MICHAEL HEY'S TALES FROM WARRI |
You can write to Michael by clicking here |
|
|
![]() |
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||
Dateline Warri, Nigeria, 2nd July 2003 When Richard was assigned to me as a driver I definitely drew the short straw. Of course Richard may have felt the same way. But since communications with him were generally confined to indecipherable grunts I never found out but more of him, later. His assignment with me was mercifully short, although it was a malign fate that it occurred during one of the periods of fuel shortage that plagues life in Warri, and elsewhere in this country. The fuel shortages are wholly artificial. There are three refineries in Nigeria, one at Warri, one at Port Harcourt and one in Kaduna. Any one of these refineries, if working at the design production rate could supply a significant percentage of the countrys fuel requirements. The Warri refinery is a local landmark and its stack, which regularly belches out the black smoke of incinerating heavy-end hydrocarbons can be seen from anywhere in the town. Fuel tankers will queue up at the Jappa junction with the Express waiting to drive round the corner and down Refinery road to the refinery proper, where they load up with petrol or diesel for distribution around the country. But do not imagine these vehicles resemble the sparkling road tankers we see in Englands pleasant land. These are rejects from the most venal scrap merchants. Hulking tubs of rust, tyres worn to the canvas, cab doors dented or replaced with wooden gates, grease stained chasses and the whole assembly bereft of lights, warning signs or even the most primitive safety features. To own a tanker it is necessary to obtain a license from the Ministry of Petroleum and the Directorate of Petroleum Resources. And the pre-requisite to applying for such a license is to prove ownership of a filling station. This is why all around Warri one can see new filling stations springing up. Many are blessed with bizarre names such as Elephant Fuel, Vulture Petroleum or even Wahalla Oil. Elephant Fuel may be found at the T junction between Jappa road and Refinery road. But in four years I never once saw anyone obtaining fuel from these stations. They remain in pristine and unused condition. This is because there is more profit to be made from a tanker of fuel than a filling station. The price of fuel at the pumps is fixed by the Federal Government at an absurdly low price, currently about Naira 22 per litre, which in todays (2003) exchange rate, is little over 10 pence. This rate is at or below the cost of production and thus the refineries run at a loss and they are for ever turning to their owners, The Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation, for funds to maintain and operate. In turn NNPC is notoriously slow at releasing money, even when budgets have been agreed and planned shutdown schedules approved. Additionally NNPC under Government guidelines restricts the supply of crude oil to the refineries to well below the amount required to allow them to run at full capacity. So the refineries struggle on and Nigeria has become a net importer of refined oil products, particularly fuel, which is odd for country producing two million barrels of oil per day (which is at least four times the quantity to support all of Nigerias fuel needs) and with a capacity to double that. When confronted with this absurdity many Nigerians will mutter darkly that very senior Federal Government Ministers hold the import license for fuel and thus it is in their interests that the current situation continues. The Federal Government argues that it regularly tries to increase the price of fuel at the pump but on at least two occasions has had to back down in the face of vicious nation-wide strikes of transport workers and allied trade unions. So, you may well ask, what is the interest in distributing fuel? Simple, the refinery has to sell to the tanker owners at a rate that allows them to cover their costs when selling on to the filling station owners. This rate is thus even lower than the pump price. And a tanker owner with a tanker full of subsidised fuel faces many temptations. Some tanker owners drive with their cheap fuel to the borders with Cameroon, Benin and Niger and sell into those countries at prices fifty to one hundred percent higher than the state controlled price in Nigeria, (having looked after all the officials on the way to ensure they have the necessary paperwork in place). Others find ways to sell part loads at black market rates. Thus sclerotic refineries, combined with unofficial exports and the murky hand of Ministerial self interest yields unpredictable periods of fuel shortages at the pumps and misery in the daily lives of Nigerian citizens. And in Warri fuel queues several kilometres long choking the narrow roads become a regular feature. But back to Richard. I was