The pattern of the kitchen floor was rubbed out by too many chairs scratching over the linoleum. The brown and beige geometric pattern had become indistinct. Washed out. Karl could hear the twins competing with each other for their mother’s approval. Outside, the afternoon noises got louder. More people on the road, start of rush hour. Traffic would be thick. The warming of the weather meant even in this slow street there was more commotion, more walking, more cycling. It would die down in a couple of hours.
‘Where were you?’
‘Not your business, is it?’
‘Like that? Wow.’
‘What’s your problem, Karl? What is it?’
‘You’re asking me? What’s yours?’
Abu’s bag went flying into the corner of the tiny room. He followed it with a dramatic plonk on to the bed. Overacting all the way. Karl pulled out the mattress from underneath the bed. Placed himself on it. Folded his arms behind his head and looked at the ceiling.
‘Not leaving you. Just going. Going to Nigeria. I have to.’
‘Some guy appears out of nowhere, some guy you don’t even know and in one minute all you talk about is Uncle T.’
‘Chill man, that’s not even true.’
Abu stretched his legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Did they bother you?’
‘You care now?’
There was silence, both of them thinking, waiting, gauging each other, waiting some more.
‘You are a baby, Abu. Man, I can’t even believe it.’
‘Shut up. You’re not the one who has to stay. They’re going to deal with me when you’re gone.’
‘They don’t really care about you.’
Abu shook his head and scoffed. ‘Is that why I get punched every other day? Sorry, must have got that mixed up.’
A knock at the door, then Mama Abu’s face appeared. She held the door open with one hand, her body still in the hallway.
‘Are you two ready?’
Dinner time. She studied their faces.
‘Oh no, I wanted to help. I’m sorry, got carried away.’ Karl jumped up and smoothed his T-shirt.
‘You don’t have to try so hard. She likes you already.’
‘Abu, what is that for?’ His mother was not having it.
‘He’s always trying to impress you. It’s not necessary.’
‘Abu, I said what is that for.’
In other words: leave it. The mostly silent-communication mother could, when she wanted to, throw some very well placed words. Both of them uncomfortable now. So much stuff hanging in the air it was making you feel all tight in your chest. How could you sort through it all?
‘We’re coming.’
Mama Abu waited. Wasn’t going to leave like that. She didn’t raise rude kids, no not at all. Abu got off the bed, avoiding his mother’s eyes, head turned the other way.
‘Sorry. We’re coming in a minute.’
Behind her the silence returned. Karl. Abu. The neighbourhood. Karl got beaten less because Abu stepped into the line of fire. It had become a thing of pride for Abu. You don’t leave your bestie to be attacked. You take care of that shit, as he liked to say. Not that he could; one dreamy Karl and one Abu against a bunch of haters … too much even for Abu’s big mouth. But still. You tried. Best friend’s honour.
9
* * *
Coming and going is easy;
arriving is an art.
Karl finally stepped off the plane in Port Harcourt. There had been a wait when they stopped in Lagos but those flying on were not allowed to leave the plane. He needed to stretch his legs. Properly. Not the tight walking up and down the aisle one. Uncle T was behind him, already on his phone, already doing what he seemed to be doing all the time: business. He had chatted to Karl about it. About the Italian leather loafers he imported, and the handbags and dresses. And the shea butter products he was so proud of. New thing. Would take off. Once he got it right, he would manufacture in Nigeria, but for now he was working with someone in Italy. Old business friend. Uncle T had talked about all the nice things he brought to Nigeria, which could be bought for very nice prices. The shop he had started with and the wholesale he was now doing, which included shipping containers and frequent trips to Italy. Had made an effort, sincere and all, to draw the teenager in, show him his world.
