‘He’s stable, got a good job, he’s older, he’s German, he’s got a sense of humour like an elephant trap …’
‘He’s been married and he wants to get married again to someone who likes Africa.’
‘Heike’s not interested in Gerhard. We’ve been through all that crap with Wolfgang.’
‘And look how far you’ve come in a year. She needs some reassurance that there’s a point. A year’s a long time for a woman creeping through her thirties.’
‘She doesn’t creep.’
‘You’re being weak, Bruce. You make out you look and don’t see but you know better than I do. You just can’t bring yourself to the marks. You’re afraid that she’ll leave you. You’re afraid to move on. You’re being a modern man.’
‘That’s enough of that kind of talk, Bagado. Enough. You’re getting very close to using that word and I don’t want to hear that word in this car …’
‘Commitment? There, I’ve said it. Better in than out.’
‘You can hear the ranks of bachelors’ bowels weakening,’ I said, cupping a hand to my ear.
‘I don’t know what you’re afraid of,’ he said, sawing the scar in the cleft of his chin. ‘Compromise?’
‘You’ve been pulling some vocab. out of the bag today, Bagado.’
‘Is that it? You’re afraid of compromise? You should see what I’m going to have to do when I go back to Bondougou.’
‘I’ve already done some compromising. It wasn’t half as painful as I thought it was going to be. What I’m afraid of is that if I cross the line it might not work and I’ll be in a deeper problem than if I don’t cross the line in the first place.’
‘She’ll go,’ said Bagado. ‘That’ll solve your problem.’
We arrived in Kétou at nightfall. The aid station was closed, with a gardien outside who showed us a restaurant where we had some pâte and bean sauce and a couple of bottles of La Beninoise beer. We drove out into the bush, set up a mosquito net against the car, rolled out some sleeping mats and had an early, very cheap night out under the stars. I lay on my back and felt like a deadbeat. The pattern had held for more than a year. Now things were falling to pieces and all out of my reach. Bagado going back to his job, Heike tapping her feet and behind it all the dark shadow of Bondougou, his eyes flickering in his head.
Sunday 18th February.
Gerhard’s people were dedicated and came in as early on Sunday mornings as they did during the week. They gave us coffee and directions. We crossed the border into Nigeria just after 8 a.m. and headed north from a town called Meko on a dirt road. After ten kilometres we hit a roadblock guarded by men wearing army fatigues and holding AK-47s loosely in capable hands.
‘They look like the real thing,’ I said, as we cruised up to the soldier standing with his hand raised.
‘This is no place for armed robbery, unless they’re very stupid.’
The soldier came to my window and looked in and over our shoulders.
‘Where you going?’ he asked.
‘Akata village.’
‘Closed.’
‘For why?’ asked Bagado.
‘Big sickness. Nobody go in. Nobody come out.’
‘What sort of sickness?’
‘Typhoid. Cholera. We don’ know. We just keeping people from going there ‘til doctah come telling us.’
‘Which doctor?’
‘No, no, medical doctah.’
‘I mean, what’s his name, this doctor. Where’s he come from?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said and looked back at the other soldiers who gave him about as much animation as a sloth gang on downers. He turned back to us and found a 1000-CFA note fluttering under his nose. His hand came up in a Pavlovian reflex and rested on the window ledge. He shook his head.
‘This not that kind thing. You get sick, you die. A white man out here, what do I say to my superiah officah?’
‘You give him this,’ I said, and produced a bottle of Red Label from under the seat.
‘No, sah. You go back to Meko. No entry through here, sah.’
‘Who is your superior officer?’
‘Major Okaka.’
‘Where’s he?’
The soldier shrugged.
We drove back to Meko and headed west for about fifteen kilometres before cutting north again, but not on a track this time, through the bush. Within twenty minutes we were stopped by a jeep and a Land Rover, one with a machine gun mounted on the cab. Four soldiers armed with machine pistols got out of the jeep and stood at the four points of the car. An officer type levered himself out of the Land Rover and removed a Browning pistol from a holster on his hip. The gun hung down his side in a slack hand. He approached the window and rested the gun on the ledge and looked at us from under his brow.
‘We’re looking for Major Okaka. This is Dr Bagado from Ibadan.’
Bagado leaned across me and said something in Yoruba to the officer. The officer’s other hand came up on the window and he leaned on the car as if he was going to roll it over. He grinned and spoke with an English accent that he must have picked up from the World Service in the fifties.
‘There is no Major Okaka on this exercise. We’re not expecting a Dr Bagado. You have entered a restricted area. If you return to the main road nothing more will be said. If, however, you prove yourselves troublesome we shall have to escort you down to Lagos for interrogation. Your passports, please.’
He flicked though our passports, the Browning still in his hand, his finger on the trigger and a certain studied carelessness in where he was pointing it.
‘Who is the officer in command of this army exercise?’ asked Bagado.
‘That is none of your business. You just go back to the main road. It’s dangerous out here. If you wish, my men can escort you back to the frontier and ensure that you cross the border safely.’
‘That won’t be necessary … er, Major …?’
‘Captain Mundo.’
He returned our passports and took us back to the main road. We drove towards Meko. The two vehicles disappeared back into the bush. Four kilometres outside Meko we came across a man walking in the dust
