Refuge (11 page)

He showed Ifasen how to wrap thin strips of putrid animal fat around bread as bait, his thick fingers blackened with grease. Then he took him by the collar of his shirt, pinching the fabric into his fist, and led him past the young fishermen who stood proudly with their rods gleaming in the sun, neat lines running out straight and deep into the still water. They pulled their fresh prawns from the buckets, still snapping their small tails, and spun elasticised thread around them to attach them to the hooks. The ends of their lines branched into an array of red-and-white floats and large, dull sinkers.

The young men bayed at them as they passed. ‘Don’t you know that fish don’t eat dead goat, old man? What are you trying to catch? Vultures?’ Then they laughed and slapped their thighs at their clever humour. The first time Ifasen had been embarrassed and a little scared by the old man’s calloused grip on his arm. But the fisherman waved off the young men, spitting globules onto the sand beside them. He took Ifasen down to a rickety jetty that jutted out into the water. That day the two of them caught six basking carp, their fat silver-green bodies slapping against the sides of the bucket. The young men had thrown line after line into the water, their hooks coming up with the shrivelled remains of prawn tails. But the old man said nothing, fishing as if the others did not exist. And when they walked back together, Ifasen grinned triumphantly at their empty hands, but the old man just growled quietly. Then he dropped his hold of the young boy and drifted across the scrub flats, disappearing wordlessly behind the sand mounds.

Ifasen had taken two of the biggest fish back to the spacious holiday home. He presented them to Abeni with a proud smile. ‘What a clever boy you are,’ she exclaimed proudly. But even as she spoke, he had noticed her disquiet. She placed the fish in the enamel sink and poured some cool water over them. She seemed uncertain as to how to proceed. He wondered whether she had perhaps not gutted a fish before. The thought of slicing open their taut bellies and delving inside with bare fingers made him feel faint.

Then Na’imah walked into the kitchen and saw the fish lying in the kitchen sink. ‘What you think, that we can eat these mud scavengers, Abeni? Where did you get this rubbish, my girl? May Allah have mercy on us!’

‘I am sorry, madam,’ Abeni stammered. ‘A friend gave them to me. I did not mean them for the family. They were only for me to eat. My people eat such fish, madam.’

Na’imah sneered at her. ‘Abeni, your people do many things that are not acceptable in the eyes of Allah. Take them outside; I will not have them in my kitchen. May Allah forgive us.’ Na’imah did not notice as Ifasen slid out of the room, his cheeks wet with tears and failure.

In the end, Abeni had kept the fish for herself, gutting them and baking them in a hollowed-out termite mound in the back garden, smothering them with fresh tomato and onion. Later that evening, Ifasen slunk out of the kitchen and scampered off behind the house with a plate of rice and fish. The white flesh had flaked off the bone in sizeable mouthfuls. He had never eaten anything so deliciously fresh and forbidden. He had thought of the old fisherman, sitting somewhere around a leaping fire, enjoying his food at his leisure.

He thought of him again now as the beggar stumbled onto the pavement, still mumbling expletives. Two Zimbabwean men who had been working the other side of the intersection came over to Ifasen’s side once the traffic had cleared. They were selling silver windscreen shields and cellphone chargers, draped over their arms like dead snakes. They had started working at the intersection only a few weeks before, arriving without introduction. Ifasen had ignored them, but the old beggar was enraged and had tried to chase them off. The men were young and agile, and sidestepped his flailing arms with ease, laughing and taunting him.

They nodded reservedly towards Ifasen. ‘Have you sold anything today?’ he asked them.

‘No, just two screens. It’s too hot. They’re all too hot and too busy to even ask how much.’ The speaker paused and looked down the road. A line of cars had pulled off from the intersection some distance away, sending them like a wave up the gentle slope towards them. ‘Here come some more. Let’s see if we have any luck.’ The other Zimbabwean snorted dejectedly, but rearranged the cables on his arm in preparation.

After another hour of tramping between the lanes, still none of them had managed to sell anything. The beggar had been handed a plastic packet of food scraps and was sitting a distance away on the grass verge, picking at the squashed sandwiches and old chop bones. The two Zimbabweans ambled off to the nearby petrol station to get water. Only Ifasen remained, standing still in the burning sun, now not even trying to display his wares.

