“Lord, Nigel,” she whispered. “How did you survive that?”
“I thought about suicide.” He sniffled. “ But I was in terror of your mom’s arrival, and that gave me a purpose, you know? I decided my job was to handle all the details once she got here, make the whole thing a tiny bit more bearable for her. But I was wracked with guilt and she knew it. And she didn’t try to appease me.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I don’t blame her either.”
“Did she ask you anything?”
He held up his index finger. “One thing. She wanted to know if drugs had been involved. And I said no.” He made an ugly face, fighting back more tears. His voice was low, quivering. “To protect your mom, I guess, but really to keep my promise to Ella.”
That was the first time her sister’s name had been uttered since before they’d boarded the plane to Kano, and his speaking it brought finality. To everything. Angie understood for the first time, fully and completely, that Ella was dead.
But Nigel kept talking. “I dreaded the plane ride back. Because I feared your mother would get the truth out of me. But, it wasn’t like that. She didn’t ask any more questions. She didn’t talk, really. There’s something about planes. You’re in this limbo state, up in the sky, suspended from a reality that’s waiting at the gate. I saw this kind of, don’t get me wrong, calm come over her. This thing she’d feared for all those years had happened and it couldn’t control her life anymore.”
A shock wave of homesickness sliced through her, so swift it made Angie keel over slightly. She wondered how her mother had endured that trip to Nigeria. How had she endured at all? What was she doing right now? Was she OK?
“The funeral was much harder for me,” continued Nigel. “Seeing you and Denise, all Ella’s friends. I couldn’t face it. I felt like I was responsible for keeping her safe and I failed all of you. She died on my watch. Literally.” He looked out at the road. “And I still feel that way.”
How strange that of all of those who loved her big sister, Nigel had suffered the most since her death. The very person she always imagined had moved on and lived a rich post-Ella life. She rummaged through her bag for a tissue, handed it to Nigel.
He blew his nose. “I left Detroit right after that, crashed with some of my family in Chicago. I gave thought to working for a newspaper in the States, but I didn’t have the stomach for starting over.”
“You mean without her?”
He hesitated. “Yes. But I also didn’t want to pay my dues all over again. Covering school board meetings and city hall and parades and other local bullshit.”
Nigel became his old self again as he talked about his career. It helped her too, the diversion. She could look at him rather than the road.
“Then on to state politics,” he said. “And if I was lucky, on to a national correspondent’s beat, where I’d get to run around to Podunk towns on tiny planes in whatever state they decided I should live in, hoping for a major disaster so I could get some attention. Then hoping for a shot as a foreign reporter, if, of course, Joe White Boy didn’t want it first. Plus, you know I had that brief jail stint. Didn’t want that to get out.”
Angie had to ask: “But what brought you back to Africa? To Nigeria? There are so many other places in the world.”
“Because, honestly I didn’t know what else to do with myself. It was what I knew.”
She could imagine Nigel back then, heavy with guilt, filled with recurring nightmares, desperate for somewhere to go, to outrun the grief.
“Plus I felt this obligation to continue what Ella and I had started at The Voice,” he said. “I mean, not necessarily in Nigeria. At first I went back to Guinea, and hung out with Ture and his Pan-African crew, that whole scene. But it felt, I don’t know, like I was out of sync with those old cats. So I went to South Africa, and when I got there, the whole anti-apartheid thing consumed me. Just consumed me.”
Angie thought of her sister’s outrage over of Steve Biko’s death, of the “Remember Soweto!” poster that still hung on her own bedroom wall. She’d read in The Detroit Free Press that students at U of M held a candlelight march and vigil on the tenth anniversary of Soweto’s uprising. There’d been no such events at Wayne State. The news story had made her feel, once again, that she’d missed out on something big.
“I stayed in South Africa about a year and a half,” continued Nigel. “And that was thrilling! Covering this massive resistance movement led by the ANC, all the boycotts and strikes and marches. I was reporting and writing and filing stories nonstop, trying to explain to readers the courage of these black folks against constant violent attacks. I went to too many funerals. So many, it started to feel normal.” He caught his breath. “When they started the daily protests in front of the South African embassy in DC? I was the one sending dispatches from Joburg straight to Ron Dellums at the Congressional Black Caucus, to keep him in the loop.”
She’d watched the protests on the nightly news, seen a who’s who of famous actors and politicians getting obligatorily arrested, never imagined Nigel had a role in any of that.
“With the international community putting pressure on South Africa, even US banks pulling out”—he put his hands out to mimic its size—“it was a great big global story. Still is, especially now that Congress finally passed that anti-apartheid bill, thanks to Brother Dellums. The story of the century, really.” He peered over at Angie. “And what’s amazing is that it made a difference, you know? We can see the effects of our efforts. We’re winning! Apartheid is collapsing.”
“You think so?” she asked, as if their fate were somehow tied to its collapse.
“I know so. They just repealed South Africa’s pass laws a few months ago. That’s huge.”
Angie hated that Ella had missed this, missed the story of the century, didn’t get to be part of something so big, so important. Wasn’t that what Ella set out to do? Dismantling apartheid had been her passion long before it became in vogue.