never sure whether Richard understood the spoken word. His communications to me were guttural and barely comprehensible speaking as he did in a strange mixture of pigeon English and local dialect. If he ever indulged in a conversation it would be to talk of something called bizznizz ... then his voice would tail off and a knowing smirk would fasten itself across his face. It is dark and we are approaching a T junction in the camp on the way to a bridge evening; Richard! Sah? When you reach the T junction please turn left. A flicker of a smile across his coarse features. As we reach the junction I notice the steering wheel turning to the right. Left Richard.. LEFT! The wheel continues to the right. I tap his left shoulder. The other way Richard, LEFT, this way! A silly grin and the car suddenly lurches to the left, the tyres spitting stones into the storm ditches. The next morning coming to collect me for the office Richard is late. I open the back door of the Peugeot and see the fuel reserve light burning orange. And to compound the problem we have run out of cooking gas. Our normally faultless cook/housekeeper, Bassey, a real gem, has used up the spare cylinder before telling me and both cylinders are empty. Richard, please help Bassey load the gas cylinders into the trunk. Richards arms hang down at his sides. Wha? Go see Bassey ... he need help with the gas cylinders Dis my han sicko Richard, there is nothing wrong with your hand. Please give Bassey some help. Bassey appears rolling the heavy cylinders from the back of the bungalow. He struggles to load one into the trunk. Finally Richard, who possesses the strength of an ox, heaves both cylinders in. As we drive to the offices I nervously peer at the fuel gauge. Richard. Sah! When we reach the offices you will drop me and go and buy cooking gas and then fill the car with fuel. I expect you will have to queue for some time so I do not mind if you buy black market. I will give you enough Naira for that. Bla market? Right Richard dropped me at seven-thirty a.m. and then drove off. It was going to be a long day. * * * * * * * * * * It was dusk when finally I saw the plum coloured shape of the old Peugeot turn the corner into Kwara Close and pull up outside my offices. Richard was at the wheel, his features downcast. He climbed out. Richard! Sah! Did you manage to get the gas? I go get gas he replied thickly You go get gas? I asked brightening. At least he had achieved something in the twelve hours he had been away with the car. I no get gas. He said You got no gas? I no get gas. And he scowled I opened the trunk and shook the cylinders. They were as empty as they had been in the morning. I looked at him wondering what he had been up to. I suspect he sensed my irritation. I did not want to ask the next question.
I doan get foo-el he said, his mouth turned down and his eyes clouded over. He looked as though he was going to cry. So you got no gas and you didnt get any foo... I mean fuel? I doan get foo-el he repeated So, Richard! What have you been doing all day? My voice began to rise I doan get foo-el. He repeated stubbornly. Goodness, I thought will I get home in this vehicle?.. Why did you not try the black market? I quizzed him. After all I had given him plenty of Naira, enough to fill the tank several times over and pay for the gas. I DOAN GET FOO-EL! He said with some finality, his shoulders drooping, his expression close to hysteria All right, I replied climbing into the car and glancing as I always do at the fuel gauge.. Drive me . But I halted in mid sentence. The fuel gauge showed a full tank. Richard, I exclaimed, You got fuel! Well done! I doan get foo-el! He said again, and finally a smile cracked his features and he straightened up Daylight! So, Richard, youve been and gone and done get foo-el, I mean fuel! Dat I tell you. He said. I thought about him sitting in the fuel queue for twelve hours in the stinking traffic fumes and patiently easing his way forward then fighting at the pump to get served then filling the tank to the brim when often an unofficial rationing would only allow twenty litres at most. I felt bad about my temper and so reckoned that on this day at least he deserved the last word. But it was only some days later that I realised I had not received the change from the bundle of Naira I had handed over to him on that morning. It was a sum I never did recover. And then finally I understood the meaning of the word . bizznizz. © Michael Hey; All Rights Reserved
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||
