An African Affair

by Nina Darnton

  After college, they went into journalism and became indefatigable reporters, but at thirty-six, Maureen had achieved a more well-rounded life. As Lindsay’s mother never tired of pointing out, Maureen was married—to Mark, an American diplomat she met in Warsaw. Her mother might have changed her name, but she still had Kaminsky values. Even after her divorce from Lindsay’s father, she had absolute faith that marriage and babies defined success for a woman.

  “Hi,” Lindsay said, coming into the kitchen. “You just get up?”

  Maureen shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep. Any tricks for dealing with this heat?”

  “Yeah,” Lindsay answered. “Go back to London.”

  It wasn’t really funny, and Maureen was too tired to pretend.

  “The only thing I’ve found that helps is a bath,” Lindsay said. “The water isn’t cold, but if you don’t dry off, the evaporation cools you off.”

  “I’ll try it,” Maureen said, obediently trudging upstairs. “They never told me about this in journalism school,” she added over her shoulder.

  Lindsay started to laugh. “No? Jesus, I had a whole course in it. It was called ‘Resourcefulness in tight spots.’ Go back to bed as soon as you can,” Lindsay called after her. “You’ll need all the sleep you can get. You’re in West Africa. You never know what this place is going to throw at you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Lindsay awoke at 7 A.M., hot and sweaty. She showered and dressed in a pair of cotton drawstring pants and a white linen shirt and pulled her long hair back into a ponytail.

  Walking down the hall, she quietly peeked into the guest bedroom. Maureen was still asleep, her face damp with perspiration. Sensing her friend’s presence, Maureen opened her eyes and immediately shielded them from the bright sunlight streaming in through the window.

  “I’ll make some coffee,” Lindsay said.

  In the kitchen, she boiled the water and poured it into a large fourquart tin filter to eliminate the silt. Maureen staggered in and sat at the table.

  Lindsay poured two cups and handed one to Maureen.

  “I’m impressed,” Maureen mumbled, her voice still thick with sleep. “And just think—I used to say that you couldn’t even boil water.”

  “Yeah, well, next time check your facts. I happen to be a gourmet water boiler.”

  They moved to the living room. The power had come on and the ceiling fan was slowly turning, moving the torpid air without cooling it. Lindsay sat on a rattan couch surrounded by plump brown and orange tie-dyed pillows, resting her feet on a brown leather ottoman decorated with gold-stitched geometric designs. A stack of clips was piled before her and she began reading them.

  “I’ve got a lot of background material here,” she said. “You’re welcome to read whatever you want.”

  “Thanks, Linds,” Maureen answered. “I’ll look through it, but I did a lot of research in London.” She paused, then smiled. “You seem as cool as a cucumber.”

  “You should have seen me when I first arrived. I stared out the cab window at the open sewers and crowded streets and thought, ‘This is terrible, but soon I’ll be in Ikoyi, where the foreigners live.’ As we kept driving, the houses got bigger and nicer, but the smell never changed and the garbage mounds were just as high. And then the driver pulled into our driveway and I realized that this was as good as it gets.”

  “Well, you can’t really complain,” Maureen said, gesturing to take in the spacious room. “You live better than ninety-five percent of the locals.”

  “More like ninety-nine percent. When I saw the servants’ quarters, where our steward Martin lives with his family, I actually cried. Two small rooms off a dark hallway running along the outside of the house. There was no electricity and the outhouse was just a hole in the ground. I tried to imagine what the British colonialists were thinking when they housed the people who worked for them, what it said about how they viewed them.

  “So I had Martin’s quarters painted and wired for electricity. They have the right to the same blackouts we have, right? I put in fans, installed a bathroom, and paid some local guys to cart away the garbage. I felt great for about a week. Then one day I was standing in the garden and I saw a huge pile of garbage floating right past the house. Those guys had just dumped it all in the creek. Soon the garbage was piled as high as before. Only now I don’t notice it so much.”

