MICHAEL HEY'S

TALES FROM WARRI

I N D E X

Dateline Lagos and Port Harcourt, 22nd July 2005

Henry's Arrival

This story was related to me by a close friend – names changed for obvious reason – and it is a little historical – Lagos Local Airport at Ikeja is no longer as described here, not at all, not since it was burned to the ground just after the turn of the millennium.

In fact today it is the very model of efficiency and stands comparison with any local airport anywhere and, while we are considering airports and air travel, I counted back on the number of journeys that I must have made in and out of the country, more than sixty over the years to Lagos, Port Harcourt and Abuja plus numerous internal flights, not least to Warri. Never once has my baggage been tampered with, let alone lost, which is more than I can say for CDG in Paris, or Frankfurt or for that matter Heathrow … but on with the tale ...

It was the beginning of Henry’s first full day in Nigeria.  He was hot and it was only 8 am.  Perspiration had begun to soak into his shirt. He held onto the black fold-out handle of his fibre glass suitcase and wheeled it across the hotel entrance to the waiting car.  Angus, his chief engineer, followed him, his pale Scottish skin glistening, little beads forming under the brow line of his rust coloured hair.

The driver helped load the cases into the boot, laying them clumsily alongside the spare tyre and several greasy plastic containers of petrol.  Henry and Angus climbed into the back seat, the doors closed and they pulled away into the Ikeja traffic.

“How long to airport?”

“About half an hour … Sah!”

“You know we are going to the local airport.”

“I know it.”

“Will you help us check in the bags?”

“Yes Sah! It is better I do that.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Kenneth, Sah!”

“Kenneth, what’s happen to the A/C in this car?”

“Not working”

Henry wound down the window, but not too far.  As the car slowed in the traffic street vendors jostled forward trying to shove their various packages through the window at him.  Strings of razors, bic pens, cotton buds, outdated Time magazines, local newspapers, stereos, packets of local sweets and candies, chickens held by the throat, rubber mats for car floors and bizarrely, a live puppy vied for his attention.

“Only thing they haven’t got for sale here Angus, is a haggis.”

“I think I’ve seen some o’ them.”  

 * * * * * * * *

The car rumbled off the crowded airport road and tracked across some open ground behind a curling, rusting fence.  The wheels plunged alternately into huge ruts and the driver honked the horn to move aside the gathering crowd.  The car finally pulled up beside a low, crumbling building with a large red aeroplane crudely painted over the peeling wall.  They dragged their suitcases through into a dark, and narrow hall seething with people.  Set into the far wall were a series of six barred windows about two foot square, behind each window sat a clerk and jammed solidly in front of each of the windows bad tempered queues of perspiring passengers elbowed and struggled to get the clerk’s attention.

Henry and Angus, bemused, sat on their suitcases at the back of the hall whilst Kenneth, with a practised skill worked his way forward.  After nearly an hour he caught the attention of one of the clerks, passed the scrunched up tickets through the bars and got two pieces of card in return.  He struggled back to his two charges and handed them the cards with an air of triumph. 

“Take these and go through that door where they will take you to the plane.”  Kenneth said with a disarming simplicity.

“What about the bags?”

“It is better you take them to the plane with you.”

“Right.”

“Great.” Said Angus with heavy irony.

Henry’s shirt was a sodden rag and his cotton slacks had begun to feel heavy and damp.  He pulled a wad of Naira from his pocket and peeled off a generous number, handed them to Kenneth who, smiling broadly, disappeared into the scrum whilst the other two with a gasp of relief were allowed access through a door into the waiting room.

The waiting room was cooler thanks to grumbling air conditioners, but filthy and gloomy.  There were various models of overstuffed armchairs scattered around, most of them occupied by bored passengers, many wearing the national costume, which in the heat looked cool and sensible.  Henry and Angus plopped down into a couple of seats and glumly surveyed their surroundings.   Henry glanced at his watch.

“Twenty to Ten, our flight’s at ten-thirty so we won’t have to wait that long”

“Shouldn’t we be checking wi’ someone in here?”  Angus asked

The two of them looked across at the exit at the far end of the room.  Above the door, which was open, a sign reading ‘Departures’ hung crookedly.  Underneath it a single lectern, beaten and chipped and behind the lectern a bored and heavily pregnant woman.

Henry walked across to her, leaving Angus with the luggage.  “This where we board for Port Harcourt?” he asked

“Which flight yo’ on?” she asked after a studied pause

“Port Harcourt.. 10:30.. are there others?”

“Flight delayed”

“Delayed?  Until when?”

She shrugged ample shoulders, bosom heaving. “Look at de notice board, it will tell you dere.”

“Notice board?”

“Over dere, by dat wall”

Henry peered through the gloom.  Leaning against the side wall next to an opening for the toilets was a large, flaking, black notice board with hooks for numbers to hang on.  The towns of Port Harcourt, Benin and Abuja were painted across it, next to each name there was nothing.

“Will there be any announcements?” He had turned back to the woman.

She shrugged and glanced away.

Henry turned and looked out through the departure doorway. To his surprise there was a busy road, with everyday traffic on it, running between the door of the departure lounge and the airport apron.  Access to the apron was through a gap, torn down in the fencing.  Behind this, on the apron several aged and grime streaked aircraft were standing, weeds growing up amongst their wheels.  To the side stood a large and rusty hanger. 

Henry returned to his seat.  Angus looked up at him, half expectantly.  “Flight’s delayed” Henry said.

