Dear Beneficiary (35 page)

‘Don't look much like a school to me,' said Tracey. ‘But what do I know? I hardly never went to one anyway.'

‘Oh, it will be. Yous see. Now we haf da funds we will grow and grow,' she said, adding to me: ‘We're hoping you'll come over to open da school and maybe yous can stay and set up our programmes for young, feisty women?'

The idea of working with Buke was certainly an attractive one. The thought of telling Mavis and the Magistrates' Association I was a consultant to the Nigerian education authorities gave me a thrill.

‘That would be marvellous, but I'm not sure I'm qualified,' I replied.

‘Nonsense, Cynthia!' said Buke, as she threw her head back in laughter. ‘Yous are da first women kidnapped and dis is where yous were 'eld. So wat is more fitting dan yous coming into a school dat turns girls into strong, independent people? You are da inspiration.'

I thought about it for a few seconds more and came to the conclusion I'd love to come back to the school. There's only so much satisfaction you can get from regularly producing edible soufflés or keeping a neat herbaceous border.

‘Well, I shall put my thinking cap on and see what ideas I can come up with – hopefully something better than goat stew!'

The group around us went quiet, and I thought maybe I'd better keep my thoughts about African cuisine and how I could improve it to myself. I was sure there was more I could do with the available ingredients, although I might have to give the eggs a miss for a while.

‘So, you might be staying,' said Darius, when we were alone in the car, having arranged for Buke to take Tracey home. So far neither of them had given any indication they knew of our relationship, possibly because it was so unlikely.

‘I think I would like to, although the practicalities could be tricky. I don't know the culture and haven't a clue how to get round the country or find somewhere to live. It would be very daunting.'

He looked thoughtful and took my hand, holding it over the gear stick so he had no reason to let it go.

‘I'll help you,' Darius responded. And I knew he meant it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I decided I needed to go home and tell my children my plans. The Nigerian government, by way of an apology for my plight, offered to reschedule and upgrade my original flight tickets.

I'd discussed working with Buke's outreach projects and agreed to a six-month trial so we could see how things went. I wasn't sure about being based at the camp where I'd been held as a prisoner, but, on the other hand, it might be a good way of addressing any issues that might develop as a result of the kidnap.

The decision was mostly driven by my desire to be with Darius, although I wasn't sure how his people would accept us as a couple, or how I might miss my home comforts and my family. Despite his assurances he'd hold my hand, both physically and metaphorically, all the way, I couldn't see how I could fit in. No one yet knew of our feelings for each other, and we'd decided to keep it secret a while longer.

I was booked to travel to Heathrow on the following day's flight. When I was back at the bungalow, packing, Tracey looked tearful. She had agreed to look after Pussy, who she told me had been particularly offensive that day, but I got the impression that wasn't what was bothering her. In fact I had my suspicions Tracey had been teaching him new words as she'd said something about being taken from behind only that morning. As Tracey's eyes became more watery, I made a mental note to mention the benefits of evening primrose oil, but then told her of my plans to return to Nigeria.

‘Woah, go girl,' she said, clearly pleased that our paths would be entangled for a little while yet. She hugged me so tight I could smell her hair.

‘Baz and me have got you a present because we thought you were leaving. Well, Baz got it actually. It's something very Nigerian. We want you to take it home with you,' said Tracey. ‘So you might as well take it now.'

I was touched they'd thought to get me a present, and my eyes watered. I pretended I'd got an eyelash stuck as I wiped away a tear.

‘Bollocks and bums' said Pussy. I covered her cage with a blanket and she went back to imitating telephones.

‘I can't believe you'll be coming back, hun. That's made me so happy,' she said, and I felt genuinely touched by her enthusiasm and warmth. She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me so close I could smell her armpits. Tracey was probably one of the most embarrassingly common people I'd ever met, but when you've both relieved your bowels in the same bowl and used
OK!
magazine instead of toilet paper, it brings you together on a unique level. And you don't mind their smells.

‘That is really very nice of you,' I said, as she handed over a small box wrapped in brown paper and sealed with a considerable amount of packing tape. She really didn't want me to open it in a hurry.

‘Actually, Baz wants to go to England soon, so if you are still there, we can open it together. I'm not sure what it is, but Baz reckons it's good stuff.'

She skipped around in apparent delight as I took the present to my room and wrapped it in my T-shirts, tucking what was left of my clothing around the sides. It really was sweet of them to think of me, and I felt mean for thinking so badly of Baz. He was clearly a changed man.
I wonder what it is?
I thought.

Being in Nigeria, while it had certain moments I wouldn't wish to repeat in a hurry, did have its upsides. The people were interesting – and interested in me – and I'd done more with my life since I'd been here than I'd done in a very long while (even taking into account sending Giles McDonald to prison for stealing three packets of bourbons from the Murco garage).

The worst feeling was knowing I'd be leaving Darius behind, if only for a short time – certainly less than we'd already been apart. He took me to the airport himself, rather than allow Buke's chauffeur to drive me. There was a sadness in the air, as we both knew our lives were going to change. Even being together, as right as it seemed to both of us, would have its problems. We are from different cultures and generations. How could we make a relationship work?

I was tearful and not sure what to say to Darius after I'd checked in. It was two hours before the flight, and I considered buying a cheap novel to entertain me on the journey when Tracey and Buke showed up.

‘We couldn't let you go without seeing ya off,' said Tracey, who was wearing what I could only assume was one of Buke's cast-off robes. It might have worked on her if she hadn't added to the ensemble a lime green baseball cap and a pair of pink trainers, not to mention the huge hoop earrings that kept getting caught on the wispy cloth on her shoulders, stopping any sideways movement of her head in its tracks.

