An African Affair (12 page)

She understood that she had done little to help move the story forward. It was the first time ever she had become so distracted that it affected her work. Since the trip to Ibadan she couldn’t stop thinking about James.

Her ambition returned with her health. She determined to follow two loose threads: the killing of Babatunde and the murder of William Agapo and his wife. It was widely believed that Agapo’s death was a political assassination—his wife’s murder was likely collateral damage. But why was Agapo killed? The most likely reason was that he angered Olumide. Since he was one of Olumide’s closest advisers, his crime must have been more than just lining his pockets. She figured that Agapo had been a spy and that Olumide had discovered his betrayal. But if that was true, who was Agapo spying for? Rumor pointed to the CIA, but there was no proof. Still, she thought she’d try talking to the new political officer. Maybe she would point her in the right direction.

She called the American embassy and asked for Vickie Grebow. Vickie was in meetings most of the day, but Lindsay set up a lunch date with her for the next afternoon. In the meantime, she would get to work on her other priority—Babatunde Oladayo. Her first stop was the high commissioner’s steward. Driving up to the guard at the gate, she pulled out her press credentials and U.S. passport. “Good morning,” she said brightly, handing the papers through the window. “I’m Lindsay Cameron. I left my purse here at a party a few weeks ago and I wanted to check with the high commissioner’s steward to see if he found it.”

“He gone,” the guard answered mechanically, barely glancing at her.

“Well, when is he coming back?”

The guard shrugged.

“Do you mean he is not working here anymore?”

The guard shrugged again.

“Then please tell the high commissioner I’d like to see him,” she bluffed.

“He not at home, madam.” The guard’s eyes danced nervously.

“Oh, what a shame. Could I possibly see his wife? She’s a friend of mine.” This was more risky, but she counted on a high commissioner’s wife having duties that would take her away from home.

“No, madam.” The guard was slightly more attentive now. “Madam go out early.”

“Well, then I think I’d better have a word with the steward’s wife,” she said with relief.

The guard hesitated.

“It’s important that I find my bag,” she said. “I’d really rather not bother the high commissioner with this. He might worry that someone on his staff stole it.”

The guard relented. He phoned the house, swung open the gate, and touched his cap as Lindsay drove through and parked. She had just gotten out of the car when a young woman, carrying a small child wrapped in a
kanga
on her back, entered the courtyard and approached her.

“Good morning,” said Lindsay.

The woman shifted the baby’s weight but didn’t look up or answer.

“I came to see your husband. Do you know when he will return?”

Still looking down, the woman spoke with hushed intensity. “He not here, madam. Please no go come here. He in hospital. He very bad.”

Lindsay felt her mouth go dry.

“What happened? What’s wrong with him?”

“An accident, madam. A car go hit him on de street. Please no go come here. Please no go see him. Leave us be. We no want trouble.”

Lindsay didn’t speak for a moment. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled at last. “I thought he wanted to tell me about Baba—”

The woman interrupted her.

“What he want no import, madam,” she hissed. “Please, madam, for my babies. Go way. Don’ come back.”

“I understand. I’m very, very sorry.” Lindsay reached over and touched the baby’s plump arm.

For the first time, the woman looked her in the eye. Lindsay smiled weakly, turned and got in the car. As she started the ignition, the woman poked her head timidly in through the window, seemingly emboldened by the engine’s noise. “You want The Next Step. . . . Yes?” she whispered. Lindsay nodded. “Go to de Juju House.”

“What Juju House?” Lindsay was whispering too. “Where is it?”

The woman shook her head impatiently. “De
Juju House
. Ask in Surulere.” She turned away and walked quickly back to her quarters, her baby swaying as she moved.

Lindsay knew about Surulere, a vast slum on the outskirts of the city.

She drove through the gate, waving at the guard, who stared straight ahead. She worried about the steward, feeling a sharp pang of guilt. She didn’t even know his name, she thought, and she had brought him nothing but trouble. It was clear that he didn’t end up in the hospital because of an “accident,” and equally clear that she could never approach him again. But what had happened to draw attention to him? Was she responsible? She had started to drive home but changed her mind and passed her own house, heading for the residence of Mike Vale. Mike had gotten the Babatunde story on his own. Maybe he’d have heard something about the repercussions.

Like most of the foreign press in Lagos, Mike lived in the same house as his predecessor. It was just a few short blocks from her own. She pulled into the driveway and got out of the car. She knocked at the door, but no one answered so she knocked again, harder. She was just deciding to leave when Mike opened the front door.

“Hello, darling,” he greeted her. “I knew you’d reconsider.”

“Hi, Mike. Can I come in?”

“Sure.” He stepped aside to make room for her to enter. They sat down in his living room.

She told him that a source had been injured and she suspected governmental foul play.

“It’s connected to the Babatunde story,” she said. “Have you heard anything new on that?”

Mike looked surprised.

“I’d guess that after your story ran, anyone who helped you with it got in trouble. I’d have thought you’d be prepared.”

“I was prepared for fallout against me,” she snapped, “but I don’t know how they found my source.”

“They probably went back over your tracks. Maybe they questioned your source and he admitted talking to you.”

“I don’t think so. I think it’s more likely someone at the house or at the party knew I was at the ambassador’s and figured out who I talked to. They didn’t question you, did they?”

He frowned. “Of course not. You think I’d report you to Olumide’s thugs?”

“No. Sorry. I’m just trying to figure this out.”

“He’ll probably be all right now that they’ve put a good scare into him. But what about you?”

“If you mean am I scared, yes, of course. I’ll have to be more careful.”