Bolo and The Vicar of Beaumaris Deep in the countryside of Salop lies hidden the small village of Beaumaris. With a population of about five hundred you could be forgiven, when walking down the high street, flanked by a stream leading onto borders of cow-parsley, primroses and foxgloves, that give way to a jumble of small shops and cottages, if you believed you had stepped some seventy or eighty years back in time and were about to encounter a famous author pushing her upright cycle with its wicker basket fastened over the front mudguard, or hear the clatter of a blacksmith from the misty depths of a nearby lane. The great juggernaut of the late twentieth centurys exercise in homogenisation, sterilisation and rationalisation have passed Beaumaris by and its inhabitants still live by the quiet, deep passions and strong ethics that centuries have endowed. Two features of Beaumaris are the Church, dating back to the fourteenth century and the Manor House, now converted into a comfortable and rustic Hotel run efficiently and sparingly by a husband and wife team. The two of them have converted the ballroom into a conference centre and have managed to generate a steady and regular income by hosting various short courses on specialised subjects and in June of 1999 the Institute of Materials Scientists chose the hotel as a suitable location to run a five day seminar on long chain polymers and their role in corrosion protection. Being an efficient lot they advertised this on the internet and it was from the internet that Bolo picked up reference to the course and decided to apply to attend. Bolo came respectfully into my office in Warri one afternoon early in the year and sat down in front of my desk. He clasped his hands together as though in prayer. Michael, he began, and then continued in his precise and beautifully spoken manner; I have researched for suitable courses and believe I have found one that is both pertinent to my teachings and will allow me to expand my knowledge. Further, it should keep me abreast of the latest developments in my discipline and widen my network of contacts. Well Bolo, that sounds good to me. Do you have details? He handed over a sheaf of printouts. I glanced at them and immediately felt the subject matter would be relevant. Have you prepared a Training Needs Analysis? I asked him. The documents he had handed over were incomplete in that respect. I will prepare one and return with it later today, or tomorrow, he replied. And true to his promise the next morning he had typed a three page justification for his attendance, which I endorsed, then passed to his employer, Shell Nigeria, for approval, since they would be paying for his travel and the course fees. Now Bolo is a fine teacher with a naturally sympathetic manner and it is this genuine interest in the individual when combined with his own immaculate appearance that makes him attractive to members of the opposite sex. And perhaps his only vice is his habit of talking at length with his many female friends, discussing everyday matters in great detail, following long trails of conversation that never end, which contrasts with most of the male of our species who prefer decisive conversations and short, even abrupt analyses. Approval came through for Bolo and his flights and onward travel from London to Beaumaris were booked. He collected his tickets and his daily allowance of about £30.00 for incidental expenses from his employer. For convenience we had booked the hotel for him through our Aberdeen office and instructed the hotel to bill us for his basic accommodation, with extras being for his own account. We would pass our share of the cost on to Shell Nigeria. Now I suspect you will realise that I have changed the name of Beaumaris from its true name. This is to avoid the future arrival of groups of morbidly obese Americans in Bermuda shorts, coach-loads of chattering Orientals festooned with cameras, camcorders and digital devices and parties of French teenagers on cultural outings to see how ze primitive English leeve and so despoiling the very nature they have come to ogle. And for reasons that will soon become obvious I have also changed Bolos identity to protect his good name. The first evening of Bolos arrival was brilliant with sunshine and clear blue sky and he took a stroll along the High Street, dropped into the Newsagents and called into the Post Office. With his shining skin, gleaming smile and smart attire Bolo cut an exotic figure in the little village. Passers by nodded to him in a friendly way, then whispered urgently to each other after he had passed. The next day was a Friday and the first day of a programme due to wrap up on Wednesday. On Sunday morning he attended Holy Communion at the Church and the Vicar made a point of meeting him after the service and engaging him in conversation, asking him politely about his home and how services were conducted there. Bolo felt refreshed, welcome and so returned to the hotel with a light heart, the walk invigorating him and sharpening his appetite for lunch. His greeting at the hotel reception however was like a cold dash of water to the face. Mr Bolo the receptionist, cool and severe, her hair pulled tightly back from her skull into a bun, called out, We