An African Affair

by Nina Darnton

  “Good morning,” she said. “Why are you here so early?”

  “I am sorry, madam. There was no time for you meet the new driver. He here now.”

  Eager to get back to her notes, Lindsay said, “Not today, Martin. I have too much on my mind.”

  Martin refused to be put off. “Sorry, madam,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “You cannot go to Dodan Barracks by yourself. You need a driver.”

  Usually deferential, his insistence gave Lindsay pause.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “He once work for my first employer at the British embassy. He is very good driver. He know the ropes. Believe me, madam. He will help. They take you more serious if you come with driver.”

  She waited, still unsure.

  “He has four children, madam. He need work.”

  She sighed. “Okay. But I can’t meet him now. Just give him the keys and ask him to wait for me in the car.”

  “Very good, madam.“

  When Lindsay walked out of the house, a young man with closely cropped hair jumped out to open the door of the Peugeot.

  “I be call John, madam,” he said.

  “Okay, John. I’m glad to meet you.” She settled back in her seat. “We are going to Dodan Military Barracks.”

  “I know, madam,” he said grimly. It took them an hour to get there. When they arrived at the gate, Lindsay gave John her pass. He showed it to the guard, who scrutinized it for what seemed a very long time. Still unconvinced, the guard peered in the window at Lindsay without saying a word. Finally satisfied, he waved them through. John looked nervous as he got out of the car and opened her door.

  “Please, madam,” he said. “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll come back as soon as the interview is over.”

  Lindsay made her way to the squat brick building that housed the general’s private office. The first thing she noticed in the waiting room was that it was almost bare. There was no attempt to evoke authority with the solid mahogany British colonial furniture she had expected; the room was furnished only with a few modern, inelegant chairs and four cheap metal desks. Behind each was a secretary. Two were on the phone, engaged in what appeared to be personal conversations, and two were polishing their nails and chatting to each other in Yoruba. When Lindsay finally succeeded in getting one of the women to look up, she encountered an expressionless stare. The woman rudely gestured for Lindsay to sit down, while continuing to talk on the phone. Lindsay chose one of the hard-backed chairs and settled in to wait. In addition to the stock portrait of the dictator that hung in every government office and private shop, the walls bore photographs of him shaking hands with various African leaders. Some of the photos hung crookedly, and she had to suppress the urge to straighten them. After about twenty minutes, a phone rang. The secretary picked it up and rose, gesturing for Lindsay to follow her. In all that time, she realized, not a word had been spoken to her.

  The president’s office was more imposing. General Olumide sat behind a vast ebony desk, flanked by green and white Nigerian flags bearing the country’s seal (a unicorn holding a crest) and next to a life-sized oil portrait of himself in a uniform glittering with medals. He faced three separate black dial telephones as well as an important-looking red one, which she surmised gave instant access to his troops.

  He got up and crossed the office in two great steps and thrust out a large hand. His grip was hard.

  “Well, well, we meet at last,” he said, his voice deep and mellow, his gaze direct and warm.

  He ushered her to a comfortable chair, taking an easy chair across from her for himself.

  “So, Lindsay—I hope you don’t mind my using your first name, we tend to overlook formalities in Africa—how are you enjoying our country?”

  “Oh, it’s fascinating,” she said.

  He smiled. “Oh, I know some of our problems are difficult for you Westerners to get used to,” he said kindly, “the crowds, the heat, the communication and electrical problems, but we are working on improving conditions as much as possible. That is one reason we need help from a great, developed country like your own.”

  She smiled, surprised. Although she had seen photographs, nothing had prepared her for his stature and magnetism. His ebony skin was so smooth she had a momentary urge to reach out and touch it; his posture was proud but not rigid, and his manner was friendly, even gracious. An upper-class English accent reflected his Sandhurst education. He was, moreover, undeniably attractive.

  “Have you been out of the central city?” he asked. “Have you been to our forests, our beaches, our villages? Have you seen the real Nigeria?”

  “Not yet,” she replied. “But I hope to do a lot of traveling around the country soon.”

  “Well, look around,” he said, waving his long arms at his office walls. “I have had photographs of some of our finest attractions hung right here to remind me what I am working for on those days when I wonder whether it’s worth the struggle.”

  Lindsay obediently turned to examine half a dozen poster-sized pictures of banana plantations, wide-gapped rivers, offshore oil wells, and even some modern-looking factories. Her eyes stopped at a photograph of an isolated beach, palm trees nearly up to the shoreline.

  “That’s Bar Beach,” he said softly. “One of our most beautiful.”

  She stared at the wild surf, lulled by the resonance of his voice.

  The site, she reflected, could be any one of a multitude of beautiful beaches around the world, but the longer she looked at it, the more she had the feeling she had seen it before. Then she suddenly remembered that Bar Beach was the place where the young Olumide, who had seized power in a coup some ten years ago, had ordered his predecessor executed by firing squad, to musical accompaniment no less. Journalists had joked that despite the brutal coup and sadistic execution, he was nonetheless a man of culture. After all, they pointed out, he chose Mozart.