Mike got up. “I think you could use a drink,” he said. “What’ll it be?”

She asked for a vodka tonic and he left to prepare it. Restless, she got up and paced around his living room. A sculpture similar to her fertility statue caught her eye and she wondered if it was done by the same artist. Like her, Mike had bought a lot of tourist pieces, including, she noticed, a small statue very like the one that had angered James. She picked it up and studied it. When Mike returned, she put it back on the shelf. He handed her the vodka tonic and she sipped it slowly.

“Did you get that piece from a trader?” she asked, indicating the shelf.

He walked over and adjusted the sculpture so it stood straight.

“Yeah. Don’t tell our friend James. He hates this new art.”

“He hates when they try to pretend it’s old. He doesn’t mind the new ones. In fact, he’s exporting some. A trader showed me one exactly like this when James was over. Actually, he was upset the traders had gotten hold of it, but that’s another story.”

“You’d better tell him I’ve got one too. You know Lagos. They could wind up pilfering his entire order.”

“Yeah, I will.” She drained her drink. “Thanks. I gotta go.”

She got back in her car and drove home. Martin was in the kitchen, cleaning the stove.

“Have you ever heard of a place called the Juju House?” she asked him.

“Yes, madam. But it not safe for you. It is in Surulere.”

“What is it? A religious place, for spells?”

Martin smiled. “No, madam. It’s a club. It be where Bayo play.”

She made the connection. Bayo was a musician. She’d been told he played a mean saxophone and had about thirty “wives” who lived with him in a kind of cult. He’d been described as a flamboyant figure, a rebel artist, but not, as far as she knew, a political dissident. She had thought of him as a subject for a possible feature, if she had the time, but now it appeared he might be something more.

Maureen was working in the living room. Lindsay interrupted her to tell her about Bayo and insist that they must see him perform sometime soon.

“How about tonight?” Maureen replied. “If he’s that interesting, we should track him down right away, and I’m finally feeling a little better today.”

Lindsay hesitated. “I’m supposed to have dinner with James.”

“So what? Invite him. Or have dinner with him tomorrow. Lindsay, it could be important. Aren’t you curious?”

“Don’t lecture me, Maurie.” Her harsh tone surprised herself. Softening, she added, “Of course I’m curious.” She paused. “Okay. Let’s go tonight. I’ll see if James can join us.”

“Whatever.”

Lindsay got up. “I’m sorry,” she said, moving toward the kitchen. “Let’s get a cup of coffee.”

She poured some lukewarm coffee from the pot she’d brewed earlier. Maureen tasted it and grimaced, so she poured both cups into a small pot to heat on the stove.

“I’m kind of off coffee these days,” Maureen said, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. She opened the food pantry, extracted a box of English shortbread, set it on the table between them, and started munching on one. “So, tell me, how are things with James?”

“It’s hard to say,” Lindsay began. “In some ways, things are really good. I mean, we see each other pretty regularly. . . .” She paused.

“But?” Maureen encouraged.

“What I hate,” Lindsay murmured almost to herself, “is that my relationship with him somehow always leaves me hungry. I always seem to want more than he’s prepared to give.” She paused. “When we went to that hotel in Ibadan, he didn’t want to sleep with me. He said he didn’t want us to jump into bed so fast—wanted to build a relationship first. Why are you frowning?”

“Because I don’t believe men think that way. So I’m wondering why he said that. Maybe it was manipulative, holding off so you’d want him even more. I wouldn’t put that past him. Maybe you should think more about what exactly it is you want from him and whether you think this is going to go where you want it to.”

Lindsay sat up straight in her chair. “I like the fact that he seems to value the best things about me instead of the superficial trappings. I’d like him to share more of himself with me, want me more. I think he’s scared of feeling too much and I think I can help him get over that.”

“Maybe that’s just who he is. He’s a mysterious guy—I’ve always thought he was pretty closed off. People our age don’t really change, not deeply.”

“What I know intellectually and what I know in my heart are not the same. This one time, I want to follow my heart.”

“Then go for it,” Maureen said. “And good luck.” She stood up and headed for her room. “If we’re going to go out tonight, I’ve got to take a nap. We can talk more later.”

Alone, Lindsay felt a little better, but she hadn’t confessed the depth of her obsession. She couldn’t look at James, talk to him, listen to him, without feeling a flutter of desire. And there were other feelings she couldn’t talk about: How she thought he was beautiful and how her eyes often lingered over the elegant lines of his face and his body. And how it was the pain in his eyes that attracted her; the very mystery that made Maureen distrustful, she found alluring. She wanted to protect and nurture him, and at the same time, she sensed a danger in him. All those qualities made him irresistible. But was that love? If it wasn’t, she thought, then beside it, love was a pale thing, uninteresting, irrelevant.

Lindsay was upstairs changing for dinner when James arrived at seven o’clock sharp. She heard Maureen greet him at the door, then heard her singsong shout, “Lindsay, your date is here.”

“Coming.” Lindsay started chattering as she walked downstairs.

“James, we have a great idea. There’s this incredible musician I’ve heard about. He performs in a club in Surulere. I hear it’s amazing and it might make a great story for me. Do you want to go?”

She poured three drinks.

“It seems it’s been decided,” James said. “But sure, why not? I think you’d enjoy it. You’re talking about Bayo. I’ve seen his show—in fact, I’ve met him. You’d never guess it, but he’s a serious art collector. I’ve sold him a few pieces.”

“And you never told me?” Lindsay asked. “You’ve got to start looking at the world in terms of what would make a good story, not just a sale.”

“It’s still a sale. Only it’s newspapers instead of art.”