Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 3 (3)

Alex and Jeannie ate the cheese and bread in their room, washed and chatted about what they'd bought at the market. In the afternoon they set out to watch the palace guards display their horsemanship. The desk clerk had told them to go today to see the guards exhibit their skills as it was a special ceremonial occasion.

When they found the palace they saw a grandiose mosaic-covered structure. The ancient Kingdom had amassed great wealth as intermediary between the savannah and forest states. The Kingdom had exchanged salt from the north for kola nuts, cowrie shells and gold in the south. With a firm control over the trade routes, the Kings had collected duty on goods passing through and extracted tolls from any who used the routes.

"Look at the colours!" Jeannie exclaimed. The parade ground in front of the palace was encircled by horsemen all decked out in medieval splendour. It was an impressive sight. The horsemen had red and green tunics, wide pants and richly ornamented riding boots. They had helmets encircled with the famous cowrie shells, a former West African currency, and carried huge Arabian-like unsheathed swords. The horses were covered with quilted colourful pads like comforters, the dyed red leather saddles intricately decorated with bronze and leather designs of the best artisan craftsmanship. "It's like something out of The Lost City of Gold."

"Savannah Kingdoms sure must have been something in their day," Alex remarked. "I read where they had a university in Timbuktu where students from all over the Arabian world came to study," observing the parade of horses going through a routine like a Royal Arabian Horse Show. 

"Better than the Musical Ride," Jeannie laughed. 

The well-trained horses danced and pranced to the sound of music and drums, walking on their hind legs in as beautiful a horse pageant as they'd ever seen in their lives. The bright lively colours were heightened in sharp contrast to the reddish mud and clay covered houses of the old town. It was a dramatic and colourful spectacle.

 

Later in the afternoon, they took a taxi to the store where Jeannie put an order for some supplies, told them if they delivered it all to the Teacher's College, they'd get paid. They trusted this Bature and promised it would arrive.

 That the business was completed freed them to eat dinner in a restaurant, a Chinese one near the Airline Offices. It was expensive but worth it and Jeannie was hoping to get reimbursed by Mrs. Dibal, anyway. It was nearly nine o'clock when they walked the side streets back toward the hotel. 

 

Suddenly, tires screeched and a van bounced on its springs when the brakes were slammed on, as it wheeled in front of them. Doors flew open and three men jumped out brandishing machetes and a club. Alex's heart jumped and he stepped in front of Jeannie. It happened so fast he didn't have time to gulp or react. He just stood there facing the three men as he put his right arm in front of Jeannie to stop her, a semblance of protection.

"Bakome. There's no problem," Alex said, smiling at them with his best calm-sort authority tone to keep things at ease. He reacted reflexively to keep things under control. He took off his wrist watch and tossed it to one, who caught and looked at it. Then he reached into his front pocket for the wad of money, mostly one and franc notes to make it look like there was a lot. He had put a five naira note on the front and the back.

"It's O.K.," he said as he reached in his other pocket for his wallet, "we didn't see a thing." He tossed one his wallet and then reached for Jeannie's bag and she handed it over. The camera was in there with some more money. She, of course, had her passport and some extra cash in a leather case around her neck, and his Traveller's Cheques were in a nylon passport pouch stuck down in his pants. He took Jeannie's arm and took her watch off and handed it over quickly.

Only three or four minutes had passed and their adrenalin was still pumping. Alex knew if robbers get caught they know they'll be lynched or clubbed to death by a mob, stoned or set on fire or shot by the police on sight. Alex also knew the robbers knew this and were liable to just hack them with a machete if they thought they could identify them. He suspected they didn't want to be lynched or have a tire thrown over them and doused with petrol and burned on the spot. 

That's what Alex was afraid of. "That's all," he said, smiling warmly to make light of the situation with them. "You'd better go before someone comes."  One man was counting the money in his hand.

"Don't tell me what I do Oyo," came the response. The look on his face was wild, like a hunter who calculatingly extinguishes life with one clean rifle shot. Now Alex was really  worried. Here it comes, he thought. These robbers aren't in any hurry to jump back in the van and tear out. They were brazen, with no fear of getting caught, even though the van was still running.

"What else. Bring it," the stern rough voice commanded. Alex knew it meant trouble, otherwise they would have split right then. They wanted trouble. Jeannie now stood sort of in back, to the side of him. He took her only ring off.

"That's all there is," he said, opening his arms out open-palmed in an innocent movement.

"Don't lie to me," the same one warned.

"Finished," he said. "Go," figuring some power of his expatriate status might trigger an obeyal. It didn't.

"Don't come down here telling us what to do," the man said angrily, still pulling things from the bag.

The one with the club who'd been standing back, muttered something and pushed and prodded him with the stick. Alex stepped back reflexively and he pushed Jeannie back to shield her. He knew they'd smelled blood. One was still counting the money and other looking through the bag. 

But the men jumped back in, slammed the door shut, and snapped the van into gear, squealed out of there and slammed it into second as they wheeled round the corner. It had happened so fast Alex was still not grasping what had taken place. A second later a taxi idled beside them, whose approach must have been what scared them off.

"Ibrahim Road, Independence Hotel," Alex gasped at the driver and the taxi sped away.

The taxi pulled up in front of the door of the hotel. On the side of the street the bush lamps hung from tables that were similarly stacked with sugar and sardines and the kiosks still open by the families who lived in the back. People were fetching water from the tap on the corner. Outside the hotel, metal chairs were set out and a group of people sat around taking in the cooler night air and the community life in the street.

Alex shoved the driver a five naira note Jeannie slipped to him and they got out. The desk clerk was leaning in the doorway, surveying the street scene. He smiled when he saw them.

"Welcome," he said again.