Nigerians in Space

by Deji Bryce Olukotun

  Around eight-thirty, Melissa heard one of her father’s guards shout at a visitor at the front gate, and she ran to the window. She saw a small, bespectacled black man in a three-piece suit with his arms raised as the guard patted him down. He was escorted to the front door and made a few nervous jokes. Then Rufus searched the man again and asked him: “Who is the tough old man left behind after a fire has burnt the forest?”

  “Ah, an old Yoruba riddle,” the man smiled. “The rock.”

  Rufus nodded and opened the door to the house, escorting the man into the living room. Melissa skirted away into the kitchen and waited for her father to call for her.

  “Mr. Bello,” her father said, “I’m Mlungisi Tebogo.” Her father had smooth, tawny skin and a constellation of freckles on his high cheekbones.

  “Melissa!” her father called. “Come meet our guest.”

  Melissa slowly approached them. If Bello was surprised by her niqab, he didn’t show it. He extended his hand but Melissa curtsied instead.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Bello said. “A beautiful home you have, and a lovely daughter.”

  Her father wouldn’t like that, Melissa thought. He had never liked bootlickers, even when they could help him. He pointed to a couch and Bello sat down, slipping forward on the plastic cushion. He righted himself with a grunt. Melissa sat beside her father.

  “Please excuse the precautions,” her father said. “There are rumors of an SADF raid.”

  “If your men had been any friskier,” Bello joked, “I’d be pregnant.”

  Her father didn’t laugh. Rufus drew his pistol and peered out the window onto the street.

  “We are short on time,” her father said. “I expect the raid at two. You will need an hour to escape the dragnet.”

  “Perhaps it’s best if I tell you a little about myself,” Bello began.

  “There’s no need.”

  “But aren’t you interested?”

  “My sources told me what I needed to know. You have been Special Adjunct to the Minister of the Environment in Nigeria for the past ten years. You come from a family of praise singers. Your father had a reputation as one of the best praise singers at coronations, and mastered a number of instruments.”

  “The dundun drums,” Bello said, “bless his soul.”

  “You gained fame with The Grand Poobahs, a Muslim pop band that played Fuji music. At some point you wooed the Minister of the Environment into accepting you into his Cabinet. How this came to be I am not sure. You have gained a reputation for thriftiness in a department that is notorious for its graft.”

  “I’m impressed,” Bello smiled. “Your reputation is merited, Mr. Tebogo, as a gatherer of information. May I ask how you learned all this?”

  “I have contacts throughout the continent.”

  “A result of the struggle in South Africa, no doubt. But if you must know, I gained the Minister’s favor through his own speech. You see, I memorized his words as he was addressing his audience—we were the opening band—and sang his speech back to him. This is a gift that my family taught me, the use of our memories, the praising of hard choices. And I closed the song with this proverb: ‘the sugar cane stalk / already came sweet from heaven.’ Do you know what the proverb means?”

  “He was already great when he came into office.”

  “Remarkable—I see that you also know our lore. And our riddles.” Bello sounded unsettled and glanced back and forth between Melissa and her father. “You’ll have to excuse me. Under a full moon, I never quite feel myself. Where I was raised, a full moon was a time for transformations, when things did not quite appear as they seemed. But it can’t be helped.” He cleared his throat and composed himself. “You were highly recommended to me, Mr. Tebogo, as someone who can move things in and out of a place, based, to be sure, on your experience helping South Africa in its glorious struggle for freedom from the oppressor. Do you work with the PAC? The ANC?”

  “Drink, Mr. Bello? Beer? Wine?”

  “Tea is fine.”

  “Melissa,” her father said, “bring us some tea. Five Roses.”

  Even though her father had asked her to be on her best behavior, she couldn’t help but groan. “Yes, Daddy.”

