An African Affair (6 page)

Lindsay moved outside, realizing she was scanning the stragglers for James. She spotted him across the parking lot, chatting up a pretty young secretary. She watched as he held the car door open for her, then she turned away. Dave Goren was in the driveway, his car keys in his hand.

“Let me ask you something,” she said, catching up to him. “Does the name Babatunde Oladayo mean anything to you?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re always all business, aren’t you?”

“Right now—yes.”

“Oladayo,” he said thoughtfully. “He’s a student opposition leader. They support Fakai, hate Olumide, and organize demonstrations. They make a lot of noise but they’re harmless, and Olumide lets them operate pretty freely. Why the sudden interest?”

“Maybe Olumide’s changed his mind. I think that was the boy’s body that just floated up.”

Goren shrugged. “Sorry, Lindsay. That guy was just a local thief hanged by the crowd. Hardly of interest to your readers in New York.”

“How do you know that?” Lindsay asked. “I didn’t see you over there.”

“But I saw you—just as I was leaving.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Oladayo?”

“It’s my job to be sure.”

“Mine too,” she answered, and turned to go.

But she wondered if the steward had made a mistake. She waited until all the guests had left, then retraced her steps along the side road. The lights were all out in the high commissioner’s compound.

As she approached the back entrance, one of the guards stepped out of the darkness and ordered her away. She replied indignantly that she had lost her purse. Perhaps it was in the residence. She wanted to ask the steward if he had seen it. She looked distressed—which was not difficult under the circumstances—and after much back and forth, the man relented. He got the steward, who came out looking confused and scared. Out of hearing range of the guard, she whispered, “I told them I thought I left my purse at the house.”

“No, madam,” he answered in a loud voice. “I no find madam’s purse. I very sorry.”

“I want to be sure,” she murmured. “Are you absolutely sure that man is the student leader, Babatunde Oladayo?”

“I sorry, madam. But it not be dere. I sure. I know dat purse. I see it before.”

Lindsay thanked him loudly, and left. She found her car, climbed into the front seat, and looked behind her; she didn’t see any signs of a tail. They probably had more important things to do. She drove home, pondering how to file this piece without getting thrown out of the country. The story of the murdered dissident was significant—it demonstrated the resistance to Olumide and the ruthlessness of his regime—but it was not worth missing the crackdown against Fakai and the cancellation of the long-anticipated elections.

Finally she thought of a way to get the story into the paper. She’d mark it “hold for orders” so that the desk would not print it without her okay. The first plane to London was at 6 A.M. Her interview with Olumide was at 11 A.M. That would give her time to go the airport and search for a pigeon, someone who would be willing to smuggle her report out of the country and then call it in to the
Globe
.

Luckily, Maureen was in her room with the door closed—she didn’t know how much of her scoop she would share with her friend. She sat at her desk and began to type. When she finished, she pondered where to put her notes. What if the government decided to search the house? She hesitated a moment and then ripped the pages out of her notebook, tearing them into still smaller pieces and, finally, flushed them down the toilet. As she got into bed, she allowed herself one final thought about James. What was he doing with that secretary?

Lindsay’s alarm went off at four the next morning. The British Air flight to London would leave in two hours. The early hour meant that traffic was not a problem, and in the terminal she found a young American tourist who was eager for an adventure. He promised to carry her story out and to call the phone number she gave him.

She got back in plenty of time to prepare for her interview with General Olumide. She was sitting at the kitchen table going over her notes for the last time when Martin came in. It was only 7 A.M.

“Good morning,” she said. “Why are you here so early?”

“I am sorry, madam. There was no time for you meet the new driver. He here now.”

Eager to get back to her notes, Lindsay said, “Not today, Martin. I have too much on my mind.”

Martin refused to be put off. “Sorry, madam,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “You cannot go to Dodan Barracks by yourself. You need a driver.”

Usually deferential, his insistence gave Lindsay pause.