  Martin came into the room as they were talking. A slight man of forty-two, he was dressed neatly in his customary brown trousers and white shirt. He had the slightly self-effacing manner of someone who had worked as a servant for most of his life. Though not formally educated past sixth grade, he had learned Western customs and had almost erased the pidgin English he’d grow up with.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said, tilting the blinds to protect the furniture from the sun.

  “Good morning,” she answered cheerily. “Martin, this is my best friend, Maureen. Maureen, this is my savior, Martin. Not only does he cook and shop and make my life here possible, he’s also my best source of information on everything from politics to local events.”

  Martin looked abashed. “I know nuttin’ about politics,” he said uncomfortably. “Welcome to Lagos, madam,” he said, raising his eyes to look at Maureen. “You arrive okay? No big palaver at the airport?”

  “Yes, yes, it was fine,” Maureen said, trying to shake his hand, but he ducked his head and quickly withdrew into the kitchen.

  “Actually, it was horrible,” Maureen said to Lindsay. “The immigration guy sits up so high you strain your neck while being interrogated.”

  “They do that to make you feel like a supplicant. So what did you say?”

  “I didn’t. I just quietly showed my passport and answered their questions in a matter-of-fact way,” Maureen said. “Unfortunately, that seemed to work, because here I am.”

  “Sometimes I get through it by imagining I’m in a movie,” Lindsay said. “And it is kind of like that, isn’t it? The guards, with their eyes curtained by dark shades, the demand for papers and visas, the long delays while they wait for the bribe you end up fumbling for.”

  “They make you show your return ticket to be sure you plan to leave, like it’s so wonderful here, you might want to stay forever.”

  “Once I was in, I knew what to do because I was prepared by Jimmy Garner. Remember him?” Lindsay asked.

  “Remember him? Are you kidding? We talked about him at lunch for six months.”

  “I apologize. But he was the one who gave me the three rules of survival for entering Nigeria.” Lindsay held up a finger and enumerated each point. “Fight off the people swarming around like sand flies trying to do something for you. Don’t let anyone take your bag; you’ll never see it again. Bribe—or ‘dash’ as they say here—anyone who can get you a taxi into town. Unfortunately, there are no rules for how to survive after that.”

  They both laughed. Lindsay glanced down at her articles and said she’d secured the promise of an interview with Olumide himself.

  “That’s amazing. What have you found out about him so far?” Maureen asked.

  “That he is certainly one of Africa’s gangster heads of state, steadily bleeding the country while transfusing his own Swiss bank accounts. His control is so tight it’s hard to imagine the drug trade flourishing without him. The problem is, it’s very hard to prove this, or even get anyone to accuse him on the record,” she said. “Most people are afraid to talk openly. After the assassination even the dissidents seem to have gone to ground, at least for now. I’ve cultivated some sources who might talk off the record, but that’s about it.”

  “When is your interview with him?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I don’t have to tell you to be careful, do I?”

  “No, of course not. And don’t worry.” She paused a beat. “I’m not expecting him to be honest. But he wants something from me—a public forum to reach Washington—and I want to ask him if he’s serious about holding elections and ending milita
ry rule. Of course he’ll lie, but at least I’ll have him on the record.”

  Maureen nodded.

  Lindsay checked the clock—the 9 A.M. BBC broadcast was about to begin. She turned on the radio in time to catch the familiar opening strains of the Queen’s March. She listened, but the broadcast ended without mentioning Nigeria.

  Lindsay had tried to sound confident, but in actual fact she was struggling against frustration. She knew that even if she got a good story, she would have problems filing. With no reliable phone or electrical line, she couldn’t count on using her computer, and while some hotels had modems for the Internet, the connections were dicey. That left the public communications office with a single telex and long lines. Friends suggested she might be able to use the private telex of the Agence France-Presse man, who had paid a huge bribe to get it. But he was on home leave for a few more days.

