Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 8

 

Because the village road is a dirt road, I couldn’t drive as fast as I had wanted. I could barely push the accelerator above 15 miles per hour over the dirt roads on that December morning. While driving with a vague mind, with no idea where the road is leading to, I started thinking about what I had found in Mr. Reddington’s diary. There’s a lot of information in that diary and I soon realized that he didn’t tell me the complete story. I had staked everything I’m doing now on my belief that I had the complete information, and I was disappointed that he kept a lot of details from me.

        I really did not know why he did that to me. The contents of the diary showed that the fifteenth day of January was going to be a day of destiny for Nigeria, a bigger destiny than the killing of the Prime Minister Balewa. It was so big that I stopped blaming Mr. Reddington for keeping me in the dark and for wanting to play a lone hand: a lot of politicians had to go on that day, and majority of them are the politicians from northern Nigeria, according to his notes. This mean that many northern politicians might lose their lives come January 15. And the consequences will be very grave – it  might  lead Nigeria to a civil war. He doesn’t want me to overreact, and I was pretty sure that that was his intention. Now, don’t get me wrong: I appreciate the fact that he had confided in me something which sounded big enough. However, I was very angry that the complete information was so big that he, the man who had found it out, wanted it all to himself. Even as angry as I was then, I didn’t blame him: he was seeking for an adventure.

        There were some gaps in his notes which, I believe, he would have filled from his memory. He also used a unique ranking system which stood for how important or serious of some names, words, and phrases in his notes are. The four names he had written down were the names of some ministers or government departments, and there was a man, Hafsatu Bello, who got five out of possible five points; and another fellow, Festus Okotie Eboh, who got three. The barebones of his story were all that was in his diary – these, and one strange phrase which occurred more than six times inside brackets. “True Nigerian-ism in the Army!” was the phrase; and at its last time of use, it ran – “(True Nigerian-ism in the Army!, the hideout – very scary).” It made no sense to me.

        The first thing I learned was that the northern and southern Nigeria will definitely go to war if these majors succeed in carrying out their plans. Getting rid of Prime Minister Balewa and other northern politicians will definitely be the last straw for the northerners. The second thing was that this war will not be a surprise for the Ibos, who were one of the most educated and intelligent tribes in Nigeria at the time. The five majors of the Nigerian Army who are the coup plotters, are all from the southern Nigeria, the native land of the Ibo tribe. So they already know that assassinating the Prime Minister Tafawa Balewa and other prominent northern politicians would raise the suspicion of the northerners that this is an ‘Ibo’ coup. The remaining northern politicians and religious leaders wouldn’t like that, and there’s going to be reprisal attack on the large population of Ibos who live in the north and who own a lot of businesses and properties there. The Yorubas and the other tribes, who felt marginalized, would pretend to play the peacemaker, but their true intention would be to watch the two warring tribes decimate each other and then grab the fallouts from the mayhem.

        But all these depended upon the third thing, which was due to happen after the coup d’état, that is,  if it become successful. According to Mr. Reddington’s notes, in spite of the nonsense talked about in the Nigerian Parliament about national unity, what they have in Nigeria is tribal and regional allegiance. Hence, nationalism doesn’t exist in Nigeria. But the five majors knew that, at that time, almost half of the high-ranking position in the Nigerian Army are occupied by the Ibos. Not only that, the Ibo tribes occupied top positions in federal civil service, the police, the Navy and the Air Force. So, the five majors figured that they can use this massive manpower to impose a long-lasting  martial  law in northern Nigeria after the coup. This way they can  maintain law and order in the northern Nigeria and prevent the outbreak of civil war after the coup.

        Of course there will still be some northern politicians and soldiers who will raise lots of noise about the way the northerners are being treated, especially as a result of the martial law. Mr. Reddington was content to call them Code 778. The majors have a simple plan on how to silence them: cash payments and lucrative government contracts. They figure that if they can keep disgruntled northern politicians and soldiers placated with cash payments and lucrative government contracts, they will help rein in  the northern indigenes. That, together with the martial law will keep the north in check and within a few years, the coup will be forgotten. Mr. Reddington did not believe that that would be the case. He was convinced that nothing can stop Nigeria from going into a full scale civil war if the five majors went ahead with their plan.

        This was Mr. Reddington’s analysis of the event, and was the story I had been deciphering in a back room of Village Breeze Guest House. This was the story that hummed in my mind as I swung in the Blue Peugeot 404 saloon car from hamlet to hamlet without having any idea of where I was heading to.