“Anyway, I pretty much burned myself out,” said Nigel. “I needed a break. So I went to Kenya for a bit, ended up staying there a year. It’s a good base for covering East and Southern Africa. Well-run airport, UN headquarters, relative calm.”
“And that’s where you met Regina.”
“Yes.” He waited, to see if she’d say more, and when she didn’t, he continued. “Lo and behold, I landed in another gigantic news story. Uganda’s civil war had just ended, and with that out of the way, the country started promoting safe sex, of all things. They were facing a real AIDS epidemic there. The president of Zambia even announced that his son had died of AIDS. That was huge. So I was flying all around the region, covering that story.”
“You’ve had an exciting career,” she said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.
Nigel didn’t look at her. “It’s less glamorous than it sounds.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “I’ll be honest. After a while, I felt like I was running on empty. That’s why when Dr. Diallo contacted me, saying he needed a guest lecturer, I jumped at it.”
“Still,” she pressed, “Why come back here, to Lagos, to where it happened?”
He closed his eyes for so long, Angie thought he’d slipped into a meditative state. “I decided that I should leave something behind,” he said finally. “I wanted to. That’s what the scholarship in Ella’s name was about.” He shrugged. “A half-ass attempt, I know. I see that now.”
She wanted to say something to make him feel better, but what was there to say? Angie stood and stepped away from Nigel. She walked closer to the edge of the road and, bracing herself, peered down its path. Traffic was thick now. Horns honked, exhaust rose. She’d come here, been led to this spot, hoping to finally feel her sister’s presence, her spirit. But instead she felt an overwhelming sadness. She’s dead, Angie thought, and her sadness for Ella expanded. Ella had spent her life being down for the cause and up for
anything. Angie could see it now, in its starkness: Ella always the one to stand up for the race, to do the right thing, make her people proud. With her insatiable appetite, that capacity to push herself to the limits, and everyone egging her on, Ella had rushed to be brave, to be first, to be the best. It was an exhausting life.
Angie stared out at Agege Motor Road. There was no sign, no indicator, nothing. It looked like every crazed highway in Lagos. There’d be more deaths on this road for sure, and they’d leave no traces either. Try as she might, she felt nothing. Suddenly, she longed for the peace of Grand Lawn Cemetery with its sloping hills, white ducks, waiting benches, quiet dignity. She longed for a real resting place, a place with a clear marker.
She turned back to Nigel. “I’m ready to go.”
HOME, AGAIN
TWENTY-ONE
Her mother didn’t drive on expressways, always made that clear to visitors—they were on their own getting from the airport. When Angie had called from Nigeria to say she’d be home the next day, her mother had sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her, and apologetic that she couldn’t meet her at the arrival gate. Angie assured her it was fine.
Still, as the driver drove along I-94, she noted the oddity of taxis in Detroit: in a place called the Motor City, everyone owned a car. Taxis were reserved for visitors. She’d never been inside a local car service before that day in June when she’d left; now as the driver pulled up to the curb of her childhood home, she felt like a visitor. Having just spent a month in the backseat of taxis, this experience gave her the odd sensation of feeling both out of place and familiar.
Her mother swung open the door, watching as Angie made her way up the walkway with her luggage. She embraced her mother, taking in the comforting smell of Jean Nate bath oil.
“You’ve lost weight!” her mother said.
“Yeah, the food didn’t always agree with me.”
And right on time, she followed her mother into the small yellow kitchen, where fried catfish sat piled high on the stove. Still hot.
Angie ate with gusto, moreso to show her appreciation than out of hunger. The thing she’d said to her mom before leaving came rushing back at her—accusing her of abandoning Ella as a child—and she felt ashamed; she gobbled down her mother’s cooking as a form of apology.
Nanette watched her eat, didn’t comment on her braids. Angie stuffed more catfish into her mouth.
“So, how was it?” her mother finally asked.
“Different.”
“I could’ve told you that.”
“I guess I needed to see it for myself.” The food lodged in her throat.
“Apparently.”
“It was worth it,” said Angie.
“Good for you, because I was worried sick.”
“I told you not to worry!”
Her mother pressed her lips into a downward smirk that said, “You can’t be serious.” She got up and poured a glass of lemonade, handed it to Angie.
She thought about telling her mother everything she’d learned about Ella, as proof of just how worth it the trip had been. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not yet. She ate the rest of her fish and macaroni and greens without either of them speaking another word.
Unable to sleep thanks to jet lag, Angie lay awake that first night in a panic: she had no plans. She admonished herself for not applying to graduate school as so many of her classmates had. But she hadn’t seen the point of it back then, and once she decided to go to Nigeria, she thought that would somehow arrange a path for her future. It clearly had not. She got up, flipped on her light, and stared at the little altar. Everything was just as she’d left it—the crystals and incense, candles, the “Free Angela” button. These things had always given her succor, kept her feeling close to Ella until she could really honor her sister somehow. Now, these mementos had lost their power, insignificant against all that Angie had learned. Childish. She shoved everything into a drawer and took two Excedrin PM’s, determined to thwart her insomnia.
