An African Affair

by Nina Darnton

  Lindsay pulled the Peugeot into the circular driveway of the genteel, pink stucco Ikoyi Club, a run-down vestige of colonial Africa, comforting somehow in its shabby familiarity. The paint was peeling, the chintz awning slightly frayed, but out back you could see the swimming pool, the squash and tennis courts, and the field for polo. Such an African sport, she had thought snidely when she first saw it. Members of the club were expatriates or wealthy Nigerians who somehow had managed to remain anglophiles—so brainwashed that even now, more than three decades after independence, they thought anything British was the height of sophistication.

  Lindsay walked past the bulletin board that listed upcoming events—a bingo game, a billiards championship, a table tennis tournament—into the bar. There, at the usual table, she saw Ken Abbot, the Telegraph man, the Guardian’s Ed Courvet, Brian Randolph, and Mike Vale. Evan Peterson of Reuters, a regular, was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Maureen. A bottle of scotch and several bottles of beer sat on the table

  Ken Abbot called, “Hey, Lindsay, I was just wondering when you’d turn up. And here you are. Have you heard what happened to Evan?”

  She frowned. “No. What?”

  “Kicked out. Probably on his way to the border right now. Picked up in a Black Maria and driven up-country. Orders were to drop him over the border.”

  Lindsay pulled up a chair and sat down. She was shaken. If they threw Evan out, did that mean she was vulnerable too?

  “I don’t get it. What’d he do?”

  “The stupid bastard wrote there were reports of ‘tribal violence’ up north. That’s a no-no ever since the Biafran war. You never report ‘tribal violence’ here.”

  “Especially if it’s not true,” added Mike Vale.

  “Are you sure it’s not true?” Lindsay asked. “He’s usually pretty careful.”

  “He believed what he heard,” Mike said. “But it was wrong to go with it.” He drained his scotch. “Look, there are plenty of other things to worry about. The rumor is there will be a coup. Olumide will make it look like Fakai supporters are rioting and use that as an excuse to arrest him.”

  “Sounds like there might be a fair chance of tribal and religious violence after all,” Lindsay said.

  “It all makes sense,” Ken agreed. “But it didn’t happen—not yet, anyway—and Evan Peterson is in a hot sweaty van on his way to the border. No one ever said it was easy being a hack.”

  Of course, Lindsay thought, she wasn’t the only one on to the Olumide rumor. The hyenas all got there at the same time after all.

  Mike Vale, already a little drunk, weighed in again.

  “Who the fuck cares? The lucky bastard’s out of this shit hole. If he’s really out. Remember Colin Packman, who was thrown out a few years ago? The same deal. They drove him to the border, him and his wife and eight-year-old kid. But while they were on the road, there was a coup, so while one group had the order to throw him out, the group at the border was ordered to close it off. Big impasse. Packman and his family are left to sweat in the goddamn car while the Nigerians slug it out. They sleep on it overnight. Next morning, same problem. Finally, the Nigerians drive them way up-country to the river, put them in a canoe and push them toward Benin. No papers, no visas, no local money. Of course, the Packmans know when they get there they’ll be arrested for illegal entry, but they don’t care. They’re so happy to be the hell out of Nigeria. The wife and kid are laughing and waving as the boat drifts away. The wife told me later it took them days to straighten it all out, but it was the highlight of their two years here. Getting out.”

  Lindsay was only half listening. She’d heard different versions of this story before.

  “Any news about Olumide?” she asked. “Is everything quiet?”

  “Not sure,” Brian Randolph said. “There are rumors that Olumide has started to move against some group called The Next Step, which is a new one to me. Have you heard of it?”

  “Yes,” Lindsay said. “They support Fakai. I don’t know too much about them but I think they’re mostly young and poor.”

  “That’s a lethal combination,” Ken said. “They say Olumide’s men have arrested rural leaders in some of the villages. But it’s not confirmed. I’m about to check it out.”

  “In the villages?” Lindsay asked. “I was under the impression The Next Step was mostly disgruntled city kids.”