  Lindsay decided to focus on small, obtainable goals. Today, she’d simply prepare for the interview with Olumide. She’d read the clips and talk to the American ambassador, Peter Bresson, an old friend. On the way to the embassy, she’d stop at the public communications office and send a message to the foreign desk alerting them to expect the interview.

  She looked up to see Maureen fiddling with the telephone.

  “It doesn’t work,” Lindsay said. “You know that, right?”

  “Yes. But you never can tell. Maybe a miracle happened while we slept.”

  “Yeah, right. Maybe you’ll have better luck at the AP office.”

  “Let’s hope so. I need to call Mark to tell him I arrived safely and I’ll have to contact the London bureau. In the meantime, I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?”

  In the kitchen, Martin was setting the table.

  “What would madam like?” he asked.

  “The usual, please. And the same for my friend.”

  Maureen leaned over and whispered in Lindsay’s ear. “What would madam like?”

  “I know,” Lindsay said softly. “I’ve tried but I can’t get him to stop calling me that—let alone convince him to use my first name.” She smiled at Martin. “Can you explain to my friend why you insist on being so formal?”

  “Because you are my employer, madam,” Martin said softly. “It’s not good to forget who we are in Lagos.” He turned back to his work.

  “This will be good for you today,” he said, as he served eggs with pan-fried toast. “For driving in this place you need be strong.” Then, almost talking to himself, he murmured, “I will look for a driver for you tomorrow. It is no good you always drive yourself.”

  “Okay. That would be a help. Thanks.”

  The women wolfed down their breakfasts.

  “Would it be all right with you if I stopped by after work to read to Eduke?” Lindsay asked, referring to Martin’s three-year-old son, a favorite of hers. “I have a new book for him.”

  “He will be very happy, madam. Thank you.”

  Lindsay nodded, drained another cup of coffee, waved good-bye and stepped outside into the wall of hot, humid air.

  CHAPTER 3

  She made her way through the crowded street as if on an obstacle course, careful not to step into the open sewers, trying to adjust to the jumble of smells, a combination of human excrement, perspiration, garbage, and gas fumes. Vendors were already hawking their wares. A man in a blue and gold cotton print dashiki implausibly carrying a couch on his head snaked past a group of women selling cigarettes, candles, and beer. The women wore tie-dyed kaftans with bright head ties. Some had strapped their babies to their backs with wide swaths of matching fabric. They walked easily, swaying only slightly, though they carried their wares in bulky baskets balanced on their heads.

  Once in her car, Lindsay entered the mammoth traffic jam that Nigerians, with magnificent understatement, called a “go-slow.” More like a “no go,” she thought, as she edged along narrow, crowded roads pockmarked with potholes the size of manhole covers. Vendors ran alongside, poking their heads into her open windows.

  “You go buy flashlight, madam,” shouted a man dressed in a loose-fitting dashiki. “Dis be good flashlight. You no go buy?”

  She observed that she could use the flashlight, but she needed batteries.

  “Wait,” the vendor said. “I go for buy dem and meet you.” He pointed one block away at the next traffic light.

  Twenty minutes later, as she pulled up to the light, there he was—not even out of breath, the batteries in his hand. She paid for them and plowed ahead, passing legless beggars strapped to wheeled platforms, open-air barbers whose customers sat on stacked orange crates, and bicyclists clad in brightly colored long shirts called Bubas.

  Eventually, she arrived at the communications office. She found a parking spot easily, but as she approached the building, her heart sank. A line of harried businessmen, mostly foreigners trying to contact their home offices, snaked around the block. She joined them and waited close to an hour. Finally, she walked up front to see what the problem was. She discovered that no one was in the booth. Finding a clerk, she asked, “Excuse me, where is the man on duty?”

  “He not on seat.”