“Where did you find him?”

“He once work for my first employer at the British embassy. He is very good driver. He know the ropes. Believe me, madam. He will help. They take you more serious if you come with driver.”

She waited, still unsure.

“He has four children, madam. He need work.”

She sighed. “Okay. But I can’t meet him now. Just give him the keys and ask him to wait for me in the car.”

“Very good, madam.“

When Lindsay walked out of the house, a young man with closely cropped hair jumped out to open the door of the Peugeot.

“I be call John, madam,” he said.

“Okay, John. I’m glad to meet you.” She settled back in her seat. “We are going to Dodan Military Barracks.”

“I know, madam,” he said grimly. It took them an hour to get there. When they arrived at the gate, Lindsay gave John her pass. He showed it to the guard, who scrutinized it for what seemed a very long time. Still unconvinced, the guard peered in the window at Lindsay without saying a word. Finally satisfied, he waved them through. John looked nervous as he got out of the car and opened her door.

“Please, madam,” he said. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll come back as soon as the interview is over.”

Lindsay made her way to the squat brick building that housed the general’s private office. The first thing she noticed in the waiting room was that it was almost bare. There was no attempt to evoke authority with the solid mahogany British colonial furniture she had expected; the room was furnished only with a few modern, inelegant chairs and four cheap metal desks. Behind each was a secretary. Two were on the phone, engaged in what appeared to be personal conversations, and two were polishing their nails and chatting to each other in Yoruba. When Lindsay finally succeeded in getting one of the women to look up, she encountered an expressionless stare. The woman rudely gestured for Lindsay to sit down, while continuing to talk on the phone. Lindsay chose one of the hard-backed chairs and settled in to wait. In addition to the stock portrait of the dictator that hung in every government office and private shop, the walls bore photographs of him shaking hands with various African leaders. Some of the photos hung crookedly, and she had to suppress the urge to straighten them. After about twenty minutes, a phone rang. The secretary picked it up and rose, gesturing for Lindsay to follow her. In all that time, she realized, not a word had been spoken to her.

The president’s office was more imposing. General Olumide sat behind a vast ebony desk, flanked by green and white Nigerian flags bearing the country’s seal (a unicorn holding a crest) and next to a life-sized oil portrait of himself in a uniform glittering with medals. He faced three separate black dial telephones as well as an important-looking red one, which she surmised gave instant access to his troops.

He got up and crossed the office in two great steps and thrust out a large hand. His grip was hard.

“Well, well, we meet at last,” he said, his voice deep and mellow, his gaze direct and warm.

He ushered her to a comfortable chair, taking an easy chair across from her for himself.

“So, Lindsay—I hope you don’t mind my using your first name, we tend to overlook formalities in Africa—how are you enjoying our country?”

“Oh, it’s fascinating,” she said.

He smiled. “Oh, I know some of our problems are difficult for you Westerners to get used to,” he said kindly, “the crowds, the heat, the communication and electrical problems, but we are working on improving conditions as much as possible. That is one reason we need help from a great, developed country like your own.”

She smiled, surprised. Although she had seen photographs, nothing had prepared her for his stature and magnetism. His ebony skin was so smooth she had a momentary urge to reach out and touch it; his posture was proud but not rigid, and his manner was friendly, even gracious. An upper-class English accent reflected his Sandhurst education. He was, moreover, undeniably attractive.

“Have you been out of the central city?” he asked. “Have you been to our forests, our beaches, our villages? Have you seen the real Nigeria?”

“Not yet,” she replied. “But I hope to do a lot of traveling around the country soon.”

“Well, look around,” he said, waving his long arms at his office walls. “I have had photographs of some of our finest attractions hung right here to remind me what I am working for on those days when I wonder whether it’s worth the struggle.”

Lindsay obediently turned to examine half a dozen poster-sized pictures of banana plantations, wide-gapped rivers, offshore oil wells, and even some modern-looking factories. Her eyes stopped at a photograph of an isolated beach, palm trees nearly up to the shoreline.

