‘Good afternoon Sir, how can I help you?’ asked Ella from behind the glass counter. She looked bored.
‘Can I have a plane ticket to Zimbabwe?’ I didn’t know the communication etiquette nor the necessities like please and thank you. Sour conversation continued with a tense vibe; Ella thought I was being rude, I thought she was being rude. She clicked and clicked without looking at me.
She then asked, ‘Can I see your passport please?’
I handed over my laminated Zimbabwean passport without saying a word. She glanced at it and then looked at me and continued clicking. I was wowed by how fast she was typing.
‘Are you Russian?’ I asked. She pushed her glasses towards the front end of her nose and looked up at me and said, ‘No, I am from England, a place called Thornton Heath.’
She said she’d only been working for British Airlines for three months and she was dreading the winter. Then she said, ‘Mr Ocimile, the nearest departure date for Zimbabwe is the 29th of July and the ticket will cost you one million roubles.’
The date meant I would have to wait a month but beggars can’t be choosers. I would just have to try my best to lay low until my day of salvation arrived.
‘How much is that in dollars?’ I asked. Ella then clicked and clicked and a few minutes later said, ‘One thousand two hundred dollars.’
I placed my man bag on the counter, reached into it and pulled out the three thousand dollars. This was the first time I heard the word ‘blimey’. I counted out and handed over one thousand two hundred dollars to Ella. She counted it again, just to be on the safe side and then clicked and clicked and I heard a printer spring to life. Ella then handed me my ticket saying, ‘Remember, this ticket is non-refundable.’
I was to travel to Zimbabwe on the 29th of July 1999. My flight path was Moscow Sheremetyevo via London Heathrow via Johannesburg South Africa, arriving in Harare in Zimbabwe. Ella then advised me that a fee would be charged if I were to change my travel date but I had no intention of changing my travel date.
She ended the conversation by saying, ‘Have a safe journey Mr Ocimile and enjoy your flight.’
I asked Ella if she would like to have a drink with me later, she smiled but politely declined. When I was working in Croydon and living in Brixton, every time bus 250 or 109 went past to Thornton Heath, it reminded me of Ella.
With my ticket safe in my pocket, I travelled to Textilshiki station where I stopped at a liquor store and bought two bottles of Standard Russian Vodka and three boxes of Russian chocolates. The guard in the reception at the police station searched me. It was just a formality now, they were used to me coming and going. He knew I was there to see the head of immigration. He asked if he could have a bottle of vodka, I smiled and offered it to him as I had anticipated such an event. Upstairs, I showed the head of immigration my flight ticket and handed him the vodka and said, ‘Thank you very much Sir.’
He replied, ‘You are welcome.’ He then said something that caught me completely off guard, ‘So please tell me, what is your date of birth?’
I could not remember my own date of birth. I mumbled pretending not to know the right words. The head of immigration called his secretary and asked her to renew my exit visa. When she left, he said, ‘Look, please do not return to my office or I will put you in jail.’
I handed the chocolates to the two secretaries, we chatted for a while, then I tried my boldest move ever, I asked the younger of the two if it would be possible for her to accompany me to the airport and ensure I got onto the aeroplane. She said the head of immigration could only sanction such a mission. We chatted briefly as I said goodbye dreading the possibility of not being able to make it through the airport. Fortunately the secretary followed me until we were outside of the station. For a fee of three hundred dollars, she would ensure me a safe passage out of Russia. This was the best news. I agreed to her proposal and we shook hands. Then I reached into my man bag and handed her one hundred dollars and we agreed I would pay the rest once we were at the airport. She gave me her direct telephone number. We hugged and she said, ‘See you soon.’
I departed and went to see the rector and ask him for some invitation letters. After all, I too could become a human trafficker I thought. I went to Lublino and picked up Dima, and together we went to Pechatniki where I paid the rest of Ndumbe’s money. I even gave two hundred roubles to another Bakossi guy who had just been released from prison for selling cocaine. A few murmurs were made, people enquired about Kattooh and I said he was still in Ivanovo. From Pechatniki, I took Dima to Okhotny Ryad in central Moscow where we shopped for new clothes for her and myself, then we had a three-course dinner. In my heart of hearts I knew this was going to be our last supper as a couple. We kissed in the streets of central Moscow then visited GUM shopping mall in central Moscow, which is just a stone’s throw away from the Kremlin. I asked if she would like to come to Africa with me, her eyes lit up and she said it would be a dream-come-true.
I knew that the first place Kattooh would look for me, if he made it to Moscow, would be Dima’s house, so while I enjoyed her company, I was conscious of time.
From Okhotny Ryad, Dima and I visited the rest of the illegals, who still had jobs in Rigskayaya market, including Jerome. I bought all of them shaslik (barbecued meat roasted on site) without telling anyone where I had been or where I was going.