really have to ask you to bring your account up to date. But.. but.. Bolo was off guard for a moment.. But Aberdeen office is paying that my bill. Only the basic accommodation and meals Mr Bolo. Telephone calls are for your account. Ah! Telephone calls.. but how much? From last night five hundred and seventy pounds and thirty-two pence The receptionist answered, tight lipped. Aberdeen will pay! Bolo said with dignity and finality. Then he swept off towards the dining room. * * * * * * * * * * * * * The call came through to me in Warri early on Monday from the Aberdeen office. No, we cannot pay that bill, I replied. It is not in our budget. It is for his account. Please tell that to the Hotel. I thought for a moment then continued. I suspect he has been calling through to his home in Nigeria and does not realise that hotels put a considerable premium on calls from their rooms. Anyway there is nothing we can do. The bill is for his account. * * * * * * * * * * * Bolo was in a panic. The hotel was insisting he pay his bill or depart. Five hundred plus pounds was totally beyond his resources. The thirty pounds per day allowance from his employer had already been spent. He began feverishly to imagine that he may have to sleep on a park bench, or under a hedge. In despair he walked out of his course and up through the village to the Post Office. Where does the Vicar live? He asked, concern etched across his features. The Postmistress looked at him. In the big white house next to the Church, she replied then followed on with additional instructions. Thank you. Then Bolo continued up to the Church and banged on the Vicarage door. Mr Bolo! the Vicar said with a welcoming smile. Are you not meant to be in a classroom? Please.. Bolo said.. May I come in? Of course! And with a friendly arm the Vicar guided Bolo into his study. That the Aberdeen office refuse to pay my hotel bill. They have ABANDONED me! Unless I settle the account the hotel will ask me to leave today and I have nowhere to stay. I cannot get money from my employer and I am severely distressed! Goodness! I cannot understand why Aberdeen will not pay your bill. How much do you owe? And Bolo told the Vicar. It is five hundred and seventy pounds and thirty-two pence. That is a lot. The Vicar replied. But let me see if I can help. Then I will call your Aberdeen offices. And after a frantic couple of hours the Vicar was able to raise the money. Some from his own pocket and the balance from a couple of generous parishioners who shared the Vicars concern that such a charming stranger should be abandoned by his employers. Thank you for your kindnesses! Bolo said wringing the Vicars hand. Then, clutching the wad of pound notes and change he returned to the Hotel and settled his bill. Then he returned to his course and studies. * * * * * * * * * * * * * Aberdeen telephoned me late in the day with the news that the Vicar had bailed out Bolo and that Bolo had claimed he was abandoned by us in a strange place. You must pay back the Vicar. I said adding, I will deal with Bolo when he returns! OK ... but there is more ... More? Yes! ... I received a fax of the hotel bill and checked the numbers he was calling. Oh? He was not calling Nigeria. What? No!.. There were two numbers, one he was talking to for four hours from about nine p.m. and the other for about ninety minutes until nearly two in the morning ... Australia? I was completely puzzled Ha! Nope ... These were 0845 numbers ... I called one of them and a sultry female voice answered me ... Reality dawned. These were sex chat lines ..., premium lines ... more than one pound per minute or something like that I was floored. I tried to imagine what anyone could find to talk about for four hours on a sex chat line. Impossible. Then I got a mental image of Bolo, sitting on the edge of his bed, listening to the outpourings of a lonely housewife as she abandoned the sex talk and deviated into a history of her life and problems and Bolo quietly responding with his silken voice; Oh No my dear! .Really my dear? Oh I am so sorry to hear that my dear! ... and so on ... completely oblivious to the fiendish taximeter of the premium line clicking feverishly away and drawing him ever deeper into debt. And then behind that an image of the Saint and the Sinner hovering ghostly in the air above him. When finally he returned to Warri Bolo was contrite and severely embarrassed. It was de Devil dat made me do it! he exclaimed, De Devil entered me and forced me to do dis! his excitement coarsening his speech. No Bolo, I replied, It was your right index finger, pressing the buttons on the hotel phone. But Bolo settled his account with us, paying back over a series of months, and soon the story of Bolo and the chat lines passed into the folklore of our programme and now he takes the teasing with good nature. And the Vicar of Beaumaris? One more page added to his golden book.