  “Yes. I can see he’s not on his seat. I am not asking where he is not, I am asking where he is,” she said. “I have been waiting for an hour.” Her voice was rising.

  “Don’t get hot,” the clerk advised her, his face a mask of indifference. “He go come back soon.”

  After two hours, she took her place at an old telex machine. She quickly typed her message onto the telex keyboard. On her right the machine spewed out the yellow tape whose perforations coded her words. When she finished, she threaded the tape into the transmission slot, dialed the international routing number for her newspaper, and sat back while the machine sent the message.

  Getting back into her car, she set out for the embassy. Turning right, she found the road blocked by a large mob. About a hundred people, mostly young men, were shouting in unison, “Olumide Must Go!” The traffic was at a standstill—the driver of the car directly in front of her had disappeared—so she left her car and pushed her way through the crowd. A thin young man appeared to be the leader. He had an angular face and distinct Yoruba tribal scars—three deep, slanted lines on each cheek. Wearing a T-shirt proclaiming THE NEXT STEP, he was pumping his fist into the air and screaming “Fakai First, Fakai Forever, Fakai, Yeah, Fakai, Yeah.”

  In the distance, Lindsay noticed a group of uniformed soldiers approaching ominously, swinging their clubs. When they reached the demonstrators, they began slamming people in the ribs, the back, the legs. Some protesters tried to run, others started to look for a way out of the tightly packed streets. A teenaged boy fell and screamed as the crowd panicked and trampled him. But the young man in THE NEXT STEP shirt kept chanting, even as two of the soldiers moved toward him. “Fakai First,” he spat out, “Fakai Forever.” His comrades backed off and he seemed about to follow when he noticed Lindsay and paused, as if wondering who this white woman scribbling in a notebook was. As he reached out to hand her a leaflet, she saw a soldier moving behind him, his club raised. “Run!” she screamed, but her warning was lost in the noise of the crowd. He was still chanting when they grabbed him. Horrified, Lindsay saw the soldier raise his club and bring it down hard on the protester’s head. The man crumpled and they threw him into a black van, the infamous Black Maria of the military police.

  Lindsay continued writing down everything she saw as she navigated her way through the fleeing crowd. She had just found a place to stand when a hand reached from behind her and grabbed her notebook. She turned and looked up at a tall and angry soldier.

  “What you tink you do?” he asked.

  “Nothing, Officer,” Lindsay answered, realizing this was the same man who had clubbed the protester. “I’m a reporter. I’m just doing my job.”

  “What you be? You be English?”

  “No. I’m American,” she answered, “from New York.”

  “So maybe you be American spy, y
es? Maybe you be CIA?”

  This alarmed her. Nigerians were paranoid about the CIA.

  “No, Officer. I’m an accredited correspondent whose papers have been approved by the highest authorities. I have an interview tomorrow with General Olumide himself.” She removed her papers from her handbag and offered them to him.

  The soldier glanced at them.

  “They be expire,” he lied, staring straight at her.

  She paused for a fraction of a second.

  “Oh, Officer, I am so sorry. I know there is a fine for that,” she said, taking a one-hundred-naira note out of her wallet. “Would it be possible for me to pay it right now?”

  He grabbed the bill from her hand and pocketed it.

  “Be sure you go for fix it,” he said, handing back her notebook.

  Lindsay retreated as fast as she could. Looking back, she thought she saw the officer point another soldier in her direction. She started to run and when she reached her car, she didn’t see anyone following. Her heart was beating wildly. Had she imagined that he was coming after her?

  The traffic began to move and the people stuck behind her car were leaning on their horns, so she climbed in quickly and started the engine. Driving to the embassy, she kept checking over her shoulder, but saw nothing suspicious. She was just beginning to relax when she noticed a black car turning after her. She parked a few doors from the embassy’s main entrance, looked back and saw the same black car stop at the end of the street. Two men in army uniforms, one in the driver’s seat, one in the back, did not move. They just sat. Waiting.