  She moped to the kitchen and filled the electric kettle with water. Her father had asked her to bring Five Roses, as if Bello had a choice. They only had one kind of tea. Her father liked for Melissa to greet her guests because he valued her impressions of them, but he didn’t want her to know the details, he said, for her own safety. She should always tell the truth and it was best if she had no truth to tell.

  After a few moments, the kettle began whistling. Melissa carried the tray of tea with a tumbler of milk and a bowl of packets of sugar. She could feel Bello’s eyes searching her niqab.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Pleasure.”

  Then he knocked the sugar bowl onto the floor. Melissa bent to pick it up and for a moment she knew that he could see the skin of her wrist beneath her sleeve, a pale band of white that ringed her dark arm like a panda. She could sense him recoil, even if he apologized profusely.

  “A lovely daughter you have,” he said.

  Her father nodded. “She is the apple of my eye.”

  “I didn’t realize that you were Muslim.”

  “We’re not.”

  “But she wears a niqab.”

  “Ah, no. It’s a skin condition. Thank you, Melissa,” her father said. “You can go now.”

  After returning the dishes, this time Melissa crept back into the hallway to listen. Rufus spied her from across the room, and frowned, but she pressed her fingers to her lips.

  “Is it albinism?”

  “No, she’s not albino. She has a form of vitiligo, a lack of melanin in the skin cells. We’ve found that she is troubled,” her father added, “by certain types of light.”

  “Don’t you have good hospitals here? Private ones?”

  “Our hospitals are shit. I’ve taken her to Tanzania, Kenya, Egypt. The doctors say that it’s untreatable.” He spat onto the floor. “The cowards.”

  “That’s unfortunate. She seems like a dutiful daughter. Don’t think a girl has grown up to be beautiful purely and simply, the saying goes. Her parents have brought her up. Where is her mother?”

  “Dead.”

  Melissa thought that, of all the people in the world, Bello was the last one who should hear this from her father. There was something slippery about his words and his gestures.

  “Mr. Tebogo,” Bello was saying, “I need a man who can keep a secret, secrecy that I am not, in my naturally effusive way, capable of maintaining. I am moved by banter, chatter, you see. The windpipes of my fellow man are what fluff my sails. There is an election coming in Nigeria. The powers that be are the ones that concern me, with their utter disregard for human rights, and that’s what brings me to you: impunity. Actions without consequences. The consequences cannot be helped; the actions may be, if we act with haste, avoidable.”

  “Speak plainly!” her father snapped.

  Rufus gripped his pistol in response, but kept his eye on the street. Melissa craned her neck to listen.

  “Yes, yes, yes, of course,” Bello stammered. “Of course. Do you know that I’m the only one in my Ministry who does not use a helicopter to travel to the airport, Mr. Tebogo? The Minister owns homes on four continents and a fleet of Mercedes Benzes. My colleagues have apartments on Kensington Square, the Bois de Boulogne, Central Park.”

  Melissa had never heard of these places, but—a helicopter! A helicopter used like a car! She had never before dreamed such a thing was possible. Her father was right. Bello must indeed be a powerful man.

  “I’ve been saving money for my program for almost a decade. It’s a significant amount of money—for a revolutionary idea. A revolution of the mind. No one has ever reinvested in our human capital in this way. I need your services, Mr. Tebogo.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you
are beyond suspicion. I need a go-between who can keep my name in the clear, someone who is absolutely trustworthy and professional. I asked my sources in Accra, Lusaka, Maputo, and they all recommended you.”

  “I already told you that I’ll never return to Nigeria. I have been cheated by your people too many times.”

  “You are mistaking the few for the plenty. We have over two hundred fifty ethnic groups, Mr. Tebogo, and millions of eager young minds, waiting to be tapped. Besides, you don’t need to go to Nigeria. I need your services elsewhere.”

  “How much are you offering?”

  Bello waved his hand around the room. “Enough for you to stop all this hide-and-go-seek. Inshallah.”

  “That’s not a number.”