  “It sounds like they may be more widespread.”

  “It’s beginning to sound like the big guy’s getting ready to make his move,” Lindsay said.

  “I’m not so sure,” said Brian. “I flew in from London this morning and ran into a delegation of ministers at the airport. I heard they were headed to a meeting in Paris. Even the defense minister and the health minister were on the plane. I don’t think all those officials would leave the country if there was about to be a serious move against Fakai.”

  “The health minister?” Lindsay asked. “I saw him at the hospital yesterday.”

  “Well, he’s on his way to Paris now,” said Brian.

  “Did he mention anything about leaving?” Lindsay looked at Mike.

  “Why would he talk to me?”

  “I don’t know. I saw you with him at the hospital yesterday.”

  Mike looked put out. “I didn’t see you. Why were you there?”

  “That’s not the point. What was the health minister doing with you? What story are you on to? Is he ill? Did he go to Paris for treatment? Is he going to be replaced?”

  Mike laughed and refilled his glass. “It could be any of the above, Sherlock, and if you had agreed to work with me, as I so gallantly suggested, you’d know, wouldn’t you? As it is, I think I’ll keep my reporting to myself for the time being.”

  “Have you filed anything?”

  “No. Don’t worry, you won’t be asked to match it.” He paused, clearly enjoying his advantage. “Not yet anyway.”

  “Well, well,” Lindsay murmured. “Never a dull moment, I guess.”

  “Shit, Lindsay, you know that isn’t true,” said Mike. “Almost every moment is dull. That’s what makes moments like this so much fun.”

  After lunch, Lindsay headed for the embassy to check in with the ambassador or Dave Goren. She found Goren at his desk, but didn’t learn anything. The ambassador, she was told, was busy in meetings all day. On her way out she ran into Vickie, who also didn’t offer anything new. Lindsay told her about Eduke’s death and Vickie expressed her sympathy. She returned home and was weighing whether she should drive to the Juju House to ask Bayo about the Next Step arrests when Maureen walked in. Maureen was exhausted, but had uncovered a good story—local demonstrations against the international oil companies. Soldiers had broken it up by firing into the crowd, and a dozen people were dead or injured. Lindsay was sure to get a call asking for a follow-up, but there was no way she could leave Lagos at this time.

  “There’s a lot happening here too,” Lindsay said. “Let’s fill each other in.”

  “Fine. But give me half an hour,” Maureen said. “I need to take a short nap.”

  “Go ahead, Maurie. I’ll be up in a bit. I’ll bring you some tea.”

  She was in the kitchen boiling water when she heard an urgent knocking at the door. When she opened it, she found J.R. dressed in his usual dashiki. He was out of breath, speaking in such a mix of pidgin and English that she could hardly understand him. But she got his main message: Something had happened at Bayo’s compound. The military had come. There was a riot. People were beaten, were still being beaten. The police had thrown one of Bayo’s wives from a second-story window. She must write the story. The world must know.

  “Hurry, man,” he said. “Dey go for kill Bayo dis time.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Lindsay saw a crowd and heard the shouting as her Peugeot approached Bayo’s street. She parked the car around the corner and walked toward the house. Dozens of men gathered around the front gate shouting insults at the police and heavily armed soldiers who blocked the street.
There seemed to be a temporary standoff. The police fidgeted, shifting their batons from hand to hand, but the demonstrators didn’t seem intimidated; a group with little to lose: young, poor, and angry. One young man picked up a handful of stones and, quoting a popular Bayo song, screamed, “Da pig is dead,” hurling a stone straight at an officer who had turned to talk to someone. The soldier winced, then raised his gun. The crowd started rhythmically chanting, “Da pig is dead, oink oink; da pig is dead,” inching menacingly forward. Suddenly, a phalanx of soldiers responded with force, moving on the crowd, swinging clubs. Lindsay, dodging quickly out of the way, could hear a terrible, hollow sound as a baton smashed into a human skull.