        At this point I was again tempted to reach out to the Prime Minister Balewa by writing to him directly  or calling the American Embassy. The problem is that I have no idea of where the nearest Post Office is – Nigeria seldom have Post Offices in their villages at the time. How about the telephone? Don’t even ask. Only a very few wealthy and educated Nigerians had landlines in their homes at the time. And I’m sure that most of them have heard about me by now, so it will be too risky to approach any of them now – that is, if I knew who they are. Besides, like I had mentioned before, who would believe my tale? The Prime Minister’s Office? The American Embassy? A little reflection convinced me that informing them now would be too risky and useless. They would think I was crazy. In any case, they would arrest me for Mr. Reddington’s murder anyway. To listen to my tale at all, I must show them some token of proof and some kind of probable cause that would justify  the conduction of an investigation of the Nigerian Army officials. I simply don’t have those proofs. Above all, like the sharks which must swim constantly or they die,  I must keep moving myself, ready to act whenever my life is threatened. I knew that  it was going to be a tough job for me, given that the Nigerian police are after me now and the men loyal to the five majors are moving silently and swiftly on my trail.

        I had no clear purpose in my journey, but my map showed that all these time I have been going back and forth the Sagamu and Abeokuta countryside. I kept driving, running alongside a long wall built around a village high school and passing many huts and thick forests. In a break of the trees I saw a huge mansion. That’s one thing with Nigerian villages: in the midst of large number of poor houses one often see a big house built with all kinds of modern facilities, and I often pondered the sharp contrast among the homes of the indigenes. Anyway, I continued driving through old thatched hamlets and villages, and over peaceful lowland streams, past farmlands  blazing with cassava, yams and corn leaves. The hamlets and villages looked so peaceful that I could scarcely believe that somewhere behind me were those who wants me dead at all cost. And that in a month’s time, unless I’m lucky enough to be alive and to convince both the Prime Minister’s Office and the American Embassy to act, this beautiful country will be fighting an unnecessary  civil war that would destroy lots of lives and properties.

        It’s 12 noon by my watch as I entered a long straggling town called Ijebu-Ode. By that time I was really hungry, and I started looking for a neat restaurant where I can eat. I can’t have enough of Nigerian dishes! Half-way down was Ijebu-Ode Post Office, and on the steps stood the postman and a policeman hard at work on a telephone and telegram. They suddenly became alert when they saw me – my guess was that they recognized my car. The policeman advanced with raised hand, and shouted at me to stop. I almost did, but then it flashed upon me that the phone call and the telegram had to do with me. I became convinced that the police and my friends at the Village Breeze Guest House had come to an understanding, and were united in desiring to capture me, and that they had called in the description of me and the car to all the neighboring towns through which I might pass. I quickly released the brakes just in time and, as I did that, the policeman tried to jump on top of the car’s  hood. I managed to push him away and drove off with speed.

 

END OF EPISODE 8

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 9, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 7

 

I asked him to describe the men for me. He said he is very sure that both of them were soldiers. One was a dark-eyed thin man who always blinks his eyes each time he speaks, he says. And the other one looked even more like a soldier. He is fat and is   always speaking in pidgin English and was smiling all the time he was talking to him. He was also very sure that both of them came from the city since they did not look like the natives of his town.

I took out a piece of paper and wrote  these words in Yoruba language as if they were part of a letter:

….’Code 777. Mr. Reddington had got on to this, but he couldn’t act on it for two weeks. I’m not sure I can do any good now, especially as the Prime Minister Tafewa Balewa is uncertain about his plans. But if Mr B.  advises I will do the best I can…’

I made up this story rather neatly because I knew it will put the two men at alert. And I  wrote it to look like a loose page on a private letter. Next, I gave it to Mr. Akin and said, “Take this down to the men and tell them you found it in my bedroom. Also tell  them to return it to me if they found me.”

Mr. Akin left my room with the paper and, about four minutes later I heard the  blue Peugeot 404 saloon begin to move. And I peeped from behind the curtain in time to caught sight of the two men. Just like Mr. Akin said, one of them was slim and the other one was fat, and that was what I could make of their appearance.

Mr. Akin came back to my room and was very excited.

“Your paper really woke them up!” he said excitedly. “The skinny guy lost color immediately he read it and started cursing like bus drivers do, and the fat one whistled and looked worried. They paid for their drinks with one naira note and wouldn’t wait for their change.”