But Karl and his inner thought process was busy with the voice of his father, which he had heard a few times during the past weeks. Always short, awkward conversations. Had learned that he worked for one of the oil companies in the area. Piping field engineer. Karl asked, ‘What is that then?’ but he answered in it’s obviously designing and maintaining pipes and doing stress analysis innit, which meant zero point zero to Karl. No bloody explanation. They did not have the same flow as Uncle T and he did. Adebanjo did not have the same pulling-the-youth-in, all-warm-and-cosy style. But then Uncle T had a seventeen-year advantage. Godfrey said it like that. Uncle T had known about Karl for that long. Adebanjo was still catching up.
Karl had no clue about his father’s work. What made sense were Uncle T’s spotless outfits. And his well-moisturised hands and face, the good-smelling body. Uncle T was about to launch the whole cosmetic range. He was a caring-about-appearance guy in more than a few ways.
Karl was heading into the gooey air Uncle T had warned him about. The seasons. Different to the UK. Even the rain.
‘Normally it is very hot, but it is rainy season.’ He laughed. ‘You will see. Sometimes the cars look like they are swimming.’
The sky was cloudy. A blanket of white hung low as if it was going to bang down on the people underneath. Force them to lie down. Have their arms spread wide, like in an ambush. A bit like the police trying for the brown youth. Uncle T had told him about the downpours that could make water levels rise in the city because there was nowhere for it to escape to. Traffic stopped as it rose calf-high, drainage not prepared enough. An hour later the water would have done a runner, metaphorically speaking, and people would be on their way again. Often it was better to wait it out. Stay somewhere until the rain stopped, until the water had found nooks and crannies it could escape through. But not now. Maybe it was his welcome, spare his good trainers from getting soaked. He walked, leaning forward into the humid wall that was the air, holding tightly to the backpack from Godfrey.
‘Return it, please. And I want to see you back here in two weeks.’
A cheesy smile in reply. It had almost pushed Godfrey over, it was so sudden, after all their hard-fought battles. Just like the heat was laying its heavy arm on Karl now, trying to push him, trying to get him to lose control of his gangly limbs.
‘OK then,’ Godfrey had return-smiled. ‘And updates. You hear me? Daily updates. Text messages when you can’t call but phone calls if you can. And that is not a question.’
Uncle T gently pushed from behind to help him along, so Karl raised his shoulders quickly, the bag positioning itself neatly (enough) on his shoulders. He looked back. Uncle T was talking fast – it seemed urgent – but he was smiling at Karl, apologies in his eyes. Karl walked through the boarding bridge and although he was warm and muggy and with luggage, he felt light, floaty. All romantic, blurry-eyed, you know how that shit gets you. He was here.
The phone found connection almost immediately. A text. Roaming rates. Expensive. Super expensive. Karl was relieved he had let Abu talk him into getting a Blackberry the previous year. He hadn’t been convinced at first. They were ugly, man, nothing for style as far as Karl was concerned. But it was cheap. The messaging. Free. That’s if you had data loaded up. You couldn’t do better than that. At least he would be able to keep Abu in the know. He wasn’t so sure about the others with other phones. Godfrey. Rebecca. But he didn’t plan on making himself available to them so much. Baba Abu’s words kept repeating on him like a heavy dinner since that day they sat in the kitchen. There is no need to make this a secret. But Karl hadn’t told her. All this talking they had done. All the how close were they and was everything going fine, fa
mily-wise. And not one mention of Uncle T. Who had come to see him. His mother who was all we’re equal and in this together. He had nothing to say to Rebecca.
It was cooler inside the building, but he wasn’t prepared for this. The people! The chaos in front of him made his vision blurry. He couldn’t make out where to go. Everyone seemed to know what to do, where to be, and one-sided conversations raised the volume levels. Phones. Everyone on theirs, talking, telling of the arrival, asking where pickups were. The lot. At least that’s what he thought. The noise. As if a tap had been turned on. Gush. In one go.
