An African Affair Read online

  “No.” She knew she looked agitated.

  “You’ll get used to it,” he said, chuckling. “We call it WAWA.”

  “WAWA?”

  “West Africa Wins Again.” He poured himself another scotch.

  “I simply can’t let that happen,” she said. “Thanks anyway. I’ve got to go.”

  As John pulled away, she cast a rueful glance back at the house. A Nigerian man in a dark Western suit sauntered onto the porch. He spoke to Pontier and then fished in his pocket and handed him something. Pointier pocketed it and the two of them broke off their conversation to look at her car.

  She wondered if Pontier’s phone line was really out or if he’d been bribed to force her to file through official channels. She told John to head for the public communications office, nervously peering through the rear window to see if she was being tailed.

  Filing was, as she had anticipated, an ordeal. She didn’t trust the slow Internet connection, so she decided to wait for the telex. It was three hours before she got back in her car to go home. Two blocks away, she spotted the yellow and white truck of the Nigerian Telephone Company, hardly an unusual sight since the technicians were often out and about, climbing telephone poles and busily poking around the bird’s nests of tangled wires that constituted the Nigerian telephone system. Inspired, she stopped to talk to one technician who was about to climb the pole outside the Ghanaian embassy. She told him that her phone was dead and she desperately needed it fixed.

  “You go call company,” the technician said, his back to her.

  “Well, actually, I can’t call anyone, that’s the problem.”

  The technician shrugged and started his ascent. Halfway up, he yelled down at her: “How much you pay?”

  “Whatever it costs.”

  “You pay dollars. Five hundred. I give you good line.” He gestured toward his friend. “He come too. You pay both or no good.”

  “Yes. Yes. I’ll pay both,” she answered. “But when?”

  The two men consulted in the low tones of Yoruba. Then the first asked her where she lived. She told him and the men resumed their discussion. Finally the first man spoke to her.

  “You go for get dollars. Dollars, no naira, den we go give you line.”

  With a tilt of his head, he indicated that the line would come from the Ghanaian embassy.

  She went home and retrieved the money from her bedroom safe. On her way out, she ran into Martin, who asked her where she was rushing off to. Proudly, she told him about her negotiations.

  Martin nodded thoughtfully. “Madam, maybe you make a mistake. Don’t give them all the money now. Maybe you give them half and tell them you pay more each month the line keeps working,” he suggested.

  “Martin, you are a genius.”

  When she returned to the repairmen, she explained that she would pay them a retainer that they could come each month to collect. The men agreed, but demanded the full $500 up front. She nodded and handed over the money. She watched as they climbed the pole again, searching for the wire that connected the working line in the embassy to the central system. She saw them pulling several strands from the tangle of wires and connecting them to a pole near her house.

  As soon as she got home, she tried the phone, but it was still dead.

  She was concerned. Her encounter with them could have been anything from a government setup aimed at bugging her phone to a con job, but Martin counseled her to be patient and served a strong cup of coffee and some muffins he had baked. She collapsed in the living room, glancing at the Nigerian newspapers. She remembered she had promised Martin she would read to Eduke. Playing with the three-year-old always distracted her, so she roused herself and fetched The Very Hungry Caterpillar, which she had asked her mother to send from New York.

  As soon as she sat down, he climbed onto her lap. He could identify all the colors in the butterfly and proudly recited them in English. He made himself comfortable, cuddling into her and, when the story ended, put his head sweetly on her chest. He was a special child, she thought, brighter, more sensitive than most. His father had high hopes for him. “He is the one I set my mind on,” Martin had told her. She determined she would help Martin with Eduke’s school fees when the time came, even when her tour in Nigeria ended.

  As it was getting dark, she walked back into the house. Over dinner Lindsay told Maureen about her attempt to bribe the telephone workers. Maureen was skeptical but impressed nonetheless as Lindsay picked up the receiver, willing a dial tone. It was still dead.

  As she started upstairs for bed, Lindsay said, “I’m having lunch tomorrow with that guy you introduced me to.”

  “James?”

  “Yeah. How come I never heard about him before?”

  “He’s really more Mark’s friend than mine. He met James freshman year at Yale. When James transferred to Michigan, they kind of lost touch for a while but connected again in London. I don’t think they talk too intimately. You know that male thing.” She leaned heavily on the banister as she climbed the stairs.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Lindsay asked.

  “I don’t know. I feel a little weird—super exhausted and queasy. I hope I’m not coming down with anything.”

  “It’s probably just the weather and the change in food. And you’re probably still jet-lagged. Go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  Before turning in herself, Lindsay picked up the phone again, but it was still dead.

  In the morning, she was awakened by ringing. She reached to quiet her alarm, but it hadn’t gone off yet. It took her a few seconds to realize that it was the phone. She picked up the receiver.

  “You go have phone now,” a voice said.

  Then the caller hung up. But his voice was replaced by a truly beautiful sound: a dial tone.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lindsay got out of bed the next morning, high on the thrill of her new phone line. She was connected, and it was a heady sensation; she could phone the desk and the editors could phone her—well, that wasn’t quite as good, but maybe she could dodge those calls. She could also reach her friends and occasionally her mother, a worrier. She doubted that her father, busy with his new family, thought about her often—or, for that matter, that he ever had.