© Michael Hey; All Rights Reserved
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||
Dateline Warri, Nigeria, 2 May 2003 Deep in the heart of West Africa where jungly plants grow and the air is hot and fetid and the sea is over the horizon towards the setting sun, you can find Big Chief Rogers. Big Chief Rogers has white skin and is the size of a whale. Great rolls of fat and blubber hang from his bones and they shake like the top of a jelly whenever he breathes, or laughs or shouts, which he does often, especially at his servants. He has been a Chief for many years. He was made a Chief in a wild and raucous ceremony that lasted deep into the night coming to a climax when the local King, the Eze Logbo of Oyabumba showered him with white chalk and placed the robes of a Chieftain across his shoulders. And now, most evenings, he sits out on the front porch of his wooden bungalow swinging his fly switch and holding court with his family, friends, hopeful businessmen and hangers-on. Being a Chief he gets to hear of anything that is happening in the district before anyone else and thus if there is something really interesting on the horizon he will get to it first. So when Ryanalex, his eight year old grandson, came running in one evening to report the arrival in the district of a team of white explorationists on the look-out for indigenous species his curiosity was fully aroused. You see, indigenous species means creatures that are unique to that part of the world, that live there and nowhere else. And such people as these explorationists often turn out to be no more than exploitationists, which means they will steal the creatures and sell them abroad at a huge profit. And if there is a profit to be made, then Chief Rogers wants to be the one to make it. Dere is something else ... Ryanalex gasped when delivering his report ... Dey is not English dese Oyebo, dey is French. And this truly alarmed Rogers. For one simple reason. French eat snails. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Now not far from the clearing where Chief Rogers lived, along a small, well hidden track there was a sudden drop into a sharply defined ravine and in the bottom of the ravine lived the source of Rogers wealth, power and, dare I say, physical bulk. For you see Rogers prepared, cooked, sliced and canned a special and unique kind of food that was sold all over Africa, at least all over West Africa. The cans were round, rather like cans of spam, and the meat they contained would slide out of the can in round slices and lie neatly across a plate to be consumed, with Ebba or Do-do or Banga soup. Many people said the meat had a magical power to restore youth and prolong life, to rid the body of the free radicals that continually invaded from the atmosphere. And what is this meat? Some people say that it is sliced from the bodies of giant snails that live only at the bottom of the ravine. Others say it has a magic ingredient. But what is certain is that it is very popular with all the peoples of West Africa. People said the snails were bigger than the fattest cat you ever saw. Bigger than many dogs. They say that sometimes it would take two people to carry one snail, and then it would have to be held in a special kind of basket, made of straw and closed with a lid so the creature could not escape. And Chief Rogers and a handful of trusted aids alone knew the way to the bottom of this ravine, not that he had personally been down there for a very long time because he was so fat his legs would probably not carry him back up again. Where exactly are they camped? Chief Rogers asked Ryanalex. Beside de old river crossing, you know dat one, it is over dere, where de mango trees bring out de fruit first before anyting else.. This was even worse news. Unknown perhaps to the explorers, they were close to the entrance, which was via a cave and a tunnel, to the only path down into the ravine. Who is cooking for these people? Rogers asked ... maybe he could have them poisoned.. Dey bring deir own food. Dey got big Land-Rovers and plenty supplies.. And water. I tink dey carry deir own waters ... Who is watching them? Andrew and Henry. Dey is watching dem all de time!! Rogers grunted. Perhaps he should meet them himself perhaps not ... that would rouse their suspicions. But he did not have to wait long because the following morning a smart, if mud splattered Land-Rover careened across the track up to the front of Chief Rogers house. A thin, bronzed Frenchman jumped out and strode up to Rogers, who remained seated. Allo, I am Jean-Paul Are you Rogerrrs? And he drew out the rrrs with a guttural clearing of his throat. Rogers stared at him, barely nodded. We ave come to take the snails, samples of them so we can grow them back in France. Rogers face became even more