by Robin Winter
"It's a mess, we can agree on that," Lindsey said, a flush on her cheeks. "But we shouldn't talk politics. It's asking for a fight and we're too good at that."
Sandy watched Gilman's face go still, holding back. Wilton looked down, and it felt to Sandy as if every one of them drew a breath, taking a moment. Surely something could be done. American and British influence could stop this disaster in its tracks.
"As I was saying, Gilman, you ought to get Wilton to take you to that bush station where she works on her birds—the place that impressed Sandy so much," Lindsey said.
The change in subject felt like an affront. Sandy took another slug of her dregs. Wilton rose and left the room, probably headed again to the radio and more bad news.
"It was beautiful," Sandy said. "Wilton's bush station, way out back of beyond."
Sandy tried to go back in her mind, really think about what Lindsey had said about Wilton and her place out in the bush. No. Not impressed. Sandy hadn't felt anything so simple as that.
Disturbed, was the reality of it. A place out of time, the retreat of a sage or a prophet. The sort of place you see in cartoons with the tired businessman pulling himself up the last ledge to find the philosopher in meditation gazing over the world. Hairpin roads to reach Wilton's two-room refuge built of red clay and thatch in the green Eastern borderland. Right on the edge of the Cameroon mountains. Great geology. Sugarloaf hills of emerald green melting into craggy quartz-rich stone outcroppings rearing up to the foggy sky. Frost in the morning silvering the grass, a taste of wood smoke on the air. A different land, so far from the noise and heat of the rest of Nigeria.
"Wilton overlooks the world," Sandy said. Lindsey didn't seem to hear her. Gilman seemed focused on Lindsey. Sandy wasn't going to repeat herself. But she remembered smelling the odor of paper burning the second night she'd slept at Wilton's bush station, how she'd gone to the screened window and watched Wilton's solitary figure on the open grassy knoll feed scraps of paper to a fire in a great barrel, watching the flames as if she made some ancient sacrifice. The pieces flared and jumped, whirling black rags of ash, and cast Wilton's shadow across the rippling grass.
Discarded sketches of birds? Sandy didn't think so. She let herself retreat into her own memories. Prophecy. Shaman. Yes, that was Wilton's gig.
Sandy jumped when Lindsey said, "Earth to Sandy."
"Remember." Sandy looked back at their puzzled faces. "Hell, remember why we came to Nigeria and look at what we've got. People said we were crazy. My family threatened to put me in an insane asylum. No African county's safe for young white women, they said. You can't do any good. What the devil's wrong with you—do you wanna be a missionary? Except of course they didn't use that language."
Sandy paused a moment and then continued. "Now look at where we are and what we're doing. Gilman making the blind see, the cripples walk. Lindsey getting the best people jobs in her office and beyond. Lindsey setting policy one comma at a time. Building Nigeria. Me, I get to travel and treasure hunt. Like a bitchin' dream come true. You should see the mines up north, smell the oil on the air in the mangrove swamp down south, prime grade. Even your food tastes of it when you're there."
She saw the irritation melt out of Gilman's face, her mouth soften and smile. There, that was better.
"We'll all be okay," Sandy said, "so long as we stay friends."
Hell, now it was her saying it, like a carbon copy of Wilton. And speak of the devil, in came Wilton. More news by the look of her tight face.
"The Biafrans have claimed major sections of the oil production areas for Biafra," Wilton said.
"Oh shit," Sandy said. "That's money."
Chapter 12: Wilton
January 1967
Nsukka, Biafra
The afternoon that Lindsey and Sandy returned West, Wilton drove up one of the great green-flanked hills outside of the town, left the car and stood on the ridge, alone with her Africa.
"I thought I heard you call my name," Wilton said. She walked through the shimmer of wiry grasses, the wind blowing her hair about her face. On every side of her rose the repeating shapes of the ancient land to which she spoke.
Under the clouded sky, that land took on a somber magnificence, the dry grass gold subdued. Swathes of blades bent in the wind, catching the fugitive light with a gleam a thousand times mirrored. Below in the narrow valleys clustered the secretive darkness of palms and vines, more black than green. She heard the wailing, repeated cry of hornbills down among those tangled branches.
