Karl left the cubicle. He should go back. He really should. Rebecca sounded livid. His phone was blowing up with her texts. What was he doing anyway? Not like his father cared. He just needed a little more time. These two weeks. And Godfrey was the one who would have a way in with some of the local boys. Doing the Godfrey magic. The diffusing. He entered the compound, then the buka. There would have to be some serious begging from Karl’s side. Making up for lousy friendship efforts. Abu would understand. This was the only time Karl had in Nigeria. It wouldn’t come again any time soon.
Nakale was waiting. Janoma, his cousin, was sitting on the bench. Her darkness was seamless, uninterrupted. Deep. Unlike the last time, when they had met in front of her Auntie’s shop, she was smiling at him now.
‘Hello. Something happen? You remember my cousin Janoma.’
‘Karl,’ he mumbled and stretched out his hand. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, I was on the phone. It was important.’
‘Hi.’ She jerked her head to the side, shook his hand half-heartedly. She was obviously not into the shaking but she kept it for a while. Maybe she was into holding? She looked at him again, like last time, cocked her head, smiled, then got lost as if she was thinking about something. She was in jeans and a T-shirt, some eccentric pop star’s face splashed over front and back. Metallic blue, red and purple on a washed-out grey. Style.
‘How are you doing? I hear it’s your first time in good old Naija?’
It was hard to tell her age. She was sure of herself in a way that was all accidental, thoughtful but mostly dreamy eyes.
‘It’s alright,’ he replied, thankful that his mouth opened at all.
‘And which parts are alright exactly?’ Janoma’s eyebrows raised. She was probably at uni already.
‘Well, the vibe. I mean.’
‘The vibe?’ She laughed and let go of his hand. Her lips, man, when they moved, they blew you off the surface of the earth. Almost brown, a deep purple.
‘Wow, you mixed kids sure know how to be specific.’
She turned to Nakale and said something. Karl couldn’t hear her. She saw him trying to understand them.
‘Either by early afternoon or you have to drop me at dad’s at six. You know he is not joking about his timekeeping.’
She was so cool, so together, cleaned up good. It made the air burn.
‘Karl?’
Nakale interrupted his analysis.
‘She can come with us? Only then we have to leave earlier? So that we can drop her home in time?’ All as a question.
‘Of course, no problem.’ He felt on a mission. A gang. Although Janoma hadn’t officially joined their twosomeness; he hoped by the end of the day there’d be more to say on that.
Nakale was interviewing one of the elders of the community for an article he was commissioned to write by an overseas news agency. Well, it wasn’t quite an article, more like a report. The correspondent would write their own version later, after a very brief visit to the same area, and without that much engagement. They would take all the credit and be like what atrocities, unimaginable, so much pollution, underdeveloped and shit.
Nakale had also collected more samples. He had some new ideas and was restructuring his data. Karl asked if he could take notes for him. Two sets of ears were better than one. Maybe he could even write his own something. Something he could take back to London. Maybe he could use it for his own project week.
It was all very much as the last time. Endless roads with bush and palm trees. Karl was used to the views, settlements and villages along the way. The car took them off the highway to a small junction, life bustling along on all four of its corners.
‘We’re entering Ogoniland, Karl. I will show you where they captured Ken.’
Karl nodded. Who the hoot was Ken?
‘Saro-Wiwa,’ Janoma, who sat next to him on the back seat, continued. Karl could feel her breathing, or maybe it was just his own breath. Moving in and out in that obvious manner that makes you even more nervous than you already are.
hotness /hɒtnəs/
noun
1. Intense.
‘Like the writer and activist?’ She took his hand and pointed to the left. The car slowed down and was rolling along the smaller street they entered.
‘Look there. The sign.’ Her hand was cool. The aircon was on. Karl’s hand was sweaty.
‘MOSOP,’ Karl read out. At least that part worked; his speaking faculty did its job.
‘Movement of the Survival of the Ogoni People. Nakale, explain it. How should he know these things? Not like he was old enough then.’
She leaned close to the window but deep back into her seat so Karl could poke his head forward. His nose touched the window. Her hand was still holding his; their thighs touched and he could feel her breath close to his ear now. Karl looked outside, then at Nakale, then back outside. What was he meant to do? Just stay here? All close up and shit?
Nakale was deep in thought.
‘One day the government decided that it had had enough of leaders like Ken, who spoke up and rallied the people against what Shell and all the oil thieves were doing to our beautiful land. So the military convicted them on false charges and hanged them, although human rights groups and governments all over the world were condemning the whole thing. Some witnesses admitted later that they had been bribed by Shell to give false testimony against what we call the Ogoni Nine. Ken and the other activists.’ It seemed like a thought broke off. ‘That’s it. Nothing else to say.’ He seemed pissed off.
‘Ken is Nakale’s hero.’ Janoma let go of his hand. Karl moved back to his side of the back seat, armpits all sweaty.
Nakale was still like, absent.
Karl nodded. It took someone to show you what was going on, sometimes right in front of your eyes. Sometimes it was further away. There was more shit in life, much bigger shit, than your own personal problems. That was for sure. Nakale was showing him that it mattered how you dealt with it. Not just your own stuff, but the bloody balance of the world.
They drove on and Karl followed the fleeting images outside of the window until they got to the elder Nakale was interviewing.
Nakale and the man exchanged greetings and news and he led them into a cramped bungalow. The man’s two younger daughters watched Karl curiously. Janoma was already sitting on one of the armchairs, drifting off in her own thoughts, but once in a while her eyes met Karl’s. Nakale and the man sat on a small sofa. They started in the middle of a sentence, as if they had left the conversation midway on their last visit. Karl was struggling with the heat; the stuffy room offered no reprieve, no air, no movement. He was glad when they left an hour later. It had been too hot and he had heard nothing. The only thing he had observed was the heat that hovered around every thought and every look at Janoma. He wanted to be back at John’s to think of her, but the thought of parting made him anxious.