“Right. I’m going to get a drink ... want anything?”

“Where from?”

“There’s a counter over there.”

“A coke ...” Henry was beginning to have premonitions

Angus returned empty handed.  “Place is filthy ...  ‘n there’s nowt for sale, not that we’d want ...”

Henry slumped further into the seat.

Time passed, eleven thirty and the first announcement about their flight; “Flight to Port Harcourt expected to land in thirty minutes”.  Henry brightened, but after a further hour of inaction he slumped again.  He stared around the room.  He looked down at the floor, unswept and covered in dust.  As he peered about he began to notice little piles of tiny half mooned transparent plastic pieces ... or were they plastic ,.. what were they? And then he focused on the cripples, there were three of them, sliding themselves around the floor, their twisted and useless legs folded into impossible angles underneath them.   Rags gave them some semblance of modesty and in one hand they each held a tiny pair of scissors which they clicked rapidly opened and shut, looking expectantly up at the faces of waiting passengers.

As he watched, hypnotised by the scene Henry saw a large and imperious passenger dressed as a Chief wave over one of the cripples.  The fellow slid across the floor.  The Chief held his foot forward and the cripple carefully pared each of his toe-nails in turn leaving a neat pile of clippings on the ground.  A few Naira were handed over and the cripple slid off towards another customer.

God!  Henry needed to pee.  “Have you been to the toilets yet?” He asked Angus

“Ye dinna want te know”

“That’s it, over there, by the notice board?”

“Aye”

Henry walked over to the doorway, which led towards a darkened interior.  As he approached it the stench began to fill his nostrils.  He held his breath and tiptoed in.  He relieved himself and left as quickly as he could.

“Jesus” he exploded when he returned.

Angus looked at him blankly  “I warned ye”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The day wore on.  The waiting room began to fill up.  By three thirty it was crowded, people were sitting everywhere, the air was heavy with the smell of stale sweat.  Henry turned to Angus; “This’ll be the passengers for the five o’clock flight coming in’” he said

“There has nay been a flight oot all day” Angus replied

The clocked ticked on until four p.m. And suddenly there was a flurry of announcements.  “Flight from Port Harcourt arrived” … “Flight from Abuja arrived” …  “Flight from Benin arrived”.  There was a scramble of passengers and luggage towards the departures door.

Henry nudged Angus ... “Come on ... we’re away ... come on”

Angus grabbed his bags and the two of them pushed forward amongst the milling bodies and suddenly they were out, into the hot and fetid evening air, moving awkwardly across the busy road, through the gap in the fence and onto the apron where dozens of passengers were milling around in disorganised frenzy. 

Three twin-engined planes were taxiing to a standstill on the apron.  The passengers grouped into four or five bunches and began running in turn to each of the planes as they motored to a halt.

When the doors in the planes opened the passengers screamed up to them  “Where you going .. where you going?  Eh?”

Henry and Angus stood open mouthed for a moment and then grabbed at a young lady as she hastened past.  “Which one to Port Harcourt?”  They asked.

“I’m going there ... I think it is that one ...” she said pointing to one of the three planes alongside which a jostling queue had begun to form.

Henry’s throat was dry, hunger gnawed at him and he rushed across the apron dragging his suitcase.  Passengers were still coming down the stairs from the plane and struggling to get through the crowd surging to get on.  Finally a semblance of order.  A steward from the plane came down and holding a rolled umbrella commenced to beat it on the heads of various passengers trying to push aboard.

“Wait yo’ turn, ” he yelled at them ... “Wait yo’ turn”.  The crowd quietened for a moment.  The plane emptied rapidly and a trolley appeared under its belly to receive luggage.

“There’s too many passengers for this plane”  Angus observed

“That’s because the passengers for the five o’clock are trying to get on as well.” Henry replied

“I dinna like this,”  Angus said

“Nor I”

Finally people were allowed up the stairs.  The steward re-commenced beating with his umbrella.  As they struggled to the foot of the stairs each passenger would release his or her luggage which was dragged onto a pile under the plane.

Henry and Angus were standing patiently towards the back of the crowd.  Suddenly Henry exploded.  “I’m not staying here any longer, I’m not staying in this town another night” and using his height, for he was over six foot, he elbowed his way towards the front of the mêlée around the steps. 

“I’ll keep you a seat, Angus”  he yelled and, sliding his luggage to the pile under the plane he got one foot onto the bottom of the steps. 

Movement stopped.  Half way up the steps a tightly dressed woman had turned, her sequinned, electric blue costume cutting deeply into her flesh, and raising a hand above her head began to wave to an imaginary crowd of well-wishers and fans.    Her carmine lips were drawn back into an enormous smile, her white teeth gleaming.

“Go-one … Get On … GET ON DAT WOMAN!!! ..” the crowd screamed at her.  She ignored them imperiously and continued to wave her hand.  Someone threw something at her and finally she turned and continued up towards the plane.

Henry had both feet on the bottom step.

“Boarding pass!”  The steward with the umbrella said.

Henry handed over his little piece of cardboard and continued up.   He noticed that other passengers had different coloured pieces of card yet they were all accepted without comment.

He was into the plane which was three quarters full.  The aisles were jammed with people, bags, boxes and several items of loose apparel.  He spotted two seats and elbowed his way into one of them and plonked a carrier bag onto the other. 

Finally Angus was aboard and sometime after five p.m. the doors were closed and the plane began to taxi towards the runway.

