by P J Skinner
‘He died,’ said Sam, as she sniffed and reached into her bag for a tissue, using it to dab at her eyes.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps you will find a nice man in Simbako,’ said the immigration officer, chastened.
Sam wanted to mention flying pigs, but she wasn’t stupid. The now sympathetic woman stamped her passport and waved her through. Sam managed a brave smile as she disappeared into an old aircraft hangar converted into a makeshift baggage collection hall.
Two carousels, or what remained of them, occupied one end, but their pitiful state showed that maintenance had long ceased. Hundreds of people milled around large heaps of luggage, shouting instructions to the small boys who separated bags from the pile to get themselves a tip. Sam recognised the Irish man standing beside a heap piled high with bags. The luggage carts arrived and the suitcases were flung off into a new pile at dizzying speed. No-one dared to approach whilst the bags were flying.
‘There’s mine,’ shouted someone.
The crowd of onlookers surged forward and pulled at the stack of bags. Sam realised that she didn’t stand a chance in the melee and waited until the worst of the pushing and shoving had finished. She stood back and watched the chaos.
Mosquitos filled the air, each one bigger and more voracious than the last. They circled her, buzzing in her ear. She fumbled in her handbag for her insect repellent. As she removed the spray, a large mosquito landed on her arm and she swiped at it, dropping the bottle. It rolled along the ground, stopping between the gnarled feet of a tall old man in a decrepit wheelchair. The man appeared to be asleep and showed no sign of noticing. Sam approached him.
‘Excuse me.’
He straightened, looking up at her, his watery eyes searching her face. The tribal scarring on his cheeks gave them the appearance of a ploughed field and tight grey curls covered his head and neck.
‘Hello, my dear, do I know you? I’m sure I’d remember someone with such beautiful green eyes.’
‘Gosh, um, no, my name is Sam, Sam Harris. My insect repellent has rolled under your feet. Is it okay for me to retrieve it?’
He peered down at his feet, reptilian in their dryness with long uncut nails sticking out of worn sandals.
‘Only if I can have some.’
Sam glanced at him to see if it was a joke. He peered at her and she called his bluff.
‘It’s a deal.’
She bent down and retrieved the bottle, spraying herself from top-to-toe first so the mosquitos wouldn’t bother her. They both coughed in the noxious cloud. She held out the bottle, but the old man stretched out his hands, which were already bitten.
‘They love me,’ he said. ‘Can you put it on for me please? Arthritis, you know.’
An odd request, but it seemed genuine and she had nothing better to do. She crouched at his feet and sprayed repellent onto his hands, rubbing it all over the backs and between the fingers. She caressed the cruel arthritic growths on the joints. The old man purred with relief. She looked up and smiled at him. A smile of pure happiness as she revelled in her career and the surprises it entailed. He smiled too. His rheumy eyes seemed to pierce her soul and transfix her.
A loud voice behind her broke her reverie.
‘What are you doing? How dare you touch the Paramount Chief?’
‘The who? Um, he asked me.’
‘Get away from him.’
Sam stood up and turned around. Behind her, a small, round man of indeterminate age had arrived. He had a pencil moustache and piggy eyes and his head was shaved, leaving a dark triangle on his forehead. A snakeskin belt divided his rotund middle into two equally unflattering halves. He didn’t appear to be the owner of the loud voice, but no other potential candidates offered themselves. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away.
‘Tamba! That’s unnecessary. The young woman helped me. Sorry, he’s overzealous sometimes.’
Sam shook herself free of Tamba’s grasp.
‘Oh, that’s alright. I didn’t realise I shouldn’t touch you. You must be very important.’
‘A big fish in a small pond, my dear. I’m Joseph Sesay, Paramount Chief of Fona.’
‘Fona? That’s where I’m going.’
‘You are? How splendid. We’ll see you there. Won’t we, Tamba?’
Tamba had grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and was already pushing it towards the luggage. Sam moved back in front of them and shoved the bottle of repellent into Sesay’s hand.
