equipment, Honda DC generator, solar power rigs, accessories amp; spares. Most bought w/ Doe Foundation funds, so I have been elected to sort it out. Ola slippery as a smelt, things are complex, video equipment, the authorities don’t know what you will do with it, it is political … short version: they claim we want to make porno films. Oh, yes, this is a big problem, Europeans come here amp; buy girls amp; little boys amp; make terrible movies. Lie so outrageous, I’m not sure he even believed it himself. Who wants the bribe? A Colonel Alouf Musa, who controls air shipping in amp; out, hence a smuggler amp; an extortionist. Been bribed already according to O., still refuses to part with our stuff.
Organized expedition to yell at Musa, Ola objecting. The Colonel was a busy man. The Colonel was not a small person, you understand, in the government, he had many friends, truly, Jane, seriously, this is not done, this is not at all done. All the way to the car. W. came, too, and we set out for the airport. W. amp; Ola are best buddies now. Ola somehow got hold of one of W.’s poetry collections, and quotes him from time to time, always the way to my man’s heart. It’s great that he has a pal, because I think he is more disoriented by Africa than he lets on. I don’t think it was what he expected. I tried to talk to him about it the other night, when he was silent during dinner, and morose afterwards, which is not like him at all. In NY, he was always the life of the party. But he wouldn’t cop to anything being wrong.
State House on Lagos Island, past the gunned-up scary teenagers in green uniforms. Ola nervous, talking rapidly, he had been here before, and got the runaround, I didn’t listen to him, stupid probably, and simply barged into Colonel Musa’s office. Air-conditioned, expensive furniture, raffia on the walls. I demanded to see the Colonel. The Colonel was fat amp; covered with medals, probably for rape above amp; beyond call of duty, valorous murder of helpless civilians. He was leaning back in a big leather chair, cleaning his nails with an ivory letter-opener, the complete image of not-busy. W. should put this character into a book. He said our equipment impounded subject to judicial hearing. Bullshit about making pornography?video cameras, computers?the regime was suppressing this vice.
Didn’t bother to object to this absurdity, demanded to see stuff in warehouse. He refused. Light dawned, wasn’t bigger bribe he wanted, bastard had ripped off the shipment, probably sold it already. I accused him of this, got yelled at, shook his fist, said I’d insulted honor of Nigerian Army, serious crime, threat of prison. I said, just try, bub. He started screaming in a language I didn’t understand, prob. Hausa? then four soldiers came in amp; dragged us out amp; tossed us onto the street. Bruises, amp; Ola’s nice suit ripped knees amp; lapels. W. weird, almost jolly about it, said you sure showed him! Lawsie me, Miss Ann, she threwed a tantrum amp; de darky didn’t do what she said. Whatever is de world coming to? Kicked him in the ankle, went back to the car, drove in silence until I saw that we were passing the main post office, stopped car, went in, called Dad.
Explained rip-off?he got upset too. Doe family gives it away but can’t stand getting robbed, which made me feel that I wasn’t crazy, or not crazy about this issue, amp; he said he’d call Hank amp; Uncle Bill amp; they’d take care of it. Famous Doe Family Emergency Red Handle, not for me personally, but principle of the thing.
Back at the truck, W. asked did I call Daddy and I said, as a matter of fact, I did. Got some more mockery. Why is he doing this?
Then back to Yaba amp; I went up to our room to collapse amp; Ola Soronmu amp; W. went off to get a drink. When he came back, I was pretty chilly to him, he was drunk, trying charm, like with Mom at Sionnet. Mom likes being with charming drunks, me amp; Dad being no fun. Mom not here in Lagos however amp; I resented it amp; the more he charmed the more I resented it. He tried to be masterful amp; sexy, said a good fuck would clear the air. Lost it then, screaming how dare he trot out that Miss Ann horseshit amp; how dare he imply it was racist to get our stuff back from a corrupt thief, representative of a regime that had murdered amp; tormented more black people than KKK, plus Musa stealing from locals since we were donating that stuff to poor starving University of Lagos.
He came back with I didn’t understand, how I couldn’t comprehend this country because I was locked up in white skin, I had embarrassed Ola with pushy neocolonial ways, how dare I impose discredited Eurocentric concepts on black men! Exactly the kind of speech W. would have put into mouth of some dashiki-wearing associate professor of black studies as parody.