“Do you think the luggage got on board?” Henry asked

“I dinna care ...” replied Angus

The plane juddered and vibrated along the runway its ******** Airlines logo gleaming balefully as it lifted ponderously off the ground and into the evening sky.

* * * * * * * * * * *

One and a half  uncomfortable hours later, punctuated only by the handout of a cup of grey, indeterminate liquid to each passenger, the plane slowly descended towards the ground.  The sky was darkening.  Henry could make out a few pale lights beneath and as it landed, the heavy green rim of jungle crowding in towards the runway.

The plane halted, turned and slowly taxied towards a small apron.  The door opened and warm, humid air spilled into the plane.

Henry and Angus stood at the gate to the apron, luggage retrieved and realisation that there was no-one to meet them sinking in.

“We’ll have to take …”

“A taxi ...” Angus finished.

A young man was leaning against the gatepost.  He seemed inoffensive and friendly.

“You have a taxi?”

“I have”

“How far to Port Harcourt … Presidential Hotel?”

“Thirty miles”

“You can take us?”

“I will ...”

“How much?”

“Two thousand Naira”

“One thousand”

“One thousan five”

“OK”  And as the driver took their luggage Angus and Henry looked around at the jungle, the unfamiliar surroundings, then clambered in to the back seat.

“I could do with a shower,” Henry said. 

“I could do wi a beer” Angus replied. 

“We’ve eaten nothing since breakfast,”

“And drunk less.”

The car, an old Peugeot, rattled comfortably along the jungle track towards Port Harcourt. It passed through several villages and soon entered the outskirts of the town. By about quarter to eight p.m. they were pulling up in front of the Presidential Hotel.  It was dark.  The streets were poorly lit and the pavements were busy with people.  The air was hot and stinking.  Angus spotted a human corpse lying in the gutter.  It had been there some time because it was beginning to swell.  People walked by ignoring it.

“Look at thet will ye?”  Angus said.

Henry grunted, dragging his luggage behind him as he climbed the stairs into the lobby.  The taxi driver, who had been paid, trailed after them.

“We’re booked in for two nights,” Henry said to the receptionist

“Names?” she asked. 

He gave their names.

“Your rooms are gone.  No rooms. All gone.  No rooms.”

“What do you mean no rooms?  We booked.”

“Convention take all rooms.”  She shrugged.

“Let me speak to the Manager!”

“He not on seat.” 

“This is no good. How much for us to get a room?”

“Dey NO ROOMS!”

“Where can we stay?”

She shrugged again, her attention drifting.  The taxi driver came up to Henry’s elbow.  Henry turned to him;  “They’ve given away our rooms ... given away our bloody rooms ... where can we go now?”

“Only other good hotel is back near to Airport”  said the taxi driver.. “Always rooms there”

“Can you take us?”

The taxi drivers eyes widened.  “It dark, dangerous,”  he said

“Two thousand five hundred Naira”  Henry replied.

The driver nodded.  They trailed back into the car.  Angus stole another glance at the corpse.

“Thank God the taxi driver did not go off,”  Henry observed innocently.

The taxi pulled away, out of town and plunged back into the night and the enveloping, tropical jungle.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They were some thirty minutes into their journey back towards the remote airstrip when the car drove into a small village.  The road rose slightly and curved sharply to the right.  Just over the brow and round the corner the headlights picked out a large plank of wood placed across the road, six inch nails sticking vertically upwards from it.  The old Peugeot juddered to a halt.  Out of the gloom two figures loomed, dressed in pseudo military camouflage.  They both held semi-automatic weapons.  The larger of the two, a lumbering giant suddenly pointed the gun at Henry’s head and motioned him to lower the window.

Henry’s blood chilled.  He wound the window open and looked into jumping, half crazed eyes.  The gun pointed straight at his head, finger on the trigger.  The other hand came in through the window and flapped under Henry’s nose. The second bandit, smaller, yet somehow equally menacing held back, his gun cocked and ready.

“It very cold out here,” the man said. “It very cold out here, give me something to keep me warm.” 

The hand flapped insistently.

Henry reached into his pocket, pulled out some Naira and placed them into the hand which was withdrawn and then returned, across Henry and flapped under Angus’s nose.

“Give me something keep me warm” the voice said again, “It very cold out here.”

Angus didn’t stir.

“Angus, give him something.”

“I’m nay givin him anything.” Angus said. 

“Give him something, the gun’s pointed at my head.”

“Nay.”

“I’LL PAY YOU BACK.” Henry said, becoming alarmed.  The gunman’s eyes were dancing like banshees.

Angus reluctantly fished out a few Naira and placed them in the flapping palm.

The hand was withdrawn.  The gun pulled away.  Henry wound the window up.  The plank with nails, was slid back. The taxi driver, glistening with sweat, floored the accelerator and left rubber on the road.

* * * * * * * * *

Half hour later they reached the Airport Sheraton Hotel, buried in the jungle down a little track away from the airstrip.  It was a surprising building.  Five stories of air conditioned comfort.  Large rooms and plenty of vacancies.  Fifty dollars per night including breakfast.  Henry and Angus greeted their salvation with stunned delight, looking around as though they had seen nothing civilised for months.  They paid off the taxi driver with a generous bonus and checked in.

It was nine-thirty p.m.  Dining service had ended at nine.  Henry turned to Angus, “I’ll see you in the bar in ten minutes.”

“Aye.”