The sultry weather in Obeokuta had been as intense, sometimes stifling when the wind was still. But the heat had brought out the smells of the earth and the surrounding undergrowth, filling the air with a fragrance that was undeniably home: acacia blossoms and turned earth, cowpats and vanilla pods. It was a heady, moist aroma full of promise. On hot days, he used to stand in the classroom with the door ajar and all the windows wide, letting the warm scents brush across the desktops. It had calmed his learners and filled him with a quiet, resolute ambition. But here the heat seemed meaningless and dirty, filled with fumes that coated his exposed skin in layers of grime. Every step seemed to raise his body temperature, sucking at his resolve. It left him feeling embittered about his circumstances. He longed for a return to the serenity of teaching, the respect and sense of purpose that it afforded him. He had loved the easy, joking interactions with his young pupils and the brightness of their naive eyes. His time as a student teacher – and then for a short while as a permanent member of staff, before he left the country altogether – seemed blessed. It was rich with memories of Abayomi, the excited learning of young minds, the secure routine of teaching and the camaraderie of his fellow teachers. How much he had abandoned for this hellish non-existence.

Ifasen wandered between the stopped cars. As they moved off, he became aware of a metallic-green BMW with tinted windows. The car drove past slowly, drifting up to the line as the robots turned orange and then accelerating through to reach the other side. Ifasen watched through squinted eyes as it drove into the forecourt of the petrol station. But it did not stop. Instead it turned around and crossed over the double-laned road to come back towards the intersection. The young male driver was alone in the car and he watched Ifasen closely as he glided by on the other side of the island. Ifasen thought the man gave a slight nod of the head. A few minutes later the BMW reappeared on Ifasen’s side of the road, the tyres crunching on the fragments of glass and stone on the verge as it pulled up. The fan in the engine switched on while the car idled.

Ifasen walked towards the stationary vehicle. The driver’s automatic window slid down and Ifasen felt a waft of cool air from the air-conditioned interior. Loud music belted out, the fast-paced base and frenetic high-pitched squeals making the air vibrate. A pair of playing dice hung from the rear-view mirror. The man leant forward and turned the volume down slightly. The tip of a tattoo showed on the back of his neck. His light hair was shaved close to his head along the sides, showing the whiteness of his scalp, but the top and fringe were floppy. He was well built, his defined chest and biceps pushing against the fabric of his shirt, and there was a disdainful confidence in the way he looked Ifasen up and down.

‘So, my man, how are you?’ the driver asked, hardly looking at him.

‘I am fine, thank you. Can I sell you one of these mobiles? They are only fifteen rand.’ Ifasen doubted that the driver was a potential customer but he nevertheless held up the hanger so that the cut-outs flicked around in the sunlight. The man did not look at them but kept staring in front of him. His face was hard and wary, making Ifasen nervous.

A long pause ensued before the man spoke again: ‘So you got any powder for me, my man?’

Ifasen heard him clearly, but he still responded in confusion: ‘Sorry, what did you say? What did you ask me?’ There was a buzzing sound in his ears. His arm, holding the mobiles up, felt weak but he kept the hanger at chest height, the feather-light pictures forming a kind of twirling barrier between them.

The man turned to him, his forehead crumpled in an annoyed frown and his eyes dark. ‘Cocaine. I said: have you got any powder for me. I am looking for cocaine. But I’ll take anything else you’ve got. Just tell me what you’ve got, okay?’

Ifasen let his mobile drop to his side. ‘I am sorry,’ he said in a strained voice. ‘But I don’t sell that … I sell these mobiles. They are fifteen rand each if you would like one. I sell these mobiles.’ He knew that he was repeating himself, but he couldn’t think of any other response.

‘Crap, man!’ The driver’s shoulder muscles tightened and stood out at the base of his neck. ‘Don’t talk crap to me. I know you’ve got some. I’m not the cops, okay, so you don’t have to play silly buggers. You’re Nigerian, right?’

Ifasen did not respond.

‘Nigerian? Yes? Well, fuck, anyone can see you are. And here you are wearing Nike shoes while you sell crappy little plastic shit on the side of the road. So don’t fuck me around; we all know what you’re doing. So just tell me what you’ve got.’

Ifasen looked down at his thin-soled shoes. ‘I don’t sell drugs,’ he said, lowering his voice. He turned away to leave, his eyes searching for his companions. The intersection was deserted.

