Nigerians in Space

by Deji Bryce Olukotun

  “But what—?”

  “No one knows. I was in my apartment and I heard nothing. The next day I did not hear him leave for work. I thought he had been on a trip for business affairs. He was shot twice and I heard nothing. I was here, in my apartment having somepain and café. I do it every morning.”

  Melissa realized that the woman was as afraid of the word ‘murder’ as she was, because she did not say it again. Her glance at the floorboard suggested that she was having trouble accepting what that meant, to be killed quietly while your neighbors were eating bread and drinking coffee. And the musty smell of the old apartment made murder seem inevitable. How could a man expect to live a full life in such a foreboding place?

  As if in answer, a shutter burst open and the wind roared and the glass doors slammed shut. Melissa jumped.

  “It is the garbage shaft,” Stéphanie smiled. “He complained about it often. Do not worry.” She calmly walked over and closed the shutter again.

  Melissa decided she did not like this anymore, that Madame Kaluanda would be upset, that she had to leave and forget the names her father had left her. The visit was a reckless idea. She headed for the door.

  “No, please,” Stéphanie said, and in French began imploring her to stay. “I am sorry. I should have called your father. It is too much for a young woman to hear. But you are so tall that you look like a woman.”

  Melissa was in the hallway already. She was leaving this place, ready to fly, to get away. A mistake. All of it mistaken.

  “Please, attends un instant,” Stéphanie said. “There is one thing which you must have.” Melissa watched her rummage in a desk and take some magazines. “I’d hoped to give these to his family, because it would have made them proud. But no one has come around. He gave so much to them. He was a quiet man but he made people happy and the salaudsforgot him. I am not a scientist. Take these to you father. Maybe he will know what to do with them.”

  Melissa accepted the magazines and ran down the stairs to the street. Keeping her eyes on the police station, she paced to the Place de Vosges, where she hailed a taxi. She returned to the party, where the girls were watching the boys play soccer and Madame Kaluanda was laughing next to some japonica bushes with a different man.

  She did not sleep that night. The thought that she had been so close to a murder terrified her. She had hoped to meet someone who had known her father but the man had been killed and she hadn’t found anything useful. And what if the murderer came after her? He could pop the latch, sneak through the bunks in the room, and plunge a knife into her chest, all while the other girls giggled like children!

  Classes were moving into examinations and her prospects were not good. Because she was so distracted, she was on the verge of failing literature and history. Her teacher arranged a conference with Madame Kaluanda where he expressed his admiration of her aptitude and disappointment at her language ability. Afterwards, Madame Kaluanda was stern.

  “Melissa, I do not understand this. Haven’t you been studying your grammar?”

  Melissa could speak Lingala, Swahili, and some Arabic by this point but her French was atrocious. “I am trying,” she said.

  “I cannot keep you in the apartment if you are not going to school, Melissa. The girls can work only part-time under the law. If you fail your classes, I will have to send you out.”

  “Where will I go?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m afraid it’s up to Mrs. Niyangabo to decide.”

  Melissa went to her room and cried until the other girls came home. What would Mrs. Niyangabo do to her? Would she kill her? Where would she live? She had no friends in Zimbabwe, and no one to look after her in France.

  To keep her mind off this horrible fate, she picked up the magazines she’d received at the man’s apartment in Paris. They were all scientific journals and in English. Ogun Olusegun had written an article in every one of them. Solid State Propulsion in the New Millennium: A Comparative Discourse; Harnessing Solar Wind in a Silicon Poor World;Developing Economies and Geosynchronous Space: Towards Parity. One of the articles was a book review of a work by Dr. Olusegun and it was highly favorable, and all the other articles made some mention of the book. It seemed to have been the book that started his career. Thinking she might find some information, she visited the public library to request it.

  The small librarian was small and dumpy and smelled of pastis. He said that it would take six or seven weeks to order the magazines—far too long, for Melissa knew Mrs. Niyangabo would have ruined her life by then and her father might be gone forever.