  She turned back and found him staring straight at her, his eyes now suddenly appraising, reminding her of her initial wariness.

  If you met him at a party, she thought, you’d guess he was the director of a prestigious media company. He didn’t wear Ray-Bans, long the trademark of African dictators, or, on this occasion, his military uniform. Since he was never seen publicly without it, Lindsay realized, his decision to appear for the interview in a business suit was obviously calculated. For Nigerians, he wrapped himself in the accoutrements of power. For the Western press, he cultivated a corporate image.

  “Did the pictures displease you?” he asked, something menacing in his smooth demeanor.

  “Oh, no,” she answered. “I just realized how busy you must be and that I should conduct our interview before you are called away.”

  “No one will call me away until I want to go,” he said.

  She detected an implied threat, a flash of danger. Despite his charm, she could not forget the stories about him she knew to be true—about his deceitfulness, his violence, his cruelty. Critics were routinely arrested, several had vanished. She had personally witnessed what had happened to one of them. Others had “accidents” that removed them from the political scene. She remembered the private words of Kofi Ransom, the dissident reporter arrested last year who had not been seen since: “If you are walking in the forest and you see Olumide and a python, kill Olumide first.”

  She reached into her bag and removed her tape recorder.

  “Would you mind if I record our interview?”

  “No, not at all,” he replied graciously. “We are doing the same of course.”

  She pressed the record button and double-checked that the machine was running.

  After a few obligatory softball questions about his goals and accomplishments, Lindsay worked the conversation around to his politics and the likelihood of his sponsoring a return to civilian rule.

  “Do you believe democracy is a workable option for Nigeria?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, smiling benignly
. “You know, Lindsay, I was educated in the West. I have a deep faith in democracy. But I want to be sure the country is ready for it.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I cannot express how deeply I regret some of the excesses that have occurred under military rule, but they were necessary to ensure order. Stability is the first step in our march toward freedom.”

  Lindsay wrote down the quote and then looked up.

  “In fact, you have announced a return to free elections, haven’t you?” she asked, her pen poised to scribble his reply.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But you haven’t set a date yet,” she pressed.

  His eyes quickly registered his irritation. “They will take place any time from now,” he said, slapping his desk for emphasis. The election process would be aided enormously by increased U.S. aid, he added, “and a most favored nation trading status that the U.S. government currently refuses to allow because of false allegations of so-called human rights violations.

  “You see, Lindsay,” he continued, reverting to his amiable mode, lecturing her as though he were an avuncular professor, “it is circular. When the lives of our people improve, we will be able to trust the nation to democracy. By slowing down our economic growth, your government keeps us from holding free elections.”

  This, clearly, was the message he wanted conveyed to the West. He leaned back in his chair, conspicuously looking at his watch.

  “I am so sorry,” he said, “but I have an appointment with the French ambassador and I have some papers to look over before he arrives.” He dismissed her with a disingenuous smile.

  Her fears had been realized. The interview was practically worthless. Olumide had given away nothing and was about to send her off with a bromide sound bite and a pitch for American aid. Irritated, Lindsay decided to take a chance. “General Olumide,” she said, a little nervously, “there are rumors that Fakai is going to be arrested before the end of the week. Can you confirm or deny them?”

  There was a brief pause. It was so slight that someone less observant might not have noticed that his grip tightened on a pencil he’d been casually holding in his right hand. Abruptly, he snapped it between his fingers, as though he were imitating a thug in a gangster movie. Then he reached over, so abruptly Lindsay jumped, and turned off her tape recorder. When he spoke again, it was clear that the interview was concluded.

  “There are rumors of every kind in this city,” he said. “It never fails to amaze me what people will say. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go.”

  Stubbornly, she pressed further. “So I can quote you, sir, as denying the rumors? My sources said your government would use the chaos such an act would provoke as a pretext to postpone elections.”

  Knowing she was crossing a line, she added: “I wonder if the death of Babatunde Oladayo, when it is announced, will also provoke demonstrations among the students.”

  He froze. She had obviously taken him by surprise. Before he could speak, the phone rang. He picked up the receiver and shouted into it.

  “I told you to hold calls.”

  He listened for a moment and then, sputtering in rage, answered in Yoruba so Lindsay wouldn’t understand, but there was no mistaking the menacing tone as he gave an order and hung up. His gaze fell back to Lindsay, and he seemed to be making an effort to control himself. She turned to look at the door and sat quietly.

  “Babatunde Oladayo.” He spat out the name like a curse. “I talk to you of progress, of democracy, and you talk of Babatunde Oladayo. People like him, they are nothing. They are bugs. Did you say someone swatted one bug? That is not my lookout.”

  She watched his hands clench and unclench and finally, with relief, she saw he was regaining his composure. She hurried to gather up her belongings, stuffing her tape recorder into her bag, and rose to leave. As he walked her to the door, he said, “I’d love to find out who your sources are.” Then, more ominously, “Perhaps I will one day. But I’m sure, as a professional, you will be sure to check them very well and not publish anything that is not substantiated. We believe in a responsible press. We have laws that encourage it—and penalties that ensure it.” He took her hand as if to shake good-bye and gripped it so tightly that her ring dug into her finger and broke the skin.

