An African Affair (25 page)

“I thought so, but I was mistaken.”

“How?”

“It was a different statue, a different style.”

“And are you sure you didn’t mention anything to James?”

“James was in Kano. Remember, Vickie, I was worried that he hadn’t called me.”

Vickie looked skeptical. “So you didn’t see James last night?”

“I’m beginning to feel like you’re interrogating me, Vickie, and I don’t like it.”

Lindsay got up to leave. “James’s statues were stolen. He had nothing to do with this.”

“Maybe not. But we ought to talk to him.”

“Do what you have to do, Vickie. I’ve got to go.” She pushed past her and walked out the door.

She was scared. She had lied to protect James and even though she was certain he wasn’t guilty, she knew it looked bad for him. If they learned she had told him about finding the drug-filled statue at Mike’s house before she had evidence to clear him, he would be their prime suspect. She knew Vickie suspected she was lying, but Lindsay honestly believed the statues had been stolen from James. It could be anyone. Still, for the moment, she decided not to tell James anything more. Just in case.

It occurred to her that J.R. had been amassing information about the Northern Alliance. Maybe he had some useful intelligence about the possible thief.

She walked to her car, climbed in, and started the slow hot drive to J.R.’s house. She let her mind wander and, resisting at first, eventually allowed herself to consider a possibility that had been lurking for some time, one she had been reluctant to examine: James might actually be guilty. She had told him about Mike and the drugs, after all, and Mike lay dead less than twelve hours later. The thought upset her and she shook it off. She made a sharp left turn onto J.R.’s street.

The first thing she noticed was an army van parked in front of J.R.’s house and three soldiers standing guard. The sight unnerved her. As she drove closer she noted that the shades were drawn. She wondered if she should leave, but the decision was taken from her when one of the soldiers started to walk toward her.

“What you want?” he asked.

Lindsay pulled out her press credential, given, she realized after she showed it, by the overthrown government. But that didn’t seem to matter. The soldier was predictably impressed by the officially stamped document. He lowered his rifle slightly.

“This place off-limits,” he said. “Government order.”

“But where is the family?”

“No family here,” the soldier answered. “This rebel cell. Terrorists.”

“But there was a family who lived here. J.R. and his wife and children. Can you tell me where I can find them?”

“No.”

“Well, is that because you don’t know or because you can’t say?”

The soldier was losing his patience.

“Nobody here. Nobody go be here. You not allow here. Go.” He stepped forward, shouldering her back.

“Could I speak to your supervisor?” asked Lindsay.

The soldier walked away, sulking, and after a few minutes, an officer walked over. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes,” Lindsay said. “I’m a journalist. From America. I need some information.”

“I’m sorry; you will have to go to the ministry for that. We are not permitted to talk to the press.”

She didn’t know what instinct prompted her, but she blurted out, “I think you can talk to me. I was sent by Abdul Abdeka.”

“I received no order about this,” he said nervously.

“I think your commanding officer must have,” she said, counting on the officer’s fear of making a mistake. “Mr. Abdeka wanted me to write a story detailing how the new government controlled the violence,” she bluffed. The officer didn’t respond. “Of course, if you’d rather I didn’t, I can leave and tell him I tried. Could you tell me your name?”

The officer hesitated.

“You will wait,” he said, finally, walking away.

“Of course. Thank you.”

Lindsay knew this could end badly and wondered who he was consulting with. A small boy from a neighboring house ran in front of her, chased by his mother, who caught him by the arm. Lindsay stopped her.

“Please,” she said. “I’m looking for J.R. and his family. Do you know where they are?”

The woman glanced apprehensively at the soldiers standing nearby.

“You tell dem I don’ know you,” the woman said anxiously.

Lindsay nodded. “But J.R.? Where is he?”

“J.R. be dead. He be shot right here.”

Lindsay closed her eyes.

“Who shot him?” she asked.

“Who you tink? Dey.” She gestured with her head toward the soldiers.