  “Are these journals for you?” the librarian said quickly.

  “Yes, I am a scientist.”

  “Ah bon? You must be a very smart girl to understand these magazines. Are there any other authors? I can make a request.” He looked on the computer screen. “Here is a work by Soboyoja. The title is similar. I can have it sent in a week.”

  The name sounded familiar. “Can you show me?”

  The librarian pivoted the computer monitor towards her and she read it again. Then she had it! It was also a name from the list that her father had given her! “Yes, please! I would love that! Thank you so much, monsieur!”

  It occurred to her that perhaps the other names were scientists as well or, if they weren’t, the librarian might be able to find out if they’d written any books. She scribbled out all the names.

  “Can you get me these books, too?”

  The librarian took the list, scanning his eyes over Melissa’s niqab. “Are you Nigerian?”

  “Non. I am from Malawi.”

  “But you like Nigerian authors?”

  “Perhaps.” She didn’t understand what he was getting at.

  “Ben Okri is géniale, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” she lied, unfamiliar with the name.

  “Please tell me how these books are. I am not one for scientific works, but my wife is Nigerian. I will tell her. She will be happy to hear about so many Nigerian scientists. She is studying in Rennes at the moment,” he added, sadly. Then, as if convincing himself: “But a happy wife on the phone is better than a sad wife at home, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  Over the next week, Melissa stopped going to school and spent the day at the library studying the journals of the authors. The librarian would sneak her spicy Nigerian dishes, perhaps to remind himself of his wife, and he seemed to think Melissa had nostalgia for the food, presenting each one with flair as if she’d been missing it. She found the rich, fishy flavors to be a pleasant escape from the bland fare the girls cooked in the apartment. All of the authors were scientists. She knew the fact that they were all from Nigeria was important, but she did not understand why. They didn’t sound like Freedom Fighters. She remembered that her father had told Bello that he would never travel to Nigeria, because he had been cheated several times before. And Bello himself was Nigerian, she remembered that, too.

  “Can you tell me more about Nigeria?” she asked the librarian. He directed her to several books, which seemed much too long to read.

  “There isn’t much to know. Before the British came, there was no Nigeria. There were different tribes living and fighting. Then they created Nigeria and controlled it. The country became independent in 1960. Then a civil war happened—that is when my wife’s family left—and after that it has been controlled by the army.”

  “You mean they don’t have a president?”

  “Vous ne saviez pas? They just held elections that were canceled by President Abboud, and the new President, Rawlson Bimini, took power from him. The president before him was from the army. The army is the government and the government is the army. A pity.”

  He showed her a few books about the different tribes, but there were too many of them to read, so she focused on the journal articles instead. Some of the scientists were experts with fuels, others with rocks, and many were engineers. The other puzzling thing was that, although they were Nigerian, none of them
lived in Nigeria. They lived in Hong Kong, Sweden, London, the United States, Japan, Australia, and Switzerland. Ogun Olusegun was the only one who lived in France. Or who had lived in France, she remembered, for he’d been murdered.

  That was still enough to give her hope. If she could find the other scientists, she might be able to find her father. She could speak with them. One of them might even be his friend. But how could she get to them? She felt trapped by Madame Kaluanda and the girls, whose prying eyes seemed to know everything she did.

  To make matter worse, she tossed and turned that evening, jerked awake again by her hot blood. When she looked out the window over the rooftops of Old Évry, she saw the moon rising, pulling at her insides. She felt as if her lungs were filled with light, that the white skin on her brown body would rip her apart. She peeled off her gloves and looked at her arms. Her blood shined right through her veins and she could see webs of light in her capillaries. She gasped, and covered it up. Her leg was worse, every vein exposed in a web of bluish light. She rolled over again and again in her bed.

  “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” she heard a voice whisper. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m fine,” Melissa snapped.

