An African Affair (15 page)

“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.

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 passenger 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.

“You go give da general what he like, lady?”

Lindsay didn’t answer. Her mouth was dry.

“You go give da general what he want, lady?” the man repeated, pinching the skin under his hand.

“Yes,” she said softly. “What he wants. Like you said.”

The man released her inner thigh and put his hand on her knee.

“You give Babatunde what he want too, yes, lady?” the driver said suddenly. He leered. “You like Babatunde, no? He tell you sad story? Poah boy. But he no want you. He beg at end, but no for you. He beg for die.” The man sneered.

“We no bad men. We give what he want.” Both men laughed again. The driver put his hand on Lindsay’s breast.

“Now we go give you what you want and you go give us what we want, yes?”

Lindsay didn’t answer. Her mind was racing. She wondered if she could get the attention of the squatters or if they would help if she did. She scanned the garage looking for something that might serve as a weapon.

Suddenly, the driver took his hand off her breast and got out of the car. The second man got out on his side, leaving his door open as he sauntered away to open the garage door. The driver swaggered to the front. She saw him stretch his legs before he got back in with his friend. Lindsay edged closer to the open door of the car.

“Get out,” the driver said, over his shoulder. “Dat what you want, yes?”

Lindsay jumped out of the car. She sensed running might trigger a chase response, so she walked quickly, willing herself not to look back. When she got to the corner she turned. The car wasn’t following her.

She was not sure if the men had really gone, and she kept looking around nervously, half expecting them to pop out at every street corner. Finally, she found an outdoor market with stalls of wilted lettuce and rotten tomatoes. A truck driver had just delivered cases of beer, and she approached him as he climbed back into his cab.

“Can you give me a ride to Ikoyi?” she asked.

She read on his face what he saw: a dirty, sweating white woman in an unlikely place, sure to bring him trouble. She wasn’t surprised when he said no.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t take me to Ikoyi if it’s too far. Just drop me where I can get a cab. I need to get out of here.”

“That not my lookout.”

“I know. But I have money.” She rummaged inside her purse and pulled out two hundred naira, waving them at him.

That stopped him. He reached over and opened the truck door.

“Get in,” he said. “Where you go in Ikoyi?”

She gave him the address and climbed in. He didn’t speak to her and she didn’t try to make conversation. She was badly shaken; her body was trembling as though she had caught a chill, but she was angry too, angrier than she had ever been. That bastard Olumide, she thought, he wants the “truth” about this place. That’s exactly what he’s going to get. She knew he expected her to be scared and leave. Well, she was scared, but she wasn’t going to run away.

She considered informing the embassy, but decided the ambassador would use it to persuade her to leave. James would only point out that he had been afraid this would happen and pressure her to back off. Maureen? Maybe she would tell her, but no, on second thought, she didn’t want to worry her. For the moment, she would confide in no one. But she would have to be more careful. She would hold any potentially dangerous story until she was out of the country.

When she got home she went straight to her room. The tremor was worse. She curled up on her side and hugged her pillow. After a while, she felt the trembling subside, and finally, in early evening, she fell asleep.

Lindsay tossed and turned, lost in the shadows of restless dream images. A voice was talking to her but she couldn’t make out the words. She struggled within the dream to hear better and the voice became clearer. “Madam,” she heard. “Please, madam.” Someone was speaking to her. She opened her eyes reluctantly and saw Martin standing in her doorway.

“Please, madam,” he said again with quiet urgency. “It Eduke; he very sick. You have medicine?”

She got up quickly, wrapped a robe around herself, and hurried next door to see the child. She found him, whimpering and gagging as he retched convulsively, his small body doubled over. His eyes were glazed, his lips chapped, and his skin ashen. Lindsay immediately thought of cholera, knowing that the open sewers and dirty water in Lagos spread the disease that killed thousands of children each year. They had to get to the hospital as fast as they could.

“You have medicine?” Martin asked again.

“My medicine isn’t good enough. We must get help.” She remembered that her car was still incapacitated near the Chinese restaurant. “We have to get a cab and go to the hospital.”

“It will be faster if we take your car, madam,” Martin said.