Henry’s room was on the fourth floor at the end of the corridor.  Sliding doors opened onto a small balcony.  He went outside for a moment and took in the night air and the varied sounds of the jungle.  He returned to his room, freshened up, put on a clean shirt, took the lift down to the lobby and strolled through to the bar.

The bar was long and polished.  A few expatriates sat on stools nursing glasses of beer.  Angus was already there, a large green bottle in front of him and a half filled glass.

“Try the Star, local brew, ‘s good,”  he said.

“A Star, cold, please,” Henry called out and then watched with mounting thirst as the pale liquid poured into a long tumbler.

The first few swallows caught the back of his throat and the alcohol rapidly took hold.

“Strong stuff,” he commented to Angus

“Aye,  have ‘nother..”

The second beer slipped down easily.  A day without food and strong alcohol went rapidly to his head. 

Henry relaxed, smiled, slumped a little on his stool.

Then suddenly he felt a soft hand on his thigh.  He looked up, momentarily startled.  Lithe young girls surrounded Angus and him, slid onto stools close to them and began to whisper insistently.

Henry’s attention was caught by the girl on his right.  Her skin was jet back and she looked him frankly in the eyes.

“I like you ...” she said ... “I love you ...” her hand wandered across to him. 

Henry smiled at the banality but despite himself he felt a rising interest.

“Do you have a Nigerian girl friend?”

Henry shook his head.

“Can I be your Nigerian girl friend?” Her voice was throaty and soft. 

Henry said  “You have a gap between your teeth,”  which she did, between the gleaming white upper front teeth there was a gap.

“You can put your tongue in it if you like’” she whispered

The alcohol, the tensions of the day, Henry’s interest stirred more strongly and he looked at her.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty three.”

“Same age as my daughter!” Henry said turning away.

They finished one more Star and Henry left the bar for his room. Angus stayed, nursing his drink and ignoring the girls.

As he left the lobby a middle aged woman in a bright flowery dress glanced up at him from her armchair. A conspiratorial look glinted in her eyes. Henry, puzzled for a moment, hesitated then entered the lift.

He closed the door of his room and slipped off his clothing. He pulled on a pair of light cotton shorts and turned to the bed. He was interrupted in his movement by a knock at the door.

Again and again. He turned and opened the door.

Suddenly the young woman from the bar had slipped into his room.

Henry’s resolve melted. He held her for a moment, a heavy, tantalising and musky perfume enveloped him. There was something innocent, primitive and beckoning about the embrace.

He stood back. “How did you know this was my room?”

She smiled. “I know now.”

“But how?”

“Your key ... you had it on the counter at de bar ...”

And later, as she lay back and opened her arms to him she leaned her head close to his and whispered, throatily into his ear.  

“Welcome ... to Africa ...” she said.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

And in a small clearing surrounded by shacks not far from the Hotel the taxi driver leaned back in his chair, balancing against the door of the Peugeot and with a quiet smile counted the Naira in his pocket under the pale light of a paraffin lamp. He held as much as most of his villagers could make in a month.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

© Michael Hey; All Rights Reserved

Dateline Port Harcourt, 17th July 2005

Ghosts of the Aba Express

From Aba in the east right through to the old Government Residential Area – old GRA – in the west runs the Aba express, a dual carriageway divided centrally by a concrete wall about four feet high, crumbling and broken in places and affording seating for vendors, beggars and pedestrians. It cuts the town of Port Harcourt neatly into two.

Travel west until you pass the Presidential Hotel on your right and shortly you will come to the junction with the Trans-Amadi, a road that curves off left, firstly down a hill past the banking sector, then in a long lazy ‘D’ until it reaches a complex junction from where, to the right, it is possible to drive out to the Cawthorne river creek and a string of yards including the main Naval base for the city. Across at forty-five degrees also to the right is the entrance to the Port Harcourt zoo, rumoured to contain various species of reptiles and ape, but in conditions of utter deprivation. The zoo grounds run down to the Amadi riverbank and meld into a refuse-strewn blend of festering water and oily mud. Straight on across the junction is the Trans-Amadi bridge, a single span of concrete slabs suspended on two reinforced concrete beams. On the left before you cross the bridge you will see the killing grounds, where wholesale slaughter of cattle is conducted in a collection of rusting corrugated iron sheds and the butchered meat is then laid out on wooden slabs standing on the un-drained river bank. A swirling black cloud of smoke arises from the incinerated carcases and on the rooftops queues of vultures sit awaiting the opportunity to pick at bloodied bone.

Following the Trans-Amadi across the bridge then around offers the opportunity of a number of left turnings to take you back onto the Aba express, and if you then turn right you will reach Artillery and it is at Artillery junction that the ghosts congregate.

Every day we would drive out of our small camp, three large bungalows tucked on a rise behind twelve foot walls topped with razor wire, onto Fon street, then up to Aba, right to the first break in the central wall, then a ‘U’ turn, back up past Artillery and finally into Rumuibekwe on the right, a turning shortly before the crossing into the Shell residential complex opposite.