I smiled.

“I’ll need another favor from you, if you don’t mind,” I said.

“Sure,” he replied. “I’m much obliged to help.”

“Alright, here’s what I want you to do,” I began. “I want you to get into your motorcycle and go off to the nearest Police Station. Talk to the Inspector, or whoever is in charge there. Describe these two men carefully and tell him  you suspect them of being connected to the Victoria Island murder. You can even invent a story. I’m sure that these men will come back. They may not be back tonight, though, because they will follow me for as long as thirty miles along the road. So no need to worry about them tonight. So begin now to prepare your mind to be very receptive whenever they comes back any day after tonight. Something tells me they will be here by tomorrow morning. So, please tell the police to be here early  and alert.”

He set off like an obedient child who was promised some candy for good behavior, while I worked at the notes Mr. Reddington made in his diary. When he came back we dined together and I told him lots of stories about the circus in America – the name given to a company of performers who put on diverse entertainment shows that may include magicians, clowns, tightrope walkers, musicians, trained animals and acrobats. I also gave him a lot of stuff about the movie business in America, and the Vietnam War, thinking all the while what easy business these were compared to the mess I was now involved in. When he went to bed I finished reading Mr. Reddington’s diary. I then smoked my Benson and Hedges cigarette in a chair till daylight, for I could not sleep.

About eight in the morning, I saw three police officers arrive at the guest house. Following Akin’s instructions, they parked their car in the garage and entered the guest house. At about fifteen  minutes later I saw from my window  the blue Peugeot 404 saloon car  coming towards the guest house. It stopped about two hundred yards from the guest house, in a shelter of four palm trees close to the guest house. I was attentive enough to notice that the occupants of the car  carefully reversed it before leaving it. Soon I heard their footsteps on the pavements outside my window.

My original plan was to stay hidden in my bedroom and see what will happen between the owners of the blue Peugeot 404 saloon car  and the police. I was highly convinced that if I could bring the local police and my dangerous pursuers together, something might happen to my advantage. But now that both the local police and my dangerous pursuers are here, I had a better idea. I scribbled a short note to Akin, thanking him for his hospitality and help. I then opened the window and dropped quietly into a garden behind the house but very close to the palm trees where my pursuers parked their car. Unobserved, I crawled down the side of the road and made a sharp turn that brought me under the palm trees where the car was parked. There stood the blue Peugeot 404 saloon car, with its key left on the ignition. I could not believe they left their keys in the car. I just wanted to take a chance and hotwire the car, which is a way of starting a car engine without a key. But everything just worked like magic for me. To me, this type of good luck is a sign that I will eventually come out of this problem alive and vindicated.

The dust on the car was proof that the drivers had had a long journey. After opening the left side door, I jumped into the car, closed the door, started the engine, and drove gently out on to the dirt road.

The dirt road dipped almost immediately and I lost sight of the guest house. However, the cool, village wind seemed to bring me the sound of angry voices, which made me realize that my pursuers will soon be on my trail.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 7

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 8, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 6

 

Luckily for me, the dog’s drunken master provided a diversion. It was attached  by a rope to its master’s  waist (I wasn’t aware of that when I was in the train), and they both  suddenly fell off the carriage. They both landed on their heads on the track and from the look on the master’s face I could see that he was dazed by the fall. While the occupants of the other carriages were trying to hoist them back into the carriage, the dog bit somebody. I heard the sound of hard swearing and I guessed it must be coming from the person bitten by the dog.  I was relieved since they seemed to have forgotten all about  me. After I walked a distance of about a quarter of a mile, I looked back to see what was going on. The train had started again and was vanishing in the distance.  

I was in a wide semi-circle of the rainforest, with what appeared to be a part of the Ibu river as radius, and the nearby hills forming the western circumference. There was not a sign or sound of a human being, only the splashing of waters of the Ibu river and the interminable crying of African darters and grey-crowned cranes. Yet, oddly enough, for the first time I started feeling the terror of someone that is being hunted by killers. It was not the Lagos police, or even the Sagamu police, that I was afraid of, but the other folk, who knew that I knew Mr. Reddington’s secret and dared not to let me live.  I was certain they would pursue me with a keenness and vigilance unknown to any Nigeria’s law enforcement agency, and that once their grip closed on me I should find no mercy.