‘Here. Take it. I’ve got lots in my luggage.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, you can give it back to me when I get to Fona.’
She was almost run over by the wheelchair as Tamba shoved it towards her. She jumped out of the way. He stared over his shoulder at Sam and mouthed, ‘Stay away.’
She stuck out her tongue without thinking.
‘You’ve just insulted his ancestors.’
Sam recognised the dulcet tones of her travelling companion. She spun around ready to defend herself and saw that he was smiling.
‘If they’re anything like him, they probably deserved it.’
‘Only kidding. Did you get your bag yet? There’s a terrible scrum over there.’
‘No, I’m waiting for it to die down.’
‘Good luck with that.’ And he launched himself at the pile of bags, grabbing a large suitcase from the top. ‘Bye now, don’t forget to buy a ticket for the helicopter.’
Helicopter? What did he mean? But he was striding out of the hangar without a backward glance.
The hubbub subsided and Sam moved closer. She held her overnight case between her legs and surveyed the remaining bags without spotting her suitcase. She did a circuit of the luggage while it diminished down to zero. When only herself and another cross-looking woman remained, it was obvious that her suitcase had not been on the flight with her. She let out a sigh.
‘Oh, God, I can’t believe it,’ she said to her fellow victim. 'Do you know where we go to report a missing bag?’
‘Yes, I do. This isn’t the first time.’
‘Did you get it back?’
‘Yes, it’ll be here on tomorrow’s flight. They leave luggage in London when there is a lot of cargo. Come on, we need to go upstairs.’ She indicated some shabby rooms at the back of the hangar, accessible by shiny metal steps. Perhaps the old ones had collapsed?
They climbed the stairs dragging their carry-on bags and pushed through the door which banged behind them. The woman tending the desk of the left luggage office was talking on the telephone and glanced up in irritation as the door slammed. She showed no inclination to attend to them, turning her back and leaning against the counter. From the bits of conversation that Sam picked up, she was fighting with her boyfriend in a circular argument that threatened to continue for hours.
After several minutes, Sam lost her patience and tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me. We need to report lost luggage.’
‘You can wait here. I’m busy.’
Sam’s companion said something in a local tongue that sounded quite rude. The other woman hissed something into the receiver and almost threw it into the telephone cradle, which already had a crack running through it.
‘What’s the rush?’ she said.
‘We need to catch the helicopter,’ said Sam’s fellow victim.
The helicopter again. Why take a helicopter to Njahili? Were the taxi’s that slow? Perhaps the centre of town had traffic jams? Sam had seen the town when they landed so it wasn't far away.
The process of registration seemed calculated to test their patience. Forms were completed in triplicate by inserting pieces of ancient carbon paper between the sheets. Each piece of baggage had its own separate form.
The air swarmed with mosquitos. Sam had given her repellent to the Chief, assuming she could use the other bottles she had packed in her luggage. Now she was defenceless. How could she have been so stupid? She would
look like an amateur. Not a good start. She sighed. At least she had covered herself before she gave the bottle away. Now that daylight was setting in, the mosquitos should disappear too.
‘Come on,’ her companion said, ‘we must go now if we’re going to catch the helicopter.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam. ‘What helicopter are you’re talking about?’
An expression of surprise flashed across the woman’s face.
‘To Njahili. Otherwise, you must take the ferry from Chena. It’ll take you all day to get to town.’
‘Where do I get a ticket?’
‘You don’t have one?’ Genuine concern showed on her face. ‘Run downstairs. The ticket office is beside the foreign exchange desk. Enjoy your trip to Simbako.’
‘Thank you.’
Sam grabbed her overnight bag and descended the stairs into the arrivals hall. She noticed a small booth with a picture of a helicopter on it. As she ran towards it, she saw a man leaving it by a side door.
‘Hello? Please, don’t go yet, I need a ticket.’
‘You’re too late.’