  “No, it’s a dream, Mr. Tebogo. A dream that I can realize. I’ve followed the news in your homeland. Mandela is free and elections are coming soon in South Africa as well. The ANC has been unbanned. The Frontline States are no longer of any importance. Your smuggling business has dried up here in Bulawayo, the lion has lain with the lamb.”

  Her father grew furious. If there was one thing he despised, it was strangers telling him how to run his business. He shouted: “Don’t tell me how to run my affairs! Take him out!”

  Rufus immediately turned and seized Bello painfully by his upper arm. He began dragging him towards the front door.

  “No,” Bello said, “please! I can help her. Please, listen! I can help your daughter!”

  Her father signaled for Rufus to stop, but he still kept a firm grip on Bello’s arm.

  “I can pay your fee,” Bello said, “and I can do better.” He shook himself free of Rufus, who seemed amused. “I have a home in the suburbs of Paris that I rarely use. I purchased it for a rainy day, so to speak, and it has never rained. The area is a medical hub for hospitals and pharmaceutical companies. Send your daughter there for treatment. She can stay at my expense for as long as you’d like. I’ll pay her medical bills.”

  She could sense her father pause, considering the offer. Melissa desperately wanted it to be true, a place where the doctors could treat her. Anything was better than Zimbabwe!

  “What’s the catch?” her father said.

  “No catch, Mr. Tebogo. I can send you the keys immediately.”

  “And you’ll pay my fee.”

  “Your fee and your daughter’s medical bills. No strings attached, all expenses paid. Think of it as a vacation—for a job well done.”

  “I’ll have to talk to my daughter about it first.”

  “In my country,” Bello said, “children do not speak unless spoken to. But I’m a champion of cultural relativism, and if you need to consult your daughter, I am not going to be a traditionalist.”

  But there was no need, as Bello cajoled her father with his artful hyperbole, for him to ask her. Bello had already convinced Melissa. If he had asked, she was ready to leave that very night. She didn’t need much, only a small suitcase, and she would be as pleased as punch to live in France with her father and leave Zimbabwe forever.

  After Bello had left, her father visited her room to make sure that she had packed everything for the raid.

  “It’s time for us to go, Melissa.”

  “I want to go to France!” she blurted.

  Her father sighed and took her hand. “I was afraid you’d heard that. That man couldn’t keep his voice down. What else did you hear?”

  “He’s rich. He could fly in a helicopter but he doesn’t because he’s honest.”

  “That’s what he said, yes. That’s what he said. But he’s very good with words, isn’t he? They speak French in France, Melissa. It might be difficult for you. You’ve never studied the language.”

  “He said they could treat me.”

  “They might.”

  “He promised.”

  “He’s not a doctor, Melissa.”

  “But he’s rich.”

  “It would be a very big change for us. Let’s talk about it tomorrow, when you’ve had some more time to think about it.”

  But there was no need, and before long she couldn’t remember if there had ever been a decision to make at all. They traveled together across town to stay with one of her father’s friends. By the time the SADF kicked down their door, she was dreaming of walking the streets of Paris.

  The Fallback

  1993

  Basel, Switzerland

  Wale watched the bank teller return from the vault, searching her face for anything, a smile, a nod, even a sneer. It seemed to him that the Swiss had genetically molded themselves to swallow their emotions and pass this onto their employees, for this one was, according to her nametag, Turkish. He needed to know if he should flee or if she’d triggered some kind of alarm. He’d scanned the waiting room for an escape route already. In the airy atrium, an enormous fake palm tree stood next to the bench. If he was quick enough, he could topple it, wedging enough space for him to crawl under the security gate when it crashed down. He still felt a spring in his step from the basketball season and was probably quicker than the armed guard, who was yawning at him like a camel.

  “Dr. Olufunmi,” the teller said, “the transaction is still pending.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She slid him a printout. He could see his account number and, beside it, the word ‘Pending’. It didn’t help.