Artillery junction is permanently choked by vehicles, trucks, battered minibuses,  spluttering okada and pedestrians struggling to find gaps to cross the road. Each driver to the point of lunacy stubbornly refuses to yield to any other vehicle. Rumuodara road to the left joins the Aba across gaping holes each the size of a truck where the tarmac has crumbled, having yielded to constant battering and now revealing an underside of rubble and mud. Approaching this junction the car comes to a standstill in a confusion of vehicles. Street vendors wind dangerously between narrow gaps offering strings of telephone cards, racks of barbers clippers, teacloths, cheap watches, bottles of violently coloured drink. Beggars approach, one or two dreadfully crippled with limbs twisted grotesquely, a large woman leaning forward on her knuckles her backside in the air and her legs deformed and rigid and others with one limb missing but more mobile come, tap tap tapping insistently on the closed windows, scratching against the locked doors of our car.

It is November, and the temperature rises as the rains recede. And we catch our first sight of Naked Man. Graceful, he has the lean and finely muscled physique of an athlete, he strides, a long loping gait, alongside the central barrier of the Aba express. He is possessed of a single-minded determination. He is totally oblivious to his surroundings. His skin, light for an African, is covered in a fine dust. He looks well nourished and he moves quickly past us then vanishes in the smoky haze.

Months pass. Naked Man is spotted regularly, sometimes way out beyond Onne junction, then another time right back at the old GRA. Always moving with the same grace and sense of purpose. Once I saw him running, his usual track along the centre of the road, oblivious to traffic. He runs easily, lightly, effortlessly, as though he could continue indefinitely.

It is early in the New Year and the mango season is approaching. We have had a long and tiring day.

Artillery will hold us for nearly an hour on our three-mile journey back to the camp. Jim is in the back seat with Chris. I am in the front with Innocent, our driver. The sky is darkening. Out of the murk a tall, cadaverous individual emerges, rags hanging from his bony limbs, his head hidden beneath a huge cowl fashioned out of sacking. Looking at him only his eyes can been seen, glowing like dying coals in the shadow of his hood..

“Tis the Grim Reaper…” Jim says, a slight tremble in his voice. 

“The original Hoody,” adds Chris. 

His skeletal fingers scratch at the window. I slip a fifty Naira note (about 30 €urocents in 2005) to him through a narrow opening.

Then another figure comes, leaning heavily on one crudely fashioned crutch. A huge smile on his face, but he is undernourished and the skin is taut against his cheekbones. Then another and another. Then a small flotilla of crippled men, without legs scooting along on home-made skateboards.

Then a fellow, healthy and young, wearing a clean tee-shirt, striped like a sailors jerkin, one sleeve empty, knocks on the window with his hand.

“Aye, it is a Nigerian one-armed bandit!” Says Jim, irrepressible.

We move on. The thought of a few cold Star beers waiting makes me urge Innocent to force his way through.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Not long after this and I guess we have been in Port Harcourt for nearly four months when we see our first corpse on the Aba express. Travelling back, into town from the Shell complex, the junction before Artillery where the road widens to permit traffic to turn left, we notice vehicles avoiding an obstruction. As we approach, it is the body of a rotund and middle aged man, well dressed, lying face down in the road about a car’s width away from the central reservation. We were returning from the office then and the following morning we could see from the other side of the carriageway he was still there, and again in the evening. Not until the next day was he moved.

Of course we all knew. Whoever, apart from authorities, may touch or shift a corpse  immediately takes full responsibility for the death, for the funeral, for all the claims that may be laid at the door of the victim.

Then some weeks later we saw the body of a young woman. Lying on her back, on the grass verge between the tall wire fence of the Shell residential complex and the road, not far from the gate into the complex. She was naked from the waist up.

I was alone in the back seat, the ‘Oga’s’ position. Innocent, driving with his usual abandon;

“How long are they going to leave that poor girl there?”

“She punished.”

“Punished?  PUNISHED? She’s dead, nothing can hurt her now.”

“She punished.”

“What did she do?”

“She girl friend dat de white man.”

“White man? Which white man?”

“He live in de Shell camp dere. She his girl fren’”

“Innocent, if every black girl with a white boyfriend is to be punished by death the population of this town would half…”

“She de daughter of very senior Chief. Dis a lesson to dose her sisters..”

On the fourth day her body was gone. But I could imagine beforehand the kids within the camp, children of Dutch, English and Scots engineers, congregating in little gangs, whispering urgently and daring each other to peer through the wire fencing at the lifeless form.

And later, one dull Tuesday morning, I think in March or April, the traffic had backed up to where we make a U turn. The horns were incessant. Looking ahead I could see the three or four lanes converging into one, in a random, disorganised and increasingly frenetic manner. We crawled forward up to the junction before the Catholic Institute of West Africa, where, luckily perhaps, on the right, back from the road, there was a large and rather smart white complex of buildings, a clinic. Here the Woji road bends away from the Ab, offering a possibility to take a deviation from the Artillery ahead, which of an evening invariably backs vehicles up for a kilometre or so.

The junction is wide and leaves the Aba on a rise. It is a corner where workers will stand and wait to flag down boxes or okada for a lift into work.

But earlier that morning a ten tonne truck, laden with concrete slabs had swerved out of control, its front axle broken.  It had ploughed into the queue of workers and thumped over onto its side trapping five or six of them underneath and flinging the driver and passenger through the windscreen. When we passed it I could see bodies under the vehicle, one with its head almost flattened. Jim had turned to look back and described the grisly remains of the two flung onto the bonnet. It made a sobering start to the day.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

As Fon street climbs up a short embankment onto Aba, cars will slow before joining the traffic. At that point beside the road sits the Lady in the Wheelbarrow. Invariably alongside with their backs against the wall stands a row of half a dozen or more itinerants, dressed in rags, holding bits of metal in their hands and little hollow cans, clinking them in an incessant and almost seductive rhythm, - clink clank clunk clunk clank, - clink clunk clank clank clunk – clink clink clunk clank clank – on and on.

