where were you?”
His jaw muscles hardened. “You don’t think I was trying to get back to her? The coup made that difficult, Angie.”
“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “So Fela and his wives were the last people to see her alive.”
Nigel said nothing, seemed spent, incapable of uttering another word.
Angie couldn’t believe her luck! Here, she’d been thinking the Shrine was simply some iconic place that Ella had experienced and enjoyed, when in fact it was so much more than that. So much more! Thank God she hadn’t gone there first without understanding that fact. She stood abruptly, excited. “Let’s go.”
Nigel looked up at her. “Where?”
“To Fela’s club.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“It’s late, Angie. Let’s do this another night.”
“You and Regina can do this another night.” She turned, started walking away from Nigel. “I’m going now.”
SIXTEEN
The night was black crushed velvet, devoid of streetlights. Their driver turned down a slim road and barreled forward, headlights slicing the dark. When he suddenly slammed the brakes, both Nigel and Angie slammed against the front seat.
“What the fuck man!” yelled Nigel.
“Bandits,” said the driver. He nodded his head toward what he saw. Yards ahead, two men pointed guns at a small group of people clustered around a Mercedes, it’s four doors flung open.
Angie gripped Nigel’s arm. “Oh my God,” she whispered. He put his hand on hers as the driver slowly eased the car in reverse and drove backward to the corner. He turned the car around as gunshots pierced the air. Angie screamed. Nigel shoved her head down into his lap and covered her body with his. The driver sped up and swerved, turning down a bumpy road.
Nam myoho renge kyo. Nam myoho renge kyo Angie chanted. Eyes squeezed shut, she repeated it over and over, unable to stop as the moments passed.
“We’re here,” Nigel whispered into her ear. “We’re here.”
She sat up, could just make out the road’s crooked sign, “Pepple Street.” The driver pulled up to the brightly lit club, where a crowd milled around out front.
As they climbed out, gunshot sounds echoed in her ears. She turned to Nigel. “We almost—” she started.
He gathered her into his arms, holding her with a protectiveness laced in fear. It surprised her. “If something had happened to you . . .” He kissed her forehead—as he used to do when she was a child—before he let go. “We’re here. We’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
She nodded, still feeling his lips on her skin.
As they moved closer to the club, he grabbed her hand. “Stay close to me, OK?”
She nodded, stunned by the warmth of his hand in hers, by how long it had been since she’d been touched. When had she last done this simple thing, held a man’s hand in her own?
They made their way to the front entrance and Nigel nodded his head in greeting to a couple of men hanging out by the door. “Suh, how are you?” said the bouncer to a man dressed in the uniform of moto cops, his orange shirt aglow from the neon sign flashing, AFRICA SHRINE. The officer nodded, silently entered.
“So policemen are here?” asked Angie, still unnerved by the highway robbery.
“A lot of government workers come to the Shrine,” said Nigel. “They know the president despises Fela, still they show up. Even some of his cabinet members have been spotted here, in dark glasses.”
They pushed through the entrance into a vestibule where a chubby, chapped-lipped man sat at a long table, a giant boom box blasting Fela�
�s music. On his long table sat Fela albums, with vibrant, pop art covers and beside them an array of books—The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Frantz Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks, How Europe Underdeveloped Africa. Ella once had those same books on her bedroom shelf. The chubby man busily rolled a gigantic joint of marijuana. Others sat piled at his elbow, looking like swollen, misshapen cigars.
“Krishna, my man!” said Nigel. “Haven’t seen you in years!” The man stood, gave Nigel a bear hug. “This is the hippest Ghanian you will ever meet!” Nigel said to Angie.
“Buy something from me tonight, Brother,” said Krishna. “Help the cause!”
Nigel reached into his pant pocket, pulled out a small wad of naira, handed it to Krishna.
“Have a joint, on me, my brother!” said Krishna as he sat back down.
“Nah man, that’s not my scene,” said Nigel.
Angie thought of that pink joint she’d smoked. She’d enjoyed her high. Part of her was tempted to take Krishna up on his offer. What would it be like to get high with Nigel? But he pulled her along and the moment passed.
The main concert hall was cavernous and dark; its walls were covered in psychedelic posters illuminated by black lights. Strings of red bulbs swept across the ceiling. The sweet aroma of many lit joints thickened the air.
Fela’s band, Egypt 80, was performing, its thirty members squeezed on stage, blaring horns and banging pianos and beating drums. Back at the Fox in Detroit, the band had been much smaller. Still, the music was the same—aggressive, polyrhythmic sounds racing after and colliding with one another, driving and hardcore, somehow both exuberant and sensual. Above the stage hung a huge sign proclaiming, BLACKISM IS A FORCE OF THE MIND.
Dozens of people sat on benches while others crowded near the stage. Gone was the hard-eyed, set-mouth look she’d grown accustomed to seeing on the faces of Nigerians. People looked enthralled. She marveled too that this crowd was so diverse—student hip, dreadlocked, uniform crisp, dashiki clad.
I’m here, she thought. I’m at Fela’s Shrine.
There was so much to take in: Atop the stage and below it, young women danced in cages lit by big white bulbs. She’d never seen anything like this in her life. Sure, Fela had a few women with him at the Detroit concert, his “backing singers” he called them. But this! These dancers’ faces were adorned with colorful dots and swirling stripes that traveled across their noses and cheeks. Their eyes were heavy with black shadow, thick mouths glistening wine red. These women were both ample and svelte, their perfect bodies accentuated by halter bikini tops and micro-mini skirts skimming thick thighs; some had squares of leather climbing their legs like gladiator’s sandals. One was bare chested. They were, she thought, a cross between sixties style go-go dancers and mythical African bush women—the kind of images that might be found in a hip version of National Geographic. Of course Ella would have admired them. They were mesmerizing, beautiful, stone faced, and trancelike even as they bent and gyrated and undulated their hips in deep rhythm with the blaring bass lines. Angie was transfixed, watching each dancer thrust her pelvis just so, flat belly circling, legs strong, knees bent akimbo.
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