Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 15 (2)

Alex walked toward the Post Office, the first area he'd seen in Maiduguri. Things were not as serene as he remembered in first arriving, four years ago. There was more noise, more traffic now and more people. Break-ins in the Government Residence area had increased so that you never knew when bandits would come in the night. He even felt uncomfortable going around town in the taxis now. There were more Chadians wandering around and more southerners -- all used to wars or banditry. Unlike before, now the burglars carried guns or machetes and they'd spill your guts in a second. The city had even had its first armed bank robbery.

He walked past the tables with cassettes but didn't bother to look through them. Most of the time the recording was terrible anyway. Over by the photostat kiosks someone called "Bature!" but he paid no heed to the calls for customers now. When he walked past the piles of yams and melons, others beckoned or called to him but he ignored them and didn't even look sideways. Most of the time it was better to say "Sannu" and "Lafia?" just to greet them on the way by, to smile but not to stop, just to keep on good terms. Some days their aggressiveness and lack of manners just got to him. The traders always hustled.

In front of the Post Office the beggars sat about, a couple with trays of kola nuts. The policeman on duty was in his usual spot on the bench, asleep with his chin resting on the barrel of the vintage .303's they were issued with.

"One of these days that thing is going to go off and wake him up," Alex laughed. When it started to get hot in the afternoon, things really slowed down. It was bizarre, he realized, how crazy it all was. People lay on benches, sleeping anywhere there was shade. He smiled at the thought of when they'd first driven in from the airport and everyone had seriously thought it must be a holiday because people were sleeping under trees everywhere.

He cut through the old motor park area. They'd moved it out to a new one on the edge of town but some cars still pulled in to load up if they could -- mostly local government drivers or government vehicles going somewhere so they could pick up extra money by taking passengers. Like most things, it was illegal but they sort of didn't notice it if it was done on a small scale and nobody minded. Most rules were just on paper or accepted as long as they weren't blatantly abused. They'd just dash the police a couple of naira at the roadblock. But then, everyone did business that way right from the bottom lowly messenger right up to the Governor, so no one could say anything about anyone else.

Alex stopped at a kiosk by the Sub-Treasury on Ibo Road where they sold the car parts. There was a crowd in front of the Sub-Treasury, with arguing going on, probably trying to collect their payment vouchers. He got a cold coke and stood under the shade of the kiosk. By this time of the day outside it was easy to get dehydrated in no time and it was dusty cutting through the old motor park.

He wolfed down the coke and surveyed the shelves of the kiosk to see if there was anything he needed. The kiosk was packed with the usual tins of fish, envelopes, margarine, bread, candles, matches, etc., anything one might need. He picked up a small box of Omo and a small can of Nescafe, thinking he might go to Leventis store later in the afternoon.

He unlocked the Volkswagen and threw the provisions on the back seat and got in. You could only accomplish a couple of things in a day. Now he needed to get petrol, which always took time. As usual, there was a shortage and it was around 6 naira a gallon, twice the price as normal. He knew the Alhajis must have been hoarding it to put the price up again. The line-ups at B.P. would be too long if they had petrol in. He thought there might be some black market for sale in the tanks up near the airport. Petrol was in 1000 gallon tanks or barrels at the roadside and it was usually faster but sold for seven naira a gallon, if there was any. 

Alex was driving up Airport Road when he saw some people running. His reflexes tightened, anticipating. Sometimes one had to react fast to avoid trouble. Then he heard the gunshots. He sped up to get past whatever the disturbance was and saw a policeman hitting someone with a night stick while another was firing his rifle down a side street. People were scattering to both sides out of the way, spilling whatever loads they'd had on their head. Must be robbers, he mused, probably stone or torch the one that they'd caught. He heard the siren of the police truck coming in the distance for there were never any ambulance or fire trucks used. Sirens from the trucks pulling out of the police barracks were as common a sound through the day and half the night as the blaring horns in the nerve-racking chaotic traffic.

He drove up through Bulunkutu, over the railway tracks and pulled up beside the rest-coloured steel tanks that held the roadside petrol.

"Akwai petrol? Nawa ni?" he asked out the open window.

"Eh.  Naira shida."

"To," he answered and turned off the car. "Biu," he said pointing to the 5-gallon tins. One can was already full and the man sat another in the hold under the tap and turned it on.

He pulled the cable that opened the boot of the Volks and got out. "Ina aiki?"he asked good-naturedly, moving round the car where the boy had set the funnel in. He hoisted the can up and poured it in. They boy didn't answer. "Kai!" he exclaimed as usual when the petrol was spilled around the tank hole. They just can't take care, never pay attention, he swore under his breath. The boy moved the can slightly but obviously not caring if it swished over the rim of the funnel or not. He made sure the can was completely emptied in and looked around as the boy poured in the second.

Off in the distance he could see smoke billowing up. So it must have been a fire, he thought. He knew there'd probably be no water to put on it. Whatever building it was, it would be finished. He could imagine the crowd standing around just watching it burn to the ground, remembering the time the staff house at the school had burned completely with 1500 students all watching. He'd laughed at himself trying to organize a bucket brigade. It was fruitless to try to organize anything.

Alex handed the boy twelve naira for the petrol and started to get in the car. Then, on the side of the road, something caught his attention. There was a mosque marked out with cement blocks under a tree near the bike mechanics. Something was different about it though. There were a dozen people praying there, as usual all facing Mecca, with one leader calling the verses from the Koran.  He glanced at his watch. Sure enough, it wasn't time for noon prayers yet. Why were they praying now? He turned around and watched the boy he'd just bought petrol from, cross the road and join them. He noticed the kiosks were mostly empty. Something was wrong. He'd been around long enough to trust his sixth sense. When something didn't seem right or normal, sometimes just the feeling of the place, it was time to go.