She sits in the wheelbarrow, her left leg hanging over the front, her right leg drawn up the shin swathed in a grimy bandage through which shows a dark red stain of blood. Her hand is out, a look of intense suffering etched on her features.

Jim reaches out and gives her some notes.

Ian snorts; “Jum, she’s bin like that fer weeks, if she’d a real injury her leg would ‘a drapped aff wi’ gangrene afore noo..”

“I saw her walking up to the stop the other evening.” I added

Jim cursed.

The weeks roll by and the rains begin. V joins me from home for an extended visit. The Lady in The Wheelbarrow remains at her post, now protected by a sheet of blue plastic, the rain swirling about her. She seems more frail, but the bandage has not changed, the bloodstain remains, she endures.

She endures until one late evening we return about ten. As the car slides by I can see her slumped, still in the wheelbarrow.

“Is she asleep?” V asks..

“I think she is in a very long sleep..” I reply.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

And then the final act in this grisly drama. It is ten-thirty in the morning. I drive out of the offices, across the Aba and left towards the town centre. A 40 gallon oil drum is placed in the road, we steer round it and there lying, dead in the road, is Naked Man. Hit in the early morning by a truck and left alone in death as he was in life.  His death has a profound effect on our team. We had kind of adopted him. He never begged, never asked for anything. He had his own agenda, his own purpose and stuck with it. He had kept his dignity. His body in death as strong and graceful as in life.

But the next day the drum had been removed and the body had been hit again and now it was bent grotesquely and finally it became road kill. It was days before his remains were removed. And now all that was left was the bunch of flowers by the roadside, placed there by Ian, the sceptic amongst us.

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

And later that evening as V and I sit in the pervasive gloom, trapped in the traffic at Artillery we can see back in the shadows the smiling ghosts of the Aba Express, amongst the faces the Lady in the Wheelbarrow, the Grim Reaper, the young woman and Naked Man.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

© Michael Hey; All Rights Reserved

Dateline Port Harcourt, 1st July 2004

Uche and Three Heads

It begins at the Port Harcourt Airport domestic terminal. John, Mark and I arrived at about four-thirty in the afternoon to catch one of the many evening flights to Lagos. We faced a bewildering choice. Sosoliso Airlines flying an old BAC 1-11, Chanchangi Airlines flying an American version of the same vintage, long sausage shaped body, two engines, one under each tail fin and seating for close on two hundred. Then there was Ass*c**t*d Airlines flying something powered by what looked like two electric fans hung from a single wing, which was glued over a body like a horse box and Aero Contractors, whose tickets were several times the price of the other carriers. But we decided on Belleview Airlines because I had flown them before and their plane was going to be the first to depart. We purchased one-way flights at nine-thousand Naira each (about £40.00) handing over grubby bundles of mixed fifty and twenty Naira notes and receiving paper tickets in return, open seating. We elbowed our way out of the queues at the check-in area and strode down to the Departure Lounge, a large dusty arena with steel bench seats and arrays of fans hanging from the ceiling. Weary passengers lounged about. We chose seats beneath a fan and relaxed. The journey out from the town had been stressful and it was the first opportunity to cool off. Sweaty shirts stuck to our backs. We looked again at our tickets for the London flight out of Lagos.

“Plenty of time,” I assured Mark and John, both were reaching the end of their first visit to the country. “The flight time to Lagos is about fifty minutes, then allow thirty minutes to the International airport, we should be checking in before seven. Your flight, KLM is not until ten-thirty and mine, BA eleven-thirty. Plenty of time!”

Five p.m. arrived quickly, a garbled announcement and a sudden shuffling of passengers. We stood up expectantly but the little crowd were hurrying out of the lounge, down the gloomy corridor, back towards the check-in desks. We looked at each other and shrugged. John, the perpetual worrier went over to another passenger. He came back blinking through his windowpane-sized glasses, perspiration running down his forehead casting a sheen over his white skin..

“The flight is delayed, maybe by forty minutes, he says it is better we change our ticket to the five-thirty Sosoliso flight!”

I looked at Mark who looked back quizzically. “Even a delay of an hour gives us plenty of time,” I argued.

“I would prefer to change tickets,” John replied.

So we followed the crowd back down to the check-in area.

Chaos!

Fists!

Elbows!

Shouting!

We took one look and returned to the departure lounge.

“How about a beer?” Mark said, always ready for cool libations.

There was a small bar set into the far wall of the lounge. We ambled over. A few other expatriates were hanging around, sipping out of cans of Heineken. In the gloom behind the bar we could make out a glass fronted cabinet stacked with cans of beer. A sleepy eyed female, rolls of fat straining her cotton dress looked at us with complete disinterest.

“Three Heinekens!” Mark ordered

“Cold, very cold!” I added.

She lifted three cans out of the cabinet and placed them in front of us.

“Siss hun’red Naira,” she mumbled.

Mark handed over the notes. We slipped the lid clips and sipped the cold beer. It bit the back of my throat. I gulped and soon the can was empty.

“Three more!”

The fat barmaid obliged again and then, out of the murk, glided a tall, slender, elegant Negress, as fine as any model off the front of glossy magazines. She seemed pre-occupied with someone behind the beer cabinets, and as quickly as she appeared, she vanished.