Threw things then, water jug, washbasin, bedside lamp, alarm clock, a copy of The Yoruba of Southwestern Nigeria, by W. R. Bascom, yelling who the fuck are you amp; what have you done with my husband? Haven’t thrown things before, so missed with most, except clock, which broke.
Flung myself onto the bed and burst into tears, exactly like Scarlett fucking O’Hara-type person he was making me into.
Greer came by amp; I let him come in. Told him the whole wretched story and he declined to give me any daddyish wise advice only asked, do you think we’ll get our stuff back? amp; I told him that my dad was calling my uncle Bill, who was the VP of the World Bank amp; Hank Schorr his old sailing buddy, who was CFO of Exxon amp; they would probably make some calls about it. I said if we did not get it all back then neocolonialism was total bullshit amp; we could joint-author a paper on it. Laughed. Then he said I’ve seen this before, a black man, American, comes to Africa, all pumped up, he’s coming home, man, precious lost Guinee. Then he finds out there’s no light in the window for him. The people here see him amp; they don’t see the black skin that’s always defined him his whole life. They see an American, with more money than they’ll ever have in their wildest dreams, just like the other Americans. But I’m black, the guy says, amp; they just look at him. Then it hits him: there ain’t no black people in Africa. We got the Yoruba, Hausa, Ibo, Fulani, Ga, Fon, Mandinka, Dogon amp; Tofinu amp; a couple hundred others, but no black folks except maybe where there are white tribes like in S. Africa. So, hey, you want to look for roots? God bless, but don’t expect to be recognized. Guinee’s dead amp; gone amp; negritude ain’t going to help you. America is your nation, heaven your destination, and tough shit. And he looked puzzled, said, It’s funny, seen his plays, read his stuff, I thought if anybody would be hip to that, it would’ve been him.
He’s still invisible, I said. He thought I would be invisible here, but I’m not.
He said, I’ll go talk to him, I said thank you, he said, I honor the suffering, the history, the culture, the guts it took to survive and get over. I’m in awe. Then he pinched the skin on his arm, but this color? It’s horseshit. He pushed a strand of my hair back behind my ear. He said, You know, they used to sell girls with hair like this to guys like me in the slave markets of Algiers.
Those were the days, I said, amp; we both laughed.
9/14 Lagos
This a.m. big army truck pulled up to our hotel amp; soldiers unloaded all our equipment. Some of it was uncrated amp; had obviously been used. One of the laptops had a cracked screen amp; 100 megabytes of hard-core porn on its disk.
Saw W. watching from inside along with Ola. I asked him if he wasn’t going to help drag the stuff in off the street, but he gave me a strange look amp; turned away. He can’t be disappointed that we got the stuff back?
NINE
Doris, that’s all I’m telling you, because that’s all we know right now,” lied Jimmy Paz. “You have enough for a great story, you’ll win another prize. No, I don’t know whether this is the work of a crazed serial killer. Okay, crazed, I’ll give you crazed, serial we don’t know yet. Right, go ahead and print that: police wait for him to strike again. Helplessly wait, that’s better.”
Paz held the receiver a few inches from his ear and Cesar the prep cook grinned at him around a lot of gold. Paz was in the kitchen of his mother’s restaurant and on the phone, as he had promised, with Doris Taylor the crime reporter. It was six-thirty, a relatively peaceful time in the kitchen, for only the tourists ate that early. Satan might be loose in Dade County, but people still had to eat, and perforce others had to cook for them. Paz, who did not believe in Satan, had left Barlow as soon as he could manage and come here.
“I understand that,” he said calmly, “believe me, but … where did you hear that? Hey, if you hear stuff, you’re supposed to inform the police. No, we have no evidence that it was a cult killing. No, of course it wasn’t a domestic. Why don’t you call it a presumed deranged individual? No, you can’t quote me on that, I’m not supposed to be talking to you at all. I got to go now, Doris. Fine. Right, just keep my name out of the papers. I love you, too, Doris. Bye.”
Paz hung up and turned to face his mother, whose eye he had felt upon him for the last minute or so of this