I looked back, but there was nothing in this landscape except the rich vegetation and its animal life. The Nigeria’s sun glinted on the metals of the rail line and the wet stones in the nearby Ibu river and the Eruwuru stream, and you could not have found a more peaceful sight in the world. In spite of that, I started to run. Crouching low in the canopies  of the rainforest, I ran till my eyes were blinded by sweat. I was still in a bad and frightened mood, and I continued to feel that way till I had reached the rim of one of the hills and flung myself panting on a ridge high above the waters of the Ibu river.

From my vantage point I could scan the whole supposedly Sagamu area right away to the railway line and to the west of it where green fields took the place of rainforest. I had a bird’s view of the area and yet I could see nothing moving in the entire area – I mean, things like a car, bicycle, or even a human being. Then I looked in the east beyond the ridge and saw a new kind of landscape, consisting of shallow green valleys with plenty of shrubs that are occasionally dotted by African corkwood trees and the faint lines of dust which spoke of highroads. Last of all, I looked into the blue December sky, and there I saw something that set my pulses racing.  

Low down in the south an airplane that resembles a Supermarine Spitfire was climbing into the heavens. I immediately started feeling this plane was looking for me, and that it did not belong to the police. Nigerian Police do not have airplanes at the time anyway. For an hour or two  I watched it from my position on a ridge high above the waters of the Ibu river. It flew low along the top of the hills, and then flew in narrow circles over the valley up which I had come. After it did that, the pilot seemed to change its mind and, rising  to a great height,  it flew away.

This type espionage from the sky began to get me worried, and I became less excited about Sagamu and Abeokuta countryside, the places I had chosen for a refuge.   These hills by the Ibu river were no sort of cover if my enemies were in the sky, and I must find a different kind of hideout. I looked with more satisfaction to the green hamlets beyond the ridge, for there I believe I should find isolated huts or lonely houses that may serve as good hideouts for me.

About six in the evening I came out of the covers of the rainforest to a dirt road which wound up the narrow valley of a lowland stream. I followed it cautiously and soon enough I reached a kind of a pass where a solitary house smoked in the twilight. The road passed through a wooden bridge, and when I reached the bridge I saw a young man leaning on the parapet. He was smoking a cigarette and, from the packet that he kept on the ground beside him, I could see that the brand was Rothmans’. He was also studying the water carefully and in his left hand was a small book with a finger marking the place.

“Hello,” he said to me in Yoruba language. “It’s a wonderful night, isn’t it?”

The smell of firewood smoke and some delicious meal floated to me from the house.

“Yes, of course,” I replied.

“Your Yoruba ascent sounds foreign,” he said. “Let me guess: your family lives abroad,  London perhaps?”

“You were close,” I said. “My name is Jideofor Okorie and I am Ibo, but I do understand a little bit of Yoruba language. And yes, my parents lived abroad, but not in London. They lived in America.”  Then I asked, pointing at the solitary house: “Is that place a guest house?”

“I’m at your service, sir,” he said politely in Yoruba language. “I am the owner of the Village Breeze Guest House, sir. My name is Akin and I will be honored if you will stay the night. The truth is, I haven’t had any customer for almost a week now.”

I pulled myself up on the parapet of the wooden bridge and lit my Benson and Hedges cigarette. This is a good luck that just fell on my lap, I thought. I felt that I could trust him.

“You are too young to be the owner of a guest house,” I said. “What’s your story?”

“It was an inheritance from my dad,” he said. “He died a year ago  and I live there with my grandmother. I know it sounds strange to have a guest house in this lonely place that is far from our village, but you will be surprised when I tell you the caliber of guests that comes here sometimes:  bank managers, local politicians, doctors and lawyers who sometimes just want  get away from their wives, you know. I know it sounds immoral, but then what can you do? It’s an exciting job for a young man, but it really wasn’t my choice of profession.”

“So, what was your original career choice?” I asked.

“I wanted to be a journalist and a writer,” he replied.

“Well, there you go then,” I said. “Believe me, nobody would make a better story-teller in the world than a guest house owner. I’m sure you must have had the kind of guests who are willing to tell you their lives’ stories.”

“Not here,” he said eagerly. “Maybe in the city where guest houses and hotels have lots of customers that comes every day. Here it is different. This place we sometimes stay days without any customer as you can see. Apart from some married bank managers, local politicians, doctors and lawyers who comes here sometimes once in a month, we occasionally have cars full of students and their girlfriends who stop for lunch and to do birthday parties. There is not much materials to be got out of those few customer visits. I want to see life, to travel the world and write books like Wole Soyinka and Chinua Achebe, you know. But the most I’ve done yet is to get one of my poems printed in the Daily Times.”