“And his family? His wife? His children?”

“Don’ know. Dey take dem way in Black Maria car.”

The woman noticed the soldiers were watching her. “You go now. Don’ come here more.”

She picked up her son and walked quickly away.

J.R. was dead—what a goddamned tragedy. In spite of everything that had happened, she could hardly believe it. She started to walk toward her car. Before she reached it, the officer approached her respectfully.

“I’ve checked, madam. My senior officer hadn’t received the order, but if you have cleared it with Mr. Abdeka then, of course, I am authorized to talk to you.”

“Good,” she said carefully. “As I said, he told me to report on the progress of the new government in controlling the opposition. Can I have a look inside?”

The soldier hesitated. “I have orders not to let anyone in.”

“But I need to see for myself. Maybe you should ask again.”

He looked uncomfortable. “No,” he said. “Go inside, but be quick.”

He stood in the doorway and allowed her to inspect the room.

It was in shambles. Drawers were emptied on the floor, an opened can of Carnation condensed milk had been thrown off a table, its thick, sticky contents mixed with papers and files that had been tossed in all directions. Lindsay walked into the back room where she had talked to J.R. and his colleagues, peeking into the bedroom where the children had slept. She saw blood stains on the wall near the bed and, unwillingly drawn toward it, she approached. On the bed was the family dog, a black and white mongrel, shot dead. At first she felt a wave of relief that it was not the children’s blood, but when she bent down and saw the dog’s mottled fur she gasped and struggled to control herself, choking back her tears. Then she walked out of the room.

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday, madam. During the rebellion.”

“What rebellion?”

“There was a terrorist rebellion against the new government,” the officer said. “The group they called The Next Step.”

Ah, Lindsay thought, this is how this massacre will be explained.

“But where are the residents?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I know that J.R. is dead,” she answered, trying to encourage the soldier to confirm it. “He was killed by soldiers defending the government, is that right?”

The officer sounded relieved. “Yes,” he answered, “the terrorist known as J.R. was killed in the gun battle. We arrested his family and they have been taken to preventive detention.”

“The children too?”

“They are with their mother. They have been sent to their home village.”

“Do you know where that is?”

“No.”

“And J.R. was firing at you?”

“From this room. Near the bed.”

Lindsay walked down the hallway. There were no bullet holes in the walls, no evidence of shots fired from the room, only shots into the room. But she knew enough about Africa to know that you don’t contradict the soldier with the gun.

“And the dog? Why did you kill the dog?”

Her composure was threatening to give way again. The dog, the only physical evidence that remained of the murder, had become a symbol of the utter madness of the whole business.

The officer shrugged. “It got in the way.”

He walked out to his men and left Lindsay alone. She stepped into the sitting room, where she had once sipped orange Fanta and listened to J.R. explain Nigerian politics, where she had met his friends and heard their brave vision for their country’s future. Sitting on the worn armchair, she knew that the depth of her grief went beyond the current tragedy. She was grieving for the agony of the country, the everyday brutality of life here.

She knew she had to get to J.R.’s village to find his wife and children. Acting as though she were in a rush, she mouthed a thank-you to the officer and walked directly to her car. The man looked after her, probably glad she was going to relieve him of any decision. Aware she had cut this much too close, she drove away.

Back home, Lindsay flipped through her notebooks until she found the name of the village. It was on the outskirts of Badagry, a few miles from the Nigeria-Benin border.

She locked the notebooks in the cabinet and carefully zipped the key into a side pocket of her purse. Feeling hungry, she found some eggs and made herself an omelet. Just as she finished, the lights went out and the air-conditioning shut down. The generator was supposed to kick in during blackouts, but she remembered that Martin had turned it off. She lit a candle and went to the basement where she fumbled around until she found the switch. When she pressed it, nothing happened.