“That’s Bar Beach,” he said softly. “One of our most beautiful.”

She stared at the wild surf, lulled by the resonance of his voice.

The site, she reflected, could be any one of a multitude of beautiful beaches around the world, but the longer she looked at it, the more she had the feeling she had seen it before. Then she suddenly remembered that Bar Beach was the place where the young Olumide, who had seized power in a coup some ten years ago, had ordered his predecessor executed by firing squad, to musical accompaniment no less. Journalists had joked that despite the brutal coup and sadistic execution, he was nonetheless a man of culture. After all, they pointed out, he chose Mozart.

She turned back and found him staring straight at her, his eyes now suddenly appraising, reminding her of her initial wariness.

If you met him at a party, she thought, you’d guess he was the director of a prestigious media company. He didn’t wear Ray-Bans, long the trademark of African dictators, or, on this occasion, his military uniform. Since he was never seen publicly without it, Lindsay realized, his decision to appear for the interview in a business suit was obviously calculated. For Nigerians, he wrapped himself in the accoutrements of power. For the Western press, he cultivated a corporate image.

“Did the pictures displease you?” he asked, something menacing in his smooth demeanor.

“Oh, no,” she answered. “I just realized how busy you must be and that I should conduct our interview before you are called away.”

“No one will call me away until I want to go,” he said.

She detected an implied threat, a flash of danger. Despite his charm, she could not forget the stories about him she knew to be true—about his deceitfulness, his violence, his cruelty. Critics were routinely arrested, several had vanished. She had personally witnessed what had happened to one of them. Others had “accidents” that removed them from the political scene. She remembered the private words of Kofi Ransom, the dissident reporter arrested last year who had not been seen since: “If you are walking in the forest and you see Olumide and a python, kill Olumide first.”

She reached into her bag and removed her tape recorder.

“Would you mind if I record our interview?”

“No, not at all,” he replied graciously. “We are doing the same of course.”

She pressed the record button and double-checked that the machine was running.

After a few obligatory softball questions about his goals and accomplishments, Lindsay worked the conversation around to his politics and the likelihood of his sponsoring a return to civilian rule.

“Do you believe democracy is a workable option for Nigeria?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, smiling benignly. “You know, Lindsay, I was educated in the West. I have a deep faith in democracy. But I want to be sure the country is ready for it.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I cannot express how deeply I regret some of the excesses that have occurred under military rule, but they were necessary to ensure order. Stability is the first step in our march toward freedom.”

Lindsay wrote down the quote and then looked up.

“In fact, you have announced a return to free elections, haven’t you?” she asked, her pen poised to scribble his reply.

“Yes, of course.”

“But you haven’t set a date yet,” she pressed.

His eyes quickly registered his irritation. “They will take place any time from now,” he said, slapping his desk for emphasis. The election process would be aided enormously by increased U.S. aid, he added, “and a most favored nation trading status that the U.S. government currently refuses to allow because of false allegations of so-called human rights violations.

“You see, Lindsay,” he continued, reverting to his amiable mode, lecturing her as though he were an avuncular professor, “it is circular. When the lives of our people improve, we will be able to trust the nation to democracy. By slowing down our economic growth, your government keeps us from holding free elections.”

This, clearly, was the message he wanted conveyed to the West. He leaned back in his chair, conspicuously looking at his watch.

“I am so sorry,” he said, “but I have an appointment with the French ambassador and I have some papers to look over before he arrives.” He dismissed her with a disingenuous smile.

Her fears had been realized. The interview was practically worthless. Olumide had given away nothing and was about to send her off with a bromide sound bite and a pitch for American aid. Irritated, Lindsay decided to take a chance. “General Olumide,” she said, a little nervously, “there are rumors that Fakai is going to be arrested before the end of the week. Can you confirm or deny them?”