Refuge Page 4

  The gesture in naming Khalifah had not been appreciated by Ifasen’s family, and Ifasen knew that Abayomi now lamented the magnanimity. She never missed an opportunity to express her regret now that they lived in South Africa, several thousand miles away from the child’s grandparents. They had left after a sharp rise in anti-Igbo sentiment. The precariousness of their continued stay in Abeokuta was made clear when the military police arrived to question Abayomi about her brother’s activities in the Free Biafra Movement. Abazu had fled Nigeria soon after General Abacha had seized power and annulled the elections. The annulment was criticised internationally and Abazu had added his voice as a new journalist at a local newspaper, writing a scathing article on the military junta. A foreign correspondent had noticed the article and sent it to The Times in England. It had been published on the leader page alongside an editorial accusing Abacha of reneging on his promise to hold democratic elections. The article also appeared on the newspaper’s website. It was reported that General Abacha had personally ordered Abazu’s arrest – a terrifying honour for the young activist, who had slipped out of the country on a fishing boat. Abazu now lived in Amsterdam, sharing squalid digs with other Nigerian refugees, but he was still a moving force behind the militant Free Biafra Movement.

  Had it not been for the community status of the Obeyi family, Abayomi would almost certainly have been arrested. As it happened, the local commissioner sent only two men to the house, a plain-clothes intelligence officer and a uniformed policeman. They knocked at the door, unannounced. Na’imah received them graciously, allowing them to enter with little explanation as to their purpose. Abayomi wondered if her mother-in-law had been warned that they were coming. Na’imah even allowed a thin smile to pass over her lips when they advised her that they had come to question Abayomi, as if she had long suspected her daughter-in-law of clandestine acts of treason and was only too happy that the authorities were finally onto her. Na’imah was obsequious, feigning respect as she served them tea in the delicate china cups reserved for special occasions. She personally offered them biscuits, neatly arranged on a side plate, and gestured to the housemaid to leave them alone. She sniffed dismissively at Abayomi, who sat, without tea, arms clutched across her chest. Na’imah’s head bobbed from side to side while she listened to them question Abayomi about her contact with her brother. On at least one occasion Abayomi noticed her mother-in-law scowling at her answer. Fortunately, her interrogator was more distracted by Abayomi’s startling beauty than Na’imah’s performance.

  The interview had ended inconclusively, with the policemen asking – without aggression – that she contact them should she hear from Abazu. She promised to do so, dropping her eyes to the floor. There had been something routine about the questioning, but Ifasen had nevertheless been outraged when he came home. He was furious both at his mother’s welcoming of the police and at her failure to send word to him. A huge row developed, with Abayomi cowering in her room with the small baby. Na’imah’s shrill accusations punctuated the balmy evening air while Ifasen roared back. The argument had raged and abated, only to rise up again, playing out from room to room through the large house late into the night. When Ifasen finally came to bed he was exhausted and despondent. ‘We can’t stay here any longer,’ he told his wife. Abayomi nodded, unsure whether he meant in his parents’ house or in Abeokuta. While they had spoken about finding a place of their own, they had never discussed leaving Nigeria. ‘It is too dangerous, Okeke. For you. For Khalifah. We must leave.’

  Sometimes the most momentous decisions are simply taken. That night Ifasen realised not just that his family’s reputation could not protect his wife and child, but also that his mother was quite capable of using the situation to undermine his marriage, perhaps even to allow harm to come to Abayomi. The militia’s interest in Abayomi would only intensify; her family’s history and Abazu’s involvement made her an easy target. Within a few months they had started to make plans to flee Nigeria. A local trader put them in contact with an agent who represented wealthy businessmen in South Africa.