‘But they lost my luggage. I had to go upstairs and fill in some forms.’
‘You should have bought a ticket first. I’ve shut the desk. You must go by ferry.’
‘Please, it’s my first visit. I didn’t realise I had to buy a ticket.’
‘That’s not my problem. Take the bus from outside the airport to Chena. You can get the ferry there.’ He stalked off without a backward glance.
‘You’ll need local currency,’ said a voice.
Chapter III
The bus was full to bursting. Sam had to squeeze onto the steps beside the entrance where she hung on to the greasy handrail to avoid being bumped out of the open door. How could Alex have forgotten to tell her that Njahili town and airport were on opposite sides of the river? At least she could breathe the cool morning air from her precarious perch as the interior of the bus was claustrophobic. People squashed together, sweating and chatting and sitting on suitcases.
The journey to Chena took an hour and a half, by which time the cheery atmosphere in the bus had evaporated. Sam’s legs ached with effort and it was a relief to step down from the door and head for the ferry. She was hoping to sit down and rest on the journey across the river, but, as the vessel came into view, it became obvious they would have to stand again. Designed to transport cattle, the ferry had partitions, but no seating.
The passengers from the airport bus walked up the gangway into the hold and crammed in with locals from Chena and the goods they were taking to sell in Njahili. Sam walked aboard and placed herself against the side of the ferry. She leaned her bag against the rusty paint and, half-sitting-half-standing, readied herself for the crossing. The journey was becoming an ordeal. No wonder everyone was so obsessed with taking the helicopter.
The ferry set off across the estuary; its engine belching clouds of diesel smoke which hung over the hold, making Sam feel sick. The tide ebbed at full strength, pulling the boat down river away from their destination. The ferry rode low in the water and waves broke against the sides. Salt water accumulated in the bottom, sloshing around their feet.
Sam stood up and balanced her bag on top of her foot so the water would not seep into it. People murmured and glanced nervously about the boat. Their anxiety was catching. Sam willed the boat through the swell. The vessel might be safe enough, but it felt precarious as it bounced between the waves. She bet herself a million dollars they didn't keep life jackets on board. Would she make it to shore if the boat sank?
The water washed over her shoes and crept up her trouser legs. She lifted the bag higher, her arms tiring with the effort. On her right, a woman pulled out a rosary and started muttering invocations. Sam tightened her grip on the bag, her heart racing. She tried to focus on the shoreline which loomed closer, wooden houses sloping on its banks. The size of the waves increased as they turned upriver to head for the jetty. One large wave broke over the boat, soaking people and their goods. Just when the tension on the ferry became unbearable, the currents diminished as they entered the leeward side of the promontory which sheltered the small harbour.
They docked to a show of great relief, the passengers spilling out onto dry land with shouts of delight. Sam dropped her bag on the quay, her arms aching with effort and her heart thudding.
‘How do I get to Njahili?’ she asked a well-dressed woman whom she recognised as having been on the bus from the airport with her.
‘The bus leaves from the quay to the centre of town, or you can get a taxi,’ said the woman. ‘Where are you going?’
‘The Plane Tree estate.’
‘I’m going there myself. Do you want to ride with me? We can share the cost.’
Sam made a quick decision, taking the lady at face value. They were both in the same boat, or had been.
‘That would be great. I don’t think I can face standing up again.’
‘You wait here and I’ll get one for us.’
Minutes later, an ancient vehicle pulled up alongside with the lady in the back. The taxi had seen better days. The door and window handles were missing. The windows had been jammed open with newspaper stuffed between the doorframe and glass. The driver had wired the boot shut, so Sam stood uncertainly with her bag on the pavement.
‘Get in,’ said the driver. ‘Put your bag on the front seat.’
He threw open the door, which sagged on its hinges. Sam put her bag inside and shut the door with caution. She tried not to be judgemental about the state of the car, sliding onto the seat beside her companion. The springs in the back seat poked through the cushions and she found it difficult to sit without impaling herself. Her companion passed her an old newspaper without comment. Sam slid it under her bottom and smiled gratefully.
