“Remember him? Are you kidding? We talked about him at lunch for six months.”
“I apologize. But he was the one who gave me the three rules of survival for entering Nigeria.” Lindsay held up a finger and enumerated each point. “Fight off the people swarming around like sand flies trying to do something for you. Don’t let anyone take your bag; you’ll never see it again. Bribe—or ‘dash’ as they say here—anyone who can get you a taxi into town. Unfortunately, there are no rules for how to survive after that.”
They both laughed. Lindsay glanced down at her articles and said she’d secured the promise of an interview with Olumide himself.
“That’s amazing. What have you found out about him so far?” Maureen asked.
“That he is certainly one of Africa’s gangster heads of state, steadily bleeding the country while transfusing his own Swiss bank accounts. His control is so tight it’s hard to imagine the drug trade flourishing without him. The problem is, it’s very hard to prove this, or even get anyone to accuse him on the record,” she said. “Most people are afraid to talk openly. After the assassination even the dissidents seem to have gone to ground, at least for now. I’ve cultivated some sources who might talk off the record, but that’s about it.”
“When is your interview with him?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I don’t have to tell you to be careful, do I?”
“No, of course not. And don’t worry.” She paused a beat. “I’m not expecting him to be honest. But he wants something from me—a public forum to reach Washington—and I want to ask him if he’s serious about holding elections and ending military rule. Of course he’ll lie, but at least I’ll have him on the record.”
Maureen nodded.
Lindsay checked the clock—the 9 A.M. BBC broadcast was about to begin. She turned on the radio in time to catch the familiar opening strains of the Queen’s March. She listened, but the broadcast ended without mentioning Nigeria.
Lindsay had tried to sound confident, but in actual fact she was struggling against frustration. She knew that even if she got a good story, she would have problems filing. With no reliable phone or electrical line, she couldn’t count on using her computer, and while some hotels had modems for the Internet, the connections were dicey. That left the public communications office with a single telex and long lines. Friends suggested she might be able to use the private telex of the Agence France-Presse man, who had paid a huge bribe to get it. But he was on home leave for a few more days.
Lindsay decided to focus on small, obtainable goals. Today, she’d simply prepare for the interview with Olumide. She’d read the clips and talk to the American ambassador, Peter Bresson, an old friend. On the way to the embassy, she’d stop at the public communications office and send a message to the foreign desk alerting them to expect the interview.
She looked up to see Maureen fiddling with the telephone.
“It doesn’t work,” Lindsay said. “You know that, right?”
“Yes. But you never can tell. Maybe a miracle happened while we slept.”
“Yeah, right. Maybe you’ll have better luck at the AP office.”
“Let’s hope so. I need to call Mark to tell him I arrived safely and I’ll have to contact the London bureau. In the meantime, I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?”
In the kitchen, Martin was setting the table.
“What would madam like?” he asked.
“The usual, please. And the same for my friend.”
Maureen leaned over and whispered in Lindsay’s ear. “What would
madam
like?”
“I know,” Lindsay said softly. “I’ve tried but I can’t get him to stop calling me that—let alone convince him to use my first name.” She smiled at Martin. “Can you explain to my friend why you insist on being so formal?”
“Because you are my employer, madam,” Martin said softly. “It’s not good to forget who we are in Lagos.” He turned back to his work.
“This will be good for you today,” he said, as he served eggs with pan-fried toast. “For driving in this place you need be strong.” Then, almost talking to himself, he murmured, “I will look for a driver for you tomorrow. It is no good you always drive yourself.”
“Okay. That would be a help. Thanks.”
The women wolfed down their breakfasts.
“Would it be all right with you if I stopped by after work to read to Eduke?” Lindsay asked, referring to Martin’s three-year-old son, a favorite of hers. “I have a new book for him.”
“He will be very happy, madam. Thank you.”
Lindsay nodded, drained another cup of coffee, waved good-bye and stepped outside into the wall of hot, humid air.
