by Jennifer Juo
“You don’t want to go to America, live the good life? I thought that’s what everyone around here wants,” Jim said.
Winston wanted to laugh out loud at Jim’s naïve belief in the supremacy of his country, but he restrained himself.
“You can’t get me want I want,” Winston said instead.
“Try me.”
“I want to go back to my home, my estate in China, the way it was before the Japanese war, before Communism.” And he wanted his mother back, the chance to rewrite his whole life and begin again as a child.
Jim shifted his feet, knowing he had lost the battle, at least for now.
***
That night, Winston’s armed guard drove him back to the compound. Again, they drove at night even though they knew the increasing dangers of armed robbers on the prowl. The road was dark, lit only by the headlights of their jeep. There were no street lamps or towns lining that lonely stretch. Further from the road, there was an occasional cluster of huts, but without electricity, they were invisible. Tonight, Winston felt an affinity with the darkness. He liked the anonymity of it. He wanted to hide in this darkness, crawl up into its black hole and never come out again.
Suddenly, Winston saw lights up ahead. He knew here in the dark night, lights along the road were an anomaly, signaling not safety but danger.
“Should we stop, sah?” his armed guard said. “We keep driving. Fast fast.” They didn’t know if this was a real military checkpoint or an ambush.
“And risk jail time again? We’d better stop,” Winston said even though his instincts told him the opposite. Don’t stop.
They pulled over, recognizing the familiar steel drums of a military checkpoint. A flashlight was thrust into their faces.
“Get out of the car,” shouted a man dressed in torn pants with a white undershirt and a gun slung over his shoulder. The casualness of his dress was a warning sign to Winston. The man was not wearing a crisp military uniform. Winston noticed he was surrounded by at least ten men, all armed.
“Give me your gun,” the man barked at the armed guard. The guard relinquished his weapon.
“Take my jeep,” Winston said to the man.
“What makes you tink we want your jeep? What, we look like beggars?” the man said. “But now you mention it, it’s a fine jeep.”
The man shoved Winston onto the ground. He felt the hardness of something metal against his chest. Despite the fact he had known death was coming, he had even craved and entertained it at times, now that he was facing it, he suddenly felt frightened. His senses were heightened by the feel of the metal barrel against his chest, and all he could think of was: I want to live. I want a second chance with my wife. My daughter. My son.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another man come out of the darkness, and he immediately recognized the rasping, smoker’s voice.
“Ma friend,” the Captain, his former jailer said. “You didn’t learn your lesson last time we meet.” Clearly, the Captain no longer worked for the military but looked to be running his own armed operation outside the law.
The Captain barked orders in Yoruba to his men. He then turned to Winston’s armed guard and said, “Run. If I was you.”
The armed guard started running into the night. They fired a few shots after him, but they did not pursue him. Winston kicked the Captain in the shin. He heard the click of the trigger. And then in an instant, Winston felt an excruciating pain in his chest. His last thought was of his son.
SYLVIA
Chapter 38
Later that night, a woman, most likely a prostitute on her way back from one of the shantytown bars, found Winston in a pool of his own blood. She didn’t know if he was dead or alive. There were no cars on the road that late at night. She took her heels off and lifted him up on her back. The walking was difficult, he was heavy and his warm blood stained her dress. A Mercedes drove by, and she tried to wave it down, but the car did not stop. She kept walking, not knowing if her effort was in vain. After a while, she saw a motorbike approaching. She put Winston down and waved madly at the motorbike. The man stopped.
They wedged Winston’s body in between, and the three of them rode on the motorbike to the hospital in Ibadan. Since his wallet had been stolen by the armed robbers, they didn’t know his name. But when the doctor saw Winston had been shot, he contacted the police, not because the police would catch the armed robber, but because they could at least find the man’s family.
The police came to the compound, the place of the foreigners. Winston’s armed guard had made it back to the compound to report the incident. When Sylvia saw the police and Winston’s armed guard, she knew something had happened to her husband.
***
Sylvia found Winston at the local hospital in Ibadan, covered in plastic tubes. He was unconscious or drugged, she didn’t know which. The doctor came into the room and introduced himself as Dr. Ogun.
“Your husband was shot in the chest. It punctured his lung and an artery as well. I performed emergency surgery,” the doctor said, pausing so Sylvia could take it all in. The doctor was a tall, middle-aged Nigerian man, his black beard graying in parts. He spoke with a hybrid Nigerian and British accent, remnants of medical school in England.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” the doctor continued. “We did a blood transfusion, but we’ve run out of his blood type. He’s going to need more blood. I need you to round up as many people to donate as possible.” She couldn’t help staring at the rust-stained pile of Winston’s clothes in the corner of the room.
“I…need to round up…what…?” she said. Because it was her own husband, all her years of nursing experience amounted to nothing. She looked away, his blood made her feel faint.
“There are only fifteen bags of blood left in the bank. They are not your husband’s blood type. He is O. It is more uncommon, only other blood types O can donate.”
“Go back to your compound. Round up your friends. Look, there isn’t much time. You will need to do this quickly.”
