by Andrew Brown
REFUGE
ANDREW BROWN
For my children,
Kayla, Kieran and Jaimen
may you never know a home
other than the tender place
that you have chosen
CONTENTS
Introduction
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Epilogue
Glossary
Bibliography and Resources
This is a work of pure fiction and any resemblance in character or situation to actual persons is coincidental. However, I would like to extend my thanks to all those members of the Nigerian and other immigrant African communities for the time they afforded me in telling me their stories. Thank you to the team at Zebra Press, especially Robert Plummer and Marlene Fryer, and to my editor, Martha Evans. My special thanks to my wife Patti, not only for her comprehensive research but also for patiently enduring the process of writing this book. There is a short bibliography at the end of this book in which some of the more interesting sources of our research on Nigeria are listed.
Werewere lewe nbo lara igi
Gbebe nii ro koko lagbala
A taboyun a ti koko
Yio ryin lorun
Gbedemuke
Gbedemuke
A ripe leaf drops easily
The cocoa in the courtyard is always green
For the pregnant mother and the child about to be born
It will be easy
Gentle
Gentle
Traditional Yoruba poem for baby-naming ceremony,
Nigeria (by Abiodun Adepoju)
‘HELLO, MY NAME is Abayomi. Please come inside.’ With this simple beginning, his world changes for ever. The sound of her voice, so close, makes it irredeemable. As with all deflowering, something fundamental is lost and something sage acquired.
He cannot see her yet. She stands in the shadow of the doorway, shielded by the glare of sunlight off the white walls. His eyes smart as he tries to make out her form. But just hearing her address him, he knows he has embarked on a course definitively contrasting to the one he has followed up until now. The sultry lilt, the suggestion of foreignness in her accent, the undertow of eroticism, all combine in an instant to unbalance him. It brings with it a freshness that unseats him and lifts his staidness. Even if he walked away now, he would have something pure and poignant to recall. He could sit alone, surrounded by bustle and noise, and call on this memory. He could pocket it like a stone and rub his thumb across its smooth form. He could store it in a velvet-lined box and take it out in privacy.
The steps that brought him to this door were small. Simple decisions made, perhaps impulsively, each without moment, but each directing him towards this culmination, this initiation. The true consequence of these half-conscious acts lies in the doorway, now open, and in the dusky interior beyond. It beckons but is ultimately treacherous. Perhaps his momentum could still be stopped, if he wished. He could retreat, apologise and leave. Or take one more step and enter. A step back, the door will close again and he will have only the glimpsed memory of another world. A step forward, the door will shut behind him and he will enter the whirlwind unleashed and be pushed along its tumultuous path of death and rebirth. Once inside, the street outside is gone for ever; he cannot pass through the same doorway again.
He is described by those around him as dependable, as having integrity – he suspects that these are other words for uninteresting. In their eyes, he knows he always looks the same, mundane and featureless. But they do not know how close he feels to losing control. He fantasises about letting go, just releasing his emotions into open space – like a swimmer suspended in the turquoise light of a deep bay, his arms and legs splayed open, far from the shore. He dreamt once that he was an astronaut, treading with heavy boots on top of his spacecraft. Looking up at the spray of distant stars, utterly quiet, he bent his knees and pushed out, his body drifting away from his ship into unbounded space. When he awoke, he had felt crushed with the weight of sadness.
His life has been an accumulation of regrets – chances that were offered and not taken, moments of opportunity that he was too afraid to grasp. He looks back in mourning. And yet the thought of abandoning his trodden path fills him with panic. He is like a tiler who sees that his pattern has run skew, but who knows that he is unable to go back and correct it, and so doggedly continues, increasingly straying from his chosen line with every tile he lays.
His whole adult life, he has been moving down an island of expectation between lanes of traffic. Some days he plods forward like a blinkered carthorse. Other days he moves like a wounded man, stumbling along his narrow strip, with surging trucks passing on either side. No one can see him bleeding; to them he is walking deliberately, not staggering and thrashing. Small decisions, tiny forks in his road, he knows, have appeared each day and directed his passage. But the deviations have been so minute that he has remained on the same skewed path, as if it were predicted. Fear, familiarity, loathing; these are the untouchable fences that border his route, subtle and unfelt but as strong as cable wire. If he steps off the island, he will strike into other worlds, those that now rush past, inches away, and be sucked away by lives unknown. The possibility scares him – the idea of floating untethered, buffeted by collisions with strangers. But he has reached the edge of his designated space and must now choose to step out or pull back into torpor.
She stands just behind the opened door, hiding herself from the curious eyes of passers-by, waiting for him to enter. With a drawn breath, he steps into the passageway. She has not moved away and is standing close to him now. The passage is softly lit compared to the bright sun outside. It smells of sandalwood, cedar and palm oil. The fragrance reminds him of the beach house where he stayed as a child on the shores of Inhambane. There he would sit on the wooden deck with his toes digging into the warm sand, the palm fronds rustling overhead in the afternoon wind. He would watch the bare-chested men pulling the boats along the shallow shore. The bows were marked with peeling paint, red and green and yellow, creosoted sweeps of wood meeting together at a solid keel that scoured a path up the beach. Small fish looped together on knotted ropes, and salt water dripped freely down the men’s muscled backs. The vanilla aroma of chestnuts and cashews roasting on a nearby fire drifted in the air. Behind him on the deck, the young housemaid pounded maize kernels for the evening meal, her dress rucked up on her hips, smelling of cheap soap and hair oil.
