An African Affair (18 page)

James pulled her closer. “I mean it’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“I’m not pretending.”

He sighed. “I just want you to feel you can trust me. I won’t take advantage of your vulnerability.”

“I do trust you, almost in spite of myself.”

“I’m glad,” he said. “You have this amazing ability to dive in headfirst, without checking to see how deep the water is. I’ve never done that. But you’re teaching me how. And that wasn’t part of my plan.”

She wanted to ask him why not. Instead, she led him into the garden.

It had been transformed—it looked like a taverna, in the center of which was an open space for dancing. Around it were ten bridge tables, each with six chairs. Half a dozen bottles of beer sat on each table. Martin and Pauline’s table had a bottle of scotch.

Maureen was sitting with them. Lindsay wondered guiltily if Maureen had awakened on her own and learned about Bayo in time to file. Sitting down, she leaned over and asked.

“Yeah,” Maureen replied curtly. “No thanks to you. I woke up and turned on the radio. I managed to get off a piece saying the authorities announced he’d had a heart attack on the way to prison. Then I went to the office and luckily, one of our locals told me that everyone was saying he was killed by the police. I didn’t have time to go out and do any reporting, but I put something together. I didn’t know about Eduke until I came home.”

“I’m sorry you had such a hard time. J.R. came to tell me that Bayo was under attack and I forgot everything and just followed him. I tried to call but no one answered. I’ll fill you in on everything else later.”

She turned her attention to the other guests. Many were drunk. Several were dancing, either with partners or by themselves, to a high-life tape, accompanied by one of Martin’s cousins on an African drum. Their movements had an evangelical frenzy. The dancers perspired in the humid air. Some had plastered coins to their foreheads. As they danced, some of the coins fell to the ground, but most of them remained stuck to their moist skin. James explained that the coins were meant to discourage the gods from claiming any more family members—to buy the living back from the land of the dead.

Pauline and Martin were dancing fiercely, as though they were weeping with their bodies, which jerked and throbbed in rhythm with the music. Lindsay watched them wordlessly. James moved closer to her. She laid her head on his shoulder for a moment. One of the village elders approached them.

“You must stay far away from this pain,” he said to Lindsay, taking her hands in his. “There is nothing you can do.”

“Yes. Of course, thank you. I’ll be all right. I’m sorry,” she mumbled. She was ashamed to have called attention to herself.

One of Martin’s cousins urged Lindsay and James to join the dancing. Slightly uncomfortable, they walked toward the other guests. As she moved, at first self-consciously and then with more abandon, Lindsay began to grasp the dance’s cathartic power. She closed her eyes and let the beat move through her. Other dancers approached them with coins, plastering them on their foreheads. This frenzy is the point, Lindsay thought, it helps to expiate the grief. But in the end, for her, it was still just dancing.

After about an hour, Pauline and her family brought out steaming platters of Jollof rice with tomato paste and goat meat, and
dodo
, the fried plantains Eduke used to love so much. Pauline’s sister passed a bowl of
Bendel gari
and
isu
. Lindsay, James, and Maureen didn’t really like the fermented cassava fried in palm oil or the spiced boiled yams, but they ate them out of respect, drank more beer, and then, exhausted, said their farewells.

Back in the house, Maureen went straight to bed. James kissed Lindsay and hugged her for a long time, but didn’t suggest going upstairs. After he left, Lindsay made her way to her bedroom. But she couldn’t fall asleep. She could hear the music and the drums and the dancing late into the night.

“One of the sad truths about journalists is that everyone else’s bad news is good news for us,” Lindsay pronounced solemnly. She and Maureen were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. It was two weeks after Eduke’s death and Bayo’s murder. The riots had been met with force, the opposition routed, the rebel leaders arrested. The spate of headlines had slowed. The events the ambassador predicted—Olumide’s plans to arrest Fakai—hadn’t occurred. But despite the crackdown, the interview with Fakai, promised by The Next Step, had been scheduled for later that afternoon.