Wilton started for the next crest, climbed the rising ridge. She shivered at the sensual attraction of the earth, pushed her shoulders into the full warm rush of air.
She'd bound herself to this place—she knew its secrets. There would come a day when she would hold this nation in her hands and shape it for the future. The most powerful black African nation would become a reality—democratic and tribeless. She swore it anew to the land around her, pacing the spine covered with bent grasses, her hands catching at the wind by her sides.
She looked down at her right hand, and to her eyes, more used to the rich tones of teak or ebony Nigerian skin, that hand looked branded by its pallor. Set apart, excepted. An outsider from the start, all her life she'd worked her will through others, starting with the education and conversion of servants, moving inevitably to the more delicate selling of dreams to her American friends. She had from her birth borne the stigmata of her difference. Scars that held power. She had from youth known that what she did must be done indirectly. Out of pain came the will to act.
She looked up and laughed, not hearing the sound in the wind. Oh no, never a racist—if anyone asked she would honestly say she dreamed of a day when her Nigerians would become her equals, yes, and her superiors too. Now they had no chance. She would make it for them. But to call them her peers today was sentimental foolishness. She and her kind must first share opportunity and knowledge. Her aristocracy took its roots in her education, her culture, her ethics and this God-given vision.
Wilton and her friends would educate, manipulate, groom the best of the Nigerians they found until they were fit for rulership. Lindsey could pull down the foolish men who borrowed her money, dictating policy by economic blackmail. Sandy would keep Lindsey connected to the people—Sandy had a gift for friendship, a talent that would hold Lindsey back from too little passion. That was Lindsey's fault, her indifference to the sins and loves of other human beings. Gilman would be Wilton's one pure gift to the common people, a doctor with gifts of skill and adaptability like no other, who could mend and comfort the poor and wealthy alike.
She whispered their names in painful delight, "Lindsey, Sandy, Gilman," as though she'd tell the land around her who they were. She'd brought them here to serve. What higher calling could they have? What a joy that they were of such quality that separations and trials would never break them. These women were her own tribe until the day no tribes would stand. Wilton, near tears, smiled.
Dreams, such dreams, as though she would be the one to begin and end the story. But for what other reason had she been born and bred and given this vision?
Chapter 13: Wilton
January 1967
Lagos, Western Region, Nigeria
Three weeks later, feeling that she had already been away too long, Wilton went to Lagos to see Lindsey. Dismayed, she hesitated at street level, wondering if the new address might be wrong. An enormous new building, with security guards at the doors. One had to submit identification for inspection. Quite a contrast, too much of one. People would notice so drastic a change, they'd speculate, and that meant possible exposure.
Lindsey was supposed to analyze economic data in the offices that did such work for the American Consulate, acting at need as a business liason to facilitate contractural agreements between the two countries. That's not what it looked like now. This building was Nigerian Government, and Wilton knew there must be rumors.
Wilton crossed the air-conditioned anteroom, white walled,
white ceilinged and bare. Cold. No one sat at the polished desk at the back of the reception room. She paused, considering the heavy wooden door without a name on it. The plan had been for Lindsey to keep a low profile. Anonymity bought freedom. Lindsey should be boring, linear, moving behind the scenes. Slow and quiet. Not this leap into a private office with a deserted waiting room, even if the door had no nameplate. Economic advisor, was that her new title? Wilton reached out a hand.
The door swung onto an impression of space and air, and heat. The high ceiling boasted only a fan and two open windows, no air conditioner. For comforts, a pale couch and bare coffee table, a desk of mirror-polished mahogany with accompanying chair, shelf after shelf of books and in one corner like a banner—a geological map of Nigerian brilliance, colors of pink and green and violet tracking the history of soil and stone, stitched in black print.
Lindsey seemed paler than the papers on her desk, silhouetted against the rows of leather-bound books and rolled maps and a scatter of wooden sculptures. A deliberate evocation of an English library, with elements of Africa to jar the senses.
"I see the effects of your promotion," Wilton said.