  As Lindsay slowly worked her way forward, she glimpsed broken furniture that had apparently been thrown from the windows or set up as barricades. Dark stains on the ground looked like blood.

  J.R., who had led the way in his own car, gestured for her to move away from the house. They went down the block and stepped into an alley. She asked him what had happened.

  Apparently, Bayo himself had been arrested after being badly beaten. He probably didn’t feel much, though, J.R. said, because he swallowed all the Nigerian Natural Grass they didn’t have time to dispose of before the soldiers burst in. J.R. said the soldiers knew, but had no proof, and the arresting officer proclaimed triumphantly that they would hold him in prison until nature forced him to expel his stash. They would analyze it to prove he had been in possession of an illegal substance.

  “You big man, but you go shit sometime, brother,” the officer had said.

  Bayo announced he was starting a fast as they dragged him away.

  This was almost too good to check, Lindsay thought.

  “What happened to everyone else in the house?” she asked J.R.

  “They go for hide.”

  J.R. confirmed that two of the women were in the hospital and three others had been badly injured. J.R. had escaped by running to alert Lindsay. The government acted, he said, because of Bayo’s diatribe against Olumide. As James had told her, spies had infiltrated the performance at the Juju House.

  “I heard members of The Next Step were arrested in some of the villages,” Lindsay said. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “No,” J.R. said, looking worried.

  “Are there any organized Next Step groups in the villages?”

  “We be everywhere,” he answered cryptically.

  The crowd was quieter now, watching as the soldiers tossed the ringleaders, beaten and handcuffed, into a van. About two dozen people drifted off grumbling. Lindsay moved through those remaining, stopping to interview some of the protesters. She spotted Dave Goren behind a group of men in T-shirts. He seemed to be taking notes. She waved, but Goren disappeared into the mob. She looked around for Vickie, but didn’t see her. A number of men confirmed J.R.’s story about Bayo and the NNG.

  Suddenly, from across the street, one of the boys who were leaving threw a large stone at a policeman guarding the front door. It hit him at the base of his skull below his helmet. He fell to the ground and lay there, motionless. The other policemen went wild, swinging their clubs viciously, knocking people down, kicking them in the head and gut. Lindsay tried to back away but she was pushed down. Her head struck a lamppost and when she touched her lip, she saw blood. After a bit she got up and worked her way past the crowd, dabbing her lip with a tissue. She tried to observe unnoticed but was aware that her auburn hair and white skin made her easy to spot. Almost immediately, three soldiers approached her.

  “What you want here?” one asked.

  “I’m a journalist,” Lindsay replied. “I work for a New York newspaper.”

  “Write about your own country. We don’t want you here.”

  He demanded her name and address. Reluctantly, she gave them. After writing them down laboriously, he ordered her to leave. She was walking to her car when J.R. appeared and motioned her to follow. They climbed into their cars and he led her several blocks away to a small cement-block house.

  “This is my home,” he said.

  “Are you sure you want me to come in?” Lindsay asked. “I may have been followed.”

  J.R. smiled, showing his pink upper gums. He put his arm around her. “Welcome to de club, sistah,” he said, opening the door.

  A black and white mongrel barked ferociously until J.R. bent to pet him. Mollified, the dog wagged his tail and licked Lindsay’s hand. A young woman in Western dress and two children stood as they entered and came forward to shake her hand. “This is my wife, Margaret,” J.R. said, “and my boys.” The boys solemnly shook Lindsay’s hand and then ran off, followed by the dog.

  “They just returned from a visit to their grandparents. They’re happy to be back with their friends,” said J.R.

  “Where do the grandparents live?”

  “A small village near Badagry, close to the Benin border.”

  Margaret returned with several bottles of orange Fanta, then withdrew. J.R. sipped his drink and filled in a few more details about the bust. The commune had been warned to expect trouble, but Bayo hadn’t taken it seriously. He was surprised when the police broke into his home—smashing the windows and breaking down the door. J.R. said The Next Step had supporters in the countryside and small villages, but he couldn’t estimate how many. Lindsay wrote everything down and got up to leave, but he stopped her.