“I know. I don’t have it.”

“John brought it late last night,” Martin said. “You can drive us?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, with relief. She would have to find out what had happened to John later.

She climbed in and Martin’s cousin Robert sat beside her. Martin and his wife Pauline scrambled into the back, laying Eduke carefully between them, his head on Pauline’s lap. Lindsay headed for the emergency room at the Lagos Children’s Clinic. It was almost 7 A.M. and the early morning traffic ensnared them in a maddening go-slow. The cars inched along. Occasionally Lindsay heard Martin sigh, a desperate sound of resignation. Eduke whimpered intermittently, but his gagging seemed to subside and he fell, finally, into a deep sleep that was even more frightening.

An hour passed. The traffic moved slowly forward. Lindsay kept straining to hear Eduke’s shallow breath, faint but still regular. In the next lane, Lindsay caught sight of a ministerial limousine, a few cars ahead of her. She leaned forward to see the number above the plate. It looked like a four.

Finally, the Peugeot arrived at the clinic, a pathetic three-story structure with peeling white plaster and a tin roof. The limousine pulled in behind them, and a heavyset man in a well-tailored business suit stepped out and headed for the door. Martin carried Eduke, and Lindsay and the others followed them inside. A small waiting area opened onto a large room full of rickety hospital beds. Every bed was occupied. A dozen or so mothers sat with their children on hard-backed chairs against the wall. Some of the mothers slept, their mouths open. Others sat patiently with their sick children, who were wailing or curled listlessly in their laps.

There was a small commotion around the government official. He must indeed be an important minister, Lindsay thought, judging by the sycophantic fanfare that greeted him. Though others had obviously been waiting unattended for a long time, several hospital employees hurried to see what he needed. Lindsay thought he looked familiar, and as she approached the desk to register Eduke, she suddenly recalled where she had seen him: in the parking lot at the hotel in Ibadan. He was Billy Anikulo, the health minister. It crossed her mind to approach him and ask for help—the intervention of a government minister could do wonders for Eduke’s chances—but she hesitated. This man worked for Olumide and might well have participated in the decision to kidnap her. Instead she turned away, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed. As she turned, she noticed the man who accompanied the official. She was so stunned, she stepped closer and stared. Mike Vale was at the minister’s elbow. She quickly stepped behind a pillar and watched as both men were hustled into a back room by a hospital administrator.

Pauline and Martin still sat waiting. Finally, Lindsay understood what was needed. Slipping a fifty-naira bill into a stack of papers on the desk, she told the receptionist that Eduke was dying. The woman didn’t look at Lindsay or change her expression but, picking up the bill, walked behind a screen, signaling them to follow her. The woman told Martin to lay Eduke down on a cot and leave. He went out hesitantly. Lindsay didn’t move. The woman ignored her and called over a colleague in a white uniform who examined the boy, pressing his stomach brusquely.

“Excuse me,” Lindsay said. “Are you a doctor?”

“The boy has gastroenteritis,” the woman answered, ignoring the question.

Lindsay was relieved. It didn’t sound too serious.

The woman tied a rubber tube around Eduke’s arm and looked for a vein to insert an intravenous drip. When she didn’t find one, she slapped his arm, to make a vein stand out, but still didn’t locate one. She called a nurse who shaved the hair near his temples, looking for a place to insert the needle. Eduke opened his eyes. He looked scared. Lindsay wished Pauline or Martin were there, but didn’t want to leave to get them. She held his hand, but he hardly seemed to know her. Meanwhile, the woman was still unable to insert the needle. Eduke’s face was contorted.

“We need some morphine,” the woman said, “for the pain and to slow down the intestines.”

“We don’t have it, Doctor,” the nurse answered. “We are waiting for a delivery.”

“Get some paregoric. Quick.”

The nurse disappeared and returned with a syringe. She gave Eduke a shot of something in the stomach. Lindsay started to go out to get Pauline. She heard a small gasp and ducked back inside.

Eduke was lying on the table, totally still. The nurse and doctor had turned away.

“The child is dead,” the nurse said coldly. Lindsay called after the doctor, who was already leaving.