The clients were probably still waiting for me at Kiyevskaya station, either that or the police would have approached and asked them to move on. Black-haired Russians in a tinted car, across the road from the diplomatic corpus in Kiyevskaya, would attract police attention. When I dropped Dima home, I caught the train to Komsomolskaya, and from there I travelled to Zagarianin, where I lived with Aaron and his family, counting the days down until my departure from Russia.
Chapter 18
I was shocked when, while the young children were asleep and we were drinking in the living room, Aaron brought out some syringes and started injecting himself with gheroine, as they call it in Russia. His eyes rolled in his head and he went into a state of complete silence, I mean he was like an ekongi, a ghost. Aaron loved the good life. I would give him two hundred dollars for allowing me to conduct my business from the family home, and when he’d spent the money, he would ask for more. Every time this happened, I would tell him I had to go and collect it from the embassy; I didn’t want him to know I had money in my brief case and my man bag. Aaron also liked playing the slot machines in the casinos. He dreamt of riches and wealth, but that was all it was, a dream. He too had been sacked from his job at Rigskayaya market and now he was involved in small buying and selling in Zagarianin market, mostly fresh vegetables. He had made friends with another Armenian guy and they owned a small stall. When Aaron asked where I was going all packed, I said I was going to visit a friend in Ivanovo. I could not bring myself to tell him I would never see him again.
That evening, I caught the train from Zagarianin to Komsomolskaya and from there I caught a south bound train stopping at Lublino. When Dima saw me, the first thing she said was that Kattooh had been there to look for me. I asked if he had been alone and she said he was. For me this meant one of two things—that Kattooh had successfully left Ivanova or the clients bailed him out and brought him back to Moscow to look for me. That evening I took Dima and her family out for a meal so they didn’t have to cook and also bought her father a big bottle of champagne. We always slept in different rooms when I stayed at Dima’s house and tonight was not going to be any different. Maybe if I had confided in her that I would never see her again, it would have been different.
I left Dima’s house when the whole family were asleep. On my pillow was a note with one hundred dollars. On the note were these words: ‘I love you my queen, but I must go home, do not forget about me.’
When I reached the back of the building the immigration officer was already there but she was not alone, she had brought her sister, who was even more beautiful, with her. Together we caught the train to B
elorusskaya station and from there we caught the direct bus to Sheremetyevo Moscow International Airport.
As we walked towards the airport’s entrance, the immigration officer asked me to hand over the rest of the money to her sister, then she went into the airport and confirmed the flight. She told me I had to wait until every other passenger had checked in. I was having an out-of-body experience. Was I going to pull this off? My Zimbabwean passport photo showed an older person, anybody with eyes would recognise straight away that it wasn’t me. I waited with the sister, I was not sure what the immigration officer was doing, but she was inside the airport area. Then, around an hour later, she came out and beckoned me over. At first, we walked past the check in, and I wasn’t asked any questions, then the passport control; again no questions. In fact I went through the whole airport without a single spot check, and eventually I walked into what felt like a tarpaulin that lead directly into the aeroplane. I could not believe what was happening. The immigration officer was slightly ahead of me and asked me to walk a bit faster. I could see some of the flight attendants waiting for me at the entrance of the aeroplane.
I was greeted with, ‘Good afternoon Sir, welcome aboard British Airways.’ I was the last passenger to board the aeroplane. The immigration officer hugged me and asked if I still had her telephone number. She then said, ‘Safe journey, and please do call me when you arrive in Zimbabwe.’
She cried. It was only later after telephoning Misha, yes, her name is Misha, from my flat in Grangetown in Cardiff that she told me that she had been in love with me all that time.
I sat on the left side of the aeroplane, next to the window, and until I heard the announcement that the aeroplane was about to take off, I still could not believe what was happening. There was an announcement for us to put our seatbelts on. I heard the engines roar and the aeroplane jerk forward. The next time I looked out in the window, the aeroplane was in the air, in full flight. There was a small lump growing in my throat and I swallowed; it didn’t matter if anyone was looking at me, I cried and my tears were visible.
‘Are you okay, Sir?’ One of the airhostesses noticed I was crying.
‘Yes, I’m just afraid of flying,’ I said.
She asked if I wanted anything to drink and when I replied yes, she brought me two small glasses of wine. She asked if I was hungry. When I answered in the affirmative, she brought me two chicken legs, some carrots and sprouts. I fell asleep after drinking my wine and finishing my meal and dreamt about the story we were told as children, as to why the millipede has no ears.
*
Every time the millipede passed a house on his way to the market, he saw the molikilikili with his skinny arms and legs on the trunk of the Iroko tree, trying to push it over. This happened many times so one day the millipede decided to stop and ask the molikilikili what it was trying to achieve by pushing the Iroko tree. The molikilikili responded by saying, ‘This Iroko tree is blocking the sunlight into my house, so I intend to push it until it falls.’