Uncle T caught up and pushed again. Karl had a hard time moving. There was a family of six, mother with a baby in one arm and a stylish handbag in the other, father with two oversized carry-ons and the other three kids, varying in size, with a matching set of adult backpacks, brand-new, attached to their backs. One of the kids was so small that Karl couldn’t see the back of his head, just the rounded zipper bit of the backpack. There was a group of friends, students, Karl assumed, in the trendiest sportswear, speaking into the latest mobiles, pushing past him while joking and egging each other on. What Karl didn’t know. Their words were lost in the rest of the commotion. There were purposeful people with determined looks who didn’t deviate from their way out. They pushed through the crowd with long strides. Karl’s head was spinning.
‘Let’s go.’
Uncle T had finished his phone call. He pointed ahead, past the sea of black people.
‘You queue over there.’
It was hard enough to stay level with this much newness. The sounds, the smells, the colourful outfits interspersed with sports and business wear. He felt lost. And scared. How to fit in here? How to even try?
But this part, immigration, produced even more dizziness. This was only sweat. Nothing else. No question mark, no slow trying to catch your feet. Just bare panic. He closed his eyes for a second. Breathe man, just breathe. He could hear Abu. The visa was approved, the Port Harcourt address verified. All he needed was for it to go quick. No overzealous immigration officer, aka gender police in the making. Karl took out the mobile again.
heat man!!! no rain in site. @ passport control. Im here. Cant believ it. All gud so far. wish me luck
An officer in a beige uniform walked along the queue that was forming. What his role was supposed to be was a bit difficult to see. The foreigners from the plane were lining up with Karl. It was easy to spot the lot of them, either white or light-skinned, like Karl, almost as if they were carrying signs: really not from here. They were all older than Karl, mostly male, travelling by themselves with little luggage. Their faces were getting sweaty, like Karl’s, but theirs were changing to much deeper red tones. There was a general wiping going on, a couple of chequered handkerchiefs, back of the hand wipe – that sort of thing.
Uncle T had disappeared to the other end of the small hall.
Karl’s eyes followed the officer who stood next to a burly bloke with one large bag hanging over his shoulder. They were shaking hands and a few notes were slipped from one palm to the other. The officer caught Karl staring and Karl focused on his trainers instead. The burly man proceeded to the raised immigration booth and exchanged a few words with the officer behind the glass before leaving the queue and the airport altogether.
‘You have something for me?’ The man in beige appeared next to Karl.
Karl shook his head. ‘Sorry?’
The line was moving faster than he had thought. A lot of the white men in the queue had someone waiting for them, someone in uniform who would fast track them down the line, past the raised booth and out.
The officer looked at Karl. ‘What did you bring for me?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Karl swivelled around. Where was Uncle T when you needed him?
‘Anything.’
‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand. It’s my first time. My uncle …’
The officer didn’t hide his pity and waved him forward. He had arrived at the raised booth and the man took his passport from his shaking hand and gave it to the man inside the booth. Another officer. He took the passport, looked at the picture, looked at Karl. Karl made himself scarce, pulled himself away from his skin, disappearing inside his bloodstream so that nothing on the outside could touch him. But the guy was still looking. Staring. No bloody subtleness at all, just full-on fixation. Curious and shit but unmoved, no smile, no softening, no invitation to exchange a few pleasantries. Nothing. Then waved to the supervisor behind him, who disengaged from the guy he was chatting with, in slow motion. Before he could make it to them, officer number three arrived, a guy who had been inside the building, further down, closer to the exit. Number three placed his folded arms on the rim of the small cubicle. He was about to tell officers number one and two, the one walking Karl over and the one in the box, something funny. You could see that because he was already smiling about it, like he knew this was a real good one. When he opened his mouth officer two shoved the passport in his face.
‘Ah ah, they no know how to dress demselves. Dis one, no be woman …’
Officer number three, unimpressed, still smiling, licked his lips. Looked at the picture, but didn’t really. Didn’t care one single bit.
‘My friend, leave am now. No be our problem.’
