by Okey Ndibe
“Tell me, you’re not running from the law, are you?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there . . .”
“Because I don’t want to harbor a fugitive.”
“When I get there.”
The streets were empty. In the days before the coup, a few cars would have been about. There would be a number of Hausa retailers at their suya stands, selling a variety of peppered meat to an unending procession of nocturnal customers. But that night Langa was a dead city, its residents confined indoors.
I took a back street and walked stealthily, ready to duck at the slightest suggestion of danger. It was not long before I reached Ola’s house. There were lights on in his living room. I tapped lightly on the door. A woman I did not know let me in. I was not surprised: at university Ola was nicknamed uchichi agba aka because there was no night when he did not sleep with some woman. Stepping into the room, I saw Ola on the couch, his face covered with a magazine. He had no doubt asked his woman to open the door so that I would get the message that I had disturbed more than his sleep. Such an unsubtle bastard, I thought. He got up when I walked into the room, smiling radiantly, charming as ever.
“Young man!” he bellowed, hugging me. He always addressed me that way even though I was a full two years older than he. “Sit down. Guinness stout or will it be brandy?” He stopped short, narrowed his eyes with intensity, and inspected my face.
“Young man, you’ve grown old on me. What are these stress marks doing around your eyes? Are you sick? Has the job been too demanding? Are you getting enough sleep? Tell me, what’s really going on?”
I glanced briefly in the direction of his girlfriend.
“Go on to bed, Angela,” he said to her. “We’ll be fine.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“That’s okay. Just wait in bed then. I’ll join you.”
“When?”
“Soon as I finish talking with this young man here.”
“What if the talk takes all night?”
“Then it takes all night!” Ola snapped.
“I don’t even know why you woke me up in the first place,” she grumbled. Presently she slammed shut the bedroom door. “Yes, young man. Who’s threatening your life?”
“Isa Palat Bello.”
“The new head of state?”
I nodded.
“Did you write anything against his regime?”
I shook my head.
“I didn’t think so. So why do you think he’s after you?”
“He’s a rapist and a murderer.”
“Wait a minute now! The man has been in power for what?—a few days. And already you accuse him of rape and murder. I didn’t suspect you were one of those idealists who think a corrupt elected government is better than a corrective military regime. Major Bello intervened to save this country from Amin and his cabal of thieves. Idealists like you must face reality. Let’s give the military a chance to clean up the mess.”
“You don’t understand,” I said.
“No, you don’t understand. This is a clear case of wrong headed idealism. Who could this man have raped in one week?”
“He really did rape a woman. And killed her. Not since becoming head of state; before. Two years ago.”
“Who found out that he did this?”
“I.”
“Did you report this to the police or write about it?”
“No.”
“You don’t expect me to take you seriously, do you?”
“I knew the victim. She was his girlfriend. Well, sort of.”
“His girlfriend? How does one rape one’s girlfriend?”
“In his case quite savagely. Then when she had a baby son and refused to acknowledge him as the father, he murdered her too. Viciously.”
Ola mulled this over for a moment. “Don’t think I make light of your story,” he said. “But look at things this way. According to you, Bello raped and murdered this woman you knew. You didn’t take the story to the police nor did you write about it. Why then would Bello want to harm you?”
“Because I know how he looks when he isn’t wearing a mask.”
“You’re the least of Bello’s problems. He’s now a head of state.”
“And a commander in chief,” I added. “That’s precisely my point. He always had a motive to silence me. Now he has the power, too. Besides, two strangers went to the newspaper looking for me. Tell me they’re not Bello’s security operatives.”
“I can tell you that. I’m sure this was not the first time strangers called in at the office to see you. The head of state isn’t going to lose sleep thinking how to deal with—don’t take this the wrong way—a common journalist. He’s got a country to run.”
He yawned and looked at his watch, then popped open his eyes in alarm.
“Four Ten! It’s the first time I’ve been up this late without a beautiful woman having something to do with it. Young man, let’s resume our talks later today. It’s Angela’s first visit, so I must make a good impression. Good night.”
I spent four days in Ola’s house. My second day in hiding Radio Madia announced that the new regime had lifted the curfew. All air and sea ports were reopened; telephone services, which had been restored locally two days after the coup, were now restored for international calls. The station also announced the promotion of several members of the junta. Major Bello was made a major general by special “accelerated promotion.”
I stayed awake each night, holed up in the dingy room where Ola dumped his dirty clothes. I read books and drank brandy and had wide-eyed dreams in which terror appeared in all guises. In my solitude I began to hold conversations with myself. On the third day Ola eased open the door and entered the room, intruding on one such session.
“Why is your voice so high?” he asked. I froze and gazed at him. His face had an expression of puzzlement and mild fright.
“I’m meeting some of the gang for drinks at the Metropolitan Club this evening. Eze will be there. And Ahmed, Tunde, and, of course, Ada. Probably George too. I’m sure they’d all like to see you. “
“No,” I said.
“No what?”
“I’m not coming.”
He turned sharply and left the room.