  She glanced at the clock: 7:30. She brewed the coffee and opened the door to retrieve the Nigerian Times from its usual spot next to the garbage heap, scanning the headlines as she walked back inside. The lead story was “Operation Feed the Nation a Big Success.” She knew that wasn’t true. There was no mention of the death of Babatunde Oladayo. No surprise there. She calculated how long it would take until the Nigerian authorities read the Globe and she pictured Olumide’s face when he was told.

  Just then, Maureen, her eyes swollen and her hair uncombed, came into the kitchen. She refused coffee, saying her stomach was still upset.

  “You know,” Maureen said, “I heard something at the office yesterday that made me wonder about the man who washed up on the high commissioner’s garden.”

  Lindsay sipped her coffee.

  “One of our office assistants has a connection with a dissident group called The Next Step. She claimed that one of their people was kidnapped and killed. His family was told he was lynched for stealing someone’s wallet, but they all saw him being taken away by the military police. Could that be the corpse you saw?”

  Lindsay took another sip of coffee, deciding how much to reveal. “I knew that,” she said, finally. “I wrote the story and was going to tell my paper to hold it, but then I changed my mind and told them to print it.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t know—I hope I didn’t make a mistake. I just couldn’t let Olumide completely get away with what they did to him.”

  Maureen was silent.

  “I should have known you’d find out,” Lindsay said. “I feel bad that you’re sharing it and I didn’t.”

  Maureen shrugged. “That’s okay,” she said. “I told you a rumor.
You actually witnessed an exclusive. I don’t hold that against you. And don’t worry—I’ll visit you in jail.”

  “Very funny.” Lindsay hesitated, then continued. “There’s more to the story. I was at a demonstration. I saw them club that guy and take him away.”

  Maureen’s eyes widened. “Did you put that in the story? Don’t answer—I know you did. Maybe I won’t be able to visit you.”

  Maureen placed two slices of bread in a pan on the stove. “Seriously, what do you think the reaction here will be?”

  “Not happy. But I don’t think they’ll move against me yet. I included all the quotes that mattered to Olumide in my piece on him. It wouldn’t look good if they tossed me out so soon just when he wants the West to believe he’s moving toward a democracy. But I’m pretty sure they’ll be watching me.”

  “I hope that’s all they do,” Maureen murmured. She shrugged. “Well, this exclusive’s yours. I’m next.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Ah, but you can’t.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Lindsay smiled and retrieved some papers from the filing cabinet.

  “I have to read this before I—”

  “Oh yes, I almost forgot,” Maureen said. “You have a lunch date.”

  Shortly after noon Lindsay washed and dried her hair so it hung thick and straight past her shoulders. She slipped into a pair of white cotton pants and a pale yellow V-neck T-shirt. She dabbed on some lemon toilet water, grabbed a sun hat, a bathing suit, and a straw bag and went outside where John was waiting.

  The traffic was as bad as ever, and it seemed as though the government’s effort to improve it had made it worse. The army had posted red-capped military officers at busy intersections, armed with threefoot-long whips called kabukis. If a motorist ignored any traffic regulation, he was summarily yanked from his car and whipped on the spot. Unfortunately, this only aggravated the problem, as no one could pass until the motorist resumed driving.

  Lindsay had heard about this novel approach to traffic control, but had never witnessed it firsthand until John was turning onto Awolowo Road. Cars were at a standstill and a hapless Renault driver in a cotton suit was lying on the ground, shielding his face as a military policeman whipped him furiously.

  “Please, sir, I no go do dis no more,” he begged, while the crowd watched, adding their own insults.

  “Dey no go fix go-slow dis way,” John commented under his breath. But there was nothing they could do but wait. Finally, the cars started inching forward.

  They pulled up in front of the Lagos Motorboat Club. She got out and looked around, hoping that the police had dropped their tail. There was no sign of James, so she waited in front of the boatyard, facing the road and watching the approaching cars. After a few minutes she heard a low whirring noise and turned toward the water. James was in a speedboat, waving one arm above his head. He pulled up at a jetty.

  “So this is your secret,” she said as she climbed into the bow.

  He smiled conspiratorially and sped off. Looking back, Lindsay saw a black car arrive in front of the club. A man in a military uniform got out and stared at the receding boat. She smiled, imagining the surprise of her pursuer.

  James stood in the stern, one hand on the throttle, his dark hair tousled by the breeze. She stood next to him, watching the whitecaps ahead.

  “Where are we headed?” Lindsay shouted over the din of the motor.

  “We’re going to Agaja Beach,” he said. It’s not too far away, and it’s a nice place for a picnic and a swim.”

  They crossed the harbor and headed west on the lagoon. On the shore to the left were groves of coconut palms and on the right thick mangrove swamps. James docked the boat in a calm inlet and they disembarked on a spit of sand about fifty feet wide. They walked across it to reach the open sea. The beach, a strip that extended all the way from Lagos to Benin, had small palms in the center and half a dozen open-air shelters. Inside were benches and small wooden tables. The sound of the surf was louder now, and stretching before her, as far as she could see in either direction, was endless white sand. Absolutely no one was in sight.