  The door creaked open. The girl’s name was Béatrice, the slender girl who ruled the apartments while Madame Kaluanda was away. She was pretty and was becoming a fashion model and had everything Melissa did not. Melissa had spent her time in Évry avoiding her, afraid that she was a snitch.

  “I have some pain pills.”

  “I don’t want them.”

  “Is it your period?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, well. You can wake me if you are not feeling well.”

  She left the medicine at the foot of the bed. Melissa swallowed one, but the pill swirled in her stomach until she was forced to vomit.

  Madame Kaluanda was waiting for Melissa when she returned from the library the following afternoon, sleepy and bleary-eyed from her restless night.

  “Where did you go in Paris?”

  “To the party.” She went to brush past, but Madame Kaluanda blocked her with an arm.

  “I asked you a question, Mademoiselle. Answer it.”

  “I went to the party with everyone else.”

  Kaluanda scowled. “Tant pis. Then you can tell Mrs. Niyangabo. She is waiting for you.”

  Melissa shivered. Mrs. Niyangabo! Of all times! She said she would never come back! She put her hand on her chest, thinking that there was nowhere to go this time as Madame Kaluanda angrily turned to open the door.

  “Non, please, Madame!”

  “Are you willing to talk?”

  “Yes, anything! I will tell you everything!”

  “If you do not answer then I will have to send you with her. You were expelled from school yesterday morning. I know you do not want to go with her. You are a strange girl, but I will do what I can to help if you stop this insolence. The girls said that you left the party in Paris. Where did you go? Are you prostituting yourself?”

  “Mais, non!”

  “Tell me.”

  “I went to see a museum.”

  “If you lie then I cannot help you.”

  Madame Kaluanda began turning the doorknob. Melissa rushed to her and grabbed her arm. “Please, Madame! Non! Non! Ouvrez-pas! I have money. I can pay you.”

  Madame Kaluanda lifted an eyebrow. “How much?”

  “Anything you want. Don’t make me go with her.”

  She paused, considering the offer. “Five hundred francs per month, all in advance. And you will stay in school. But I am not sure she would agree to it. Go down to 503 and wait.”

  Melissa went inside the second apartment and wrung her hands. She resolved to kill herself rather than go with Mrs. Niyangabo. She would throw herself out the window, or she could grab the steering wheel of her car and kill them both. Or she could stab her, she thought desperately. She rushed into the kitchen and hid a knife in the bottom of her pack. If Mrs. Niyangabo touched her then Melissa would gore her.

  At last the door opened and Madame Kaluanda returned. “You can come.” Melissa read neither anger nor forgiveness in her face. And she took a sharp breath as she saw Mrs. Niyangabo sitting with an amused look on the couch.

  “How is your schooling?” Mrs. Niyangabo said, patting the cushion next to her. She was wearing a blue suit with shoulder pads, and chic stilettos. Her skin had grown darker from exposure to the sun, for she was nearly the same color as Madame Kaluanda.

  “Very good.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. A lie. I know you are failing your classes. I was afraid that might happen. School is very difficult here in France. Much more difficult than in Zimbabwe. It is the First World. You were not prepared for it.”

  Melissa put her hand in her backpack, gripping her fingers around the knife.

  “So what will we do with you? Hm? Ah, but there is no choice. You must come stay with me.”

  At this, Madame Kaluanda interrupted. “Perhaps that is not necessary.”

  “Of course it is. She is stupid. She can’t survive on her own. Her father didn’t leave her any money.”

  Melissa tightened her grip around the knife, but held her tongue.

  “I will look after her,” Madame Kaluanda said. “Give her a second chance. That is, of course, if you feel you can part with her company. I will remain her guardienne as before and assume all the responsibilities.”

  Melissa didn’t like the thought of Madame Kaluanda being her guardienne, but anything was better than life with Mrs. Niyangabo, even spending her father’s money.

