Indigo (2 page)

The boy shook his head. “My father has traveled,” he said.

“What about your mother? You were told to bring one of them with you today. Wasn't that our understanding?”

“My mother lives elsewhere,” Nurudeen said.

The principal sat back and looked at the boy. This boy had been stealing lunches from the teachers' room refrigerator. He had been caught but had denied the thefts. One of the lunches he had stolen had been Jerry's own, but since Jerry at first thought hunger had played a part—even rich Nigerians sometimes left such things to chance—he had been slow to react. Now, though, he believed that the thefts were malicious, an act of boredom perhaps, or something done on a dare.

“So what is it going to be?” he asked. “Have you decided to tell the truth?”

Nurudeen nodded gravely. “In a way I took your lunch,” he said.

The principal leaned forward but Nurudeen had closed his eyes and continued to speak. “The real truth is too strange to tell,” he added.

Jerry Neal laughed sharply, but at that instant there was another knock on the door, which combined with his laugh to make it sound harsher and more cynical than he'd intended. He had only wanted to exhibit his disbelief, but the knock made it seem as though he had barked at the boy, and it startled them both.

Without waiting, Sunday Aremu, his administrative assistant, came into the office, forcing the principal to get up and walk him back toward the door. “What is it?” he asked. “What's up?”

“We are due at the ministry at ten,” said Sunday. “I am collecting the particulars now.” Sunday was a big man with a wide-open face and a pair of black glasses forever hanging from his neck on a string.

The principal nodded and when Sunday left the office he went with him, back into the teachers' room for coffee. He believed that Nurudeen's days in the school were numbered anyway, so missing the beginning of his first-period class wouldn't make much difference. And being in the office alone would give the boy a chance to think.

The relationship between Jerry Neal and the faculty of his school was complicated. Most of the teachers had been hired by him, either out of the United States or away from other international schools, but the remainder were hired locally and were paid considerably less. The difference in pay was a volatile issue at the school and the warmth of the principal's reception, upon entering the teachers' room, was greatly dependent upon who was sitting there. This morning there were mostly locally hired people about, so rather than stay a while he got his coffee and wandered back through the hallway to his office. Nurudeen, to his surprise, was pressed against the nearest wall when he opened the door. The boy's eyes were rolled tightly up into his head and his hands were pulled against his chest.

“Nurudeen! My God!” the principal shouted. He was about to run for the nurse, but at the sound of his name the boy deflated, immediately coming back to himself and walking over to a chair. “What?” he asked.

Jerry Neal sighed. “Look, son,” he said. “You don't need such histrionics and you don't need to steal my lunch. If you want to go to another school just say so. Do you want the British system again, is that it?”

“All of my thefts were involuntary,” said the boy.

“The devil made you do it, right?” said Jerry, and Nurudeen looked at him.

“It was my stepmother,” he said.

The principal glanced at his watch. Soon he would be in the office of the minister of internal affairs, and he wanted to finish his paperwork before he left. Since the first-period bell had rung, a quiet had taken over the outer hallway and everything seemed peaceful again. Jerry looked at this boy and decided to give him another chance.

“What does your stepmother want with my lunch?” he asked. “Has she been coming around to eat with you?”

“You think everything is funny,” said Nurudeen. “Americans try to make too many jokes.”

In truth Jerry Neal did not try to make too many jokes, but he said, “OK, I don't think it's runny and you've got my full attention. Convince me that I should send you back to class.”