‘That is wonderful,' I said to them, genuinely moved by their consideration. ‘And thank you so much for looking after Pussy. I know she can be a handful,' I said, realising I was getting quite fond of the old bird.

Tracy and Buke offered their wishes for a safe journey and left the airport. I was sorry I couldn't say goodbye to Darius properly, but keen not to openly display our affection in public, he gave me a big hug and left the smell of his aftershave lingering on my scarf, which I sniffed periodically on my way to the departure gate.

I went through the various security checks and finally into the departure area, which was no better than the arrivals shed. It was overheated and claustrophobic. There were insufficient chairs, and those available were dirty and plastic, guaranteed to bring on a sweaty patch.

After what seemed a lifetime the flight was called, and I boarded the plane with a couple of hundred other clammy and impatient passengers. I settled down to try and read the book Buke had given me on the politics of African education. I wasn't looking forward to it, only ever really reading the
Daily Mail
, the occasional Jodi Picoult and not much else. I thought I ought to learn more about my possible role as a school consultant.

The more I read, the more I admired Buke and what she'd had to do to achieve her degree and then to build her reputation as one of her country's leaders. It made my attempts at keeping a clean and well-ordered household look less like an achievement and more like drudgery.

After the flight out to Lagos, I'd expected something more eventful than the easy landing we had at Heathrow. We'd made it into the airport fifteen minutes early, and the weather looked good – sunny and clear.

It was a stark contrast walking through the arrivals at the airport. It was much cooler than Lagos for a start, but the efficiency was evident. Those in uniform looked like they knew what they were doing and weren't looking for backhanders from isolated tourists. The Nigerians visiting London were treated with much more respect than tourists to their country, although to hear some of them shouting about the validity of their passports when they were being taken into interview rooms you'd think they were being tortured.

There was a lengthy hold-up in the baggage area. Luggage from my flight wasn't coming through and passenger information told me there was an issue with one of the cases. I walked past the customs gate and, looking through saw a number of people gathered waiting for their loved ones to appear, some of them holding banners.

It was a short while before I realised the banners were for me. Various members of my family, the bridge club and some of my magistrate colleagues held banners reading ‘Welcome Home, Cynthia' while Mavis and Tom both had T-shirts emblazoned with big ‘Free Cynthia' slogans on them. Even Marjory was there, with a placard bearing my picture and the caption ‘Cynthia is My Sister', which I found to be something of a revelation.

I even saw my next-door neighbour in the crowd, which was another surprise. He'd only spoken to me once since the incident regarding his raised flower bed; and that was to ask me if I'd considered moving house.

I moved forward to wave to them, but was pushed back by a black customs officer. His name tag was covered with a strip of white paper with the name ‘Mabu' taped to it.

‘Have you got your luggage, madam?' he asked.

‘I'm still waiting for it,' I replied. ‘I understand there has been a delay.'

‘Which flight were you on?' asked the officer.

‘Lagos. We landed about twenty minutes ago, so it should be here by now. Do you come from Nigeria?' I asked, thinking he had a familiar look.

‘If I do, it is none of your business, now get back and wait for your luggage inside the collection area, please.'

A cheer went up in the arrivals lounge. Mavis had spotted me and had started up a chant which sounded like ‘Cynthia is Free'. It could have been something else, but I settled for that sentiment and told the officer that people outside were cheering for me. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't the answer he gave: ‘Good for them, let's see how long they can keep that up for.'

The cheering continued as I made my way back to the baggage area, where still nothing had come through other than a child's pushchair, a set of golf clubs and two pairs of underpants that may well have been going round the carousel for some weeks, judging by the state of them.

My case was one of the first to arrive, and seemed to be in one piece, but was sporting a huge orange sticker on the front.

As I pulled it along through the ‘nothing to declare' channel, I was stopped by the same officer.

‘I need to look in your bag,' he said.

‘I see. You've a bit of power and you have to use it on a vulnerable woman,' I said, hoping he'd realise he was wasting his time trying to annoy me.

‘Please open the case,' he commanded, pulling my bag up onto the desk.

I opened it up revealing dirty clothes, my little black dress, some washing items and my present from Tracey and Baz.

The officer handed me a knife and asked me to cut into the package.

‘But this is a present. I don't want to open it until I get home,' I told him, remembering what they had said to me about keeping it until their visit.

‘In which case I will do it,' he replied, and as he did so, a large amount of brown, floury stuff appeared within the box.

He called on his radio, and within a few minutes he was joined by another customs officer and a police dog handler. The spaniel was all over my case and took particular interest in the present.

‘We have reason to believe you have imported illegal drugs and you will be taken by my colleague to be searched fully and charged accordingly, Mrs Hartworth,' he said, as I thought about the effect a full search might have on my irritable bowel, particularly after all it had been through in recent months.

I didn't like being held in a cell. They made me take off all my clothes and get into a paper suit that made me look like a forensic man in a cheap detective TV series. The bed was concrete with a thin mattress – even less comfortable than the one in the settlement. The toilet was open and in the corner of the room. It didn't even have a seat or paper, you had to ask for that.

As for the inspection, the female officer investigated parts that even Darius was banned from.

‘It seems you're clean, Mrs Hartworth,' she said after extricating her gloved finger from my anus.

‘I had a bath this morning,' I told her, affronted that she would expect anything less than total hygiene from me.

‘No, I mean you don't show any indications of drugs being secreted about your person.'

I wish I hadn't made the comment about people swallowing illegal substances when they fly, otherwise I might have avoided the unnecessary scans and salt water that certainly made me retch but didn't bring up anything other than a piece of carrot and the remains of that morning's coffee.

I was eventually released without charge and without apology. The powdery stuff turned out to be a large quantity of the Suya spice I'd often mentioned since eating the kebab at the B & B.