florid than usual. We tink you may know where zese snails live nest ce pas? Rogers kept silent, but his breathing became heavier. Ere, look fat man ... it you what cans zese creatures and sells zem all over ... no? Rogers stood, his great bulk heaving and wobbling. He stamped one foot and flicked angrily with the whisk. The road you came is the road you leave he said. And he watched whilst the Frenchman with twisting smile climbed back into the Land-Rover and in front of a swirl of dust drove away. * * * * * * * * * * * * Five days later and the French had discovered the entrance to the cave and cautiously begun to work towards the ravine. Jean-Paul led the way, his two companions behind him, each with shoulder packs on their backs. The cave was narrow and damp and very, very dark.. Bat droppings covered the floor and stalactites hung down in wet spikes from the roof. When they emerged it was onto a narrow and very rocky path with a precipitous drop into the mists below to their right and a steep plant and creeper infested wall to their left. Strange cries could be heard above them and as they descended the sky began to disappear behind the damp fog, the air became cooler and their breathing more rapid as their nerves were stretched to the limit. It took them the best part of one and a half days to reach the bottom of the ravine and, exhausted, they camped by the banks of the river under the spreading branches of a monkey bread tree. They did not notice a small boy who peered at them from behind a bush, who waited until they all fell into an exhausted sleep and who then scampered away, deeper into the ravine to call on his friends .. The next morning the three explorers woke refreshed, if damp and itchy and started to trek along the banks of the river, following it as it flowed westwards. Jean-Paul spotted the first one ... it was grey and fat and slithering quietly across some rocks near the edge of the stream. Behind it they spotted two more. They were truly giant snails. Their feelers stuck out from their head about two feet long and on their back were shells the size of a small car. Their bodies were enormous, grey and squidgey and they left a wide slimy trail three feet across. The three men stared in amazed.. Ma foie!! whispered Jean-Paul.. Cest grotesque!! Cest magnifique!! Jai faim! Jai faim! cried one of his companions Nous en mangeons un, immediatement, immediatement!! cried the third Frenchman. And with cries of delight the three men threw a lasso round the smallest of the three snails, dragged it onto its side and began carving great chunks of flesh out of it. The snail twitched and wriggled and finally expired. One of the men lit a fire, not a very good one because the wood was damp, but they managed because they had carried some fuel with them. They built a small frame of sticks and skewered the pieces of snail flesh and rotated them slowly over the fire until a smell of roasting filled their nasal passages and they could stand the wait no longer. They greedily grabbed at the singed flesh with bare hands and devoured it, licking their lips after every mouthful. In fact they ate so quickly they did not notice the strange effect the meal was having on their vision, the light-headedness, the feeling of being disconnected until it was too late and the three of them rolled around the ground staggering and laughing as though they were drunk. Suddenly they each sat down with a bump, their eyes glazed for a moment and they looked at one another seeing distorted images as though they were peering into a hall of funny mirrors at a fair ground. Jean-Pauls head had grown into a long sausage shape, or so it seemed to his companions and his legs had shrunk so much that his feet touched his bottom. Merde ... merde!! cried Jean-Paul.. What is appening to me? So it was no surprise to them when through the trees they spotted a long crocodile of young women, all dressed in flowing white gowns that reached to their ankles and on their heads large white hats with wide pointed wings, and in front of them leaping and dancing and singing like a little banshee was Ryanalex. Olumba-Olumba Abu!! Olumba-Olumba Abu!! Olumba-Olumba Abu!! the women chanted in unison. Olumba-Olumba Abu!! Olumba-Olumba Abu!! Olumba-Olumba Abu!! They sang and they hopped rhythmically along like a conga dance until they had surrounded the three Frenchmen. Then they bent down and banged their heads three times on the ground leaving little marks in the mud and cried, as one, in perfect unison.. Olumba-Olumba Abu!! Come here, take down you!! Olumba-Olumba Abu!! Come here, take down you!! Olumba-Olumba Abu!! Come here, take down you!! And with the cry of the word You!! They pointed to each of the men in turn until they had pointed to all three. Then they did a strange and cavorting