Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 4 (2)

On the way to the Club, at the corner of two tree-lined streets, they stopped. A taxi had smashed into a tree, was dented in at the front. Beside it was a motorcycle and laying on the ground, a man was sprawled. Norm and he got out and Alex stood as if in shock, not knowing what to do. The street was quiet, the houses all set far back in off the road fenced-in compounds. There were no phones, no way to call an ambulance.

"The police," he muttered.

"They probably wouldn't come even if you told them." Norm looked at the taxi. A man's head had been bloodied, the wind shield cracked. "Still alive, poor bastard."

"This guy's alive!" Alex shouted. The man moaned, then looked up. He had probably been knocked out unconscious. Alex helped him up. He seemed to be O.K. except for a cut on his leg.

"Bakome, na gode, Bature." The man looked around, seemed terrified, saw the smashed taxi and picked up his machine and tried to start it.

"Hey, wait, you can't go," Alex said. "We'll report this, get the police."

"Let him go," Norm spoke. "Let's get out of here quick. Don't get involved in it."

"What about the taxi driver? He's still alive."

"There's nothing we can do here. He'd be dead by the time we got him to a hospital or he'd die there.  Do you want to account for a body?"

"We've got to help him," Alex was anxious.

"They won't come for him. He took a chance. No taxis are allowed in the GRA. The police won't take him in the hospital. We certainly can't. Come on. It's over.  Let's get out of here."

Norm walked back to the car and got in. Debbie hadn't moved from the back seat. Alex still stood there, shaking his head.

"Get in. Hurry up," Norm yelled. Alex finally turned and got back in the car. Norm squealed out of there.  He seemed pissed off about the whole thing. "Forget about it. It's life here. I knew we should have gone the other way." He sped through the GRA. Now, Alex wished they hadn't even come upon the accident either.

Norm wheeled into a parking spot at the GRA, signed him in and they walked to the patio.

"Akwai Star. Kawo biu," Norm snapped, "and make it quick."

Alex was still shook up. Star never tasted so good and he savoured it as it quenched his dry throat. 

"From Niger. We have a collection of Art, from all over the world." The hulking German fellow, Wolfgang, had hauled a necklace of semi-precious stones out of his pocket. "I'm with a Belgium-based pharmaceutical company. Been all over the world. I met my wife in Hong Kong, from a very wealthy family in the Philippines," he chuckled. "We have a son. This year I figured it was time to settle and bought a house in Munich. Just locked the doors and left again."

Alex was still nerved up. He had been losing weight. He had to get a grip on his metabolism, learn to roll with things. The Richards, Ian and Beth, joined them. He had met them before. They were British -- both taught at the University for over ten years.

"When we lived in Jos, we got some collectibles from the old tin mines, real Benin artifacts the museum would like to get their hands on. A former Czechoslovakian architect has an office there. He's trying to put out a book but the government isn't going to let him do it. Political repercussions -- one tribe more advanced. His life's work. The fellow had a daughter in Art History and he was threatening to have her smuggle it out and publish it in Europe. We haven't a clue now whatever happened to the project."

By the third beer, Alex was loosening up, forgetting about the accident, not worrying that someone had seen them take off, copied the plate number and were blaming it on them. He was just now beginning to understand these people, learning to accept things the way they were. It was good to be with people who had experience, who didn't bat an eyelash now and were not shell-shocked, who took it all in stride. Even laughed. He knew the joking about frustrations, the stupidity and chaos, was a defense, insulation from it, a survival mechanism. But it seemed to work. If they handled it, he could also.

"I got caught out in Wulari a few weeks ago buying a tin of hooch," Norm was sating. "Scared the shit out of me when two IS guys jumped out and nabbed me. Took me down to the prison and interrogated me until I let it slip the Commander of the police was a good buddy of mine, that I had been at his house the night before. Lucky I didn't get Sharia Court. He set it up with the judge, cost me a hundred naira for it... Have you seen that prison out on Ibrahim Road? Medieval it was, high mud-brick wall and razor wire. Full of crazy men -- half of them should be in mental hospitals instead of prison but there isn't one. No thieves, just those who are arrested, lucky enough not to be stoned on the spot." 

"Oh they don't arrest people," Ian laughed. "Too much responsibility, too much paperwork. Unless they need cash, that is... We better get into the movie."

 

They paid at the break in the fence, sat on metal chairs on the sand, and waited for the boy to set up the reel. Behind the hedge, there were none of the strings of coloured lights. It was a clear night, an expanse of stars, and the mosquitos weren't bad. Action Jackson was the chosen film, scratched in places, but it was better than nothing. It was an escape.

Afterwards, the group sat on picnic tables while Wolfgang and Norm played ping-pong. Both competitive, they were out for blood trying to beat one another, but it was fairly  even match. A Dane, a big fellow working with a company getting contracts, joined them and put his huge black-haired arm around Ian. "Have to protect my British friend," he laughed. "Our double decker buses -- we haven't forgotten how our English friends came in the war."

"Yeah, we gave you back your king, showed you how parliament works."

"Wrong. We have the oldest parliament," the Dane said. "See the houses on the cliffs in Norway, all wood and ugly colours?"

"Vikings...I say, why isn't your hair blonde?"

"I'm from the Pharaoh Islands, north of England. Portuguese pirates went there too."

"Where are the Portuguese now? Used to be all over Africa."

"Portugal,"  Alex laughed. "And Toronto."

"Just some blood left here and there," Ian said. "They made the mistake of marrying or raping the women on their pillaging and conquests. They were conquered that way. Will always do you in."

 

"You Brits made a mistake, left the back door open here," the Dane laughed. "To Mecca. Big enough to drive a car through."

They were all having a good time now. Alex was on his fourth quart. That was a lot in the heat. He knew he'd be dehydrated, have a headache in the morning, be totally useless. But he didn't care any more. He needed a good drunk to unwind.

Alex was sitting next to Debbie. She had shorts on and their thighs were squeezed together at the picnic table. Norm was intent on beating Wolfgang, best out of twenty or something. Once, Debbie's hand fell and brushed over his crotch. Had she done it on purpose? He'd been surprised the way she'd looked at him once in the pool, when he'd climbed up the ladder in front of her. Now, he could almost see the edge of her nipples down her blouse when she leaned over him to reach for a beer. Jesus, he wanted to make love to her something wicked, cup her small but perfectly rounded breasts in his hands, kiss her thighs, escape from it all. Norm had been ignoring her completely. Maybe they were having problems? Debbie excited him. And not just because she was the only one around with a fluff of pubic hair. He would appreciate her, could probably love her, would spend days in bed with her. He thought about it until he remembered wife stealing was a crime here. But there were vultures around. He would be one to pick up the remains, savour having a woman in this madness.

By the time they left Alex was pretty drunk. Five Star in quart bottles had gone down too easy. He crawled in the back seat. Norm is O.K. to drive, he thought. He'd had a few beer too, but he was overweight and could handle them. Debbie had a bit of a buzz on too and they sang songs as Norm wound through the GRA until Alex passed out. Debbie shook him when the car was back in the garage in Wulari. He crawled out, said "Sannu m'guardie," on passing, staggered into the house into one of the rooms at the end of an endless corridor, and crashed flat out onto the white sheets which rose up before him.