Nurudeen looked quietly down at his shoes and the principal, despite his intention to keep staring at the boy, began rereading a letter that was lying on the top of his desk. The letter was from his sister-in-law in Tillamook, Oregon. Though she was well into middle age, she had recently become a chiropractor and had written insisting that a spinal adjustment would help Jerry end the grief he still felt concerning the death of her sister, his wife. Jerry's wife had been dead for five years, but whatever grief he still felt was certainly not centered in his spine, and he grimaced at the letter. He took some pleasure in hearing from his sister-in-law but she was a foolish woman sometimes. She and his wife had been twins but they had not been alike. Once, however, during his courting years, the sister-in-law had fooled him into believing that she was her sister. That had been three weeks before his wedding. He had taken her for coffee and they had held hands. When he called for the check his sister-in-law had suddenly grown serious, saying that she was Marge, not Charlotte. She had made Jerry furious by telling him, “It's the lack of focus for your love that is making you mad.”

“My stepmother is my father's wife,” said Nurudeen. “My mother is not. My stepmother has a son and that son is older than I.” Nurudeen stopped speaking, as if that pretty much explained everything, but when the principal asked for more he said, “My stepmother does not care for me because I am to be the recipient of my father's wealth. My father has decided so, even though it was her son who was first born. She wants such things for her own son, but my father has decided in favor of me because I am clever and my older half-brother is not.”

Nurudeen was looking at the principal carefully, but Jerry had been in Nigeria long enough by then to know how to hide his intentions well. If Nurudeen understood that he was not about to be expelled, there would be nothing more that Jerry could learn.

“All right,” he said, “now let's get to the part about my lunch.”

Nurudeen sighed. “It is my stepmother's will that I steal, for by stealing I will disgrace myself and jeopardize my place as rightful heir.” Nurudeen touched his forehead with both his hands. “She casts spells,” he whispered, “she uses witchcraft. That is the part I know you will not believe.”

Jerry sighed; the boy was certainly right about that. If the Nigerians wanted to believe in all this voodoo—juju, they called it—that was up to them, but he had little patience for it, little desire to let this boy explain to him how it worked. His paperwork came to mind again and he had that meeting, but since he had decided not to suspend Nurudeen he had to take another moment to extract a promise that Nurudeen would not allow his stepmother's mischief to take hold again. Otherwise how could he justify leniency?

“If I send you back to class what will happen next?” he asked the boy.

“Who can say?” said Nurudeen. “When I defy her she causes me pain.” He pointed to his previously puffed-up chest, and Jerry realized that Nurudeen was telling him that the stepmother had been at work while he'd been out of the room getting coffee.

“But if you steal again she will have won,” he said. “If you steal again I will dismiss you from school.”

“Maybe now that I have spoken her power will be less,” said the boy. “I have been told that mentioning such things has had that effect before.”

The principal wrote out a tardy slip and stood, walking Nurudeen to the door. “If you feel the pain returning ask your teacher to send you to the nurse. The nurse will then call me and we will deal with the pain together.”

Nurudeen's eyes were bright as they walked together toward the bottom of the stairs leading to the junior high section of the school. And when Nurudeen was out of sight he stepped into the nurse's office to tell the nurse what arrangements had been made.

The Ministry of Internal Affairs was at the Federal Secretariat, and it was always difficult to predict how long it would take to get there. Since the school had recently hired a driver, parking, at least, would not be a problem, but when Jerry and his administrative assistant left the campus it was nine-fifteen, not nine o'clock as they had planned. Though they would surely have to wait once they arrived, it would not be good to be late.

“I've been thinking,” Jerry said. “Maybe, at this level, we could end it all. Today, right now.”

Sunday shook his head. “Our chance was with one of the lower boys. Now things have gone too far. Even if we could dash this man, it would cost too much.”

This was the problem: Jerry Neal had hired eight new teachers on his recruiting trip to the United States the year before. Since the recruiting fair had been on the West Coast he had made visa applications, on behalf of the new teachers, at the Nigerian consulate in San Francisco. He had been told at the consulate that a new government policy mandated that the teachers arrive in Nigeria with tourist visas which would then be changed to working status by the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Jerry had argued the matter for three days, staying in San Francisco and taking the consul general twice to lunch, but in the end he had been convinced that the new policy was real. There were too many foreigners in Nigeria, the consul general had said, too much hard currency was leaving the country and the government had decided to take a firmer stand. Once he was back in Lagos, however, Jerry quickly discovered that the Ministry of Internal Affairs knew nothing of the new policy. What's more, the ministry had told him that all eight new teachers would have to return to San Francisco so that their documents could be vetted and the proper visas issued.