I looked at the guest house standing golden in the sunset and concluded that it wasn’t bad at all.

“I haven’t been around the world that much myself,” I said. “Apart from my coming to Nigeria, I was almost a hermit. But I like it here though.”

“Really?” he said, looking surprised. “Maybe it’s because I’m from this area  that I don’t feel excited about it.”

“That happens,” I said. “But, do you think excitement and adventure is found only in Europe or America or in any of the developed countries? I doubt it.”

“You may be right, but  I do believe in the wisdom of Chinua Achebe on the importance of travelling and writing,” he said, his eyes brightening, and he quoted some verse from one of Achebe’s books: “The world is like Mask dancing. If you want to see it well, you do not stand in one place.”

“Well,” I said. “Maybe I can help you here with my personal life story. I’m sure that when you hear it you can make a novel out of it a month from now.”

Sitting on the wooden bridge that December evening I pitched him an interesting story. The story I gave him was true in essentials too, though I changed some minor details. I made out that I was a travelling scientist from America who had had a lot of trouble with a secret society whose members live in Lagos. They had pursued me around the country , and had killed my best friend in Lagos, and were now on my tracks. I made the story to sound very exciting, and I even made a really horrid affair of the Victoria Island murder. “My good friend,” I said. “You are looking for adventure and excitement, correct? Well, I found it here in Nigeria. The devils are after me, and the Lagos police are after them. Believe me, I am going to win this race.”

“My God!” he exclaimed, drawing his breath sharply, “your story is a true Sherlock Holmes story.”

“Well, what can I say,” I replied. “You do believe my story, correct?”

“Sure,” he said and held out his hand. “I am actually wondering why you don’t want to write a book about it?”

I smiled, and then said, “Unlike you I’m not that gifted when it come to writing. Anyway, my enemies are off my track for the moment, but I need to lie low for a couple of days. Can you offer me a hideout in your place?”

“You got it my good friend,” he replied. “You can lie as low as you can in my guest house. No worries! I’ll make sure that nobody blabs too. And you will give me more tales about your situation, right?”

As he said that, he caught my elbow and drew me towards the guest house.

“Sure,” I replied. “No problem.”

 As we entered the porch I heard from a distance the sound of an engine. There silhouetted against the evening sky was my friend, the airplane which looked exactly like the Supermarine Spitfire model.

The room he gave me was located at the back of the guest house. I liked it that way, especially given that the room has a fine outlook over the village hills. He also told me I can use his study if I want. It was a small room stacked with cheap editions of his favorite authors, including Charles Dickens, Chinua Achebe, Flora Nwapa, Oliver Goldsmith and Emily Bronte, among others. I never saw his grandmother, so naturally I concluded that either she was away with friends or that she was bedridden. An old woman called Mrs. Bunmi brought me my meals, which usually consist of fufu and soup. Now I  am used to that kind of meal because, like I stated earlier, my ex-girlfriend was a Yoruba and she taught me a lot about their language, foods and stuffs like that.  

Mr. Akin was around me at all hours and I wanted some privacy. So what I did was to invent some jobs for him. He had a Suzuki motorcycle, and I sent him off the next morning to buy the Daily Times newspaper for me. I told him not to buy any other paper except the Daily Times.  I knew fully well that it will take him a shorter time to return back if I tell him to buy any type of newspaper he sees, whether it’s a Daily Times or not. I told him to watch out for me, to keep his ears to the ground and to take note of any strange people or things he saw. I also told him to watch out especially for things like cars and small airplanes, for  I was almost paranoid at this point. Then I sat down in real earnest to study Mr. Reddington’s  diary.

He came back at about an hour or so with the Daily Times. There wasn’t much news in it, except some further evidence of  Adeyemi and the newspaper vendor, and a repetition of yesterday’s statement that the true criminal was believed to have got away from Lagos by one of the western going trains. However, there was a long article about the prime minister Tafewa Balewa and the state of politics in Nigeria, though there was no mention of his planned visit to Dodan Barracks on the 15^th day of January. I politely told Mr. Akin that I needed some privacy to do some work, for I was getting very close to finding the meaning of Mr. Reddington’s cypher.

