The taxi we hired from the bus station
rolled along the deserted road. Deserted except for the few bodies
ahead, shadowed behind bright flashlights, directing us to stop.
Police check. Common in this part of Nigeria, I'd heard.
“Why are you travelling so late at
night?”
It was 1 in the morning and we had just
arrived in Port Harcourt. We took the bus from Kaduna and had left
the bus terminal at 8 the morning before.
The police officer shone his light in
the back seat, stone-faced as he observed its contents. My husband and I sat squinting at the obtrusive brightness, separated by the backpack between us. I smiled wanly at the
officer, unable to muster the energy for anything more. On top of
the stress of a long journey, I was coming down with something. Hard
and fast. It started with my throat; dried out from Harmattan-- the
seasonal wind that takes the sky by two hands and wrings until the
last drops of moisture become dust. I had been coughing throughout
the bus trip with no relief. Not only was the bus packed with
people but also with luggage, carried for a price, to unseen recipients
along the route. This meant discomfort and infrequent rest stops.
Even when we inched forward in traffic like the body of a long metal
caterpillar, it was impossible to exit the bus through the mosaic of
bags blocking the door. Even when the driver; large hands flying in
exasperation--left his door hanging open to scold the offender who
had bumped our back fender, we were trapped inside a quickly heating
oven with no escape. The tickle in my throat had spread to my head,
nose, stomach, and finally my whole body began to ache.
The police officer returned his
unblinking light to the driver, apparently satisfied with what he'd
seen, and waved us on.
Five minutes past the police check,
honks and lights chased us to a stop. I held my breath as a white
pick up truck coasted by on the left, no more than a foot from our
taxi. It stopped directly in front and released four armed men
who walked towards us. Are these them? The people everyone is
afraid I will meet in Nigeria. Maybe they will kidnap me and hold me
for ransom. I looked to my husband for some information. He
looked straight ahead at the approaching lights for a moment, then
down at his feet. He pressed his toes against the floor, raising his
heels slightly and letting them bounce to a stop. His face gave me nothing. I felt a flicker in my
chest as my heart quickened, again.
Earlier, our bus driver had decided to
take a 'short-cut'.
“Don't you have some proverb about
short cuts?” I had asked my husband.
“What do you mean?” He said.
“You know. . .something like, short
cuts never end up being short cuts?” I laughed.
He thought for a minute. “I don't
think so.”
I reached for his hand as the
driver turned down a narrow road off the highway. The sun was nearly
set making the unlit route ahead invisible past the feeble beam of our
headlights. The fluctuating speed and sporadic
pressure on the brakes proved the driver was not familiar with the
'short cut' he decided to take. Long grass and trees reached out
from unseen origins with twisted arms. The skeletons of vehicles
that had taken sharp turns too quickly, emerged and retreated with
the touch of our headlights. We were alone on the road. The looming
space created a vacuum around the bus that captured imaginations, forcing them to
wander deep into the surrounding darkness. All of the news articles,
personal stories, travel advisories started running through my mind at increasing
speed. They suddenly carried a weight I hadn't noticed before.
Robbers? Kidnappers? How can we run? There's no way out of this
goddamn bus. No cars around to warn us of what's happening up ahead.
They might try to take me. What would I do? Is it better to
identify my husband or have an ally on the outside? They might kill
him. They might kill me. Or worse.
Floating lights appeared from an
incalculable distance, the glare on our cracked windshield obscured our
already limited visibility.
I inhaled deeply. The other passengers
in my periphery fixed their eyes on the blinding orbs ahead. No one
spoke over the dull rumble of the bus. The approaching car swerved
to the middle of the narrow lane almost directly in front of us. Our
bus screamed collectively as it lurched forward, slamming on the
brakes. The dust swirled before settling on the two bright
headlights blocking the road ahead. There was nowhere to go. My husband's hand slipped out of mine as it grew wet with a cold sweat.
Every hair on my body stood on end.
The headlights jerked up then turned
towards the left side of the bus rocking up and down. They neared then
disappeared behind us. The pavement had come off the patch of road
directly ahead and was only passable through a narrow swatch of
raised clay in the middle. If we had continued at our previous pace
without seeing the hazard, the bus may have flipped. I felt fingers
fumbling for mine as the light around us receded. A squeeze of
assurance before our bus continued down the deserted road. Darkness
flooded back in with my exhale.