She noticed Winston had been given a private room. Because he was a foreigner, they must have assumed he could pay. She had heard of stories of unnecessary death because the family could not afford the dash or bribe—something as mundane as the purchase of fuel to fill the tank of the doctor’s car. Hardly illegal, it was merely a fee, a fee to prioritize your spot in the never-ending line of patients waiting to see the one doctor. She took out a thick wad of naira bills and handed it to the doctor, but he refused, seemed somewhat offended, and said, “Just get me the donors. Hurry.”
She had to enlist Ayo’s help to save Winston. The police escorted Sylvia back to her compound. It was still dark outside. Sylvia looked at her watch, four o’clock in the morning. How much time did she have? The car sped through the deserted streets, the speed adding to her critical mission. She knew she had to save her husband. She had to save him just as he had saved her all those years ago.
She knocked on Ayo’s apartment door on the compound. Donna answered it, but Sylvia didn’t care.
“Winston…” Sylvia choked on her words.
“What’s wrong?” Donna said, dressed only in a long t-shirt.
“He’s been shot. He’s at the main hospital down the road.”
“Oh my god, shit. Shit.”
“Where’s Ayo? Winston needs blood donors. Type O,” Sylvia said.
“Ayo’s at the clinic tonight. I’ll send a driver with a message.”
Donna took charge. “You and I had better round up some more folks with O blood type. Let’s go over to the compound clinic, they’ll have the records of who’s O.”
Sylvia climbed into Donna’s jeep and sat side-by-side with the woman that she had shared both of the men in her life with—her husband and her lover. She studied her rival. She didn’t really have a pretty face. Her features were not perfectly proportioned, but Sylvia knew Donna possessed a kind of sex appeal. With her charismatic personality and intelligence, men were drawn to Donna.
Donna put her hand on Sylvia’s shoulder and said, “It’ll be okay.”
Sylvia noticed Donna had tears in her eyes. She knew Donna had been Winston’s friend. Donna was a good woman, despite it all. Sylvia didn’t want to admit it, but she knew it was true.
Chapter 39
When Sylvia and Donna reached the hospital with the additional blood donors from the compound, it was dawn, and Ayo was already there. Her lover was sitting down while his blood was being drawn into plastic bags to save her husband’s life. When Ayo saw them walk into the room, he only motioned mechanically to the nurse and said, “Get the donors prepped. We’re going to need to do the transfusion as soon as possible.”
Dr. Ogun sat her down and explained, “Your husband’s lung collapsed from the gunshot wound. We put a chest tube to drain the fluid and re-expand his lung. But he’s bleeding again through the chest tube. I’m going to have to perform surgery again.”
Sylvia felt the room spinning around her. She still had not spoken to Winston. She had barely seen him. He was covered in tubes and a respirator mask. She watched the nurses wheel him off to the operating room. All she could see that reminded her of him was the jet black hair on the top of his head.
Ayo followed Dr. Ogun into the surgery room to assist him. The other blood donors returned to the compound. Sylvia sat with Donna outside in the hallway, waiting together.
“They shot him. Those bastards,” Donna said.
“The armed robbers?” Sylvia asked, confused.
“Cole wanted him shot.” Her voice sounded bitter and angry. “Without him, there’s no fucking article, and they know it. Those bastards.”
“They would…”
“I don’t know. Who knows?” Donna continued, crying now. “I only know Winston is a good man. Please if there is a God up there, help him. Help us.”
Ayo came out of the surgery room. He looked tired. Donna and Sylvia both looked up at him.
“Is he…?” Sylvia said.
“Dr. Ogun stopped the bleeding. He’s stable. For now,” Ayo said.
“That’s good to hear,” Donna said, breathing with relief.
“Can I see him?” Sylvia said.
“He’ll be out in a bit,” Ayo said. “He’s going to need some bags of IV. We’ll need to purchase them from the hospital. Sylvia, you’ll need to come with me.”
Donna got up and put her hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. Then she nodded at Ayo and took her leave. Sylvia followed Ayo down the hallway. They stood alone in the dark elevator, which was partially lit by only one of the three fluorescent light bulbs. The last bulb kept flicking off and on as the elevator moved. In the constant flickering, Ayo’s face looked contorted, robot-like, like he was in pain but was trying to cover it up.
“Is Winston going to be—” Sylvia began. She heard her own voice echo against the metal walls of the elevator. It sounded frightening to her, metallic, high-pitched.
“I don’t know,” he said, turning to look at her. “This is a critical time.”
For so many years, they had worked side by side on many life-threatening cases, and he had always been open and direct with her but not now.
“Please tell me. I need to know,” she pleaded.
But he didn’t speak. Instead he put his arms around her and held her close. She thought he tried to say something to her, but the elevator doors opened.
At the front desk, she paid for several IV bags, each item was bought in increments of naira bills, including the IV equipment itself. She wondered what would happen if a family could only afford one bag of IV solution when the patient needed more. What would happen? She knew what would happen. It was a futile question.
***
That evening, Dr. Ogun did not look hopeful. He sat down next to Sylvia and said, “He may not make it through the night.”