Like I had said before, it was the simple substitution cypher where every plaintext character of the English alphabet is substituted for a different cipher text character. And after some trials and errors I was able to figure out  the  key word that provided me the sequence of the letters. So, at around 3 o’clock I was able to break the code and I sat down to read  Mr. Reddington’s pages. I continued reading for almost an hour, with a goose-pimpled face and fingers that drummed on the table.

I glanced out of the window and saw a blue Peugeot 404 saloon car coming up the road leading towards the guest house. It stopped as soon as it reached the guest house and there was the sound of people alighting. There were two of them. The first one was wearing a black suit while the other one was wearing a military camouflage jacket. Both of them were wearing black shoes . About ten minutes later, Akin slipped into the room, his eyes bright with excitement.

“There are two men here looking for you,” he whispered. “They are in the dinning room drinking Premier beer. They were very anxious to see you  and said they had hoped to meet you here. And they described you real good, down to your shoe and shirt. Well, I lied to them. I told them that you had been here last night and had gone off early with your Suzuki motorcycle. After I said that one of them swore with his children’s life. Can you believe that?”

 

 

END OF EPISODE 6

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 7, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 5

 

I guess I should say I had a good time traveling further west that day. It was fine December weather, with the dry and dusty harmattan wind blowing fallen leaves all over the place. I started asking myself why, when I was still a free man, I had stayed in Lagos and not got the good of this beautiful country. I bought three loaves of bread and four cans of Coke when we reached the next train station(I did not even know the name of that station) and shared them with the photographer and a young  woman with a child. I also bought Daily Times newspaper, which had news about the beginning of the Africa Cup of Nations season and some paragraphs about how the Congo crisis was settling down and a Soviet Union squadron was going to Leopoldville -  the capital territory of the then Belgian Congo.

When I have done with them I brought out Mr. Reddington’s diary – the one that had a black cover – and studied it. It was basically filled with  shot  notes, mainly figures, though he wrote names in some of the pages. For example, I found the  words ‘rifes’, ‘d-day’ and ‘precision’ pretty often, and especially the word ‘coup d’etat.’

Now I was very certain that Mr. Reddington never did anything without a reason, and I was pretty sure there was a cypher in all this. Things like cypher and coded words are subjects which has always interested me, and I did a bit of them myself when I took a Cryptography class – an elective class I took for just one semester during my undergraduate years at the University of Maryland. I also was very good at things like chess and crossword puzzles, and the Cryptography class improved my skills in finding out cyphers. The ones in Mr. Reddington’s diary looked like the simple substitution cypher where every plaintext character of the English alphabet is substituted for a different cipher text character. Usually, any smart person can find the clue to that type of cypher after an hour or two’s work, and like all journalists who want to make things simple, I wasn’t surprised that Mr. Reddington will be content to use this method of coding in his notes. So I started working on the coded words, convinced that anyone can make a pretty good simple substitution cypher if they have a keyword that gives them the sequence of the letters.

I tried for hours but couldn’t figure it out. Then I fell asleep and woke up when the train arrived at another station that I couldn’t figure out what it was called, just in time to bundle out and get into the slow Sagamu train. I did not like the looks of one of the men at the platforms, but I wasn’t too worried about him because he never glanced at me. In any case, when I caught sight of myself in the mirror of an automatic machine I was convinced that with my black color and my simple attire, I was the very model of one of the Yoruba passengers who were crowding into the train’s third-class carriages.

I traveled with about two dozen passengers, most of whom are farmers and traders. They were returning to their villages, probably to collect more farm produce they will later transport to and sell in Lagos.  So naturally, their mouths were full of stories about farm produce prices. I heard stories of how hard it is becoming to make profit selling farm produce to the Marketing Boards – the government agencies that buy farm produce for export from peasant farmers. Most of the passengers had lunched heavily and smelled of hard gin, but they took no notice of me. The train rumbled slowly into a land covered with shrubs and then to great wide rainforests filled with huge trees, with high hills covered with green shrubs of all types showing westwards.

The carriage I was sitting in emptied at about five O’clock, and I was left alone as I had desired. I got out at the next station, which is located at a little village whose name I could scarcely read. The station was set right in the heart of a rainforest, with farmlands scattered all over the place. It reminded me of one of those forgotten little stations in America’s countryside.  I saw an elderly station-master working on his farm, and with his hoe over his shoulder, he walked slowly to the train. He took charge of a parcel, and went back to his farm. A young boy of about thirteen or so, received my ticket and I emerged on an unpaved road that straggled over the thick rain forested village.

