Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 11 (2)

 

Later in the evening, he walked around the staff house area, could hear the Highlife, Sunny Ade and Sunny Odesoken on the cassette decks. Once, they'd called him in for beer, but tonight it was quiet on the compound. The students stayed clear of the staff area, having snuck in the shadows through the back fence to the town or across the field to the railway to buy food or something.

The girls were not allowed out of the hostels, but somehow they managed to get out anyway. Alex had heard, once, sometimes, even find their way to the Youth Corper's houses. At the end of the last term, Yemi, a Corper from Bendel State had been kicked out for getting one of the Senior girls pregnant. "He's teaching, but not here," the principal had said. Yemi disappeared. No one knew if Yemi'd been able to finish his Service elsewhere and consequently get his degree, but it was doubtful. The Form 5 student had been expelled immediately and the story had it her father and his relations in a nearby village had combed the North looking to kill Yemi. Now, all the Youth Corpers kept clear of that village. They did not want a case of mistaken identity, to be attacked on the basis of guilt by association.  NYSC, all mostly from the South, weren't that well-respected anywhere anyway.

Friday nights, Alex might go to the cinema with Jeannie, perhaps also the Sri Lankan teacher at the WTC, or they'd drop by the Filipinos', who gathered to play mahjongg all night. They were all killing time, saving their foreign currency remittances to go on tour, re-route their home leave tickets through the US  where they all had relatives, or the final goal of moving to the States eventually. The Filipinos were a patient people, making far more money than they could back home. All got car loans and the newcomers would pile into someone else's Volkswagen on the weekends and chatter down the highway to visit friends in other towns. The Indians and Pakistanis, on the other hand, complained all the time. They took everything they could get, and still tried for more, used to wrangling, hustling for survival. They spent the evenings out for walks with their families, circling the school several times. They really seemed to appreciate the walks, the peaceful night air.

Alex got in the habit of going to the Post Office after the mail everyday. Musa, one of the students who'd graduated the last year, now worked there and knew how important his mail was and took special care with it. The closest telephone to call overseas was in Kano, three hundred dusty miserable miles by the night train, further by road, and it was very expensive. Magazines were to be got on any corner in the cities. The mail was a life-time to combat isolation, a link with the outside world.

Alex drove the motorcycle into town in the afternoon as usual, to check for mail after it was all sorted and pick up some cooking oil at a kiosk. It was 4 o'clock now, the heat subsided and the Post Office re-opened. Besides by October it was not so hot. Harmattan was coming. He parked in the shade of the colonial building and went in. He leaned against the old disconnected telephone booth and waited for Musa, who was sorting mail in the other room. There were times he had a sense of fulfilment here that these people needed him. His fingers rubbed the edge of the 1923 coin which had been nailed to the dark hardwood counter years ago.

"Sannu Musa," he smiled when the boy appeared.

"Ah, Master Alex. Ina aiki? How goes it."

"Bakome. No problem. Is there mail?"

"One letter, from England."

"Thanks, Musa."

He went out and stood in the enclave outside, in the shade against the wall, and opened the letter. "There wasn't a return address outside but there were U.K. stamps. Inside Elizabeth had put her return address at the top. He had never seen her handwriting before. It flowed, was kind of fancy, artistic.

"Dear Alex," it went. "You probably have forgotten all about me. Since I have not heard from you I thought I should inform you that you are not so free as you believe. I have missed my period now by two months ..."

Elizabeth went on saying that she did not expect anything of him,  nor did she want anything. She would keep the baby and though a father for the child would be nice, she needed none and just thought he might be interested in knowing he had succeeded in bringing a life into the world.

Alex was shocked. He hadn't thought it would come to this. How did he even know it was his child? He'd only seen her in the summer. He was 28 years old, but probably slept with a hundred different women, and none had gotten pregnant. He was probably sterile anyway from the malaria pills and urinary infections he'd had. What was she trying to do, make him feel guilty and get a husband, a father for her child?

He re-read the last line. "I do not want anything from you, you should realize, I just thought, since it was your responsibility and doing too, that you should know."

He did not want to know.  He was here on a two-year contract and was going home. It was not part of his plan.

He folded the letter and put it in his back pocket and got on the motorcycle. After all, he was down in Africa. He would not even answer it -- she wouldn't know where he was, even if he was alive now. He swung onto the highway toward Gashua and opened up the throttle of the Honda so the speedometer needle passed a hundred kilometres an hour, the hot desert wind in the ears drowning  out the world.

Into November, school went on as usual. He did the morning classes, marked papers and finished by 2 pm. Afternoons and evenings were free then and he had all day Sunday. He now planted a banana tree in the back compound and some beans and watermelon watered then twice a day and watched them grow. This sand was just so fertile, anything could grow year -- round, if only given precious water. But he didn't get into the city and the routine left lots of time to think.