When the school van entered Alagbon Close, the traffic snarled and then stopped. Hawkers came onto the road, dozens of young boys but some women and older men too. They were walking past the vehicles, holding up items for sale, food and pieces of clothing, alarm clocks and replacement parts for automobiles. Sunday looked at his watch. “If we walk we will arrive on time,” he said. Jerry knew that was true, but if they walked he would arrive in the minister's office sweating, and he wanted to appear cool.

A boy at the van window had a selection of videotapes in his hand and smiled when Jerry opened the door. “Oh, look,” said the boy. “
Dallas! Wheel O Fortune!
Yes, America. Twenty naira, cheap!”

Jerry didn't speak to this boy, but a taller boy, standing just behind the first one, drew his attention. This boy was selling ironing boards and Jerry remembered that his steward, Jules, had been complaining that their ironing board was no good. The boy with the ironing board saw a look of interest in Jerry's eyes and pushed the other boy away. “Fifty naira,” he said. The ironing board was wrapped in butcher paper and tied with string.

“I don't have time,” said Jerry Neal.

“OK, las' price forty-two. Very fine board dis one. English ironing board, jus' like de one use by de queen.”

Sunday looked at his watch again so Jerry closed the van door and told the driver to make his way to the front of the Federal Secretariat and wait.

“Let me show you,” said the boy. He began tearing the butcher paper away from the ironing board, but the two men weren't waiting, so he tucked the torn paper under the string and tried to keep up. Sunday was carrying the teachers' files in his briefcase, which he clutched to his belly with both hands.

They cut through a pathway that led past various stalls. Here there was clothing for sale, the stall owners sitting on low stools or lying down on cardboard under hanging trousers and shirts. When they slowed once to decide which way to turn, the ironing-board boy banged his board into the back of Jerry Neal's neck.

“Ouch!” said Jerry.

“Do you want that thing?” Sunday asked.

“Jules tells me we need a new one,” Jerry said, so Sunday spoke to the boy and then said, “The real last price is thirty naira.”

“OK,” said Jerry, “tell him I'll take it for twenty-five if he's around when we come back. If I pay him now he won't take the ironing board back to the van.”

“Oh yes,” said the boy, and Sunday, embarrassed by the principal's lack of trust, said, “I think this one always works here.” They settled on twenty-seven naira and when Jerry paid the boy he restrained himself from giving another warning. He watched the boy walk back toward the van with the ironing board and the cash.

The Ministry of Internal Affairs was on the sixth floor of a government office building and since the power was down they had to walk up the stairs. Still, by ten o'clock they had opened the door and stepped into the minister's outer office, right on time.

The secretary was asleep on her typewriter, but she stirred when she heard them come in. “We have an appointment with the minister,” Sunday said. “We are from the International School.”

The secretary pulled her head up and pushed some papers about until an appointment book came into her hand.

“No,” she said. “Here I see no man's name.”

“I spoke with the minister myself,” Jerry said. “Maybe it's written in his own appointment book.”

The secretary looked at him and yawned. She was wearing traditional Yoruba clothing, a yellow cloth wrapped around her and tucked in here and there, but to Jerry she was the picture of incompetence, a good example of why Nigeria never made any progress with the outside world. “No man's name,” she said again.

“Is the minister on seat?” Sunday asked. Though the principal had been ready to yell, Sunday's voice had grown softer.

“He is on seat,” said the secretary.

“Is he alone?”

“He is working.”

“It is now ten o'clock,” said Sunday. “Though I can see we are not written in his appointment book, maybe we can go in small? Just for a minute or two.”