  Once the process had started, it rushed at them like an uncontrollable and frightening dream. There was no time for consideration, no opportunity to slow the speeding train and think about where it was headed. Negotiations were hastily conducted in secret. Money was whisked from their hands; loans were busily taken out for bus fares; fake passports and forged refugee documents arranged. Out of their sight, bribes were offered and accepted, both in Nigeria and in South Africa. From the moment they took the decision to flee, they became commodities, the stock-in-trade of the illegal international refugee business, and no one cared what they were escaping or what they were running towards. They were still in turmoil, ambivalent and terrified, when they were hustled across the border into South Africa, coming in from Zimbabwe through the mayhem of the border post at Beit Bridge. Within hours of arriving, they had fallen victim to a con man who had expertly relieved them of their last few savings in exchange for counterfeit notes. Abayomi had sat on the cement steps of the store, the dust whitening her knees, and cried with her head bowed down from frustration and disbelief. Khalifah had not yet seen his second birthday.

  The boy was now four, and Ifasen worried incessantly about his future. Though Abayomi’s income would pay for his schooling, there were few opportunities for immigrants in the country, and Ifasen feared that his son’s future would be no brighter than his own. He overheard Abayomi praising the child’s drawing. She glanced up at Ifasen but did not ask the boy to show his father.

  The television programme spluttered to a close, a series of one-line comments overlaid with taped laughter, grinding through the steps of comedy. Ifasen waited irritably for the news to come on, acutely aware of the tension in the claustrophobic flat.

  In Abeokuta the young couple had found strength in their differences. From the moment they had met, they had loved the unknown in the other. Their affection had its kernel in intrigue and curiosity. In a society that viewed their association with scepticism, or hostility, they were quick to defend one another, as if a challenge to one of them was an affront to their relationship as a whole. Perhaps out of a need to prevent Ifasen’s family from exploiting any contrasts between them, they had presented an inseparable coalition. But on leaving the safety of their homeland and crossing the continent they had lost their confidence in each other and their surroundings. They felt the schism keenly, but could not identify its source. The smallest matters sparked rows. Now their desperation did not strengthen them; it tore them apart, night after night, one turbulent squabble at a time.

  Ifasen stared at the screen blankly. A bright-faced young announcer smiled enticingly and cleared her throat before reading the day’s headlines in a monotone. A car bomb had exploded in the Pakistani capital, killing scores of people. The screen showed grave-faced broadcasters standing in a market square gesticulating towards a strewn mess of tarpaulins and boxes as they tried to recapture the drama of the incident. The drought in Australia continued to threaten the sheep farmers, and a massive fire was spreading out across the vegetated outskirts of Sydney. The photographs from the helicopter showed swathes of grey smoke pluming off the forests beneath. The American president was meeting with his Chinese counterpart. The two men grinned ridiculously at each other, frozen in a handshake while the cameras flashed and popped. The upcoming rugby tour to England had run into an administrative problem because the young black wing did not have a valid passport and the British authorities were not willing to make an exception. Accusations of incompetence and racism waged between local officials.

  ‘You would never believe that we were living in Africa,’ Ifasen grumbled out loud. ‘Chei! I am telling you, Abuja could disappear into the Niger River and we wouldn’t know. This country cares about nothing that is African, unless it is sport, in which case they are only interested in this stupid game with the egg-shaped ball. What is wrong with them?’

  ‘You sound like your mother,’ Abayomi retorted from th
e kitchen, knowing that her voice had a sharp edge to it. She had become increasingly reactive to her husband’s complaints. ‘Remember how she used to turn the radio on for two minutes and then complain about sharia law being ignored? If she’d waited just a little longer she would’ve heard one of those horrible programmes with some imam going on about northern Nigerians and the need to assert their right to an Islamic state.’

  ‘Well, I’ve listened to all the news now,’ Ifasen shot back, ‘and there was not one item that had anything to do with this continent. It’s as if we do not exist … and yet here we are, living in the middle of it.’

  ‘Perhaps the world is tired of hearing the same pathetic cries from our continent.’

  Ifasen felt the blood prickling at his cheeks. ‘Is that meant to be a reference to me? Do you think that I’m pathetic? Is that what you think, my wife?’ He lapsed into Hausa.