CHAPTER 3
She made her way through the crowded street as if on an obstacle course, careful not to step into the open sewers, trying to adjust to the jumble of smells, a combination of human excrement, perspiration, garbage, and gas fumes. Vendors were already hawking their wares. A man in a blue and gold cotton print dashiki implausibly carrying a couch on his head snaked past a group of women selling cigarettes, candles, and beer. The women wore tie-dyed kaftans with bright head ties. Some had strapped their babies to their backs with wide swaths of matching fabric. They walked easily, swaying only slightly, though they carried their wares in bulky baskets balanced on their heads.
Once in her car, Lindsay entered the mammoth traffic jam that Nigerians, with magnificent understatement, called a “go-slow.” More like a “no go,” she thought, as she edged along narrow, crowded roads pockmarked with potholes the size of manhole covers. Vendors ran alongside, poking their heads into her open windows.
“You go buy flashlight, madam,” shouted a man dressed in a loose-fitting dashiki. “Dis be good flashlight. You no go buy?”
She observed that she could use the flashlight, but she needed batteries.
“Wait,” the vendor said. “I go for buy dem and meet you.” He pointed one block away at the next traffic light.
Twenty minutes later, as she pulled up to the light, there he was—not even out of breath, the batteries in his hand. She paid for them and plowed ahead, passing legless beggars strapped to wheeled platforms, open-air barbers whose customers sat on stacked orange crates, and bicyclists clad in brightly colored long shirts called Bubas.
Eventually, she arrived at the communications office. She found a parking spot easily, but as she approached the building, her heart sank. A line of harried businessmen, mostly foreigners trying to contact their home offices, snaked around the block. She joined them and waited close to an hour. Finally, she walked up front to see what the problem was. She discovered that no one was in the booth. Finding a clerk, she asked, “Excuse me, where is the man on duty?”
“He not on seat.”
“Yes. I can see he’s not on his seat. I am not asking where he is not, I am asking where he is,” she said. “I have been waiting for an hour.” Her voice was rising.
“Don’t get hot,” the clerk advised her, his face a mask of indifference. “He go come back soon.”
After two hours, she took her place at an old telex machine. She quickly typed her message onto the telex keyboard. On her right the machine spewed out the yellow tape whose perforations coded her words. When she finished, she threaded the tape into the transmission slot, dialed the international routing number for her newspaper, and sat back while the machine sent the message.
Getting back into her car, she set out for the embassy. Turning right, she found the road blocked by a large mob. About a hundred people, mostly young men, were shouting in unison, “Olumide Must Go!” The traffic was at a standstill—the driver of the car directly in front of her had disappeared—so she left her car and pushed her way through the crowd. A thin young man appeared to be the leader. He had an angular face and distinct Yoruba tribal scars—three deep, slanted lines on each cheek. Wearing a T-shirt proclaiming THE NEXT STEP, he was pumping his fist into the air and screaming “Fakai First, Fakai Forever, Fakai, Yeah, Fakai, Yeah.”
In the distance, Lindsay noticed a group of uniformed soldiers approaching ominously, swinging their clubs. When they reached the demonstrators, they began slamming people in the ribs, the back, the legs. Some protesters tried to run, others started to look for a way out of the tightly packed streets. A teenaged boy fell and screamed as the crowd panicked and trampled him. But the young man in THE NEXT STEP shirt kept chanting, even as two of the soldiers moved toward him. “Fakai First,” he spat out, “Fakai Forever.” His comrades backed off and he seemed about to follow when he noticed Lindsay and paused, as if wondering who this white woman scribbling in a notebook was. As he reached out to hand her a leaflet, she saw a soldier moving behind him, his club raised. “Run!” she screamed, but her warning was lost in the noise of the crowd. He was still chanting when they grabbed him. Horrified, Lindsay saw the soldier raise his club and bring it down hard on the protester’s head. The man crumpled and they threw him into a black van, the infamous Black Maria of the military police.
Lindsay continued writing down everything she saw as she navigated her way through the fleeing crowd. She had just found a place to stand when a hand reached from behind her and grabbed her notebook. She turned and looked up at a tall and angry soldier.
“What you tink you do?” he asked.