“We must be out of propane,” she thought, irritably. She looked around for a canister, but didn’t see one. Upstairs in her study, she sat at her desk, lit a candle, and wrote a piece about J.R.’s death on an old Olivetti manual typewriter, a necessary tool for any reporter in Nigeria. If they wanted to expel her once it appeared, so be it. Her phone line was still working, so she called New York and read the piece to the recording room. Then, exhausted, she washed up and climbed into bed. But it was too hot to sleep, so she withdrew a pad and pencil from the drawer. She listed everything she knew about Solutions, Inc. and everything she had observed or discovered about James. On another page, she wrote down everything that Vickie had told her. Then she put the pad aside and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, she thought, a heavy rain would bring relief.

The next morning she was up early. Still no rain, and the air was so thick it was hard to breathe. She made herself a sandwich, filled a large thermos with filtered water, and took some cash from her safe.

The Lagos-Badagry Expressway was notoriously dangerous. Bandits often robbed and killed drivers, sometimes leaving their bodies on the roadside with their arms propped up as if to wave at passersby. Shortly before the coup, a newspaper article detailed a horrendous case of an ambushed bus—everyone on it had been hacked to death with machetes. The case had heightened outrage against the Olumide regime.

Lindsay found the road littered with potholes. A car ahead of her suddenly bucked as it hit a deep hole at too high a speed and then stopped, its wheels stuck. The driver gunned the motor, but the car didn’t move. Lindsay hit the brake and turned the wheel, just avoiding a collision. A few miles after leaving Lagos, she came to a blockade. Two small fires burned on both sides of a makeshift booth. About ten cars had come to a standstill in front of it. She stopped, waiting her turn. When she reached the booth, a soldier demanded her passport. He looked at it for an exasperatingly long time before she realized what he was waiting for. She handed him fifty naira, at which point he returned her passport and waved her on. Similar checkpoints materialized every five miles, and she knew that the sooner she handed over the money, the faster she’d be on her way.

Eventually, she saw the sign for Badagry. She drove through the town and into the bush on roads that skirted dense rainforest. Soon she saw a cluster of mud houses with palm frond roofs and a few larger homes topped with tin. Chickens wandered freely pecking in the dirt, and toddlers, some of them wearing only a bead necklace, played next to them. A girl of about six swept one of the yards with a straw broom, a baby strapped to her back. She stopped and stared as Lindsay approached.

“Hi.”

The girl smiled shyly and looked down. Lindsay reached into her purse and offered her a peppermint, which she accepted quickly. Four more children ran over and Lindsay managed to dig out and distribute several more pieces of candy. One of the boys carried a toy car made of elaborately strung and twisted strands of steel wire. “That’s beautiful,” Lindsay said. The boy didn’t answer, but proceeded to show her how it worked, kneeling and placing it on the ground and pushing it forward on its rubber wheels. “Did you make that?” Lindsay asked. The boy shrugged and nodded proudly.

Lindsay asked them if they knew Margaret, but the children looked confused and she realized that she didn’t know Margaret’s last name. But J.R. was well known, so she asked if they knew who he was. This time they looked scared and the older ones ran away.

“I’m Margaret’s friend,” she said. But the little ones just stared at her. A man came over and asked why she was there and she explained that she was a journalist, a friend of J.R.’s.

“I heard what happened to him,” she said. “I’ve come to pay my respects to his family.”

The man hesitated. “Wait here,” he said, at last.

She moved to the shade of a nearby walnut tree. More children surrounded her, begging for candy, but she had run out.

She heard a voice behind her speak harshly in Yoruba and the children scattered. Lindsay turned and saw Margaret.

“Margaret, I just heard. I am so sorry. Are you all right?”

“Yes. We are safe here.” She led Lindsay to one of the round mud houses. It was surprisingly cool. Lindsay sat on a mat on the floor and Margaret offered her a beer and then sat down next to her.

“Now tell me,” Margaret said. “Why did you come?”

“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss,” she said. “But, I also came to ask something of you.”