dance around the three men who had by now fallen into a heavy sleep, indeed so heavy was the sleep that they did not move, did not twitch, nor flicker an eyelid, indeed it seemed as if they were not even breathing And finally, led by Ryanalex who was leaping and dancing and jumping in quite a frenzy the crocodile of young women departed and melted back into the misty jungle trail. But Ryanalex returned and watched and waited. The three men remained motionless, still, not flickering, they could almost not be alive ... and as Ryanalex watched five large snails the same height as himself slithered quietly along the trail towards the three recumbent Frenchmen. It was only as the front part of the first snail began to slide over the top of Jean-Pauls body did he wake, open his eyes, but, to his horror find that he could not move, his limbs seemingly paralysed whilst the bulk of the snail slid over him completely, slowly absorbing his body in its own gastric juices and the last Jean-Paul saw before he died was the grey, slimy bulk of the snail enveloping his chin, his mouth, his nose, his face . When the snail had passed there was no trace of Jean-Paul left, just a slimy path where the snail had moved and a swelling of the snails body as it slowly digested it latest meal. And Ryanalex watched as the other snails slowly slid across the bodies of the remaining Frenchmen until there was no trace left. Then Ryanalex ran into the little clearing and gathered up the belongings of the men into a neat pile to be collected later that day by Chief Rogers workers. Then he ran ahead and reaching the five snails he marked each of their shells with a large yellow blob of paint. And when the workers came down to collect the belongings of the Frenchmen they looked for snails with yellow blobs and carried them back to a secret cave where they were carefully slaughtered and prepared for cooking and canning. For you see, the snails with the yellow blobs were the snails that had taken in the secret ingredient that made their meat so special .. And up above the deep ravine Chief Rogers could be seen quietly rocking in his chair, a secret smile playing about his fat lips, and a tiny gleam shining between his heavy eyelids. © Michael Hey; All Rights Reserved
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||
Dateline Warri, Nigeria, 13 April 2003 Head out of Warri on the PTI road; so named because at the junction with the Express, on the left hand siffde, lies the sprawling, decrepit Petroleum Training Institute. Built and commissioned in the late seventies by teams of Russian engineers, it is a monument to a more hopeful time when education in Nigeria matched standards anywhere and enlightened officials pushed ahead with plans to ensure Nigerias youth would compete in world markets. A crumbling perimeter wall some six or seven kilometres in length surrounds the site, covering hectares of land, accommodations, offices, classrooms, a rusting drill tower, an abandoned flow station, yet home to some two thousand hopeful students sitting through dreary lectures on technology that is twenty years out of date. Draw up immediately opposite the entrance to the PTI and across the road approach twin steel gates, about fifteen feet high set into a wall at least twelve feet high and topped with razor wire. The twin gates in turn are topped with curving, sharpened steel spikes that bend menacingly towards the traffic ingested road. To one side of the gates a pedestrian entrance through a steel door is fitted hard against a sentry box wherein several security officials in various states of undress lounge or sleep the day away. Leaning drunkenly and twisted a large wooden signboard proclaims a long departed company within.. Hoot vigorously, the gates open into the OTS estate. You are confronted by rows of barrack like bungalows sinking slowly into mouldering disrepair. But, turn to the left and inside the camp sits the OTS bar. Converted from a typical bungalow it is a refuge to dozens of expatriates and a firm date every Sunday afternoon because of the favourite beef or chicken suya and a watering hole for the dozens of adventurous runners recovering from the local Hash meets. I was sat at the bar one Sunday afternoon chatting to Ron. The Hash run had not yet returned and there were only half a dozen or so diehard drinkers, like me, propping up the bar, methodically reducing the stock of cold Star beers. Ron is a wiry Aberdonian in his early fifties. He is married to a local lady and lives on the neighbouring JMN estate some five hundred metres down the road from the OTS estate, towards the town centre. His voice was quiet and I had to lean close. He would intersperse his comments with his trademark grin, which he had not lost, which was surprising since it was barely