Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 4

 

To begin following my plan, I got out an atlas and looked at a big map of Lagos, paying particular attention to its closeness to Abeokuta – a neighboring city. My plan was to get off to some neighboring village or a city, where I could hide at some motel or guest house for some time. I decided to do this because I would be like a trapped animal in Lagos. I was convinced that Abeokuta or Sagamu areas would be best, for as a black American I could pass anywhere in the  Abeokuta area as an ordinary Nigerian. The only problem I will have is the language, for though my father was an Ibo from Nigeria, I was brought up to speak English pretty fluently. No one I knew at the time had taught me how to speak Ibo language. While I can’t speak the  Yoruba language fluently, I  can write it very well, having learned how to do so from my ex-girlfriend. She was a Yoruba and was an international student at the time, and she had insisted that I should learn her language if I really loved her as I claimed. We dated for three years before calling it quits.

The Yoruba language is the main language of the Abeokuta natives. A few of the residents, particularly those of them that do government jobs, does speak Pidgin English – a grammatically simplified English comprising of English words and local dialects  drawn from multitudes of Nigerian languages. Pidgin English is a popular means of communication among the various ethnic groups in Nigeria: its popularity stemmed from the fact that all the ethnic groups who do not speak the same language understands it. The good news is that most of those Nigerians who can speak Pidgin English also understands the regular English. I figured that Abeokuta or even Sagamu areas  was the best place to go for  their   proximity to Lagos means that I would have a better chance of meeting those residents that speak both Yoruba and Pidgin English. And, from what I could see in the map, Abeokuta or Sagamu areas  were not over thick with population at the time, which also made them perfect hideouts for me.

 

A more detailed search in the atlas informed me that a train left Lagos Terminus, which is located at Iddo Island, at 7.10. If I’m able to catch this train, it would land me at the Sagamu station in the late afternoon, for I heard that Nigerian trains moved very slowly at the time. Well, as good as this move sounds, I still had a problem, which was how to make my way to Lagos Terminus, for I was pretty sure that the five majors must have stationed some of their hitmen outside to watch out for me. At first I couldn’t figure out what to do, but then an idea came to my mind, and I kept thinking about it as I went to bed and slept for three troubled hours.

I got up from my bed at four in the morning and opened my window and curtains a little bit. The faint light of a fine dry season morning was flooding the skies. And, since Lagos was not as urban and noisy as it is today at the time, I could hear the songs of some birds. What happened to my guest still left a bad taste in my mouth, and I was still very worried about my situation. My inclination was to let things slide, and trust to the Nigerian police taking a reasonable view of my case. But, once again,  as I reviewed the situation I could find no arguments to bring against my decision of the previous night, for I was convinced that even the American Embassy officials will find it hard to believe me unless I can provide them with a very convincing and verifiable evidence. So, with the bad taste still in my mouth, I resolved to go on with my plan. I was not trying to be a hero – I was only not ready to go looking for trouble, if you know what I mean.

I hunted out a well-used blue jeans trouser, a pair of strong black boots, and a light-blue  T-shirt. Into my pockets I stuffed a spare t-shirt, a Tweed cap, some washcloths, a tooth-brush and a toothpaste. I had withdrawn a good sum of money from the bank two days ago, just in case Mr. Reddington should need money, and I took three-hundred naira of it (a large sum in those days) in one of my belts. That was about all I needed at the time. Then  I had a bath and shaved off my moustache.

 

Now came the next step in my plan. Adeyemi, my house boy, used to arrive punctually at 7.30 in the morning and let himself in with a spare key. But at about twenty minutes to seven, the  newspaper man turned up with a loud croaking sound coming from his  old motorcycle  and deposited a copy of the Daily Times outside my door. The Daily Times was a popular Nigerian newspaper at the time and I paid for a special subscription to have a copy delivered to me every morning and to my lab office every day. Anyway,  I had seen that newspaper man sometimes when I had gone out for an early  morning walk. He was a young man about my own height and complexion, and with a moustache just like mine. He also wore a dark green uniform with the Daily Times logo inscribed at the back of the shirt. The problem now became that I have already shaved off my moustache. However, I was convinced that his uniform will do the trick. So, I staked all my chances on this newspaper man.

I went into the darkened visitor’s room where the rays of morning light were beginning to creep through the window and curtains. There I breakfasted off tea and  three slices of buttered bread from the cupboard. By this time it was almost six o’clock. I put a packet of my Benson and Hedges cigarettes in my pocket and as I was about to get a box of matches on the table, I saw Mr. Reddington’s wallet. To me that was a good omen. That prompted me to lift the cloth from his body. When I did that, I was amazed at the piece and dignity of his dead face.

“Goodbye, my good friend,” I said. “You did not deserve this fate and I’m gonna do my best to get justice for you. Wherever you are, I want you to wish me well.”

Then I hung about the corridor waiting for the newspaper man. That was the worst part of my plan, for I really want to get out of this house. Six-thirty passed, then six-forty, but still there was no sign of him. Where the hell is this guy? Why did he chose this day of all days to be late?