It was a beautiful and cool evening, with every tree and shrubs looking as clear as a crystal. The air had the queer, rustic smell of rainforests, but it was as fresh as mid-sea, and it has the strangest effect on my mood. I actually felt relaxed and happy. I might have been a teenager out for a summer cookout party, instead of a thirty-eight year old man very much wanted by the police. I felt just as I used to feel in Baltimore when I was starting for a long walk on a frosty morning in my neighborhood. You will not believe it, but I walked along the road whistling happily. It was as if I have forgotten all my problems, and my only desire at that point was just to go on and on in this blessed, beautiful rain forested village, for every mile put me in a better mood. 

In a roadside farm I cut a walking stick from a bamboo tree, and presently struck off the unpaved road up a pathway which followed a narrow valley of a running stream. I was convinced that I was still far ahead of any pursuit, and for that night might just do as I please. It has been a long time since I had my last meal, and I was very hungry when I arrived to the next town. Soon I reached the first house of the town.  It was a big, gated compound which was surrounded by a tall fence. A small storefront was built as an attachment or an extension of the fence and  I saw a woman standing by the door.  She greeted me in Yoruba language, with the kindly politeness of the Yoruba people living near the train stations in western Nigerian towns. I ordered a bottle of coke and we talked for a while. It was difficult for me for I don’t speak Yoruba language fluently. But we managed to communicate by speaking a mix of Yoruba and Pidgin English. When I noticed that she is now comfortable with me, I asked for a night’s lodging. She told me she will have to talk to her husband first. She went inside the compound and, after a few minutes, she came back and told me I was welcomed to the bed at the back of the compound. After I settled down she set before me a hot meal consisting of rice and beans, cooked with spices, palm oil and beef. This is the kind of African meal I have been craving for a long time now. My ex-girlfriend used to cook it when we were still together.

For  some reasons that I could not explain, they trusted me and asked me only a few questions. But I could see they set me down as a black American tourist who is interested in finding his roots, and I took some trouble to confirm their view. During our conversations I spoke a lot about the causes and the best cures for  malaria, of which my host knew little. But I did pick up from him a great deal about the local Sagamu markets, which I tucked away in my memory for future use. At ten I was nodding in my chair, and the so-called ‘the bed at the back of the compound’ received a worn out  man who never opened his eyes till five O’clock the following morning.

My hosts were surprised that I woke up so early. But I explained to them that I had to take care of something that is very time-sensitive, and they understood. I offered to pay them for my one-night stay at their house and they politely refused to take my money. At around six O’clock I breakfasted on tea served with four slices of buttered bread. Then I began my westward journey again. My plan was simple: I will continue walking until I reach the railway line that is about a station or two farther from the station I had alighted from the previous day. Once I do that, I will immediately turn back. This will be the safest thing to do, for I reckoned that the Nigerian police would naturally assume that I was always making farther from Lagos in the direction of some town in the hinterland. I was convinced that I had still a good bit of a start, for, as I reasoned, it would take Nigerian police some days to fix the blame on me, and several more to identify the man who got on board the train at the Lagos Terminus located at Iddo Island. Unfortunately for me, I underestimated their abilities.

The good thing is that the weather is on my side and I couldn’t help being in a happy mood. In fact I was in a happier mood than I had been since I came to Nigeria. Leaving the town behind me, I took a pathway that goes through what I believed was the Sagamu rainforest. Nesting shikras and tawny eagles were crying everywhere, and every part of the forest is alive with all kinds of animal life: bush rats, antelopes, shrews, monkeys, and insects of all types. I was lucky I did not see a snake or a lion. That would have been very creepy for me. All the slackness and boredom I felt in the past months are basically gone, and I was walking happily like a teenager going to his promenade dance. Soon I came to a swell of land covered by short grasses and shrubs, which dipped to the valley of a little stream, and about a mile away I saw the smoke of a train.

When  I reached the nearest station after about an hour’s walk through the rainforest, I was glad that it was ideal for my plan. It was located near a hill  in a sleepy town and is surrounded by thick bushes. Surprisingly, it has a waiting room, an office, the station master’s hut, a tiny garden cultivated with green leafy vegetables, and a left room  only for the single rail line. It has only one single and tiny dirt road to it from the town, and to increase its isolation the waves of what appeared to be a hillside river or lake lapped on their grey granite beach about half a mile away. I waited in the thick bush until I saw the smoke of a west-going train on the horizon. Then  I approached the tiny booking office and bought a ticket to Abeokuta.