By the end of November a month and a half had passed since Elizabeth's letter but he couldn't get it out of his mind, couldn't escape. He wrote her once and said he might possibly get out to England for the Christmas break and that he might call her there. He meant to, but the letter sat on the table for a week until he threw it away.

When the holiday came, he caught a Peugeot taxi to Kano and bought an excursion ticket at the British Airways office. The next day he was on the 747 to London and wondering what he was doing. Anyway, he was on vacation and caught the tube downtown, near King's Garden and paid for a room in a lodging house for 2 weeks. He would not travel around, just stay in London, rest and eat good food and relax.

The third day, when he'd gotten over from jet-lag, cleaned up and collected his thoughts, he caught the tube out to Hampstead early in the morning and got a bus to where Elizabeth's flat had been. Her parents lived two blocks away. She would be at one of these places, he figured. At her building he went up the steps, read the names over the buzzers. No. 6 had been changed. A B. Cummings lived there now. It could be her live-in boyfriend. He went to the flat anyway. He hadn't used telephones in a year and a half and hadn't thought of phoning ahead. He pressed the buzzer on No. 6. An elderly woman opened the door a couple of inches till the chain stopped it. "Elizabeth ..." he stammered.

"There is no Elizabeth here." The door slammed shut. He had been able to see in. Plastic flowers sat in a vase on a cheap arborite kitchen table. She wouldn't have allowed it. Elizabeth was clearly not staying there. She had moved. It was the speed of life now. No one stayed anywhere long any more. He walked the two blocks to where her parents had lived, wondering if they had moved on also. In four months London had changed. Things were not where they were supposed to be, not where he'd known them.

It started to snow, cold and wet. It mostly rained in London, even in December. It was a bad omen. Over on Barrington Close, houses were detached single family dwellings. He found the house with the cedar trees each side of the stone steps and opened the small iron gate. Up the short walkway he stood hesitantly and banged the knocker. The sound reverberated loudly up the silent street.

The door opened and a woman stood there. Her hair was short, cropped around her head. A blue bathrobe covered a nightgown, her stomach bulged slightly. He stared at her.

More than a minute passed. "Elizabeth?" he finally uttered.

The woman looked half-asleep, tired. "Yes, what do you want?"

"It's me Alex, from Africa."

She remembered him then. Somewhere in her subconscious she knew him, recognized him.

"Oh, I'm not concentrating. What are you doing here? Do come in for a minute."

Her voice showed no hatred, no real surprise. It was polite, matter-of-fact. So unemotional, so British.

"Please excuse me. I've slept late."

"I expected  your parents at the door. I hardly recognized you with your hair cut."

"Oh, I cut it," she sounded apologetic. "My parents have gone to Crete for the holidays. It's cold. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please. If it's not too much trouble." She was so proper. British upbringing showed again. They were both nervous. In times of crisis, they drank tea. It kept things in order.

They got through it. He was still teaching, out on holiday. She had given up her apartment, moved in with her parents. She had finished her Ph.D. thesis but wouldn't defend it until the next term -- "after our baby is born," she said. It had come out that way. She had been going to the doctor and was five months now. The conversation kept coming back to "the baby." She was not embarrassed. Alex watched her fix the tea for him, set his cup out ever so nicely, asking him if he was alright. Here she was, having a child, upsetting her whole life and concerned whether she had put too much white in his tea.

He remembered her as he had known her in Africa, how competent she was, how independent. He lied about the letter -- said he'd mailed it. She didn't question it, accepted it, knowing how the mails were. He felt good, as though it was normal and he was supposed to be there. She was still a beautiful woman and something was passing between them, connecting them.

The next afternoon he came out and accompanied her when she went to the doctor. The physician asked if he was the father and asked him to feel the baby there in her stomach. After that he felt different, responsible, as though things were natural, completely as they should be. She took him to the Hampstead Theatre over on Swiss Cottage Centre to see a play she had been dying to see and to a restaurant where she ordered tea and he a Daquari.

By the time they got back to the house it was quite late. She asked if he wanted to stay and made him a hot chocolate. He was not used to being waited on, to someone caring about him. He slept with her in a big four-poster bed under a comforter, so clean with its fluffed pillows and flannel sheets.

It was the last joining. They were, both of them, smiling, contented, happy to be there together. She had no defenses, was vulnerable to this; Alex finally accepted what was happening.

He stayed with her in the house the full two weeks and on the next to last day they went to a Justice of the Peace and in a brief ceremony, got a marriage certificate.  It had seemed the only thing left to do, to complete this union; a natural consequence.

He flew back to Africa to finish his teaching contract, to file papers so he could work in England, to save money now. There was, now, a responsibility, meaning in his life, a reason for tolerating the inconveniences, for being there at all.