Karl smiled. That shy, I’m so damn unaware of my charm but I’m throwing everything your way smile. Because right now I need it to work, I need that charm to charm you out of asking me too many questions, out of extending this, making it obvious for everyone around. Embarrassing me. Hurting me. Making this unbearable.
And dangerous.
That’s it. Someone had sense, he would be moving on in no time, just like most of the white dudes who had been in the queue before him. All he had to do was get some damn oxygen into his body so he wouldn’t collapse right here. Before he had officially made it to Nigeria. Breathing in, breathing out, one two, one two. Focus on pairs instead of the throng of officials shuffling around the little cubicle. Officer number two was flipping through the passport pages, thumb cinema-like. Officer one was casually looking at it and then at Karl again. Only Spain, otherwise no other country had ever seen this gathering of well-stitched pages.
The supervisor arrived.
Four of them now; officer number three still shrugging his shoulders, ready to move on, finally drop that story. Who cared about whatever it was; it was a long time until they were off; why make life harder by winding yourself up like that? And right at the start of their shift?
‘Wetin worry you? Leave am now. De family will tell am.’
Karl looked at Uncle T, who had walked through the Nigerian citizens’ line and was now far ahead. A questioning look. Karl quickly shaking his head, vigorously. Number four, the supervisor, followed his glance.
‘Your father?’
‘Uncle.’
The officer looked back and forth between them.
‘But my father is waiting for me,’ Karl added, the word unfamiliar, almost sideways in his mouth. The puddle of sweat on his lower back was descending, trickling between his cheeks into his underwear. Father. Even more foreign than his first experience of the country. ‘He is outside.’
Number four’s face stopped doing what it was doing midway, the expression frozen. And like his face, time was now freezing over, sucking out all movement until everything became unreal, dangerously flat, a wall that would collapse and bury you in its debris.
Number three was looking around, trying to find someone else to chat with because this was defo no chatting whatsoever. Not what he had in mind when he had come over. Number two was still staring at Karl. At the long T-shirt that was hanging over his jeans. The trainers that were holding the jeans up, as it seemed. Number one? Had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do.
It was a bit much. The attention. The waiting. The not saying much. A whole group of people, yet again focus on Karl.
‘Your father is outside?’
Number four seemed to have recovered. Karl no
dded, eyes sending nothing cute and charming any more just good old please. Pleading. But number four was already reaching inside the booth. Fumbled around. Then a quick stamp. Officer two shook his head. Supervisor handed the passport to Karl, ‘Welcome to Nigeria’, ignored everyone else and walked off.
Officer two annoyed. Disapproving.
‘Na crazy, dis one.’
But there was nothing else to be done. The group dispersed.
Karl was through and out the other side.
Uncle T, who was already close to the exit, talking to a man slightly shorter than him, his round face much darker, a tone that glowed attentively, a bit like Nalini’s make-up on a fresh winter day. He had a kind of stiff appearance, not quite as confident as Uncle T.
Karl slowed down. Stopped. The air fell, dropped on to him. Again. The weight of it all.
Uncle T turned around. He was speaking very fast with the dark-skinned man, who in turn inspected his shoes, then travelled with his eyes to Uncle T’s face, looking like he had done something, his shoulders pulled up to his ears. Uncle T’s hands were rotating like windshield wipers now. The man looked younger than Uncle T, as if he was barely making it out of his twenties. Fresh-faced and nervous.
Karl? Transfixed, stared at the exit door, holding on to his backpack. No one had said what he was supposed to do. Stand next to them? Wait? You would think there were instructions, that they would have thought about that. You would think these things were clear. Arrival. The father. And then improvise. But it was sort of before all of that. Arrival, yes. But to what? Didn’t the father say, ‘We look forward to welcoming you’? Why did the welcome exclude him? And why did it piss off Uncle T?
fear /fɪə/
noun
Emotion alerting you: there might be a threat of danger, pain, or harm here.
verb
Feeling that something that is to come, either by or through someone or an action, is likely to be dangerous, painful, or harmful.
When We Speak of Nothing Page 6