The carriage I entered had only one passenger in it: an old man who, I believe, was either a farmer or a food merchant because he had five bags filled with dried rice and beans. He also had a dog, a sleepy-eyed brute that kept looking at me with great suspicion. It reminded me of a Rottweiler – the breed  of dogs common in Germany.  The man was asleep, and on the cushions beside him was that day’s Daily Times newspaper. I eagerly picked up the newspaper, for I figured it would tell me what was going on.

There were two columns about the Victoria Island murder, as it was called. My houseboy Adeyemi had given the alarm and had the newspaper vendor arrested. Poor him – I felt so bad for him. It looked as if he had earned his twenty naira the hard way. He seem to have occupied the Lagos Police for the better part of the day. As I continued reading the newspaper, I found more articles about the murder. The newspaper vendor had been released, I read, and the true criminal, about whose identity the Lagos Police withheld,  was believed to have got away from Lagos by one of the western going trains. There was a short note about the owner of the flat where Mr. Reddington’s body was found. I guessed the Lagos Police slipped that part into the article, as a smart trick to make me feel that I was not the suspect they are looking for.

There was nothing else interesting in the paper, nothing about Nigeria politics or Prime Minister Tafewa Balewa, or the things that had interested Mr. Reddington. I got bored and laid it down. Soon I discovered that we were getting close to the train station at which I had got out yesterday. The elderly station-master who was working on his farm yesterday looked very alert, for the west-going train was waiting for us to pass, and from it had descended three uniformed men who were asking him questions.  I was convinced they were the local police, who had been stirred up by Lagos Police, and had traced me as far as this part of the town. I was very surprised that the Nigeria police could move so fast. I often think of them as being so laidback. Perhaps they moved very quick this time because Mr. Reddington is an American and if they don’t do that, they will have to explain their reason to the American government.

 I was sitting well back in the shadow and, from my position, I watched them carefully. One of them had a notebook with black cover, and he took down notes. The elderly station-master seemed very surprised, but the young boy of about thirteen who received my ticket yesterday was talking confidently. I became worried.

My only companion in the carriage woke up as we moved away from that station. He fixed me with a confused glance, patted his dog gently and asked me where he was in Yoruba language. It was very obvious that he was drunk. I told him he was in a moving train.

“That’s what comes from staying away from alcohol,” he said bitterly.

I expressed my surprise that in him I should have met a very alert person if he had laid off alcohol like he claimed.

“Oh yeah,” he said pugnaciously. “I am a strong teetotaler. It was my last year’s new year resolution, and I haven’t touched kai-kai(a local gin) or beer since then. Not even at Christmas, though I was tempted.”

He swung his heels up on a seat, and laid his head into one of the cushions placed near his  seat.

“And this is what I get for quitting alcohol,” he moaned. “A head that is not much better than hell fire.”

“How did you manage to swing it?” I asked.

“Well,” he said. “I drank palm wine(a local alcoholic drink tapped from oil palm tree). Being a teetotaler I kept off kai-kai and beer, but I was drinking palm wine. It wasn’t a bad choice. It is all natural and  has no foreign chemical in it,” His voice died away into a splutter as he dozed off.

My original plan was to get off the train as soon as we reach the next station and find my way ahead, but the train suddenly gave me a better chance, for it came to a standstill at the end of a large culvert which spanned what I believed to be an extension of the Ibu river and the Eruwuru stream, the two water bodies closest to Sagamu town and Lagos. I looked out and saw that every carriage window was closed and I did not see any human being in the landscape. So I opened the door, and dropped quickly into the tangle of African green shrubs and elephant grass which edged the line.

My exit would have been alright but for the Rottweiler-like dog. I think it probably had the impression that I was escaping with his master’s belongings. It started barking and charged at me but only got me by the trousers. This woke up its master and the occupants of the carriage next to ours, and they stood shouting at the carriage door, probably thinking that I had committed suicide. By then, however, there was no turning back for me so I continued moving. I crawled through the thicket that consisted of mainly the African green shrubs,  and elephant grass, reached the edge of the Ibu river and the Eruwuru stream extension, and in cover of the bushes put about a hundred yards behind me. Then from my shelter I looked back and saw the guard and almost every passenger in the carriage closest to ours have gathered round the open carriage door and are staring in my direction. I couldn’t believe that a single dog could expose my escape in this way.

END OF EPISODE 5

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 6, which  will be published here next Sunday.