"Isn't it cool?" Lindsey's fair skin seemed to glow with unusual emotion.
This was what it took to make Lindsey happy? Wilton looked down at the carpeted floor so that Lindsey couldn't read her.
"I never thought to hear you use that expression." Mild. Make it sound like a joke.
"That's what Sandy said when she saw this office."
"How's the war? Does it change things for you?"
"Nothing to notice. Drilling soldiers and articles in the paper, that's all. Traffic's worse than ever. We'll evacuate the Americans from Biafra if the peace conference fails. Let's relocate you to the Mid-West, closer to us, just in case."
"What do you think of Commander in Chief Gowon?" Wilton would not answer such a demand from Lindsey. "Can he make peace?"
"Or war?" Lindsey looked amused. "Member of a minority tribe out of the North. Christian. A good combination for politics right now. He might survive. Other than that I can't say."
Oh, I will do what I can to see that he does. Wilton looked down at the carpet, aware of the movement as Lindsey turned an envelope. Wilton felt her unease stir again. Lindsey wanted her to leave, not discuss the changes she saw in Lindsey's operation. Why? They couldn't serve a cause without trust between the two of them.
"He's not going to let Biafra secede," Lindsey said. "He's waiting maybe, for a Fort Sumter."
"Not too long?" Wilton let her voice rise as if in a question. "He can't afford weakness."
She turned away, glancing at the large window on the South side of the room. No shutters, wide open with the heat of the day and rumbling street noise sweeping in from the city.
"You shouldn't have those windows open. Your new office, your new status, all make you a target," Wilton said.
"I don't like air conditioning. It reads like an admission of weakness, makes me look like just any other soft expatriate wilting in Africa. Ceiling fans are okay—even the Nigerians use them."
My friend, your days of open windows are over.
"Rumors tell me it's time to give you a personal assistant, more than a guard, more than security. I'll speak with Sandy," Wilton said. "I'll send you Oroko. He's the best of his kind. For any job."
Wilton saw Lindsey's eyes brighten with interest, the coppery glint sharp.
"There are orders I don't want to give Sandy. Childish, I suppose," Lindsey said. "I'll eventually learn not to worry about her opinion."
"No," Wilton said. "Never dismiss what Sandy feels. What Sandy thinks balances you. But there are things you need to make happen and she shouldn't be involved. It might trouble her. She's still very linear."
"Loyal," Lindsey said.
"Oh yes. Loyal and linear. But there must be changes—look at this afternoon. I walked in. No one stopped me. No one asked me why I came. Look at the window, wide open. Given this office, given your sudden rise, the people to whom you report, you can't afford privacy. As I said, I'll speak with Sandy."
She moved back from the desk, feeling off-balance, uneasy.
"The people I report to?" Lindsey said.
Wilton faced her, silent, but in a violation of her normal oblique manner, she looked straight at Lindsey, met those brown eyes. Did Lindsey believe she could deceive her?
Lindsey blinked. "You'll come to dinner tonight?" An offering or a negotiation? She didn't indicate which. "After talking about it for months we finally got a larger apartment to share in Lagos. I'll give you the address."
"Good. But I won't eat with you tonight. I have friends to see. People my father knew."
She shouldn't have said so much. No need for Lindsey to know what she would do that night, but it was too late to take it back.
Chapter 14: Sandy
February 1967
Lagos, Western Region, Nigeria
God, yeah, Wilton and Gilman used to call her "Lindsey's bodyguard," but Sandy hadn't taken it seriously. Not 'til Wilton sent her a new man to interview a few days after Lindsey changed jobs and offices. Sandy waited for him in her spare office, smelling the hot Harmattan air that came dust laden through the windows, and fiddling with a sample of malachite she'd collected up in the tin mine area around Jos. Fuckin' A. She'd damned well prefer to be there now out under a sun so bright it seemed without color, the wind picking up between tumbled rocks like a giant's playthings left scattered across the sere landscape.
"You pay attention to people," Wilton told her. "You're good at it. Lindsey spends all her time moving people around like chess pieces. You like to make them laugh."