“See that!” Mark, always subtle, “Where did she go?”

John, nervous, blinked rapidly, this action magnified tenfold through his lenses. I thought I had noticed a slight vacancy in her eyes, but said nothing.

Then she re-appeared beside the cabinet. She was beautifully yet simply dressed, showing a style and elegance totally at odds with the surroundings. She had pronounced features, sharp cheekbones; her eyes almond shaped.

For a moment, silence, then someone called from a doorway at the back and she turned, and made to move away.

It was Mark who spoke first. “Say, Miss, what is your name?”

She twisted, looked at him as though noticing for the first time there were people on the other side of the bar intently staring at her and replied;.

“Uche,”

Her voice was quiet, slightly husky, nervous and she retreated by one step as though the question had physically attacked her. Again I noticed a detachment, vagueness in her eyes.

John turned round and looked away at the single boarding gate. He tugged my sleeve. “I think that is our flight!” he said. And indeed there was a line of people waiting for the baggage security check. I turned to one of the others at the bar.

“No mate,” a stringy young expatriate in faded jeans replied to my question, “That’s the Chaninchaggini, whatever the ****** it is flight. Yours is delayed by another half hour.. or more.. “

“Thanks.. I think..” I replied. He nodded then quickly finished his can, hefted a large offshore bag and walked off.

I turned back to Mark and John. But their attention had been taken again, and John was leaning on the bar talking intently to the girl.

We consumed cold amber beer from several more cans, a steward in a faded blue jerkin, the colour of Belleview airlines came by and assured us the plane would take off before eight, so we opened yet more cans and as we collectively slipped into that pleasant hazy, couldn’t care less mood so our attention became more and more focussed on the slender, elegant form of Uche.

“She works for something called ‘fan’” John said, he had monopolised the girl

“FAAN” I said, “Federal Aviation Authority of Nigeria,” it being my role to explain everything to the other two about the country, since I had been here so much longer than they.

“Fanny!” said Mark, before giggling at his own wit.

But the girl had maintained a discreet aloofness, remote, kept a distance.

John persisted, evidently greatly taken by her. I looked at him, grey hair flopping untidily and wondered if he really thought… but no, he was animated, flapping his arms as he explained something very complicated to her. And clearly she was bemused. But continued to listen as though the strange world of this bespectacled, middle-aged man would rub off on her.

Eight-o-clock and no sign of the flight. Now the deadline was approaching.

“Guess we’ll be sleeping on those iron benches!” Mark said with a graveyard humour.

“Let’s have another!” And three more chilled cans of Heineken slid across the counter.

“I’ve offered her a job!” John said suddenly, turning towards me.

“You can’t go employing people,” I said, “We’ve got a system! A procedure!”

“She’d really brighten up the offices,” said Mark, “Good for morale…”

And I had to agree.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

And so, three months later, our offices are opened, the venture is fully staffed and Uche is sitting glamorous yet demure, a wary look in her eyes, behind the reception desk. She does her job efficiently and keeps away all unwanted callers, not a straightforward duty in this town.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

And now a further three months have passed and the project is in full gear. I am staying on to complete reports and check carefully through accounts. My desk is in the top office; the door has a sign ‘PM’s Office’. It is after six in the evening and most staff have left.. Uche appears at the doorway.

“Mr Fred.. are you not leaving?”

“No Uche, I have work to do.”

“Will you be leaving soon?” A quizzical expression on her face.

“No, I expect I will be here until seven-thirty or eight.”

Her head tilted slightly forward. “You will work here alone?”

“I will Uche, but it does not worry me.” Out of the window to my left I could see the steel gates into our small office compound. The security personnel were sliding the gates back to let staff out. From the gates a ten-foot wall topped by razor wire encircled the whole area round our building and outbuildings. Security lights blazed at night. The standby generator hummed, a ceiling fan stirred the cool air from the single split-unit air conditioner.

“I will keep you company Mr Fred.” Uche said.

“No need for that Uche,” I replied, “You should get along home before it gets dark.”

“It is OK” and she stood by the doorway, a little awkwardly then entered the room.

She drifted slowly around, leaning every now and then on one of the desks.

“Mr Fred, why are you so busy?” She asked

“I have to check through these accounts, then there is the Weekly Highlights report..”

“Oh” and she stared blankly into the distance.

I was cross-referencing entries from several bank accounts. As my eyes ran down the columns of numbers I read aloud to myself. ‘Thirty-three thousand eight hundred Naira to Venture Design… Nine hundred and eighty four thousand to Excel Workers… Two hundred and forty-one thousand to Marine Go-faster…’ and on and on.

“Mr Fred, you are frightening me!” Uche said.

“How?” I replied, distracted

“You are talking to yourself.”

“ I am reading numbers aloud, it is so I do not make mistakes.”

“Talking to yourself is not good.”

By now night had fallen. The office complex had emptied. Only the security remained. “I will be ages yet. You should go before it is too late. It is dangerous for you to travel home in the dark.” I said.

“It is OK. I will keep you company” she replied

I looked up at her. Her head turned away and she looked out of the window at the security lights.

“Where do you come from Uche?”

“Kanu”

“That is a long way North, why are you down here in the South?”

“I stay with my brother and his wife and my aunt. I have work here.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to marry him?”

“Perhaps,” and her body twisted as though in slight discomfort

“Perhaps?”

“My Mother and Father do not like him.”

“Normal..” I said.. then “Why not?”