two months since he had been shot. At point blank range. The bar stands in what was a the lounge area of the bungalow and on the covered veranda every Sunday evening a four piece band will set up and support a medley of local singers with a primitive rhythm and seductive harmonies. Ron was ... is a great favourite as a soloist. A teetotaller, he belts out rock hits with energy and virtuosity. He rides an eleven-hundred cc Yamaha chopper, which is parked close to entrance to the bar, gleaming with chrome and surrounded by admirers. Aye, I had jus finished wi the band on a Sunday, just like this, and headed off hame, early, about nine-thirty or so. It is only down the road about five hundred yards and as I turned into ma camp about eight of them came out of the shadows. I imagined the scene, he was probably moving at walking pace, the engine of his bike emitting a low growl, the African night black and heavy. One of em held a shotgun Off De Okada! he shouted. I dismounted and they surrounded me shouting and jumpin up and doon. Then the leader pointed the barrel o the shot gun at the side of my face, held it aboot four inches awa, an before I could breath he discharged the gun right into the side of my face right there.. BOOM! And Ron pointed to side of his face and his neck showing the area, which had been hit by the discharge. The skin was covered by a fine scar tissue, white against his tan. Ah collapsed to the ground. They run off. I saw regular spurts of blood coming out of ma neck. I knew they had hit an artery, the blood was forming a pool around me, the spurts were shooting up into the air. I clasped ma hands against ma neck and tried to stop the bleeding. Ah felt ma life slippin awa.. My eyes widened; one or two others had turned to listen. Then the Security came over from the gate wi a little pick-up. They put me on the back and drove me over to Hannahs. It was she that saved ma life. Hannah is a Hungarian nurse who lives with her husband and children on the same estate as Ron. Her husband is a giant, a tribal chief with a retinue; she is diminutive but, I suspect, keeps him on a strong leash. She somehow stanched the bleeding and then lay me on the back seat o her car. Then she drove me through the town to the Ogunu clinic. It took aboot twenty minutes, a good speed, but the traffic would be quiet by then. They reckon that at the clinic they pumped some twelve pints of blood into ma veins. They stitched ma up and the next day I was medivaced to Aberdeen to the Royal Infirmary, where they removed the gunshot and repaired ma injuries. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Much later I met the doctor who had treated him. We pulled dozens of bits of metal out of his neck, and pushed back the piece of jaw bone and teeth that had been knocked out. In fact we kept the assortment of screws, washers, rusty metal bits that had entered his face and neck in a petrie dish. It was astonishing. Must have been a home made cartridge, and that is probably why he was not killed on the spot. The even later ... back in Warri ... telling the story to someone else You know dey caught the gang that did it. They did? I replied, surprised Yes-oh, two of dem were sitting in a local club. One was boasting in a loud voice how dey had killed an Oyebo (white man)! They were highly excited by it. Someone from de bar called the Police. The two were arrested and taken to the Police station. The Police tortured them and then rounded up the whole gang, about seven or eight. Then? My companion looked at me in surprise. Then dey were taken behind the Police Station and shot to death. Oh. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * But back to the Sunday night. So, Ron continued, It is strange, but ever since I had all that local blood pumped into me I have noticed that when the music starts my backside begins to twitch in a way it never used to.. We smiled. As we all know, Africans are blessed with in-built rhythms, especially Nigerians, and when music starts the backsides twitch and they will reverse out onto the dance floor, hypnotically swaying, music flowing through their veins, lovely sinuous movements as natural as breathing. A strong contrast to the awkward, gangly, jerking convulsions of their Anglo-Saxon brothers. But the others at the bar were not satisfied with that.. And what other changes did you notice Ron? Yeah Ron? Did you notice any ... you know ... change in the dimensions of ... What he is trying to say is Ron ... has your d*ck grown as well ?? Eh Ron ? But Ron was silent, showing only his trademark grin, crooked by the damaged skin stretched across the side of his face. © Michael Hey; All Rights Reserved |
||||||||||||||||||||||||
Back to Index |
Now click
on the button |
![]() |
And, for a little more [Light Relief] ...