They set out, pottering along the bumpy road. The heat became suffocating as the sun rose in the sky. There wasn't any air-conditioning in the vehicle and her back soon stuck to the plastic seat covers. The drive into Njahili took them past shanty towns of wood and breeze-block houses with corrugated iron roofs built along roads of red earth littered with ruts and potholes. Tall palms lined the route, interspersed with wide mango trees under which local traders had set up rickety tables groaning with fruit. Small children played football and bent over games of marbles in the gutters. Washing lines festooned the streets with old clothes, some no better than rags, like a poor man’s Christmas decorations.
As they got into the suburbs, the buildings contained more storeys and some even had balconies, also being used to dry washing. The road surface changed from mud to gravel and patches of tarmac appeared. Instead of speeding up the journey though, the change coincided with an exponential increase in traffic and their taxi struggled to go above walking pace. Added to that, the road also now thronged with people walking in the street because stalls containing fruit and vegetables and clothes and household goods occupied the pavements.
The taxi stopped on a bridge going over an open sewer. About three metres wide, it contained a stream of filthy water snaking through piles of rubbish and discarded plastic bags. Pigs squealed in the putrid soup and, to Sam’s horror, several small children played there with the swine. One of them squatted down and defecated where he stood. Nauseous, she turned away, trying not to breathe too deeply as the foul stench filled the taxi.
‘It’s disgusting, isn’t it? Last month, a dead body lay in one of these and no-one would remove it in case they were made to pay for the burial.’
Sam nodded, afraid to open her mouth. She stared upwards at the birds’ nests of telephone and electricity lines and tried to trace them through the air. She wondered how anyone survived such an upbringing. The imagined Africa of her childhood was a universe away from the stark realities of life in the slums here in Fona.
Leaving the suburbs, they drove through the centre of town, a mix of faded colonial houses and stark concrete blocks with no cladding, uphill into a leafier
, cleaner part of town with a predominance of colonial villas, where the wires became untangled and the sewers were covered. Sam’s fellow passenger alighted at the edge of a tree-lined road, waved and hurried away. After the woman disappeared around a corner, Sam realised that she hadn’t given the driver any money.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to him, ‘why didn’t she pay anything?’
‘Oh, she told me you'd pay.’
‘But we agree to pay half each.’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s not what she told me. She fooled you, eh?’
‘Fooled me?’ Sam blew the air out of her lungs. ‘I guess so.’ She had not imagined that a well-dressed and educated woman would be so dishonest. For a minute, she considered jumping out of the car and running after her, but the taxi driver might drive off with her bag so she chalked it up to experience.
‘Are we nearly there?’
‘Yes, madam, five minutes.’
They pulled up alongside a high wall with a metal gateway for vehicles into which someone had cut a smaller door. After paying the driver and getting a receipt, as she hoped Alex would reimburse her fare, Sam pressed the rusty door bell. To her relief, the door opened after a short delay and a tiny old man as shrivelled as a raisin and the same colour beckoned her inside. Sam lifted her bag over the doorframe and stuck out her hand.
‘Hello, I’m Sam. Who are you?’
‘William, madam.’ He took her hand cautiously as if she might be concealing something in it.
‘Nice to meet you, William. Please can you take me to see Mr Simmonds?’
‘Mr Simmonds isn’t in the country. Only Mr Dockrell and Mr Hunter, but they aren’t at home. They left to have lunch.’
‘Oh?’
‘They thought you had missed the flight. Mr Dockrell said he searched for you at the airport but couldn’t find you.’
‘My luggage went missing and I had to go upstairs to report it. By the time I’d finished, the helicopter ticket office was shut and I had to take the ferry.’
‘The ferry?’ A look of alarm crossed his features.
‘Yes, it wasn’t much fun, but I’m here now. Perhaps you will show me to my room instead?’