Later that night, while I lay in bed reading, Ola returned, all four friends in tow. They barged into my room, nattering, their faces overspread with drunken smiles.
“How was the evening?” I asked.
“Splendid, in spite of you!” said Ada, the only woman in the group. She came over to see what I was reading. It was Albert Camus’s The Plague. “So reading a sick book is more important than drinking with the gang?”
At the university we had all belonged to a group called PFD, for Politician, Fish, Dog. Our pledge was to throw parties without just cause like politicians, to drink at every opportunity like fish and to have sex with the shamelessness of dogs. After we left the university, I had wandered away from the group and its frivolities, inventing excuses to avoid their wild parties and weekend binges.
Ada was the gang’s most enthusiastic member. Her father was a wealthy lawyer who enjoyed huge perks from the numerous multinational corporations on whose boards he sat. She was a tall woman, not pretty but attractive. Some of her comeliness smacked of something paid for with her father’s cash: the expensive clothes she wore, the soft sheen of her make-up, the waft of perfume her body gave off. She was complacent when it came to sex, a woman who seized the slightest opportunity to slip into a man’s bed. She drank with abandon (but never became drunk), and she spared no expense when she threw parties.
“I’ve not been feeling well,” I said. “My stomach is a little disturbed.”
“That’s not what we heard,” said Eze the Loud Mouth. “We hear you’re a man on the run.”
“Yes, but that had nothing to do w
ith it,” I insisted.
“Tell me,” he asked. “Is it true that General Bello is looking for you to kill?”
“I’m certain of it.” The response shocked them into a momentary silence.
Then Eze, finding his voice, asked, “Why? Did you sleep with his wife? Or his mother?” They all burst into throaty laughs. I glared at them: the freedom of their laughter was insufferable. I buried my face in The Plague.
“We’re now too foolish for you to talk to?” asked Ada.
“Your fears are baseless,” Eze said in a strident tone. “Bello hasn’t done one wrong thing. Not one! You should come out of hiding and go back to work.” In a lower voice he went on, “Listen to me, my friend.” I stopped reading and set my eyes on him. “Bello is not a murderer. He’s a redeemer. All this fear is within you. If you want to see a psychiatrist, we’ll help find one. A very good one.”
“You think I’m crazy, then?” I asked.
They made no answer in words, but I read it on their faces, in their eyes.
“Think about Ola’s situation,” Eze added. “He’s inconvenienced himself to put you up for a few days. Imagine what would happen to him if—God forbid—General Bello were really out to get you and Ola was caught sheltering you.” He paused to let his point sink in. “You really should see a psychiatrist. And go back to your home. Nobody is going to harm you.”
Very early the next morning I gathered my clothes into a bundle wrapped in a blanket, then slipped out of the house before Ola woke up. The streets wore a dull, indistinct face, the houses obscured by the morning mist. I had no destination in mind when I began my journey. But as the mist lifted and the sun broke through, the clouds in my mind cleared away and I saw where I was going. I had a vision of sand, sea, sunshine, and endless sky. My path was leading me into exile on the outer edges of life, in the haven of B. Beach.
Chapter Twenty-two
From this cell thick with the odor of death, my mind drifts back to the lost years on B. Beach. Certain memories are resurrected: the first few weeks of my exile, the last few before my arrest. Much of the rest of that time is blurred, as if the events of those years have slipped beyond the reach of memory into a vast oblivion.
In the first days on B. Beach my fear was raw, on the surface. At night, the sound of the ocean made me shiver. I carried a cudgel, afraid of what might lurk in the dark. Many times, sensing a motion close by, I swung the cudgel against an imaginary enemy.
Sometimes I ached for my former life and considered returning—moving back into my apartment, presenting myself at the office in the hope that no one had been appointed to my desk. It was a ridiculous dream: the door back to that other world had snapped shut never to be prized open again.
For the first three days I went entirely without food. Hunger seared my hollow belly. By the fourth day the pangs had become unbearable. I shut my eyes and bit into a half-eaten sandwich somebody had tossed away. The next day I found some more discarded food. The meat was a little high, so I swallowed it without chewing.
The sixth day, as I walked along the shoreline, I came to a huge boulder, a relic from the days when convicted armed robbers were executed on the beach. Having endured five nights without shelter, I decided to make this granite cairn my refuge. On nights when the air was cold, I leaned on the boulder and let my body draw warmth from the rock.
Other nights, as soon as the bell at St. Gregory’s Cathedral chimed midnight, I began my walking routine. Starting off from the boulder, I walked the two and a half miles to what was known as the European section, close to the washed-up carcass of a ship’s hull. There, I entered one of the sheds made by local entrepreneurs from bamboo stems and raffia fronds and rented out in the day to white clients wary of the sun. I rested until the bell tolled another hour; then I walked back to the boulder. The going to and fro continued till daybreak—a way of passing sleepless nights. When the night was hot, I walked within reach of the waves, letting the foamy water curl and play around my bare feet, relishing the droplets of spray that settled on my body like tiny, weightless darts.
