by Nina Darnton
“You must come to the rally, Lindsay. You must tell the other journalists. We want this government to know that the world will be watching.”
Lindsay promised she would be there. She asked if he had heard anything else about the bombing that killed Maureen. J.R. leaned back in his chair and took a long swig of beer. Finally, he leaned forward, speaking very softly.
“There is something I think you should know. We don’t think this bomb came from one of Olumide’s people. Why would he want to make Fakai a martyr?”
“But if he didn’t do it, who did?”
“There is another group. We don’t know much about its members, but it is run by the Hausas in the north.”
“Are you thinking the blast was connected to religious extremism?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think this has anything to do with religion. These people are like shadows, we never see their faces. But we know they raise money just as Olumide does, trading drugs. Some say that it is their competition over control of the trade that makes them want to get rid of Olumide and take power themselves.”
“Who says that?”
“Word from the street. That is all I can tell you.”
“But why kill Fakai? He was the best bet to get rid of Olumide.”
“Yes, but he was a Christian, not a Muslim, so they didn’t trust him. Also, if he ever got power, he would have cracked down on the drug trade. They needed to get rid of him. They figured that would provoke massive riots and that would justify another army coup to force Olumide out of power and put their man in. We think this group has a lot of influence in the military—maybe even one of its leaders is a highly placed government minister.”
J.R. said that the plan had so far fallen short of its goal. There had been sporadic rebellions, angry crowds, but no real riots. People were too beaten down by the pressure of their own lives, fear of the police, and the difficulty of just surviving in Lagos. The Next Step, which might have been expected to galvanize the protests, was both weakened and wary of playing into the hands of the northern group.
“They are smart and they are dangerous. They don’t only export illegal drugs to Europe, they also kill us here in the south.”
“How do you mean?” Lindsay asked.
“I mean they take medicines that the doctors need for the hospitals in Lagos and they divert them to the north. We have no morphine, no antibiotics. They care only about their own.”
“Olumide is a Yoruba. He’s from the same tribe and the same religion as the people in Lagos. Why doesn’t he do something about this?”
“He doesn’t care about his people; he cares more for power. But even if he did, he can’t find this group. No one knows who they are.”
“So how do you know?”
J.R. laughed harshly and clasped his hands over his head as he stretched backward. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just hear things. You want a beer?”
Lindsay shook her head, thanked him, impulsively kissing him on the cheek, and headed for the car.
She drove back toward Ikoyi, her mind racing. If J.R. was right, then the group that killed Maureen also killed Eduke by stealing the medicine from Lagos that might have saved him. She had to stop them the only way she knew how—by reporting the story as hard as she could and publishing it for the world to see.
James didn’t come back that afternoon. He left a message with Martin that he had an urgent meeting about a statue he had bid on and had to leave for Ibadan. He said he’d be back the next day and would stop by in the afternoon. That night, after reading over her notes, she sat alone in her living room, sipping white wine, missing Maureen, and wishing James were with her.
CHAPTER 24
After another restless night, Lindsay decided to pay a visit to Lagos Hospital, this time as a reporter. As she was leaving, Martin stopped her.
“Madam, you go again without a driver?”
“Yes,” she said, pushing open the door. She knew Martin thought she’d be safer with John driving, but she knew what he didn’t—that the one time she had been kidnapped, John had been driving. Anyway, if they wanted to harm her, John wouldn’t be able to stop them. Maureen’s murder had scared Lindsay, but it had also freed her. Death could come at any time. She couldn’t worry about it or she would be paralyzed.
When she arrived at the hospital, she approached the front desk where a young woman in Western dress was absorbed in listening to music through earphones. The woman neither looked up nor acknowledged Lindsay’s presence, but Lindsay could hear the faint strains of a song and noticed that the woman was keeping time with her foot.
“Excuse me,” Lindsay said, forcing a smile. “Who are you listening to?”
The woman ignored her. Lindsay spoke louder.
“Is that Papa Wembe?”
The woman looked up.
“Papa Wembe, man? You know for nothing. That be Bayo.”
“I know Bayo. I mean I knew him.”
The woman turned off her tape recorder and turned to Lindsay, her face showing a hint of animation.
“No lie?”
“No lie. I went to the Juju House. I saw the show. I talked to him. He was great. I wept when he died.”
The woman looked at Lindsay, taking in her elegant linen pants and crisp shirt, and, finally, her notebook. Looking suitably impressed, she apparently decided to do her job.
“What you be here for?”
Lindsay told her that she needed to talk to someone in charge of ordering medicine.
“You sit dere,” the woman said, gesturing to a molded plastic chair.