Winston’s body was under sepsis attack, a post-surgery infection. They pumped antibiotics into his blood to try to combat the infection. Ayo stood there, not knowing what to say. Sylvia knew from the downcast expression on Ayo’s face that he was frustrated at his inability to save Winston. This infection wouldn’t have happened in a hospital in Europe or America. They all knew this, but no one actually said it. Sylvia knew Winston’s time had come, and the juju doctor’s spell was finally being fulfilled—first Simeon and now Winston.
In the dark bluish light of the hospital room, Sylvia held her husband’s limp hand tightly. She started crying. Winston’s breath was becoming more labored. In West Africa, the spirit was associated with breathing, and she knew his spirit was struggling to exit his body. Winston had not regained consciousness. Could he hear her? She wanted to ask for his forgiveness, to keep him here in this life, but the words stuck in her throat. How could she stop him from reuniting with his long lost mother? Then she realized maybe he could start over, be born again into a new life, a second chance.
“I need to get my children,” Sylvia said, suddenly in a panic.
“You probably shouldn’t leave him,” Dr. Ogun said.
“They need to see him one last time,” Sylvia said. She knew Lila, especially, needed to see him.
“I’ll go and get them,” Ayo offered.
“No, I have to go. Lila may not come otherwise,” Sylvia said, running out the door.
By the time Sylvia returned to the hospital with her children, Winston was gone. His body was covered with a white sheet, the plastic respirator mask and machine off. Sylvia noticed how crisp, how white the sheet was, despite all the blood she had seen earlier. And then the tears came, a long, low moan that she couldn’t stop.
Her children started crying, Lila became hysterical, flailing her body around. Sylvia put her arms around her daughter to brace her. Lila would have to live with her last, stinging words to him. Neither Lila nor Sylvia could ever ask for his forgiveness. Sylvia knew this moment would haunt them for years to come. They would have to live with their complicated relationship with Winston—there would be no farewells, no confessions, no forgiveness, just the suddenness of a lifeless body covered in a white sheet.
Chapter 40
Everything about Winston’s death remained unfinished. It was a Nigerian belief that after death, the spirit of the departed hovers around the home for several months. Sometimes a second burial must be performed before the spirit can join the ancestors. Neglect of proper burial rites can incur the wrath of the spirit and bring misfortune to the family. But in their haste and confusion, Sylvia had not followed the proper burial rites. According to local Yoruba custom, Winston’s body should have been taken back to his birthplace and buried under his old home. But they were in exile, they could not return to their ancestral home in China. Winston’s ancestral home had been destroyed. But she didn’t know where to bury him. Here in Africa? In Taiwan? Or in their new home—America?
They were leaving for America in a few days. Sylvia had decided to go to America, to her brother’s house in Minnesota. And so at Donna’s suggestion, for practical purposes, Sylvia cremated Winston’s body.
She should have buried him in an elaborate small mausoleum like they do in China—colorful tiled walls, the headstone facing the direction that would bring good fortune to his grandchildren and great grandchildren. They should have burned paper money, the rough yellow squares with gold-red stamps shriveling in the fire next to his grave to ensure his material comfort in the afterlife. They should have symbolically fed him a bowl of rice with chopsticks, so he would never be hungry in the next life. They should have held incense sticks and bowed multiple times to Buddhist chanting. Would Winston’s spirit be angry with them for not following the appropriate burial rites of their culture? Would he inflict misfortune on them?
Donna said once they arrived in America they could toss his ashes in the sea or river. So his body and soul could return to the earth. She said, “I think Winston might appreciate his ashes returning to the soil to be recycled into new life.” But Sylvia wasn’t so sure. It sounded disrespectful to her, like they didn’t c
are. How would they be able to pay their respects to him, then, if he was tossed away like that? Instead, Sylvia put his ashes in a lacquered Chinese box and packed the box in her carry-on Pan Am travel bag.
***
The children helped Sylvia sort through Winston’s things in the study. This was his room. They had rarely come in here when he was alive. It always felt like an intrusion. Standing in his study, touching his things—his abacus, reports, rock collection—it was the beginning for Sylvia of trying to understand who he really was.
“What should we do with his rock collection?” Thomas asked.
“You should have it. He loved it, he would spend hours categorizing new rocks he found on his trips in these glass cases,” Sylvia said.
She picked up one of the older, smaller glass rock cases. The wood of the case was old, a lacquered Chinese rosewood. The rocks in the case did not look familiar; she knew they were not from around here. On the side of the case, she saw an inscription engraved in Chinese characters. She looked carefully at the characters. Even with her limited Chinese, she could guess what it said. For my precious son, from Mama.
Sylvia almost choked. She imagined Winston as a boy, clinging to his mother as she was dying. Although Sylvia didn’t know the details of his mother’s death, she realized he had never fully recovered from this traumatic loss. Death, the vagaries of war, the life of refugees, and a cold, unloving father—all of it had stunted him emotionally. Why hadn’t she seen this before in all their years of marriage? Winston had saved Sylvia’s life, but he was incapable of loving her. Love had been taken from him at such a young age. Why hadn’t she been able to help him love again? She saw her marriage now as a missed opportunity. He had starved himself of love, and she could have cured him. She packed the glass cases with his rocks carefully in boxes to ship to America.