Lindsay opened the
Daily Chronicle
. The front page was unexciting, and she shoved it across the table toward Maureen. It was the first time they were alone together with time to talk, but the mood was tense. Maureen picked up the paper without a word and started to read.

“I mean, when Bayo was killed, I thought the country would plunge into revolution, but now things seem to have settled down.”

Maureen looked up. “I guess that’s a good thing.” She shrugged, returning to her reading.

“That’s what I mean,” Lindsay replied. “Good for them, bad for us.”

Maureen sighed and put down the paper. “Explain.”

“Well, for example, you really lucked out. You came to Lagos for a group interview of a famous dissident and wound up covering a highprofile murder and street riots before the interview even took place. Talk about reporter’s karma! You couldn’t ask for more.”

Maureen was silent for a few seconds, stirring her coffee. “I might have asked for a more thoughtful friend,” she said softly.

Maureen was angry and Lindsay knew why, though she’d hoped to dodge this confrontation.

“Maurie, I tried to call you. Everything moved so quickly.”

Maureen leaned forward in her chair. “Look, Lindsay, I know how you work. When a story breaks, you’re all over it, you’re competitive as hell and you don’t consider anyone else. That’s okay—you didn’t have to tell me your exclusives. But you could have at least woken me up.”

Lindsay couldn’t look her best friend in the eye. She felt deeply ashamed. Maureen would never have done this to her. Looking at her friend’s hurt and angry face, Lindsay suddenly remembered being fifteen and calling Maureen in the middle of the night when Lindsay’s parents told her they were splitting. Maureen had stayed on the phone with her for hours. And afterward, when her mother was bitter and alone, Lindsay’s only escape was the many happy weekends and holidays she spent with Maureen’s loud, large Irish family.

“You’re right, of course. I should have woken you the moment I heard, but I was so overwhelmed by what had happened, I just forgot. Please forgive me.” She paused and then added, “But in the end, you were able to file a story, right?”

Maureen didn’t answer.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Not mad. I just wish you’d surprise me sometime.”

Something occurred to Lindsay and she jumped up and went into her study. When she returned, she was carrying a bulging file. “I can help you prepare for the Fakai interview today,” she said, handing over the file. “We don’t have to leave for another hour.”

“I’ve done my preparation, thanks,” Maureen said. “But I’ll look through these. Why don’t you go and get ready?”

Lindsay nodded. It was 12:45, hot and muggy. Soon it would rain, Lindsay knew, hard and long. She could feel it the way her mother always said she knew when one of her migraines was coming, a certainty mixed with dread. Lindsay was adjusting the shower temperature when Maureen knocked on the bathroom door. “I’m off, Linds,” she shouted. “I’ll meet you at the interview.”

“Wait,” Lindsay shouted back. She turned off the water, grabbed her terrycloth bathrobe, and walked back into the bedroom. “Where are you going?”

“To the office first.”

“Be careful. Go straight there. Don’t stop anywhere else.”

“What? Why not?”

“I don’t know. I’m just nervous about this interview. Olumide is going to be furious that the press corps is listening to Fakai. As long as we’re all there and pretty much hear the same thing, we’ll probably be all right. But don’t try to get anything exclusive. And don’t write the piece until you leave.”

“What’s come over you? Do you have some exclusive you don’t want me to get?”

Lindsay looked down. “I guess I deserve that. But there’s something I never told you. Two of Olumide’s thugs picked me up. John was supposed to meet me with the car but either he wandered off or they scared him away, I’m not sure. They grabbed me. I thought they were going to kill me, but they let me go with a warning to back off on reporting about Olumide.”

Maureen frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. And I guess I just didn’t want to think about it.”

“Do I need to be worried about you?”

“No, not anymore.”

“What happened to John?”

“Nothing. He came back the next day and told me some story about getting a newspaper and coming back to find the tires flat and me gone. I don’t blame him. But I don’t really trust him anymore either. He’s terrified and may even be reporting on my whereabouts. I’ll tell you the whole story later. There’s no time now.”

Maureen nodded.

