Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 6 (2)

On Christmas day they went to the Airport Inn to try to telephone overseas. Steve couldn't get through.

"Try later," Jerry said. "We'll go out past the beach to the Holiday Inn. Should be something going on there."

They drove over and paid up front for the buffet. Christmas dinner all laid out. They sat on white chairs by the pool.

"She's from London," Alex confided. "Parents were in South Africa. Her father was a doctor. She said it was O.K. if you're white. She's visiting her sister in Ibadan and can't get a flight out."

The girl smiled at them and got up to leave.

"Did you ask her over?"

"Yeah, she has to go somewhere." They watched her make her way past the tables.

"Let's go out on the patio," Jerry said.

They went out. There was a highlife band playing and whole families, wealthy well-dressed parents with their kids in pretty dresses all danced to the music.

"Lot of overnight millionaires," Jerry said. "From the oil. These people all live over on Lagos Island near the embassies. Tennis courts in the yards. They send the kids to Europe or the U.S. for schooling. Lots of money here."

Alex could see that. It was very pleasant. Tropical. He could see the bay. Christmas day. Thousands of miles from home.

It was getting dark now. There was a bar near the parking lot with people hanging around outside. They walked down the stairs toward the car. Alex felt the four guys eye them as they walked on toward the car. He was nervous. But they just sized them up. Jerry was over six feet. Steve was in good shape. Alex was the smallest. The Fulani knife he had tied under his pant leg didn't help. He found it hard to appear normal when he was scared shitless.

"We got to get back across town," Jerry said. "Sometimes they put roadblocks up. They dress like cops. Not safe at night."

It was a long drive back to Ikeja but Jerry drove fast. Already there were police patrols out, five or six men armed with machine guns in the back of Land Rovers, ready for heavy combat.

"We can try to phone at the Airport Inn again if you want. Have a few drinks there," he offered when they'd made it back to the relative safety of Ikeja.

"Sure," Steve said, "wish someone Merry Christmas anyway."

They both got through on the phones, Steve to his girlfriend and Alex to his mother. They felt better after that and proceeded to the bar.

"I come here a lot," Jerry said. "If any woman comes over, don't buy them a drink or let them sit down."

He took a table away from the bar. In the open-air, people danced in an area strung with coloured lights. Steve decided to drink triples. He was out to get drunk, celebrate Christmas being half-way around the world from his girlfriend.

A pair of ladies came over to the table. Jerry knew one of them. She called another friend for Steve. He was getting pissed. Alex was talking to a different one. She was from Cameroon, spoke French very well. She sat on the arm of his chair, so he bought her a couple of drinks. Her hand on Alex's leg, her tongue in his ear. "I want to lick you all over," she was saying. By this time, it sounded good to Alex as the drinks flowed.

Alex went to the bar again. A girl with Rastababy hair, very beautiful, was talking to him. He was on the dance floor. Getting drunk, telling her he loved her.

At the table, the others were still there.

"She's mad at me because I won't sleep with her," Jerry said. "She likes me. I've known her awhile. They want us to take them to The Shrine. We'll go."

"Wait --" Alex said. He went over to the bar again, asked the one who was smiling, the one he'd danced with, fallen in love with, to come. She spoke to someone and came back.

They were outside then and Alex heard someone swearing at him. The girl, the one from Cameroon who'd been at the table, was shaking her fist. "Tabernac!Why you waste my time?" she was saying. She grabbed him by the collar. A man stood behind her, then another. She was yelling. Alex was desperately trying to explain, then arguing back.

"Get in the car," Jerry said calmly. Steve and the others did. Alex was left there with the woman in his face, out for blood. The car started. "Come and get in." Jerry appeared beside him. "Look, here..." He handed her a bundle of bills. Alex ran around and jumped in and so did Jerry. She was still counting as he squealed out.

"Close one," he said. "Told you not to buy them drinks."

"Jesus, thanks for leaving me standing there."

"A lesson. Always carry a bundle of fifty K and naira notes in my pocket where I can get it out fast. It looks like a lot. And keep a twenty in your wallet beside your driver's license."

The three girls were crammed in -- Jerry's friend and her friend, and the one Alex'd met. They had a great laugh over watching Alex stuck there outside the car.

He parked on a dark street. "If you still got the knife, leave it here," Jerry said. Alex shoved it under the front seat.

They walked down an alley. That fear again. People watching, mingling outside. There was music, horns inside. Jerry slipped the doorman a twenty as he frisked them. They were in a big open-air arena-type place that must have sat two hundred people. Huge joints, big as cigars, were spread on a small table. This was Rastaland.  A white guy played on stage with the band.

Jerry got a table. The girls fed them smoke. The air hung with it. Women danced in cages. There were drinks, music.

"The wives. Twenty-one," Jerry said. "This is Fela Kuti's Shrine."

The horns came back. A huge banner over the stage read "Blackism -- A Force of the Mind." Where was this world? Jamaica. Down Under. South London. Fela came on. The horns blew on. Blacker than Detroit. The heart of Africa.