At about a minute after the quarter to seven I heard the sound of his motorcycle  outside. I opened my door and there was my guy the newspaper man, singling out my newspaper  from a bunch he carried and whistling through his teeth. He jumped a bit at the sight of me, for he usually knock first before I opens the door to collect my paper from him.

“Good morning to you, sir,” he said.

“Morning, my good friend,” I replied. “Could you come in here a moment? I want to talk to you.”

“No problem sir”, he replied.

I led him into my sitting room.

“I’m sure you are the type of guy who doesn’t mind winning a lottery,” I said.

“What do you mean, sir?” he asked.

“I need a favor from you,” I said. “How much are all the newspapers you have here worth?”

“You mean all of them?”

“Yes.”

“Two naira fifty-five kobo,” he said.

I brought out my wallet and gave him six naira. His eyes almost fell out of their sockets.

“Thanks a lot sir!” he said.

“You are welcome,” I replied and, as he was about to get up and leave, I said, “Don’t go yet. I want you to do me a favor. Lend me your cap and your uniform for ten minutes, and here’s a twenty naira note for you.”

His eyes opened even more at the sight of the twenty naira note, which was a large amount in those days. Even his cap and his uniform together are worth less than two naira. He grinned broadly.

“Why would I do that?”  he said.

“It’s a game – a bet,” I replied. “If I win the game, you will also win another twenty naira note from me. You don’t wanna win this twenty naira note?”

“Em, eh, you know…,” he began to say, but I cut him off.

“Look mister,” I said, “I haven’t got the time to explain the details, but for me to win, and for you  to win this twenty naira I’ve got to be a newspaper man for the next ten minutes. All you have to do is just to stay here till I come back, see?  It’s not that hard, right? I know you will be late in your delivery, but believe me nobody will complain, and you will have the twenty naira note for yourself.”

“You are the boss, chief,” he said. “You can have them all – my cap and my uniform, newspapers and all.”

I put on his Tweed cap and his dark green uniform, picked up his bag containing all the newspapers he had with him, banged my door and went whistling downstairs. The landlord’s son at the foot told me to shut my mouth or else, which sounded as if my disguise was adequate and that he doesn’t recognize who I was. He later apologized when he discovered that the noise was coming from me.

At first I thought that the street was empty, but then I caught sight of a policeman holding a baton in his hand about a hundred yards down the street, and a man wandering aimlessly past on the other side of the street. Some impulse made me raise my eyes to the house opposite. What I  saw almost sent me into a spin. I saw a face at the first-floor window and, as the man wandering aimlessly on the other side of the street passed he looked up. I was very sure that a signal was exchanged between them.

I crossed the street, pretending to whistle happily and imitating rough movement of most newspaper vendors. Then I took the first side street, which was almost deserted at the time. I went up a left-hand turning which led past a bit of an elementary school play ground. There was no one in the little street and I believe I knew why: it was not even seven o’clock in the morning yet, so people are still either indoor getting ready for work or are preparing their children for school. So I dropped the bag of newspapers beside a signboard, making sure it was leaning on its pole. And, taking off the cap and the uniform, I placed them on top of the newspaper bag. I had only just buttoned my shirt when another newspaper man came around the corner. I said hello to him and he answered me inattentively. At that moment, the clock of St. Dominic’s Catholic Church, which was the only church in that neighborhood, struck the hour of seven.

I knew I didn’t have much time left. As soon as I got to the end of the street where the elementary school was located, I flagged down a taxi and jumped in, giving the driver Lagos Terminus address. While inside the taxi, I looked at my watch. It showed five minutes past the hour. Luckily for me, there was little  traffic on the road due to the time. At Lagos Terminus I had no time to take a ticket, let alone that I had not settled upon my destination. A station clerk showed me the platform, and as I entered it I saw the Sagamu bound train already in motion. I saw two station officers blocking the way but, somehow, I was able to dodge them and jumped into the last carriage.

About three minutes later, as we were roaring through the rail line heading to Sagamu, a furious  guard confronted me. He knew there’s nothing he could do at this time since the train is already in motion. He’s not going to push me out of the train, even if he had wanted to. He wrote me a ticket to Sagamu and took me from the first class compartment where I was sitting to the third class compartment. At the time, the third class compartment was occupied by  a photographer and a young  woman with a child.  He then went off grumbling about how disruptive some customers could be and as I mopped my brow I told my companions it was too risky to catch trains that’s already leaving the station. I was just trying my luck to see if they understand English or Yoruba and, to my surprise, they did.

“You are a foreigner, correct?” the photographer asked.

“Yes and no” I replied. “I’m an American, but my dad is a Nigerian – an Ibo”

“Very interesting,” the young woman said. “But that’s not a reason for that stupid guard to treat you like that. Just ignore him, you hear? Most of them are not even qualified for the job but were hired anyway, simply because they ‘knew somebody who knew somebody’, you know. That’s why they disrespect the customers.”

The photographer agreed, and I started my new life in an atmosphere of protest against Nigeria’s authority. I reminded myself that about a week ago I was as bored as a louse, and had been finding the Nigeria too dull a place.

 

END OF EPISODE 4

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 5, which  will be published here next Sunday.