An African Affair

by Nina Darnton

  “Shall we go?”

  They were sitting up front. To leave meant getting up and pushing through the crowd.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea just yet,” James said. “Can you wait a bit?”

  “I guess. But my head is killing me.”

  “Try to hang on a little longer,” James said.

  Maureen asked Lindsay what was happening.

  “Nothing,” Lindsay said. “I think it’s time to go, but we’re a little worried about walking out in the middle of the show. This crowd might not take it well.”

  Maureen looked around at the adulating audience.

  “Maybe J.R. can help,” she said.

  Lindsay scanned the room and saw J.R. talking to some people a few tables away. She made her way over to him, whispered in his ear and then returned to the table.

  “J.R. is going to try to arrange something,” she said to James. Then, to Maureen, “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay. Whatever happens, it will beat trying to use the bathroom in this place.”

  Ten minutes later, as Bayo finished one song and started talking to the audience, J.R. came over and said “Let’s go.” Bayo noticed them from the stage as they stood. J.R. made a sign and suddenly it seemed as if every eye in the place was on them. They nervously moved in the direction of the door. “Excuse me,” Lindsay said as they wriggled past the tightly crammed tables. There was an irritated murmur, and hard stares. Then Bayo said: “Hey, man, we got some friends for here, some REPORTERS. Dey come all de way from New York City for see us. Dey goin’ spread de word, man . . . dey goin’ spread de word.” He started applauding from the stage. There was a pause and then everyone joined him, banging the table and grinning as Lindsay, James, and Maureen made it to the door.

  “Whoa,” Lindsay said when they were outside. “That was truly incredible. Thanks for coming with me. Really. It was a great night.”

  “And a great story?” asked James.

  “Absolutely. More than one, I think.”

  “Anytime you want a job as an art smuggler, let me know. You’ve got nerves of steel. Both of you.”

  “Don’t believe it—they feel like rubber, just now,” Maureen said. “And I could really use a bathroom.”

  They stopped at Bayo’s place. The door was open, so they went in, found the bathroom, which was surprisingly middle class, containing a toilet with a seat, a wash basin, and soap in a small dish. Maureen hurried in first.

  “When are you going to write your piece?” James asked Lindsay.

  “Pretty soon. I want to get it out of the way before the group interview with Fakai. But I need to get more information. I’m going to ask J.R. for a real interview with Bayo, this time away from the Juju House.”

  “Good luck,” James said skeptically.

  He spotted J.R., who had just entered the house.

  “I’m going to thank him,” James said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  When he returned, Maureen and Lindsay were ready to go. Maureen looked tired. She told them she needed to get home and go to bed. Lindsay noticed that the grinding music, the rawness of the sexuality had affected James. He put his arm around her and pulled her close as they walked to the car. She felt so much electricity between them that when James suggested he come in for another drink, Lindsay assumed that his self-imposed abstention was probably over. She was relieved when Maureen quickly excused herself and went upstairs to bed.

  But James had something else on his mind.

  “J.R. told me something I think you should know,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  She went over to the sofa.

  “He said he saw a guy he recognized at the Juju House, someone high up in the security service who reports directly to Olumide.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “So?”

  “His point was that the guy only shows up when Olumide sends him. He was probably there because of you.”

  “That’s paranoid. How would he know I was going? We decided at the last minute.”

  James looked impatient. He stood up and sat next to her on the couch.

  “Lindsay, we were there for hours. Someone could have seen you and notified them. Or more likely, we were followed.”

  Lindsay took James’s hand. “James, I’ve been followed almost everywhere I go, including when I met you at the motorboat club. So what? I’m not doing anything illegal. I can’t stop them from keeping tabs on me.”

  “If Olumide is telling his top guy to watch you, then something more serious is happening. I think you should keep a low profile for a while. And if I were you, I’d hold off on Bayo as a political story for now.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll think about it.”

  He smiled at her and squeezed her hand.

  “That sounds smart. Look, I just care about you, that’s all. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  She felt a rush of gratitude.

  “James,” she confided. “After the party, I tried to investigate that body that washed up at the high commissioner’s house. I spoke to a steward who gave me some information. When I went to see that person again, his wife said he was in the hospital. I’m afraid Olumide’s men got to him. The wife won’t let him talk to me now and I don’t blame her. I have to protect my sources, but I can’t stop talking to people. If I do that, then why am I here?”

  “You might want to ask yourself what good you are doing if you do write about the protests. It will just force the government to crack down. In this case, they could close the Juju House.”

  Her head was spinning. All those drinks, she thought. “Let’s not talk about it now,” she said, pulling him toward her and kissing him on the lips. He responded, pressing his hand into her lower back and pulling her closer. Then he gripped her hair, tilting her face upward to meet his eyes, and smiled regretfully.

  “I’ve got to leave,” he said. “I take off for Ibadan very early tomorrow. I’ll be back in a few days.”

  And he was gone.

  Before going upstairs, Lindsay noticed the light blinking on her answering machine and pressed the button to hear her message. It was Joe Rainey in New York. “Hey kid, just wanted to let you know there’s been some fallout from your story about that murdered kid. The Nigerian ambassador made a formal complaint. We’re supporting you. But watch your back.”