"Why don't you hire the bodyguards for her?"
"To have authority over them, it has to be you."
Made sense. Though sometimes Sandy thought it was strange how Wilton brought them all to Nigeria and then seemed to spend all her time out of sight. She flipped the rock in her fingers, admiring the bandings of different greens.
Now Wilton pushed Oroko at Sandy, and something in Wilton's manner made it clear that this one was special. He'd supervise the two bodyguards Sandy hired earlier. Might add to them.
"There's a war coming and who knows what may happen in this crazy city. Besides," Wilton said, "there's some work you need done without close supervision. He's good at that type of detail and you can trust him with Lindsey all the way."
Wilton nodded and stepped out the door, leaving Sandy to pull the cap down over her eyes until she realized she was doing it. She pitched the cap across the room and sat up when someone rapped on the door.
"Come in," Sandy said.
A fine young man, slender, perhaps in his mid-twenties. No scars on his face, no signs of past violence. Precise in a white long-sleeved shirt and pressed trousers. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles, which gave him the look of a scholar, anything but a thug. She rose and offered him a handshake and wondered if this could be the right guy. Simple, good grasp, not too hard, not too rushed. No calluses.
"Mr. Oroko?"
"Just Oroko, Madam Hemsfort."
"I'm Sandy. Have a beer." She turned to the small fridge behind her desk. Sandy felt his hesitation, but didn't wait.
"And take a seat, please."
He could have been any Joe, that was her primary impression. A clerk, an office man.
"I'll let you open it so you know I didn't poison you." She could have kicked herself. Way to go, Sandy.
He took the glass she handed him, opened the bottle and tilted about half of the lager in.
"I see," he said. "But you forgot to wash the glass in front of me."
"Yet still you drink." Joking back was the last thing she'd expected.
He lifted the glass to his lips in proof.
"On behalf of my principal, I want to employ you. Exclusively," Sandy said.
There, it was out. Of course he woulda done his research. Woulda guessed. She noted strength in his wrists, the hands balanced like a sculptor
's. Did he like to strangle or was he a jack-of-all-trades?
He shook his head. "More than any question of expense, I require variety, challenge."
"I wouldn't waste your time with anything less."
"So you say."
He drank like a girl, a little at a time as if he thought the lager tasted bitter.
Sandy took a gulp of hers. The beading on the glass cooled her hand.
"Besides, Wilton told me you're our man."
His eyes went opaque, pupils closing in, and that was when she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. He looked down. He sat still, elegant to the point of a reproof, but Sandy knew better now. She'd thought earlier of asking for his real name, but now she knew she wouldn't. She heard the plaintive call of a beggar on the street below, then the buzz of a motorcycle passing.
"I would not make Professor Wilton a liar," he said, his voice flat.
"It's almost five o'clock and my stomach thinks my goddamned throat's been cut. Drink up and let's blow this pop stand. Join me for dinner."
He didn't question her idiom, simply nodded. Sandy watched him swallow. She wondered if she would ever know what made him agree.
Chapter 15: Oroko
February 1967
Lagos, Western Region, Nigeria
Oroko stood by the corner where the flickering streetlight couldn't reach. He watched and explored the night air with every sense. Tumbled broken cardboard boxes by a storefront barred in iron for the night, a splay of broken glass from a green bottle. A drift of quality aftershave and sweat. A man slipped into a doorway and the door opened without a sound. Perhaps on the other side a person watched for the moment when the right men came. Business afoot? Not his business anymore, but it honed his skills to pay attention. He might have a new employer, but it wouldn't take him away from the streets he knew so well. The place he almost belonged.
Oroko never knew why he had no scars, no clear tribe, no identity displayed upon his face, but he'd lied about it as often as lies worked. An orphan is bad luck, bad for the parents, bad for the village, bad for the tribe, bringing death. So he was a death bringer and in his mind that had become his profession long before he left the orphanage and the missionaries with their white hands and weak eyes. Expatriates proved soft in more than flesh. He found so much about death in their books. They praised his eagerness and his memorization and creativity without seeing the pattern in what interested him.