  “For an amount this large,” the teller droned, “the bank runs extra security checks. The process can take up to ten days for an international transfer.”

  Wale brightened. The amount was large, meaning that Bello had been true to his word. “Everything’s normal, then.”

  “Yes,” the teller said. “It is a normal procedure.”

  “And then the money will be there.”

  “If it passes security, yes.”

  “How often would you say that happens?”

  The teller smiled, revealing pointed uneven teeth. Maybe that was the reason she kept a poker face. “Please, Doctor. If you’d like, you can leave your telephone number and we’ll contact you when the transaction is complete.”

  He considered it but remembered the attacker in Stockholm. He didn’t want to leave a paper trail. He pocketed the printout and left.

  Wale had fled Houston three days earlier. Since then, he’d watched his old classmate, Dr. Obafemi Ferguson, get shot in the face by a cold killer and he’d fled again to Basel, dragging his family with him. Just when he’d been reassured he wasn’t the only one involved in Brain Gain, that the thing was really happening, he’d lost the second true ally he’d found. The first one, his wife, was on the verge of leaving him, too. At least he still had his son Dayo, who hovered in Wale’s mind above it all, weightless and full of limitless potential. He’d thought about returning to Texas, ’fessing up to his theft and doing his time. But then what would happen to his family? To his dream? He would never work as a scientist again and he’d be abandoning his homeland in the process.

  He dredged his memory for a proverb that would suit Bello, almost as if he could entrap Bello in his own flowery language, lure him back somehow. But none came to mind.

  Tinuke and Dayo were gone when he returned to the airport hotel. He feared that she’d made good on her threat to leave him until he saw her suitcase stacked in the corner of the room with Dayo’s backpack. Maybe they went for a walk. She wouldn’t be happy that they would have to wait a few more days in Basel, ducking into shadows like fugitives, and it would be risky. Each day they’d have to wait, Ferguson’s attacker could be drawing closer.

  Wale had promised Tinuke a large home, a driver, and an au pair so she could resume her studies in Nigeria, or, he had to admit, she had demanded these things in lieu of a divorce.

  He decided to use his free time in the room to book refundable tickets from Basel to Cape Town for the entire family. The price was absurd, but he needed to be able to change the dates at the last minute when the money transfer went through. He flipped on the television and was surprised to find a ba
sketball game. Something was strange about it: the key, which spread out in a trapezoid, and the players, who were all white and skinnier than their NBA counterparts. Their footwork was good, though, and their passing wasn’t bad. Still, he felt he was faster by virtue of his American pedigree. He thought about his co-ed team back in Houston, which would be in the playoffs next week and useless without him at point.

  Maybe he could make a go of it here in Europe, he thought, if his other plans fell through.

  He leafed through their materials again to make sure that they were in the proper order. The passports were in good shape—except for his botched visa to Nigeria—and Tinuke had thankfully left her bag packed and ready to go. His eyes rested again on Ferguson’s PV formula, trying to make sense of it:

  Perhaps it was just Ferguson’s agreed-upon code with Bello’s go-between. A way to authenticate their communications. The thought brought back Femi’s face again after it had been ravaged by the bullet, and then Femi’s optimism about Brain Gain. He, too, shared the same belief that the project could work, even after he’d climbed his way to the top of one of Sweden’s most distinguished institutes of learning. He seemed to have grown more amiable over the years and wasn’t the old fusspot that Wale remembered. With his expertise in photovoltaics, he would have been a valuable addition to the team. But now he was dead.

  Tinuke returned with Dayo asleep on her shoulder. Behind her, a porter carried four shopping bags. Wale passed the porter a tip and quickly shut the door.

  Hardly the time for a spending spree, Wale thought.

  She didn’t greet him. She set Dayo gently down upon the bed and began opening the shopping bags. She spread a new men’s suit, three fresh collared shirts, a pair of black pumps, and a few new dresses upon the bed.

  “We should get rid of your old clothes,” Tinuke said.