“I’ll do better next time, I promise,” Lindsay said.

“I know. Forget it.” They hugged.

Maureen started to leave, then paused. “There’s something I haven’t told you either,” she said.

“What?”

“Well, I’ve discovered what’s causing the health problems I’ve been having.” She paused, then smiled. “I’m pregnant.”

“Oh my God. That’s incredible. Fabulous.”

Lindsay ran back and wrapped her arms around Maureen. “How long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me? Have you told Mark?”

“Slow down.” Maureen laughed. “Believe me, it was hard. I’ve known for about a week, but I was too mad to tell you. And of course I’ve told Mark. He’s thrilled. I’m going to go home right after I write up today’s interview. So if we’re going to talk, it will have to be tonight after we file. I’m going to go over now and get a good seat. Do you want me to save a place for you?”

“That would be great. Thanks. I’ll just take a quick shower and leave right away. I’m so excited. I feel like an aunt.”

“How about a godmother?”

“Really? Oh, Maurie, thank you. I love you.”

Lindsay returned to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. She stayed a little longer than she meant to, going over questions for Fakai in her mind. She was just rinsing the shampoo out of her hair when James arrived. She wrapped a towel around herself and went to the bedroom to find something to put on. Finding the pants she wanted, she dropped the towel and reached for her panties and bra. Before she could get them on, James opened the door and walked in.

She instinctively pulled the towel up, assuming he would retreat. But to her surprise, he just stared at her for a few seconds. Then, deliberately, he reached behind him and closed the door.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

He didn’t answer but walked to the windows and pulled the shades down.

Lindsay’s lips felt dry. Why now?

“James,” she began, wrapping the towel tighter around herself. But her voice betrayed her.

“Why don’t you drop that and come over here?” he asked quietly.

She paused and he came to her instead and pulled away the towel.

He looked at her for a moment. Then he moved his hand slowly to her face, tracing each of her features before he moved his hand downward. She knew he could feel her body quiver as his hand touched her soft inner thigh and explored her as she oh so gently opened her legs.

He bent to kiss her. Finally they were back to where they had been on the beach. But this time, she was ready. She kissed him, running her tongue across his lips and pressing herself against him. Her hand softly caressed the back of his neck. After a few minutes, he led her toward the bed.

“James,” she whispered. “I want you so much, but not now.”

He pulled away from her.

“No,” she said. “Don’t pull away like that. Did you forget my interview? I can’t be late; they won’t let me in and I can’t miss it. It’s at two, remember?” she added, glancing at the clock. It was already almost 1:00 and she wasn’t even dressed yet.

“Oh shit,” James said. “I forgot that was for today. Of course, go ahead and dress. I’m sorry.”

“No, please don’t be sorry. The timing is just lousy. We’ll have to take a rain check.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said, pulling her to him and kissing her again. He released her, and as he walked to the door, he called back over his shoulder, “Good luck. I’ll drop by later and we can see about dinner.”

“I’ve promised to have dinner with Maureen,” she answered. “How about after?”

“Fine. I’ll drop by here around ten-thirty.”

“That would be wonderful.”

He left, closing the door behind him. Lindsay rushed, skipping makeup, throwing on her clothes and grabbing her bag, notebook, tape recorder—Oh God, did she have new batteries? She rummaged through her desk, found a new pack, grabbed a fistful of pens and charged out.

She had asked John to drive her, but the traffic was worse than ever. She fidgeted in her seat, checking her watch every few minutes. Finally, a lane opened on the right and John followed other cars through it. The interview was being held in an office located in a ramshackle brick house in Surulere. She hoped everyone would be on African time and arrive fifteen minutes late.

As she turned into Ogunlana Drive, she saw a mob gathered on the sidewalk a block away. A few people were sitting on the ground and some of the women were crying. Above them, smoke and dust curled into the sky. When she turned the corner, she saw that the office building lay in shambles. Bricks and stones were strewn around the street and the plaster walls were partly blown out. At first, Lindsay couldn’t absorb what had happened. Then she realized that this was the building she had been looking for.