The millipede said, ‘Can I bring to your attention the sheer size of this tree?’ The molikilikili replied, ‘I have time, I will push until it falls.’
The millipede then prayed to the gods saying, ‘Please gods, remove my ears, I do not wish to hear what the molikilikili is saying.’ The gods granted his wish and hence he lost his ears. To this day, the molikilikili still pushes believing he will bring down the Iroko tree one day. Unlike the molikilikili, I have been successful in leaving Russia under bizarre circumstances.
*
When I woke up, the aeroplane was arriving at London Heathrow. I looked out the window and saw the Corpthorne Hotel and in the distance, beautifully tall buildings. I had arrived in England. I was now trespassing the land of the people who colonised and forgot me; who brought Shakespeare, Silas Marner, Chaucer and Father Francis, who had baptised and changed my name to Eric Charles. I was now in the land of the people whose legacy in my village is one of corrugated iron roofs. I was now transiting in the Land of Milk and Honey, the land where being a citizen places one at the front of the queue in the lottery of life, the land of the Great William Wilberforce who died only three days after the passing of the Slavery Abolition Act 1883.
When the aeroplane came to its final stop at the terminal and the passengers started exiting, a bulky gentleman came and stood next to me saying, ‘Please Mr Ocimile, wait until all the other passengers have left the aeroplane, I will then take you to the departure lounge for your connecting flight.’
I waited patiently and once the aeroplane was empty, the bulky man led me out into the terminal building. We walked along long, clean and crystal white corridors and through the windows I could see different aeroplanes landing and taking off. We walked until we arrived at a room with thirty or so white women in their late sixties or seventies. The gentleman said. ‘Mr Ocimile, please wait here until you hear the announcement for your connecting flight to Johannesburg, South Africa.’
I sat down and watched these women knitting.
*
I thought of my mother and the kind of web she must have weaved, the kind of dances she must have performed. What kind of mating ritual did my mother do in order to get involved with the kind of men who ensured her children were born?
Apart from my elder sister Elizabeth and third sister, Ndinge, whose fathers I never met, I remember them. I remember my sister, Christina—my mother’s second daughter—whose father was a traditional doctor from the village of Bokwango at the foot of Mount Cameroon. I remember going to his house when we were small but after that visit I promised never ever to go back there. He was a loser whatever barometer you used, yet somehow my sister was born.
Then there was Krimau’s father, a distant relative of the Kai family from our village. When I met him, he was dishevelled and on his last legs. Then there was Motakori, Queenta’s father, who hailed from the Barondo clan and did some sort of cleaning or clerical job at Buea General Hospital.
As for me, I was too young to remember meeting my father and until this day I have not seen a photograph of him. My mother told me recently, after his death, his family destroyed all memory of him. When I went to the printing press office where he worked, all his things had been given to members of his family, including photographs, which were nowhere to be found. Were their actions deliberate? I do not know and in fact I dread to think. I just went with what the villagers, especially Mola Etonge and Chief Efange, told me about him.
I heard during the court case that, apparently, I walked like my father and I looked and talked like my father. Although my mother attested to the perfect love they had for one another, her history with other men was something my father’s family despised, and this judgment against my mother and her character was their motive to dragging her through the courts and challenging my father’s will. Two years before the court case, she started seeing an Ibo man, from Small Soppo, called Pa Joe. This man was married, he had two wives and around eight children and I thought to myself, ‘Seriously? You already have two wives who lived side-by-side in a tiny wooden house.’
I didn’t mind though because every time Pa Joe visited my mother’s house he would bring her a bunch of plantains and he always ensured I had money so I could go out and entertain my friends. As a matter of fact, I take my hat off to Pa Joe; he supported my mother all through the court case and spent time consoling her when we eventually lost the case.
One thing is for certain: though the fathers never actively took part in helping my mother bring up their children, they ensured we carried their characteristic in our genes.
For all her frailties, Iya Sarah Efeti Kange is one iron lady; I for one have modelled my life on the knowledge she imparted to me. She never took any rubbish from the men who came and went out of her life. I nicknamed her the black widow spider—never to her face though or else I run the risk of getting smacked!
*
As the time dragged on inside the lounge at Heathrow airport, one of the women, the oldest amon
g them, began looking at me intensely. Every time I looked back at her, she would bend her head and pay attention to her knitting. Then, with an accent that I only heard again when I started working for Lilywhites in Piccadilly Circus, she said, ‘Excuse me boy, where are you coming from?’
‘Russia,’ I replied.
She shook her whole body as if she was freezing and said, ‘It must have been really cold for you boy.’ She carried on without allowing me to answer and said they were going back to ‘Jo Burg’ before adding that Jo Burg was short for Johannesburg. By this point all the other women had stopped their knitting and were paying attention to our conversation.
I, Eric Ngalle Page 18