  “There’s one more thing you should know,” he said. “We’ve been hearing about something strange—some foreign business group. They make trouble, they even make wars, all for money. We hear they are here, in Lagos. Maybe hired by Olumide. Maybe not.”

  “Do you have any names, anything I could check out?”

  “No. They’re very secretive. I’m not even sure they’re real. But I hear things.”

  “Thank you, J.R. I’ll see what I can do to find out more.”

  She drove off, remembering what Vickie had told her about Solutions, Inc. She would definitely try to follow up on it. The traffic was bad, so she decided to file through Reuters, a backup she sometimes utilized, since that office was more centrally located. The manager had recently fixed communication problems, probably by tendering the same bribes she had. She arrived breathless and sat at a desk, wondering if she should call Dodan Barracks for a statement from the government. It would alert them to her story, but she wouldn’t be the only correspondent making such a call. Reluctantly, she picked up the receiver. When she reached the Barracks, the secretary refused to put her through. Yes, she thought, gathering official information was as hard as ever.

  She had written most of the story when suddenly she remembered Maureen—probably still asleep at the house. She wanted to call her, but before she got to the phone, it rang. It was James saying he’d gotten no answer at her home and guessed she’d be at Reuters. He had something to tell her, but it was too important for the phone. He’d be right there. She hung up and dialed her house. No answer. She tried the AP but didn’t find Maureen there either, so she returned to her story. She finished and was about to call the AP again when James walked in.

  “James,” she began, “something terrible has happened.” But he already knew and he had some news that trumped hers: Bayo was dead. The information was not public, he said, but he had been told by a reliable source, a friend of his in the Ministry of Antiquities. The government story was that Bayo died of a heart attack while being taken to prison.

  “Jesus,” Lindsay said, “they killed him. This could start a civil war.”

  “I don’t think so, Lindsay. They’ve called the military out in force. There are armed soldiers everywhere.”

  Lindsay turned on the radio, searching for a local station. There was a lot of static and then an Anglicized voice announced Bayo’s death from a heart attack.

  Lindsay quickly filed a new lead. Then she tried AP again. No one picked up, so she raced out the door to check out the streets. To her surprise, James followed her.

  The streets were eerily empty. Th
e drivers of the few cars on the road looked about nervously.

  “It’s amazing,” Lindsay said. “Word is already out.”

  As they drove through the deserted streets of Surulere heading for the Juju House, everything was silent; there was not even the twitter of birds settling down for the evening or the high-pitched screech of the bats in the breadfruit trees. But as they got closer, Lindsay heard a distant sound, like water running over rocks. In the distance, she could see flames and smoke. When they turned a corner she saw a mob of angry men chanting “Ba-yo, Ba-yo,” throwing bottles, breaking windows, and heaving crates into the air. Six young men had surrounded a Renault and were rocking it back and forth. Inside, the middle-aged driver looked terrified. There were two overturned cars in the street and Lindsay saw a European running away, his coattails flapping.

  She and James turned down a side street, circled around, and took another road, this time heading for J.R.’s house. J.R. was out, but his wife wailed that Bayo had been beaten to death by the police. She was frantic, literally wringing her hands. They were rounding up everyone close to him, she said. J.R. was hiding, but she pointedly did not say where. She insisted the military police had burned the Juju House and Bayo’s compound to the ground.

  James and Lindsay managed to make their way back to Lindsay’s house without further trouble. Her phone was working—an oversight on the part of state security, she was sure. James waited as she wrote yet another new lead.

  “Riots broke out in this West African city today when the country’s foremost musician and political dissident was reported dead after his arrest by government troops.” She quickly filled in some details. Then she phoned the Globe’s recording room and dictated her story. When she finished, one of the Globe’s operators said, “Okay. I’ve got that. Where can I reach you for questions?” She gave her number and hung up.