The same fear flashed through my body
as four bobbing LED flashlights made their way towards our taxi. The
taxi driver instinctively rolled down his window. Two lights shone
brightly into the back seat as another, on the driver's side spoke
briefly and inaudibly to the driver. The driver opened the door and
stepped outside.
“What's going on?” I asked my husband.
“Nothing, don't worry. It's fine.”
Another bright light appeared in his
window. He too opened the door to step outside.
“Should I come with you?”
The door closed behind him in response.
“Ogara inyuanyu zoro azoro, one who
goes to take a shit steps in shit on the way.” My husband had
said, after we had survived the 'short cut' and the bus driver had
turned back onto the main route.
“What?”
“That's the proverb you were asking
about,” he laughed.
I
thought for a minute. “I
don't get it.”
Now, a light outside my window lowered
and I could see the light reflecting off of a middle aged man's skin. He motioned for me to open my window.
“Oyibo! How are you?” His smile was
welcoming. The intention in his voice erased my desire to separate
myself from his identifying label—white.
“I'm ok. Not feeling very well.”
“Sorry,” he said, in customary
sympathy for another's troubles. “Where are you coming from so late
this night?” He was wearing a black uniform with a faded 'police'
marked on it. Could it be a knockoff?
“We just arrived from Kaduna.”
“We?”
“My husband and I”.
“That's your husband?” He motioned
to a space in the darkness I couldn't see.
“Yes.”
“Where are you from?”
“I'm from Canada.”
“Canada? Wow. So, how are you
seeing Nigeria?”
“It's fine.”
“Yes. Nigeria is a good country. I
hope you're enjoying it here.”
My husband's door opened and he slid
back into his seat with a sigh. A moment later, the driver's door
opened and he too slid back into his seat.
“Take care, ok?” The officer said
and turned back to the pick up truck with the three other bobbing
shadows.
“Ndo. Sorry. It's like this in Port
Harcourt,” my husband said.
“Did you pay them?”
“No! For what?” He shrugged with
his palms facing up. “Do I owe them something?”
The driver put the key in the ignition
and turned. There was no response. He tried again. Nothing.
The driver said something in Igbo to my husband. The tail lights from the police pick up truck were already
too far to call back.
“Hold this and come outside.” He passed me the bag containing our money and passports.
“Outside?” Out the window long
grass creeped towards the boundary of dust that edged the strip of asphalt we drove on. The bush devoured remains of concrete block walls beyond.
“Are you sure? Is it safe?”
He and the driver opened their doors
and stepped outside, still conversing in Igbo. I sighed, then coughed, as I followed
them into the still night.
Besides the disappearing tail lights,
nothing stirred. The air had a faint scent of diesel and crickets
chirped a soundtrack from somewhere past the pavement.
After inspecting the car and briefly leaning over the opened
hood, the driver lowered it back over the failing engine and went
back in behind the wheel. My husband stood behind the car for a minute then
put both of his hands on the trunk. He started walking, slowly at
first and gradually, began jogging behind the car. Against my
protesting body, I walked beside the road, increasing my pace to keep
up with them.
The engine sputtered a few times before
finally coughing back into life. Half-life, at least. My husband stopped as the car rolled on by itself. It stopped a few meters up
the road to wait for us.
“You have to be careful of your movements around here.
Sometimes they take everything,” he said, rejoining me.
My brain was too tired to function. My
throat was killing me. My body wanted to collapse on the ground.
“What? I don't get it. What are you talking about?”
“The taxis. They pretend there's some
problem and when you get out to push they just drive away with
everything.”
I stopped mid stride and looked up. I
hadn't noticed how bright the stars were here. A long moment passed as I tried to wrap my tiny brain around the exact transposition of the sky I saw.
“Uwa
nka safe,” I said. What kind of world is this? It was one of the
Igbo phrases he had taught me so far.
His high pitched sigh pierced the
night.
“Uwa nka safe,” his laugh was a mix between a wheeze and a
giggle. He took my hand in his. “Uwa nka safe, my sister!”
We continued towards the taxi.
Laughter erased our fear and tumbled out, raising in harmony with the
crickets, lightening the thickness of night.
