We were travelling through forests of iroko and baobab, over wooden bridges, on pitted tarmac roads. We had seen the wreckage of many accidents. Dad was driving.
We drove through the night, across the country. Owls swooped at us, illuminated by the headlights. Sinister goats watched us. A solitary woman, a bundle on her head, appeared in our headlights, and vanished into darkness.
Dad drove through the night and into the dawn. On the second day of our journey a Peugeot sped past us, blasting its horn.
‘The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,’ Dad quoted.
Then we heard a thunderclap. Five minutes later we saw that the Peugeot was joined in a twisted embrace with a minibus. The Peugeot was mangled, its windscreen smashed and spiked with blood, its wheels still turning.
A woman wailed beneath the wreckage. A crowd had gathered, uttering low lamentations. Where had they emerged from? There was nothing but thick forest all around. Were they grief that had turned into human form?
Women struggled down from the back of the minibus, covered in blood and shards of broken glass.
Two men were on the ground, twitching. Their faces were damaged beyond recognition. Their arms and legs didn’t look right. Two others were dead in the front seat of the Peugeot. It was impossible to extricate them from the wreckage.
Red dust hung like a cloud over the scene. The smell of blood mingling with the odour of gasoline was heavy in the torpid air.
The driver of the minibus was not one of the dead. The survivors of the accident kept asking for him, but he could not be found. His assistant, who was really a boy, threw himself on the ground, and wailed for his dead master.
‘Where’s the driver?’ I heard people shout, but all the assistant did was wail.
It was a terrible crash and it made a great impression on me, like being struck by the lightning of life. I wandered among the dead bodies and stared with horror at the smashed vehicles.
The assistant began howling. A woman with blood dripping down her forehead kept walking round and round in a circle, muttering something to herself. The assistant kept saying it was impossible that his master was dead.
‘What did he look like?’ asked strangers who were trying to wrench open the driver’s door.
No one could get any sense out of the assistant. At last he sat by the roadside, covered in dust. Someone poured a bottle of water on his head. With blank eyes he said we would recognise the driver by a scar running down his cheek, from his ear to his mouth.
‘He was the greatest driver in Africa!’ the assistant kept saying. ‘He was the fastest! He was the best!’
‘But where is he?’ the strangers asked. ‘There is no one in the driver’s seat.’
The assistant stared at them blankly.
‘You think you will find him there? You think you will find him? He has strong juju. You won’t find him!’
‘But we must find him,’ the strangers said.
The assistant didn’t seem to hear them.
‘We used to call him the overtaker! He could overtake anything! Now my master, my great master, is dead!’
There was much wailing. Wounded mothers with their wounded children were prostrate in the dust.
There was the stench of blood evaporating on hot crumpled metal. Seeking relief from the wailing, I wandered away from the smash.
The air was hot, the dust red, and the aroma of the forest was sticky. The road glimmered with heat. I listened to long drawn out bird calls.
I got to a makeshift wooden bridge. A man was sitting on its edge, his leg swinging in the air, nearly touching the metal-grey water.
The bridge had been worn down by heavy-haulage lorries and no repairs. Its railing had long been damaged by cars and lorries that had plunged over in thoughtless haste. There were rotting vehicles and jutting boulders in the river. The boulders were like the backs of prehistoric animals asleep in the sun.
The man sitting on the edge was looking at the corpses of cars and at the clear swiftly flowing water. He was smoking a pipe. It did not smell like tobacco. It smelt like burning flesh. There was something serene about the man which disturbed me. I was beginning to turn back when he said:
‘Boy, come here.’
I did not move.
‘I said come here!’
Still I did not move.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said with a smile.
Something was not right about his smile.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, with a dry throat. ‘There was an accident.’
‘So you walked away from an accident?’
‘No.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you know anything?’
I didn’t know what to say. He drew on his pipe, but blew out no smoke. The sun was harsh, but he did not sweat. The heat did not touch him. The wind that came from the forest brought no coolness. I began to leave, when he said:
‘It’s good to look at the water.’
His words made me look. The river rushed over rocks and wrecked cars.
‘It’s good to sit on a bridge and smoke a pipe.’
His voice made me want to sit on the edge and be closer to the water.
‘It’s good to take things easy and go gently.’
I was bewitched by the simplicity of his words. I was mesmerised by the silence. Then he turned his face to me. There was something not quite right about his face.
‘Who is your father?’
‘He’s a lawyer.’
‘Where is he going?’
‘He’s driving us home?’
‘What home?’
‘Our home in the city.’
‘Is there a home in the city?’
I didn’t understand what he was getting at. I stayed silent. After a while he smiled again. The smile did not brighten his face.
‘Come here,’ he said.
I went closer.
‘Give your father this message,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Tell him to go slowly. To take things easy. These roads are lonely and want blood.’
He paused.
‘Home is wherever you are happy.’
He looked at me with strange eyes.
‘Tell your father what I just told you.’
I didn’t move. Something about his face held me.
‘Go away now!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘Go back to your father!’
I was rooted.
‘Leave this bridge now! Don’t stare into the water!’
I was unable to move.
‘Leave now before I change my mind,’ he said, smiling again.
His smile frightened me and I turned and stumbled and nearly fell through the wide gap in the railings. I stopped myself and ran and fell and got up again, my head spinning.
I ran all the way back into the arms of my father, jabbering about a message I was supposed to give him. The women gave me water to drink.
We stayed there till the wounded were borne off to the nearest hospital. About the dead not much could be done.
As we pulled away I gave Dad the message. We passed the bridge but there was no one there.
The boulders in the river were smooth in the sun.