Thirty minutes later, a grim-faced woman in a soiled nurse’s uniform came out to escort Lindsay to the medical administrator, a distinguished-looking middle-aged woman dressed stylishly in a beige cotton suit. Her hair was braided into a fanciful Lagos style called “Moon/Star,” dozens of tiny braids tucked and molded into twists and arches on top of her head. After introducing herself and showing her press credentials, Lindsay said: “I’m writing a story about the Nigerian health service and I’m visiting hospitals in the various regions. One of the things I’m interested in is whether or not medical care is pretty evenly distributed throughout the country or better in cities than in the villages, things like that.”
The administrator looked wary, and Lindsay guessed what she would be thinking: that Lindsay’s apparent naïveté, her earnestness, the very starch in her crisp blouse were reasons not to trust her. But the administrator answered—albeit with the evasiveness of a true bureaucrat.
“We are a developing country, as you know. You will certainly find unevenness in our medical care. But we are working on bringing better services to the villages and educating our people to use them. We have a vaccination program sponsored by UNICEF that is operating right now in several areas.”
“But what about region to region? For example, I recently traveled up north and visited the hospital in Kano, and I was impressed by its facilities and supplies—they seem to have everything they need for now. Is it the same here in Lagos?”
The administrator glared at Lindsay. “Is it the same here?” she echoed. Then, looking as though she was trying to compose herself, she looked at Lindsay almost, but not quite, kindly. “How well do you know Nigeria?” she asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because if you knew it at all, you would know that of course it isn’t the same here.”
She got up to go. “I am busy. You must go now.”
Lindsay made no move to get up.
“Look, I know Nigeria better than you think,” she said. “I know from good sources that the Hausa gangs supply the Northern Hausa hospitals at your expense. They sell you supplies, which you pay for, and then their gangs steal them before they get here and bring them to the north where they are paid again. What I don’t understand is how you let this happen.”
The administrator looked at her sharply. “You think we could do something to stop it?”
“I don’t know,” she s
aid. “But why don’t you buy your supplies elsewhere?”
“Believe me, we don’t have that choice.”
“The government is mostly from the Yoruba tribe and the people in Lagos are mostly Yoruba. How can the authorities allow this to happen to their own people?”
The woman sighed and lowered her voice to a whisper. “This isn’t about the government. The drug gangs run this country. But truly,” she added, “the government does nothing to stop it.” She caught herself and looked down hurriedly. “If you quote me as saying that, I will be in very bad trouble. Do you understand? I spoke in heat. But I ask you to protect me.”
“You have my word. Can you tell me when you last got a shipment of painkillers?”
“It is not that we don’t get shipments, it is that the shipments are only a fraction of what we ordered and need. A week ago we got a shipment that was entirely inadequate.”
“In what way?” Lindsay asked.
“We ordered two hundred boxes of morphine. We received twentyfive. We asked for five hundred boxes of penicillin and erythromycin but received only sixty.”
“What did you do?”
“What can we do? We wrote letters to the company. We issued complaints to the government. Nothing will change. We must make do with what we have.”
Walking back to the parking lot, she saw a black government limousine pull up. A man she didn’t recognize got out, followed by Mike Vale. She watched them enter the hospital. It was strange—this was the second time she had seen him here. Something seemed wrong, and she followed Mike and his companion back inside. The two were walking past the receptionist when she called Mike’s name. He whirled around and was clearly annoyed when he saw her. His companion continued on without him.
“I’m busy, Lindsay,” he snapped.
“Yes, I see. What are you doing here?”
“The same thing you are.”
“Well, not exactly. I’m asking questions about government officials; you seem to hang out with them. Maybe I should just ask you my questions.”
“I guess I just have better sources.” He turned his back and walked away. When Lindsay tried to follow, the receptionist, apologetically, stopped her.
“Who was the man who went in first?” Lindsay asked.
“He from de health ministry. He come here many time.”
Driving home, she noted to herself that J.R.’s information had been confirmed. It was possible Mike was following the same story, but the fact that he arrived by government limo made that unlikely. Since when was Olumide’s government so helpful to a journalist? Maybe the officials were giving Mike some whitewashed version of events and he was falling for it.
Lindsay knew that an exposé in an American paper, even an influential one like hers, would not provide a quick fix. But she had to do something, and writing was the one thing she knew how to do. She remembered her promise to Vickie to hold back information on the bombing and wondered if the drugs played a role in it. The administrator had said the medicine was diverted to the north. J.R. had told her of rumors about a radical northern group that wanted to seize power. The two could be connected, but what did Mike Vale have to do with it?
She was approaching the turnoff to her house and signaled right. Before she could turn, another car passed her on the left and cut in front of her. She hit the brake, unsure of what to do. The car was a black Mercedes like the one used to abduct her. She made the turn and saw the sedan parked on the shoulder. As she passed, it began trailing her, so close she feared it would deliberately hit her fender. She pulled up in front of her house, relieved to see James’s car parked across the street. She ran to her front door and opened it, taking a deep breath to calm herself. Inside, she peered out the window. The two thugs who had threatened her before were parked in front of her house.
