Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 13 (1)

The end of January Alex thought it safe to go down to Maiduguri. There were still the three roadblocks, but this time manned by soldiers, not policemen. The soldiers didn't fool around, or joke. In the motorpark in Gashua he stopped to get a Coke at a kiosk.

"I've been working in Customs, got a television so I come up here to get a receipt for it," a young man waiting there confided. It was all crazy now. They never gave receipts in the market. The Customs boys were all scrambling for them, to cover any illicit payoffs. These were extreme changes. Alhajis, anyone with money, kept a very low profile. The military'd seized the houses of government officials, even arrested several Central Bank personnel in Maiduguri.

Alex went first to the Ministry of Education. Soldiers manned the entrance and exit of the parking lot.

"Bature, why are you here?" The soldier was authoritarian, gruff.

"I'm a teacher... I have to do my paperwork," Alex replied, and was waved through. No one was exempt any more. Expatriate accountants -- anyone who handled money, import licenses, or could launder, get all those millions of naira of the businessmen and state governors and other officials -- had even been detained.

Alex was quick with his business. The atmosphere was tense in the Ministry. People were paranoid enough that they were not sleeping with their heads on the desks. His papers were in order, even his gratuity from his first tour, owed for eighteen months now, had gone to the bank on January 4th, right after the coup. There were advantages to the military being in power. It made people jump a bit. Things will run smooth, for awhile anyway, he thought.

Alex drove past the photocopy kiosks and turned onto Ibo Road. He needed brake pads put on the car. The Volkswagen that he'd bought off Norm and Debbie when they'd left was getting beat up and needed constant maintenance now. He had to hang around while they put the brake shoes on. Norm had told him when they'd first come, they'd gone to Ibo Road when the car had trouble starting. The mechanic had said he'd have to replace their starter and had charged them over two hundred naira, gave them what he said was their old one. Norm had slammed it on the coffee table and complained about how expensive it was when their fellow teacher Yusuf dropped by.

"That starter won't even fit a Volks," Yusuf had said. "That's for a Datsun -- used part. Be careful on Ibo Road my friend -- they're thieves. It was probably only a loose wire, or the brushes."

When the mechanics finished,  Alex locked the car and walked over to the bank. A smart looking soldier with bright-red spats stood by the end of the counter. The bank wasn't crowded. There were no Alhajis depositing briefcase loads of naira. Big men were now arrested or in hiding. Things were a lot tighter. There were extra forms to fill out and he had to show his passport, a new addition. Alex filled out all the forms but then they stated he now had to go the immigration office, get a letter stating he was a foreigner, working in the country. It was a new procedure so he left the papers with them.

He drove over to the Teacher's College. At the round-a-bout, Alex noticed they'd removed the makeshift kiosks, put some people out of business. The soldiers were trying to clean all these things up. It will be quiet in the staff area, he thought, thinking there were several places he could stay there. He wasn't about to drive way over to the University unless he had to. He had more connections now. Sylvia, a middle-aged woman from Burlington, had come over on a leave of absence, to teach for a year. She had a big house to herself and was dedicated, seldom went anywhere, except to the market.

Then there was the Guyanese couple -- their children were grown up and gone to school in the States. They had left their country fifteen years before and weren't going back. They would always be there. Or he could try the Odis. He was an engineer from the south and she'd been a nurse who'd come out from England twenty years before and married him there. They had three children. Helen Odi taught at the TC now and they were both very helpful and nice. But Edwin Odi was a Nigerian and was with the Ministry of Works and could have been susceptible to the clampdown for some reason. Alex thought it best to try Sylvia's house first. It was still only mid-afternoon, but classes always ended on Fridays in the mornings for mosque.

Sylvia's car was parked beside the house. He could see the curtains waving from the overhead fans. He knocked and she came to the door, unlocked it, and let him in. Alex sat down at the living room table while she poured him a glass of cold water. There were neatly stacked piles of resource books on English usage, teaching Mathematics, others titled Current Teaching Methods and Development of a Language Curriculum, even one on Learning Centres for the Primary Classroom. She must have brought a whole private  library with her. Impractical books filled with methods and ideas that wouldn't work here. He thought Sylvia well-meaning but incredibly naive. She had been marking papers just as she always was every time he'd dropped by. She had carved out an isolated existence here, oblivious to the chaos outside, an insulated world.

"How are things going at your school?" Alex asked.

"Fine. I'm really starting to get a sense of accomplishment now, but it took a whole term. The students are going out on their practicums next week. I expect them to do well."

Sylvia always amazed him. She actually enjoyed teaching! He guessed it was quite a change from the system she was used to in Burlington. There, she'd be only part of a machine. She seemed to like the immediate rewards of helping them. He just tried to get through it. He didn't care much any more. It was all a waste of effort. He had given up, been burnt out long ago.

"Are you going to stay over?" she asked.

"I've still got work to do. They've got a new set of stamps you need to make a remittance. I've got to go out to immigration, get a letter and take it back to the bank before they'll process my bank draft."

"I'll make up the end room for you then." Sylvia got up and he watched her walk briskly back down the hallway with an armload of folded sheets and pillow cases. She was organized. He never spent much time at Sylvia's house when he stayed there. He liked to fend for himself. Her efficiency  made him slightly uncomfortable but she always put ironed clean sheets on the bed and gave him a towel and it beat getting stuck and paying sixty naira at the hotel. She even gave him a key to the back door. She slept early and he could come back when he pleased. There were four Canadians in the north and she did her duty as a host, loyal to the flag.

When Sylvia came back, he got up. "I should get going then, get my stuff straightened out. Do you need anything at the market?"

"I did all my shopping at Leventis yesterday, stocked up on a few things. Thank you anyway, Alex."

"I'll be back later then. Thanks, Sylvia." He left her to her marking which she promptly resumed as he was going out of the door.

He drove out Katsina Road toward the Immigration and Customs Offices. Prayer time was over. They should be back to work now. Out near the offices, three one-ton trucks drove by crammed with bodies. He had heard they were Chadian refugees from the camp providing cheap labour for the Alhajis. A naira a day they said. Humanitarianism knew no mercy here. Business was business.