  James carried a large wicker picnic basket toward the huts. He handed her a heavy ice cooler.

  “Are we expecting company?” she asked.

  “No. Just us.”

  He walked toward the ocean. They reached the water’s edge and stood silently, watching the waves that smashed against the shore, sending up a thin haze of spray and hanging tiny rainbows in the air. They kicked off their shoes and waded into the dark green water. Their feet sank into the wet sand.

  “It’s spectacular,” Lindsay said, gazing at the sea.

  “It’s a special place. A guy named Henry Stewart brought me here when I first came to Nigeria about five years ago. He was the West African rep for Shell Oil. There’s a fisherman’s village farther up the coast, but otherwise it’s pretty much deserted. It’s one of those little perks the big companies provide to cushion their people from the problems of daily life in Lagos.”

  “Well, they can’t avoid the go-slows,” she said. “That’s the great equalizer.”

  “Oh yeah, they can. Helicopters. Anyway, they all have boats and get away on weekends. You’d be surprised what a difference that little break makes.”

  “I can imagine. It’s the constant frustration that’s the worst. This is the first relief from the crowds and smell I’ve had since I got here. Up till now, my happiest moment was feeling the air-conditioning in the American embassy, which is really a sad statement, when you come to think of it.”

  She bent to pick up her sandals and started off towards the nearest hut. “I’m going to change into my suit and take a swim.”

  When she returned, James was already in the water. She noticed the muscles in his legs and his tight, flat stomach.

  “Just one thing,” he said. “The undertow here can be ferocious. Even if you’re a very strong swimmer, I’d advise you not to go far out.”

  She ventured a few steps into the water as a large wave broke and almost knocked her off her feet. Laughing, she caught herself and stepped back to the shore.

  “So this is the dreaded Bight of Benin. It seems to be as wild as they say.”

  “Yes.” He reached out to be sure she was steady and led her back to the water. “These very waves frightened off the early European explorers. Of course they soon found harbors to dock their ships. . . .”

  “And Mother Africa was never the same. Imagine their surprise when they finally settled here. All that effort, all those dangerous trips, and what they finally found was heat, disease, and poisonous insects.”

  “And slaves. That’s what they came for. The Portuguese first, then the British. They quickly installed a few governors to run the place and got the hell out. They ended up in Nairobi, with rum punches served under the baobab trees. That’s where they brought their families.”

  “Well,” said Lindsay, sitting down so the water ran over her legs, “I suppose the Nigerians go around thanking God for the tsetse fly. It saved them from living with the English.”

  He laughed, sitting down next to her. “You know that famous quote from Jomo Kenyatta, the first president of Kenya? He said: ‘When the British came to Africa, we had the land and they had the Bible. They taught us to pray with our eyes closed. When we opened them, they had the land and we had the Bible.’ ”

  Now it was Lindsay’s turn to laugh. “Amazing that so many Africans came to believe in that British God,” she said.

  “God or black magic. This is a place for powerful juju. It’s what makes the artwork I collect great.” He paused. “Do you really think the British were so bad?”

  “I do, actually. Aside from everything else, I will never forgive them for the mindless bureaucracy. I’d like to know the name of the guy who brought the rubber stamp to Nigeria.”

  He laughed. “Hey, I swear it wasn’t me.”

  He stood up and started to walk into the water. �
�Remember to stay close to shore until you get your bearings.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “It would be embarrassing to drown on a date. Getting shot covering a coup, now that would be different.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “It just would,” she replied. James had a way of looking at her with an unnerving intensity. Covering her discomfort, she said, “I mean, it would be in the service of something noble.”

  He nodded, still looking at her. “You’d be just as dead.”

  She met his gaze. “Don’t you think it matters how and for what you die?”

  He reached out his hand to brush a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “No. Not really. Anyway, why would dying covering a story be noble?”

  “Because I would be disclosing the truth.”

  He let that pass, creating an awkward silence.

  “That sounds so pretentious, I know,” she admitted, embarrassed. “But do you think there is anything worth dying for?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, smiling. “Today I had in mind something less dramatic. A swim. A picnic. Some champagne. Getting to know you. That kind of thing.”

  He turned, and dove into an oncoming wave. Lindsay inched in slowly, a few steps at a time, getting used to the cold until, with a sigh of pleasure, she dropped into the water. She paddled about putting her head under, then slicking her long hair off her face. James swam farther from the shore, swimming with long, strong strokes, disobeying his own injunction. She watched him for a few minutes. When he returned, he took her hand and they walked back to the hut. They spread a blanket, filled their glasses with champagne and sat down.

  “To a great day,” Lindsay said.

  He clicked his glass against hers. There was that look again, as if he could see right through her. Lindsay believed on some deep level that she fooled people, that her act was so convincing no one ever discovered the real person behind it. When an attractive man made her feel exposed, she felt aroused. Jim Garner, in the early days of their relationship, had had this effect on her.