‘No, no, no, my boy. Don’t walk away from me, china. Fucking come back here until I’m finished talking to you, okay?’

Ifasen felt his anger rise, and the skin on the sides of his neck tickled. He stopped and turned back, but kept his distance from the car. ‘Look, sir …’ He knew that his jaw was sticking out haughtily, that his shoulders had pushed back, but he couldn’t help it. ‘I don’t know who you think I am. But you’ve got the wrong man.’ He held the man’s stare as he hissed: ‘I
am
from the country of Nigeria. I
don’t
sell drugs.’ With that, he walked stiffly around the long bonnet of the car and onto the grass verge.

Ifasen heard the car door slam behind him, but he kept his back turned. He laid the delicate mobile out on the ground in front of him and bent over to untangle the knotted threads. For a few moments it was quiet as he went about his work. Then the man’s large boots appeared in his view, stopping in front of him. The left foot stepped forward and pressed down on the top strut of the mobile. Ifasen noticed how the man’s laces had been tied in a double knot and folded neatly back; for some reason the meticulousness of the knot was threatening. The man shifted his weight, slowly crushing the strut into the ground until it snapped. Ifasen stood up, his fists clenched in fury.

‘Listen, fucker,’ the man hissed. ‘I know about your drugs and your scams. I know you’ve fucking got some, so stop messing with me.’

‘Leave me alone!’ Ifasen roared back. He felt light-headed and nauseous. He wondered whether he was dehydrated. ‘Just go away and leave me alone! I haven’t asked you for anything. I didn’t ask you to stop here. Just get back in your car and go!’

Ifasen made the mistake of putting out his hand to persuade the man to step off the mobile. He did not intend to make contact, just to direct him backwards. His hand hovered briefly between them. Then, before he could say anything more, the man grabbed his arm. He twisted it viciously, sending a searing pain across Ifasen’s shoulder joint and forcing him to drop to one knee with a gasp. The gravel grated his skin through the fabric of his trousers. The man’s knee crashed into the small of his back, centred and just below the tip of his shoulder blades. The air left Ifasen’s chest with a rush. It felt as if his lungs had flattened and would never be able to open again. He cried out in pain and tried to stand up, but his head had filled with a dark fog.

‘I’m going to fucking kill you, you fucker!’ the man screamed at him, his mouth close to Ifasen’s ear, now wet with spittle. ‘I’m going to rip your balls off and shove them down your throat until you choke.’

Tears formed in Ifasen’s eyes and his chest heaved. He sucked the air in in tiny mouthfuls, like he was sipping water. He couldn’t seem to force the air down from his throat into his burning lungs and he thought he might black out. The man was still shouting abuse in his ear, hissing and popping like a wildfire. Ifasen couldn’t understand why the man didn’t loosen his grip; he must see that his opponent was weak with exhaustion and no threat to him. Perhaps he means to kill me, he thought. Blurry spots started to play across the ground in front of him.

The brief howl of a siren and the slamming of doors filled the air. The man unexpectedly released his grip, and Ifasen collapsed onto his side, lying on top of the plastic hanger and mobiles. He could see that the strings were all twisted now and he wondered whether he would be able to fix the strut and restring the mobile. Before he could roll off it, a pair of hands grabbed hold of him and lifted him to his feet. He stayed half-bowed over, one hand holding his chest as he wheezed.

Two policemen looked down at him without sympathy. One was tall and well built and pulled Ifasen’s arms behind his back with ease. Ifasen felt the handcuffs grip closed, tight on his wrists. He started to explain what had happened, talking in breathless spurts.

‘Shut up!’ the tall policeman said.

The driver of the BMW was talking animatedly to the other policeman: ‘I wanted to buy a mobile for my niece so I stopped. But he offered me drugs instead. He said the mobile wasn’t for sale. That he only sells drugs. He asked me what I wanted. When I told him I just wanted the mobile he started swearing at me. He was abusive, you know? Then he tried to punch me. I thought he was going to damage my car. So I got out and just got hold of him to calm him down, you know? And that’s when you guys came along.’

‘Did he show you any drugs, sir?’

‘Yes … no, no,’ the BMW driver said, lighting a cigarette. ‘He said he kept them stashed here nearby. But he didn’t say where. But he was
woes
, you know? Like he was high on something already. I just couldn’t talk to the guy.’