  CHAPTER 15

  After Joe Rainey’s warning, Lindsay was on the alert for trouble as John drove her to lunch with Vickie at the Chinese restaurant on Ikoyi Island. She was actually relieved she would be with an American diplomat. She left early and was the first to arrive. John dropped her off in front and showed her where he would meet her when she was ready to leave.

  It was unusual for Lindsay to wait for someone else and, after fifteen minutes, she saw how irritating it was. She looked around the nearly empty restaurant, at its gray Formica tables and soiled white walls. Finally, Vickie came charging in, a heavy bag slung over her shoulder, looking sweaty and frazzled.

  “I’m so sorry,” Vickie said, in a voice everyone could hear. “I expected traffic but nothing like this. It took an hour to get here from the embassy. I finally got out and ran.”

  “It’s fine, really, Vickie. I know how you feel. Relax. I’ll order you a drink.”

  Lindsay beckoned the waiter and ordered a gin and tonic for Vickie and a Diet Coke with lemon for herself.

  “How did you know I drink gin and tonic?” Vickie asked.

  “I didn’t. Lucky guess on a hot day. But that’s supposed to be my line. You’re the political officer so you’re the one with contacts in the CIA. You’re supposed to know what I drink.”

  “Diet Coke with lemon.”

  The women laughed and relaxed a little. The waiter brought the drinks—both without ice—and Vickie raised her glass for a toast:

  “Cheers,” she said. “To new solutions and new friendships.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  “I’m very glad you called,” Vickie said. “I
was about to call you but you beat me to it.”

  Each woman had her agenda and each felt that she had to play softball for a few minutes before embarking upon it, so the first twenty minutes were spent commiserating about the petty irritations of life in Lagos. Finally, Lindsay asked if there was any new information about the Agapo murder.

  “Nothing hard. I’ll tell you, off the record, that is one of the reasons I’m here—to investigate those murders.”

  “Would you call them murders or assassinations?” Lindsay asked.

  Vickie looked up quickly. She seemed to be weighing what to say.

  “I’d call them, very much off the record, assassinations.”

  “Some local thug hired to do the dirty work for a higher-up we both know?”

  “That I can’t say. But I’m not sure it was a local thug. I’d say the evidence points away from that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it might well have been an SI operation.”

  Lindsay looked blank. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is.”

  “Solutions, Incorporated. They’re a private mercenary group that is hired to do everyone’s dirty work because their operatives are hard to trace.”

  “I’ve heard rumors about something like that, but never from anyone I could trust.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “But why are you leaking this?”

  “Because I want you to use it, obviously—but not for attribution. This group has operated in the shadows for too long. It’s time to shine a little light on their actions. See if they react.”

  “Yeah. If we’re really lucky they’ll react by eliminating the source of the light. Should I be worried?”

  “No. Not unless Olumide takes a contract out on you.”

  “How likely is that?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “I heard there were complaints about my piece on Babatunde Oladayo.”

  “Yeah. I’d go slow for a while. You might hold off on this Agapo story until you’re out of the country.”

  “It seems like someone is telling me to hold almost every story I get. I’ll have to think about it. In the meantime, I can’t leave because I’m waiting to learn what Olumide plans to do next. I’ve heard he wants to arrest Fakai, provoke riots, and then call off the elections.”

  Vickie smiled. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Oh, I have sources . . .”

  “And I hear you also have sources in The Next Step. What do they say?”

  Lindsay stiffened. Ah, she thought, the other shoe drops. “If they say anything worth knowing, you can be sure I’ll include it in my articles.”

  Vickie beckoned the waiter to order another round of drinks. After a brief, uncomfortable silence, she changed the topic completely. Two drinks later—by now Lindsay had switched to gin and tonic too—they were talking like old friends.

  “So, Lindsay,” Vickie said, “what do you do when you aren’t talking to sources and writing stories? Is there someone back home you’re involved with?”

  Lindsay smiled and took a sip of her drink.

  “Not at home. Here, believe it or not.”

  “That’s lucky. Who?”

  “This guy I met at the ambassador’s party, actually. He’s an art dealer—name of James Duncan. He lives in London, but he’s an American, and I’ve been seeing a lot of him. What about you?”

  “I’ve been pretty seriously involved with a guy—Hal Bodkin,” Vickie enunciated his name with care—“but I’m not sure where it’s going. He didn’t want me to take this assignment, but he didn’t make me a better offer either.”

  “I know how that is,” Lindsay said. “James is right here, but he never talks about what might happen when one of us leaves.”

  “Well, maybe you should just tell him how you feel.”

  “It sounds like I could say the same to you.” Though she warmed to Vickie, Lindsay still didn’t completely trust her. But it felt good to confide, however carefully, in someone with a fresh point of view.

  “I don’t know if I did the right thing coming here,” Vickie said. “This posting could last a year. I hoped it would force him into making a commitment, but what if he just finds someone else?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Lindsay answered. “I don’t even know what I think about these things anymore, since James. Before I met him I would have said that you have to live your life independently and if he’s right for you he will understand.”