CHAPTER 25
Lindsay gave James a quick peck on the lips. He tried to pull her back for a longer kiss, but she slipped away, walked past him, and sat on the couch. She crossed her legs, tapping her heel on the floor so her knee bobbed up and down. Without asking, he poured her a drink and handed it to her.
“What happened?” he asked.
She tasted it and scowled. She’d expected a gin and tonic but he’d poured her a scotch.
“How do you always know when something is bothering me?”
He smiled. “It’s not that hard.”
She took another sip of the scotch. She found she liked it. “I had a rough day.” Then, fighting back tears, she told him everything that had happened, ending with the two men leering at her from the car in front of her house.
Ignoring her pleas to be careful, he strode to the door and yanked it open.
The car was gone. He walked back and put his arm around her.
“Lindsay, I think your usefulness here has come to an end. You have to leave while you still can.”
She remained silent, but her face registered a stubborn resistance.
“What are you waiting for?” he continued. “Do you think Olumide is going to just give up? He knows what you’re doing. He knew you were at that hospital today. He has probably arrested the administrator you spoke to. Your investigation is doing more harm than good, and you’re risking your own life in the bargain.”
She shook her head. “I can’t leave yet. I know I have to be careful. I’m not going to write anything provocative until I get out of the country, and I’ll try not to cover anything alone. But there’s going to be a rally for The Next Step in a few days. I have to be there. I thought I’d see if I can go with some of the people from the embassy.”
James looked exasperated and got up and began to pace.
“Exposing Olumide isn’t trivial, James,” she pleaded. “His policies affect the lives of millions of people. Think of what they do. Think of the depravity of diverting basic medicines from Lagos hospitals to northern gangs.”
“And the northern gangs bring the medicines to northern hospitals,” he continued. “There are needy children there too who would go without medicine if the gangs didn’t exist. The gangs provide a kind of balance to the Yoruba bias toward Lagos, did you ever think of that?”
“I don’t think that’s a convincing argument. It’s so terribly cynical, I find it hard to believe you believe it yourself. And anyway, my job is simply to end the secrecy and let the light in.”
He reached out and tenderly touched her hair, running his fingers through it.
“Let the light in on us, Lindsay,” he said. “Think about how much longer this kind of life will be meaningful to you. Think about where you’d like to be a year from now, a month from now. And with whom.”
She leaned against him. “I have been thinking about that,” she said, “and I know with whom. But you have to give me a little more time here. I promise I won’t take unnecessary chances.”
He nodded thoughtfully. Then he pressed her close to him.
“I’m worried about you,” he said. “I have to go up north for a buying trip. I’m supposed to leave for Kano tomorrow, and now I don’t know if I should go.”
“How long will you be away?”
“A few days. A week at the most.” He looked troubled. “Your stubbornness is affecting my business. This is an important trip. I’ve been working toward it since I arrived. But how can I leave you here now?”
“Of course you can. You couldn’t help me if you stayed. What would you do, follow me around like a bodyguard? You need to do what you came here to do and so do I.”
“Maybe a bodyguard isn’t a bad idea.”
“I think that would just draw attention to me. I’ll try to keep a low profile. They want to scare me off, not create an international incident. Olumide still wants American support and my paper still matters to him. As long as I don’t file, I think they’ll leave me alone.”
“Up to a point. If he really thinks you’re a threat, even a future one, nothing will stop him. People say he had one of his closest advisers killed because he suspected he was working underco
ver for the Americans.”
She perked up. “Where did you hear that?”
“Around. People talk. Even artists.”
“Yeah. I know that was the word on the street. And it’s probably right. But my case is different. I’ll be okay. Go on your trip. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
She smiled, leaning over to kiss him. “But hurry back,” she murmured, “because I’ll miss you.”
He gave in, responding to her kiss, and reached under her blouse to undo her bra.
“Not here,” she whispered. “Martin.” She led him upstairs.
“When I get back, we’ll make some plans to get out of here together,” she said.
“First things first,” he answered.
CHAPTER 26
J.R. sent a messenger to tell Lindsay that the rally in the sports stadium would take place the following Thursday morning. Hesitantly—she was not used to sharing her information with government officials—she dropped by the embassy to tell Vickie, who was grateful since Dave Goren didn’t know when it would happen. Mindful of her own safety, Lindsay asked if she could accompany them.
“Of course,” Vickie said. She leaned over and whispered, “Glad this arrangement is working. It’s a big change from the you-can-find-outwhat-I-know-by-reading-my-story line.”
“Well, I need protection, and I don’t think I can get it from that group of miscreants who constitute the press corps,” Lindsay said lightly. “Besides, I said I’d cooperate, though don’t forget I don’t work for you, if you remember.”
“I don’t know, Linds . . . it’s a slippery slope.”
“Okay, okay.” Lindsay was clearly annoyed. “Will you pick me up or not?”