  “Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “Yes.” She understood all too well.

  “Good day,” he said.

  “Good day,” she answered. “Thank you.”

  The general turned to the window. He didn’t turn back as she left.

  CHAPTER 8

  Hunkered down in the rear seat of her car while John started the engine, she willed her heartbeat to return to normal. A chorus of Olumide’s threats played over and over in her head: “I’d love to find out who your sources are. Perhaps I will one day. . . .” “We have laws that encourage it and penalties that ensure it.” The intimidation came not just from his voice but also from his abrupt movements. She thought of the lizard in the ambassador’s garden—heavy-lidded and scarcely moving, darting its lethal tongue to snatch a bug.

  John pulled out into the street. Were they being followed? She turned to look out the back window. Not a single Black Maria in sight.

  She decided to file her story immediately. She looked at her watch: 12:30 P.M. It was five hours earlier in New York, giving her plenty of time. Interviews with African heads of state were customarily relegated to the back pages of the paper, but this one might just make it onto the front page. Oil-rich Nigeria was important, and Olumide, who rarely spoke to the press, was a figure of mystery to the West.

  She wrote the piece in an hour and a half, then tried to figure out the best way to file. Tentatively, almost on impulse, she picked up her phone, fully expecting it to be dead. But by some miracle, her landline was working.

  Perhaps Olumide wanted the story printed. She didn’t waste time trying to figure it out but dialed the Globe’s recording room and began the tedious job of reading her story to a machine, which necessitated including all punctuation, and spelling out every name. (“Olumide: O for orange, L for London, U for ukulele . . .”) She finished without being cut off. Relieved, she decided to place another call. The connection was weaker this time, but on the fifth try, she was delighted to hear a secretary say, “Foreign desk.”

  “This is Lindsay Cameron,” she said. “Is Joe Rainey around? I’m calling from Lagos and I don’t know how long the line will hold.”

  Joe picked up. He’s in early, she thought, probably didn’t go home last night. Once again his wife, Janine, would be furious.

  “Jesus, Lindsay. We were wondering when you’d check in. What’s going on?”

  “It’s been hell getting through and now that I’ve got a line, I’m going to talk fast. I just filed twelve hundred words on my interview with Olumide. He didn’t say much, but I’m using it as a peg for some background on the situation here. There may be a big story coming up. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone, but I’m on top of it.”

  “What kind of time line are we talking about?”

  “Not sure. Maybe a week or two.”

  “Okay. What about the interview? Can we reach you later for questions?”

  “Beats me. You can try. If the phone’s down, don’t send a fax through the public communications office. I’ll try my best to reach you.”

  “There’s something else,” Rainey said. “You marked a piece ‘hold for orders.’ What do we do with it?”

  She glanced down at her notebook and saw Olumide’s only comment about Babatunde Oladayo: “People like him, they are nothing. They are bugs.” Her face flushed with anger. It took her less than a minute to make up her mind.

  “Run it,” she said. “You can pair it with the interview.”

  “Okay. Good. Listen, we could use some features for page two while you’re waiting around for your big story. Maybe some lifestyle pieces. What’s Lagos like now? Write about African art, music, food, that kind of thing.”

  Lindsay rolled her eyes
in exasperation. Editors! She was talking about real news, and he wanted a goddamned feature. Still, she could always do something on African art—she’d talk to James.

  “I’ll see what I can find,” she said.

  “Right. Good.”

  There was a slight pause.

  “So,” said Lindsay, “what’s going on there?”

  “Same old shit. The big news is that Greenberg’s secretary Anna, who as you know is married, just had a baby boy that looks a hell of a lot like Greenberg.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Gotta go, kid. Page one meeting’s about to start. How you doin’?”

  “Not so great. But I’m surviving. Can’t wait to finish up, frankly, and go home. It’s tough being so cut off, really. . . .” She waited for a response but could hear him talking to someone else on the desk.

  “Well, hang in there and keep in touch, Linds,” he said hurriedly.

  “Right. Wait. Just check with the recording room to see if they got it all, okay?”

  “Sure. Hold on.”

  A long pause.

  “They lost you, Lindsay. They got a few graphs but then just static.”

  “Oh no. I’ll try again,” she started to say before the line went dead. Her only hope now was the AFP man, whose office, luckily, was just a few blocks away.

  She found Georges Pontier, drink in hand, looking at the lagoon behind his house. Introducing herself, she reminded him of their correspondence.

  “Ah, yes,” he replied graciously. “The telex. I remember.”

  “How amazing that you’ve got one working. I heard you paid a big bribe to get it.”

  “Yes, I did.” He smiled and shrugged. “Unfortunately, it seems it was not quite big enough. The line has been dead since I returned from leave.”

  “But how do you file?”

  Pontier smiled laconically. “When the desire to file overtakes me, which isn’t often anymore,” he said, sipping his scotch, “I usually lie down until the impulse passes.” He grinned at his adaptation of the famous quote. “But when I have to file—you know, a coup or something—I do what you will have to do. I wait in line at the government message center. Oh, sorry, can I get you a drink?”