  “Well, what would you do if James was ready to leave right now, tomorrow, and you had to stay to follow this story?”

  “I don’t know. If he asked me, I might go with him. You know,” she continued slowly, “I wanted to be a journalist since I was in high school and being a foreign correspondent was my dream. And I’ve done it. But lately I’ve been feeling that whatever it was that sustained me no longer does.”

  “Do you ever feel you want to be part of the solution instead of just observing and recording the problem?”

  “Sometimes. James saw my doubts even before I did. He helped me recognize them.”

  “So, if he asked you, would you leave your job?”

  Lindsay laughed. “Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to have that problem.”

  “But if you did?”

  “Maybe. Maybe I’d leave the job if it meant we’d stay together. I could get another assignment. I guess I could even get another job, if it came to that. I don’t see how I could risk letting him go.”

  It was the first time Lindsay had articulated that thought, even to herself.

  Vickie nodded her head thoughtfully. “You’ve got it bad.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  The food arrived and they both served themselves in silence. Then Vickie looked up.

  “How much longer do you think James will stay?” Vickie asked, finishing a spring roll.

  “I don’t know. He said he might be leaving soon. He’s here for a wealthy client who collects Nigerian art and artifacts. He says it’s a big deal for him.”

  “What kind of artifacts?”

  “Oh, local paintings and sculpture. Have you been to Oshogbo? He has an Austrian friend there, this incredible character named Roxanne Reinstadler whom the locals call the white witch. She carves huge sandstone sculptures as well as small statues. He buys the statues by the crate to sell in the U.S. and in England.”

  “Really? Are they good?”

  “Yes. They look crude at first, but there is a kind of rough beauty to them. You know Mike Vale, don’t you?”

  Vickie nodded. “I know who he is.”

  “I’m sure you’ll meet him for a briefing pretty soon. He’s with the Observer and he’s a pretty aggressive reporter. He’ll want to get to know you. Anyway, he has one he bought from a trader. You could ask him to show it to you. If you like it, maybe you could get one from James. It’s got to be a lot cheaper here than in the U.S.”

  Vickie looked at her watch. “Maybe I will, but right now I have to run. I’ve got to meet with the ambassador in an hour.”

  Lindsay nodded and signaled the waiter for the check. When the bill came, they split it, promising to get together again soon.

  CHAPTER 16

  Lindsay walked to the spot where she expected John to meet her. She felt a little tipsy, and so was surprised, but not alarmed, when she reached her car and saw that John was not in it and that all four tires were flat. John was nowhere in sight. She surveyed the damage and crouched down to see what had happened. All the tires had wide nails driven deep into the seams. As she checked the back, she felt someone approach from behind, a shadow falling across the fender. Strong hands lifted her up and threw her into the backseat of a nearby car. The last thing she saw before the door closed was a pair of black boots.

  They drove in silence out of Ikoyi, through the crowded streets, down back alleyways, into a neighborhood she had never seen before. There were two of them, one driving and one in the pas
senger seat. They didn’t blindfold her, which was scary because they didn’t seem to care if she could identify them. She struggled to think clearly—her fear had sobered her up pretty quickly.

  The driver was a large, muscular man with a shaved head. She looked at his face in the rearview mirror. He had small eyes set wide apart. He was wearing a black nylon sleeveless T-shirt with a scooped neck. Rising from his smooth, black skin was a thick white keloid scar that ran around the back of his neck and ducked under his collar. When he raised his left arm on the steering wheel, she saw that the scar reemerged on his shoulder, extended down his arm and ended at his wrist. The scar mesmerized her; she could barely take her eyes off it. She hardly noticed the second man, who wore a dashiki and a heavy gold chain around his neck. She didn’t know if these men were thugs looking for money or secret police intent on hurting her. When she finally asked them, they ignored her, laughing and talking to each other in Yoruba.

  “I can pay you,” she said. “Take me to the bank and I will get what you want.”

  “Ooh,” the driver said to his friend. “You hear her, man. Big, rich American lady say she go give what we want.” He laughed. “We go take what we want.” His voice was hard. “You no worry bout give.”

  The men exchanged looks again and laughed. They drove in silence until they reached a deserted warehouse near a lot filled with squatters who had erected cardboard canopies against the sun. The man in the passenger seat jumped out, opened the garage door, and the driver pulled in. His friend followed him, slamming the door behind him. The driver turned off the engine, got out, opened the car’s back door and climbed in next to Lindsay. She could smell his pungent sweat and edged toward the other door, but his friend got in on that side.

  “I’m a reporter for an American newspaper,” Lindsay said as assertively as she could. “I have permission to be here. I interviewed General Olumide. He has guaranteed my safety.” She was staring straight ahead.

  The driver lit a cigarette. The man on her right reached over and put his hand on her thigh, casually, resting it there as he spoke.

  “She go know General Olumide. Dat be big man. Big man. He like dem foreign reporters. He like dem when dey tell da trut bout dis place, when dey don’ go lookin’ for rebel lies.” He moved his hand to the inside of her thigh. She tried to close her legs, but he pulled them open.