“Because he smokes.”

“That’s not much of a reason to dislike someone.” I replied

She shrugged. And I continued my work. She moved around the room.

“Do you not get tired?” She asked.

“I never sleep.”

“Oh.” And she blinked, wide lashes over semi-vacant eyes.

I concentrated and worked swiftly. By eight-o-clock I had finished.

“That’s it, I am done.” I closed down my laptop. Locked the safe, then the desk, packed my briefcase and stood up.

“You are leaving now?”

“Yes, and thank you for your company.”

“It is OK”

“How will you get home?”

“I will take taxi.”

“OK, then I can give you a lift to the end of the road.”

She smiled, a beaming smile.

The journey back to my Guest House took me down to the end of the road, across the Aba Express then left along the dual carriageway for about two miles, through Artillery Junction then right, onto a track and up to the gates of the camp.

I got into the rear nearside seat. This is where the Oga always sits. I pulled down the armrest. Uche slid into the other seat.

“Can I get off at the end of the road into your camp?” She asked

“Is that on your way?”

“Yes, then I do not have to cross this express.”

“OK”

For a moment we drove in silence.

“Will your brother not be worried because you are late?” I asked.

“He will. Normally I am home by dark. It is dangerous to be out late.” She said.. “But I will call you on your mobile when I get home to let you know I am safe.”

“OK”

“Mr Fred?”

“Yes?”

“Do you like music?”

“Yes.”

“Celine Dionne?”

“Yes, also classical..” and I named a few composers, Sibelius, Dvorjak, but I let the words fade.

By now the traffic was heavy. Grinding trucks belching clouds of black diesel fumes, whizzing Okada, battered taxis, road vendors weaving dangerously between the slowing vehicles.

We reached the blockage before Artillery. The vehicles had come to a complete halt. The crossing, uncontrolled due to power outage was grid-locked. Cars edged forward from all angles ever tighter. Unauthorised pedestrians tried vainly to direct traffic.

I looked out at some of the beggars that pushed eagerly forward, forcing gleaming smiles from parched lips. One was horrific. It looked as though his whole head had melted down like the top of a candle. All hair was gone, the ears were burned off, one eye was completely hidden beneath scarred tissue. Great strings of mottled skin ran in webs out from his neck to his shoulders. From his chest down the body was unhurt. It was apparent he had been a victim of the brutal retribution occasionally visited by vigilantes on someone guilty, or accused of a misdemeanour. They place a necklace of fire around the victim’s head by dropping a half tyre shell onto his shoulders and filling it with petrol, then igniting. This unfortunate had survived, but his injuries were unconscionable. I had seen two others like him in all my time in the country, both in Lagos. I flinched, but handed him a note through a partially opened window.

Uche seemed hardly to notice.

I leaned back and rested my head against the restraint. I closed my eyes for a moment.

“Mr Fred, are you tired?”

“No Uche, I am fine, thanks.”

“Mr Fred, then why are you lying back?”

“I am thinking,” I said, “Thinking about your country, about work and about all that I have to do tomorrow.”

“Mr Fred,” she said, “You think too much.. you must rest.. “

Then.. “Mr Fred, Remembah!, You only have one head!”

And for a dizzy moment I wondered if my brain could ever wear out through too much thought, and then I wondered about someone who believed that, and then I thought of the remoteness in the eyes and wondered if from time to time all thought processes simply stopped and finally I marvelled that unassuming innocence could sustain in a brutal, intrusive, overwhelming society…

We reached my turning and the car stopped. She climbed out and went to join a small knot of people waiting for taxis.

“Good night Mr Fred.” She said

“Good night Uche,” I replied.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

But I could not get that moment out of my memory. That evening I stood at the bar with a cold Star beer in front of me and thought of the singularity in time that brought, for one moment, three entirely separate perspectives onto one action.

The severely brutalised, supposed miscreant, peering dimly through one eye, perceiving a sympathetic face through the gloom and reaching out, doubtless harsh memories ever present with him, carrying him inevitably to that simple request; an elegant, detached, remote dreamer, sitting proudly by her boss, perhaps watching his benevolent act and this leading her to wonder if something could develop from his consideration to her and then lift her into a different world and finally the harassed guest in a difficult country, even now moved by evident distress and caught by the incongruity…. of this congruence of three heads..

But, by the second Star I was back to reality and such esoteric thoughts slipped from the forefront of my mind as Jim, our Peterhead born beach supervisor slapped my back.. “Hey Fred, whit’s keepin’ you sae quiet?”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

But I could not get that moment out of my memory. That evening I stood at the bar with a cold Star beer in front of me and thought of the singularity in time that brought, for one moment, three entirely separate perspectives onto one action.

The severely brutalised, supposed miscreant, peering dimly through one eye, perceiving a sympathetic face through the gloom and reaching out, doubtless harsh memories ever present with him, carrying him inevitably to that simple request; an elegant, detached, remote dreamer, sitting proudly by her boss, perhaps watching his benevolent act and this leading her to wonder if something could develop from his consideration to her and then lift her into a different world and finally the harassed guest in a difficult country, even now moved by evident distress and caught by the incongruity…. of this congruence of three heads..

But, by the second Star I was back to reality and such esoteric thoughts slipped from the forefront of my mind as Jim, our Peterhead born beach supervisor slapped my back.. “Hey Fred, whit’s keepin’ you sae quiet?”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

© Michael Hey; All Rights Reserved