Throughout those first days back, she and her mother were cordial with one another. She had moments when she almost told her what happened in Nigeria. But it offended Angie that her mother wasn’t the least bit curious, didn’t ask a single question. This, coupled with the fact that Detroit was just as she’d left it, made her feel the Nigeria trip was somehow not real. Her mother had, it turned out, quit her job at Dr. Benjamin’s office and was now home all day; for the first time ever, the modest house felt too small for the two of them, for their strained conversations. Angie took to the attic bedroom, which she noted had been converted into a storage room, boxes shoved all around the bed. Her mother’s move to Atlanta was going forward, and her goal, she told Angie, was to be living there by New Year’s.
She and Nigel had left that spot on Agege Motor Road and returned to his campus flat. A note was waiting for him under the door, and Angie saw his neck muscles tense before he bent down to pick it up. Turned out, it was from Dr. Diallo, who was back in town and wanting to get together. They met him for dinner that evening at a meat parlor near campus.
It was a muggy night, a rare pause in the rain. The moon was laden, low. As they entered, Angie took in the deep smells of meat trapped inside the tiny restaurant; she watched with respect as the proprietress moved back and forth between the kitchen, both cooking the food and waiting on customers. Ella surely would’ve written about this woman, a female entrepreneur. As Nigel and Dr. Diallo downed their dark stout, Angie drank a light beer, and studied her lover. The tension in Nigel’s face was gone, his widow’s peak pointing down to a relaxed mouth. He laughed heartily at something Dr. Diallo was saying, and she could see he’d been liberated; the boulder of a deep, painful secret lifted from his chest. She’d done that for him. He caught her eye and winked, a kind of thank you. Suddenly she wondered what it would look like, their lives together? Where would they live? Nigeria? Kenya? Detroit? She wanted to picture it, but she couldn’t.
That night, they entered his darkened flat and he immediately took her into his arms, kissed her; but she didn’t kiss back. He stopped and stared at her, then silently turned, sat down at the small café table. She sat too and in the darkness, neither spoke. Finally, he offered her his hand. She took it, and they stood, entered the bedroom, undressing in silence, slowly removing their clothes as though the garments weighed too much. They lay down. He pulled her toward him and she curled into a ball, feeling small in his embrace. He moved his hands slowly over her stomach and then her arms, then her face—as though the capacity for memory lay within his fingertips. She felt herself waning, felt his grip anchoring her body so she wouldn’t disappear. But it was too late. She was already gone.
The next morning when she announced, “I’m going home,” he simply nodded, gray eyes dotted with flecks of sadness.
But as he helped her enter a Lagos taxi for the last time, she panicked. “I don’t know what I’m going back to,” she said.
“Your new life,” he told her. “It’s waiting for you.”
It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. She hugged him hard and when she finally let go, he kissed her forehead, like back then.
“I’ll write to you,” he promised.
“No you won’t.”
He chuckled softly. “We’ll see.”
She slipped into the taxi and they waved to one another as the driver sped off.
On the ride to the airport, she forgot that she was traveling along Agege Motor Road, didn’t notice when they passed the same spot where It happened. So consumed with thoughts of home, she’d missed it.
one month after she returned, a letter arrived from Nigel. She was stunned. It bore a stamp with an image of four tall, orange cylinders rising within the blue walls of a factory as light flooded its windows, the word “Bophuthatswana” printed below. The letter was brief.
July 24, 1987
Dear Angie,
I’m in South Africa. This story is just too big to ignore. The ANC is fighting back strong! Plus Nelson Mandela is approaching his seventieth birthday, so the clock’s ticking. And I ain’t gonna lie: Joburg is a welcome change from Lagos. No go-slow! (smile)
Look for a special item in the September 10 edition of The Michigan Chronicle. I think you’ll be pleased.
You take care of yourself.
Always,
Nigel
When that issue of Detroit’s weekly black newspaper came out—distinguished by its green newsprint—she brought it home and stood in the living room, scanning headlines until she found the small article on page twelve. It announced the “Ella Mackenzie Fellowship for Black American Female Journalists: In memory of Detroit native Ella Mackenzie, for her trailblazing work as a journalist in Africa.” A photograph accompanied the piece. There she was! Ella sitting at her desk. She was beaming. Long braids framed her face, then cascaded down to her shoulders. She looked radiant. Angie touched the photo, and then her own lips. Suddenly, standing there beside the picture window, staring at the image, sunrays warming her face, she felt her sister’s presence. Like a current moving through the air, she felt her. Right there. She felt Ella in the room.
When she showed the announcement to her mother, Nanette’s face rearranged itself from a protective wall to a poignant smile. “Well, I’ll be,” she said. “That’s really something.”
“I learned all about her work while I was there,” said Angie. “She did extraordinary things.”
Her mother’s smile pushed out as she pressed her lips together. “We’ll have to get this laminated.”
“Mama?”
Her mother looked up from the newspaper.
She could tell her now. Right now. But what exactly? About Nigel seeing the accident? About Jide? About the drugs? To what end? Her mother already knew how Ella died. “I’m sorry I did that to you,” she said finally. “Went to Nigeria, and then didn’t get in touch. Made you worry.”
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