Moonlit nights held a special magic. The face of the moon floated on the ocean’s surface, seeming to sway to some silent but intoxicating music. I grew to love gazing at the night sky, an interminable star-strewn space in which I could lose myself and become invisible.
Six months after Bello’s ascension to power, newspapers reported that ten army officers, including Major-General James Rada, had been found guilty of treason and executed. Reading the story, I wondered how much of Madia’s misbegotten history could be traced to my silence about Iyese’s death.
More such stories reached me through the BBC’s broadcasts, which I received on a portable short-wave radio someone left behind on the beach. I also read numerous accounts in the foreign newspapers discarded by diplomats. The headlines said it all:
madian writer hanged—He was a critic of the dictatorship
madian minister’s death suspicious—
Dictator said to be having an affair with deceased’s wife
120 student protesters reported killed despot canes vice-chancellor in public diplomats say african dictator behind disappearance of opponents—Victims may have been fed to lions
Each headline was a reproach to me for my cowardice. Why had I not mustered the courage to tell Iyese’s story long ago, when it might have made a difference?
The underground opposition press painted a picture that was even more grim: countless men picked up and tortured for saying a bad word about Bello in an unguarded moment in some bar; women, too, detained and tortured; children orphaned by assassins. Bello’s rapaciousness had catapulted him to the front ranks of the world’s wealthiest potentates, behind the Emir of Brunei, but ahead of Zaire’s quick-fingered man-god.
It was impossible to avoid the conclusion that with Madia in such hands, I was better off living as I was. With time I felt less involved in my country’s plight or the history that had led up to it. The past seemed to recede further and further from my thoughts. My nights became more peaceful. Now and again I even managed to sleep. I was confident that nothing from my past would ever trouble my quiet life.
One night last September a woman’s shrieks rent the air. I froze, my whole body compelled to listen. More screams came, shriller. Goose bumps rose all over my skin. A crescent moon hung in the sky, its reflection shifting with the waves. By the moon’s pale light I saw the dim shapes of several figures. I crouched down on the wet sand and began to observe their motions.
One after another, the figures cast off their clothes, then dropped to the ground. At first I thought there was only one woman. Then I heard another piercing gasp, the sound a woman makes when the flesh of her sex is torn. A third woman joined in. Perhaps she was younger than the first two, or else more broken by the tearing of her tissue. Her sound was a low, sustained wail.
Drunken male voices wove in and out of the women’s cries. The men shouted, threatened, cajoled, laughed. In time the female voices quietened to muffled moans, but the men kept up their lascivious energy. Two hours later, finally sated, the men put their clothes back on and made off in a military truck.
The women lay on the sand, not making a sound. An hour passed. Then, certain that the soldiers would not return, I stood up and went towards the spot where the women lay. On seeing me, two of them sprang to their feet and ran away, scrambling into their tattered clothes. But one lay still, her torn garments scattered about her. Kneeling beside her, I looked into her face. Her eyes were shut, her cheeks drawn down in an attitude of pain.
“Can you hear me?” I murmured.
Her body shook with a spasm of dread. She half-opened one eye and dully took me in. I burrowed my hands under her body. As I lifted, her weight dragged down my arms, heavy like a corpse. I maneuvered her on to my shoulder and gathered up what remained of her clothes. Then I trudged with her towards the waves.
A faint sun was already peeping out of the sky when she regained consciousness. Attempting to raise herself up on her elbows, she winced with pain and fell back on the sand.
“Are you okay?” Responding to the gentleness of my voice, she told me what had happened. Her name was Tay Tay. She was a prostitute. “But not,” she said, “a real prostitute.” Her voice was low, like one muttering something improbable to herself. I was silent, not wishing to intrude into the dialogue she was having with her soul.
“I am not like Lovet and Tina,” she said. She turned her head towards me. “What happened to them?”
“The ones who were with you?” She flicked her eyelid in response.
“They ran away when they saw me,” I replied.
She grunted and shut her eyes. I read the details of her face, the child-like amplitude of her cheeks, the clean line of her nose, the arc of her forehead, her upper lip, projected outward, like a sulker’s. The thought that she was Iyese, wearing the body of another woman, visiting me from the past, filled me with an urge to leave her. I resisted the urge to run away from this woman I had brought back from the dead.
“I am not like Tina and Lovet,” she repeated.
“I know,” I said.
“I don’t like standing beside the road,” she said. “Tina and Lovet go out every night. I join them only when things are hard. For one night; at most two. Just to make quick money.” The heaving of her breasts drew my eyes to the imprints of her attackers’ hands, their scratches and teeth marks. She gritted her teeth and paused.
“I heard your screams,” I said. “And I saw the soldiers. What did they do to you?”
A line of tears streaked down the side of her face. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I don’t know any more.”
She regarded me with sorrowful interest. “I sometimes feel the same way. I am lost in an endless dream and I can’t remember my name. Or my face.”
“In my case, it’s what I remember that reminds me that I am lost.”
“Tell me why you helped me,” she demanded.