“Nothing, Officer,” Lindsay answered, realizing this was the same man who had clubbed the protester. “I’m a reporter. I’m just doing my job.”
“What you be? You be English?”
“No. I’m American,” she answered, “from New York.”
“So maybe you be American spy, yes? Maybe you be CIA?”
This alarmed her. Nigerians were paranoid about the CIA.
“No, Officer. I’m an accredited correspondent whose papers have been approved by the highest authorities. I have an interview tomorrow with General Olumide himself.” She removed her papers from her handbag and offered them to him.
The soldier glanced at them.
“They be expire,” he lied, staring straight at her.
She paused for a fraction of a second.
“Oh, Officer, I am so sorry. I know there is a fine for that,” she said, taking a one-hundred-naira note out of her wallet. “Would it be possible for me to pay it right now?”
He grabbed the bill from her hand and pocketed it.
“Be sure you go for fix it,” he said, handing back her notebook.
Lindsay retreated as fast as she could. Looking back, she thought she saw the officer point another soldier in her direction. She started to run and when she reached her car, she didn’t see anyone following. Her heart was beating wildly. Had she imagined that he was coming after her?
The traffic began to move and the people stuck behind her car were leaning on their horns, so she climbed in quickly and started the engine. Driving to the embassy, she kept checking over her shoulder, but saw nothing suspicious. She was just beginning to relax when she noticed a black car turning after her. She parked a few doors from the embassy’s main entrance, looked back and saw the same black car stop at the end of the street. Two men in army uniforms, one in the driver’s seat, one in the back, did not move. They just sat. Waiting.
CHAPTER 4
A marine guard led Lindsay into the ambassador’s waiting room. Hot and sticky, her clothes moist with perspiration, she luxuriated in the air-conditioning. Linda, a perky blond secretary, offered her a soft drink. When she returned with an icy Coca-Cola, Lindsay downed it gratefully.
“I love America,” Lindsay said as she flopped back on a green tweed upholstered sofa under a large print of New York harbor in the nineteenth century.
Linda looked pleased.
“Yes,” she said. “Isn’t it wonderful? We’re very lucky.”
Lindsay had meant the air-conditioning, but she smiled politely. After checking that the ambassador was ready, Linda ushered Lindsay through a set of double doors.
“The ambassador will see you in the secure room,” she said.
Lindsay was puzzled. She knew that in certain countries, especially in the Eastern bloc, U.S. embassies guarded against electronic eavesdropping, but she couldn’t conceive of such a need in Lagos. In fact, given their telephone and power problems, she doubted the Nigerians had the necessary infrastructure.
Lindsay had dated Peter Bresson, the ambassador, briefly when he was on the Africa desk in Washington. She had liked him, but then he had been reassigned to Kenya, and she too moved on to London. They had corresponded only a few times, but she was looking forward to seeing him.
Running her fingers through her hair, she followed Linda up a staircase to the top floor. On the right was a small door with a plaque saying: “TOP SECRET. ANY MENTION OF THE EXISTENCE OF THIS ROOM IS GROUNDS FOR PROSECUTION UNDER ACT 831 OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY CODE.”
The room was windowless with white noise pumped in to drown out all other sound. Lindsay saw another small room within, made of transparent plastic. Wires suspended this room so it didn’t directly touch the outside wall or the floor. Peter Bresson was sitting inside.
“Pete,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks. “Is all this really necessary? Because if you’re just trying to impress me, you’ve succeeded.”
He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, with an athletic frame that had softened slightly around his middle in the years since she’d last seen him. He charged toward her awkwardly, pulling her into a bear hug.
“Hey, Lindsay. It’s great to see you. I’m sorry about all this cloakand-dagger stuff, but we do really need to be careful about what gets back to the Nigerian government. This room is totally secure.”
“It’s not the room I’m worried about,” Lindsay answered. “I just had a really disturbing experience.” She told him about the demonstration, the brutal arrest, and her own brush with the military police. He nodded thoughtfully.
“I’m sorry that happened, but maybe it’s a good thing you saw firsthand exactly what we are dealing with here,” he said. “I wanted you to come in anyway, partly to warn you.”