The door closes and the lock clicks quietly behind him.
‘Welcome to Touch of Africa. I am Abayomi. I am your pleasure.’
ONE
STEFAN SVRITSKY WAS a man who had long ago mastered his own fear. Its defeat allowed him to trade mercilessly on the trepidation of others. He was born into a poor family in the industrial city of Murmansk, situated on the Kola Peninsula in the extreme northwest of Russia. Although the port was ice-free all year round, and for this reason had historically been an important naval base, the city was still situated within the Arctic Circle, and life in the grimy housing estate was hard. His father had been a deckhand on a naval supply ship; he had exacted the same military discipline at home that he endured at work, terrorising the small household with short-tempered commands. His death in an accident at sea was treated as an unspoken respite. But the family was left to survive on a paltry
widow’s pension and, to help make ends meet, Svritsky left school early to join his older brother as a stevedore at the commercial harbour.
His brother had seemed content with the back-breaking labour and biting chill of the open quays, but Svritsky was always vigilant, looking for an opportunity to escape. He soon noted that certain consignments were treated differently: while all incoming cargo was subjected to ruthless Soviet bureaucracy, the wooden crates destined for the offices of the local militia were loaded onto a separate truck, under the watchful eye of the police commissioner. Svritsky ensured that he was always present to assist with these loads, nodding to the commissioner in deference before the consignments were whisked away. After a month or two the commissioner started to nod back, subtly tilting his head to signify that he had noticed the young man’s loyal attentions. Then one morning, while they were offloading a new consignment, one of the men stumbled, letting a crate slip forward. Its corner struck the concrete, and the sound of splitting wood and the shout of anger from the commissioner brought the quay to a standstill. Svritsky leapt forward and bellowed at his colleague, distracting him from the bottles of expensive whisky that glinted between the broken slats. He swiftly threw a tarpaulin over the crate.
The commissioner eyed him cautiously, saying nothing. But when the next consignment came in, the policeman barked instructions at the controller, and Svritsky was assigned responsibility for overseeing the loading of the shipment. Before long, the commissioner no longer bothered to attend at the docks, and Svritsky transported the illegal cargo to the militia offices himself. By the end of that year, he had left the docks altogether and had started working within the militia, assisting with a variety of nefarious activities. He rose swiftly in the ranks of the Soviet underworld, combining loyalty with stark self-interest. For years he wielded brutal control over the black market in northern Russia, supplying the political elite with their illicit luxuries. The militia’s monopoly came to an end with the collapse of the Union. Import controls imploded and opportunistic mobsters staked their territories with violence. Russia became an increasingly dangerous place for a former militia racketeer, and Svritsky was forced to flee. After a two-year stint in West Africa, he arrived in Cape Town without connection or family, but he soon turned this lack of emotional contact to his advantage. His unflinching self-reliance allowed him to exploit the slightest weaknesses in others; his dislocation made him untouchable. The Russian’s determination and willingness to exploit people to achieve his ends made him a vicious competitor. The combination of intelligence and ruthlessness quickly outmatched local gangsters; where they resorted to threats and expletives, Svritsky executed his plans with deliberation. He soon occupied a powerful position within the inner-city clubs and businesses.
Svritsky’s steely reputation was belied by a round body and a fleshy, folded face, often damp with perspiration. His smooth head and button nose added to his porcine appearance. He had been plagued by acne as an adolescent, and his skin had the mottled texture of cold porridge. White-grey stubble sometimes hid the worst of the scarring, but when he was angry the flesh around his neck burned as if scalded and the pockmarks flared like wounds. His right forearm was dominated by a tattoo of a naked woman holding a coiled snake at bay, its thick body twisted around her uplifted thigh, pulling between her legs and rearing in front of her pointy red nipples.
Svritsky liked to wear loose Bermuda shorts, which sometimes extended halfway down his stocky legs, with white socks and running shoes. Short-sleeved golf shirts accentuated his barrel chest and strong, hairy arms. It was a dress code that would have made most businessmen look ridiculous, but in his case it somehow added to the sense of menace. His eyes revealed his true resolve: the iris could seem almost opaque, a lifeless grey like the colour of the sea in the harbour of his home town, only to transform to a searing green, the iridescent colour of burning barium. The Russian was at his most threatening when he directed this blazing intensity at his victim.