  Mrs. Niyangabo seemed to be weighing the development in her head. She asked to use the telephone. Madame Kaluanda left the apartment, throwing Melissa a stern look. Melissa squeezed the hilt of the knife in her backpack as Mrs. Niyangabo went to the telephone and dialed a number on a calling card. She didn’t bother to lower her voice.

  “Yes, she’s here… This is his last request… I will not give him another… It is too bad… The greedy bitch won’t let her get away when there is money to be made… No, no, no… The last request, remember: I do not repeat myself…”

  Thinking that no harm would come to her, Melissa slid the knife under the couch cushion. When Mrs. Niyangabo sat down again, she reached into her purse and pulled out what looked like a small silver case. But when she turned the case over Melissa realized it was a gun.

  “Sit down!” Mrs. Niyangabo snapped.

  Warily, she sat.

  “Melissa, I know you have been to Paris snooping around. I am concerned, very concerned, that you might have false hope, and false hope for a young woman is a very dangerous affair. Don’t think Madame Kaluanda can protect you! She could be killed in a moment.” She was shaking the gun in her face now. “This is the last time I will warn you, for I do not like to repeat myself: stop looking for your father. We have been kind to you and you are abusing our hospitality. You, too, can disappear. You are nothing to us. Do you understand, young lady?”

  Melissa nodded. She knew that Mrs. Niyangabo was using the gun to scare her, and it had worked. She stared down the silver barrel, afraid to move.

  “Good,” Mrs. Niyangabo said. “Fetch Madame Kaluanda.”

  When Madame Kaluanda returned, Mrs. Niyangabo said, “It is agreed. On the condition that I—or an acquaintance—may visit at any time.”

  Madame Kaluanda glanced at Melissa, who was shaking her head.

  “Of course, Mrs. Niyangabo. I’ll send you the papers.”

  Melissa returned to the bedroom and picked up the photo of her next to her father. She had expected Madame Kaluanda to take the money but she had been surprised by the viciousness with which Mrs. Niyangabo had threatened her. You are nothing to us, she had said. Who was she talking about? Who was she working with? And Melissa felt that she meant what she said, that she would really shoot her if she wanted to. The photo was the last evidence that she even had a father. She couldn’t remember when he had snapped the photo, in front of a marke
tplace of some kind, and this troubled her, as if he might disappear forever. If she could remember the day the photo was taken, then maybe she could remember him again.

  “Are you busy?” someone said.

  “Oui, chuis bien occupée. Don’t come in!” Melissa quickly put away the photograph. It was Béatrice again, the nosy girl who had asked whether Melissa had a period. Melissa eyed her warily.

  “I am sorry about what happened to you,” Béatrice said. She sat beside Melissa on her bed. “Madame Kaluanda told us that we aren’t allowed to talk to you about it. You miss your family, isn’t that it? You were taken from them?”

  Melissa said nothing.

  “Your family misses you too,” the girl said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Mais si, I do know. I have seen Madame Kaluanda collect the mail. She always takes out your letters.”

  “Letters? What letters?”

  “I don’t know who sends them, just that she gives them to that horrible woman.”

  Melissa felt ecstatic to know that someone had written her. Only her father or Mr. Bello could possibly know where she lived. Maybe her father had found her! But she could never get the letters back from Mrs. Niyangabo, and would be killed for even trying.

  “I received a letter too,” Béatrice went on, “It had my name on it but I think it is for you.”

  She handed Melissa a small envelope. The seal had been broken.

  “You read it?”

  “Yes.”

  Inside she found a French passport with her own photo. She had used her Zimbabwean passport when she had arrived in customs. The agent had looked at her visa without question—student—and moved her through the line. This one was different. It had the same photo and in place of a single stamped visa, there were several stamps to various countries. Her age had been changed, too, so that she was listed as 19. Then there was a letter.

  Melissa,

  I have done everything in my power to reach you. You are my only child and my only love in this world.