Richard Calloway watched as his client now focused these scalding eyes on the diminutive figure of Cerissa du Toit, the National Prosecuting Authority’s senior controller. Du Toit had pursued Svritsky across the breadth of his career in the country, indicting him on an array of charges, including attempted murder, fraud, corruption, dealing in narcotics and tax evasion. Success had eluded her, thanks largely to Richard’s efforts as Svritsky’s lawyer. She had secured an incidental conviction relating to undeclared income and a finding on assault with a small fine. It was a deeply unsatisfying record, and her disappointment had not been assuaged by the wild tantrum Svritsky threw in court on hearing his conviction.
Svritsky had first arrived at Richard’s office, nearly twelve years earlier, charged with possession of cocaine. Relying on the combined ineptitude of the investigating officer and the prosecutor, Richard had been able to secure his acquittal. Then one of the Russian’s henchmen had been charged with extortion. The case proved to be Richard’s first glimpse into the unforgiving world that Svritsky inhabited. A mediocre investigation and the reluctance of frightened witnesses to testify had allowed him to undermine the State’s case, although the matter had dragged on in the district court for months. A series of high-profile cases followed, and Svritsky soon became Richard’s most profitable client. But it was an ambiguous prosperity: his client repulsed him, both in his physical being and in his sordid business practices. Richard wondered at the romantic perception of organised crime, still portrayed in films and books as somehow noble in its dogged loyalty and courage.
In spite of his misgivings, it had initially amused him to drop his client’s name at dinner parties, shocking the staid middle-class couples. For a while, he had entertained them with wicked stories of the underworld. But these opportunities were scarce and hardly compensated for the hours he had to spend sitting close to his client, soaking up his oily vitriol. He sometimes felt he needed to shower after consulting with Svritsky, and had an urge to scrub the sticky back of his neck and pour hot water through his hair. He was tired of the unremitting posturing. And bored.
When he had read the new criminal docket three days ago, the allegations had all had a feeling of jaded inevitability. Even as he read through the witness statements, he could hear the cross-examination in his head, the repeated objections, the accusations of deceit, the courtroom antics that would play out. Closing the file, it felt to him as if the trial had already concluded. He had no energy to proceed with the minutiae of instructions, to explore factual disputes and open up the cracks in the case. But lurking behind the pages was an anxiety about what failure would bring with it. Svritsky expected success, and the thought of losing on an instruction from the Russian mobster always quickened Richard’s heart. He had tried to refuse a case, once, but his client’s eyes had blazed with unspoken threats.
Svritsky’s restrained aggression towards Du Toit put Richard on edge now. Bringing his client along had been a tactical decision designed to unsettle – perhaps even intimidate – his adversary, but as he watched Svritsky’s body tilt forward like a taurine wrestler about to charge, he wondered whether the strategy had not been too adventurous. He placed a hand on his client’s bare arm, but Svritsky’s eyes were locked on Du Toit.
For her part, she stood unmoved, ignoring the snorting figure before her and addressing Richard directly. ‘Mr Calloway, I have no interest in seeing your client,’ she snapped. ‘In fact, I have no interest in seeing you either. But since you requested an appointment in advance, I will do you the courtesy of listening to you. Briefly.’
Du Toit’s hair was cut short, with thin tails plied against the skin in front of her ears. She wore almost no jewellery and dressed in unremarkable outfits – monotone slacks and loose jackets. Her face was thin and pointed and her voice tended to be strident and grating, but her body language was always self-assured. Richard found dealing with her in person unnerving, often feeling like a scolded child, despite the fact that they were contemporaries. He had to remind himself that
he had repeatedly warded off her legal assaults against his client. Yet with each renewed challenge, he felt the nagging certainty that her tenacious pursuit was sure to bear results in the end.
This time the charge was culpable homicide. It was alleged that, soon after New Year, Svritsky had been the driver of a Ford V8 Coupe that had run down, and killed, a young man crossing a deserted street near the city centre. The State alleged that Svritsky had stopped his car, got out and, on discovering that the man was dead, fled the scene. Aggravating circumstances included failure to report the incident and failure to call for any medical assistance. Instead, the State alleged, the morning after the accident, Svritsky had arrived at the police station and reported the vehicle stolen. The charge was unusual; it had nothing to do with his client’s business dealings, and Svritsky was dismissive. But Richard was wary: it was precisely because the incident was accidental and not deliberate that it could prove difficult to manage and was therefore potentially dangerous.
‘Cerissa,’ Richard countered, forcing an attempt at warmth in his tone. ‘I know it’s February already, but, still, compliments of the season and let’s hope the year is a good one for us all.’
‘Mr Calloway, don’t try and schmooze your way around me. We both know that a good year for me is a bad one for you and your client. So let’s cut the crap. Tell your client to wait outside and you can see me. Though God knows what you think I’m going to do for you.’ With that, she turned on her heel and clipped back into her office, leaving the door ajar as an invitation for Richard to follow.
‘Cute,’ Richard said light-heartedly to Svritsky, but his client was seething.
‘I will cut her fucking heart out and show it to her while it is still beating. Bitch.’ Richard flinched at the heat of the response. Svritsky’s jaw was clenched tight and the tattoo on his arm seemed to move, the snake and the naked woman dancing lasciviously as he flexed his muscles.