  ‘No, my husband,’ Abayomi replied, taunting him with an English parody of the Hausa phrase. ‘But I do think that you’ve brought all your frustrations from the street back with you into our home. And our home is too small for your mood. Chei! I’ve also been working; I’m also frustrated. I am also tired of this dirty place, of sharing my child’s space with a stranger. But we both know how things are and—’

  ‘Do not talk of your work here, Okeke,’ Ifasen said, bristling. ‘I cannot see how you can have any frustrations left after your work. I thought it was most satisfying.’ His voice inflected and he felt a pulsing movement in his ears and across his forehead. The room seemed somehow smaller and filled with smoky noise. He slammed the power button on the television set with his palm, making the set rock back on the low table, but the noise did not leave his ears.

  ‘No! No, Ifasen! Chineke! No, no!’ Abayomi shouted out without restraint, as if the power of her voice could erase his words. But it was too late. He had thrown out the unspeakable between them and now it danced in front of them, taunting them both.

  She stepped out from the kitchen and glared at him. ‘Do you want to go to the camp at Lindela, o! Is that where you want to go – to Krugersdorp for repatriation? You can die in that place, Ifasen; we can all die there from their diseases while we wait to be sent back to Nigeria. Is that what you want? For yourself? For your son?’ Her voice faltered, overcome with the thought of their child. ‘For me? Chineke!’ The tears starting running down her cheeks.

  Ifasen looked stricken, isolated by the searing truth of what he had allowed to escape his lips. The lurking doubt would not leave him in peace. It was like a recurring sickness that never left him alone and always caught him unawares. His chest felt tight and he wondered if he was indeed falling ill. He watched his wife, standing with her arms hanging at her sides, tears now wetting her neck. She opened her mouth again and a line of spittle drew up between her lips. Ifasen wanted to pick her up like a child and run with her, to take her away and flee again to a place of light. But he was motionless, frozen by the fractures that had ruptured between them.

  The silence became a kind of prayer. Perhaps if neither of us talks, he thought, this moment will dissolve into nothing, like the passing of a bad smell. Her quiet sobs were the only reminder of what had been said, and he waited, not daring to move. When the sound of her drawn breaths stopped, it would be over.

  They were both startled by a rapping knock on the front door of the flat; a confident tattoo played out on the hollow plywood. Abayomi lifted her apron and wiped her face with a long sweep. Then she looked at Ifasen with anger and hurt and bent down to pick up Khalifah before retreating into the kitchen. Only now did Ifasen realise that his son had been clutching Abayomi’s leg, witnessing the entire argument. He cursed under his breath and clenched his fists, before moving towards the door. As he turned the latch, a hand on the other side twisted the door handle and pushed the door inwards, forcing Ifasen to step back. A thin-moustached man in sunglasses marched into the room, grinning at him in a menacing manner.

  ‘Hello, Nigel, how you doing, my boy? All good, hey?’ The man, wiry and taut-muscled, pushed a finger into Ifasen’s chest, crowding into his personal space. His police-issue firearm stuck out from his belt. ‘Beating up your woman again, are we? Hey? Hey? Come, Nigel, my boy, tell me about it, hey?’ The man’s face was close to Ifasen’s and the stink of cigarette smoke was overpowering. ‘And your wife? Where is she at now, hey? Bit of a late-night opskop? Bit of romping in the living room, hey? Nigerian style? It’s like a religion with you lot, nè? It actually is your religion – fucking up your wife. Some of us pray, some of us go to church, but you Nigels, you guys just let loose with a fist, hey? Put a boot in it and call it a spiritual experience. Am I right, Nigel boy?’

  The policeman followed Ifasen as he backed deeper into the room, all the time pushing a tight finger into his sternum and looking at him over the top of his sunglasses. He had adopted his dress style from old Miami cop movies, and were it not for his menacing manner the get-up would have given him a comical air. ‘Hey, Nigel, bit of skommel met die vroumens, hey?’

  Ifasen took another step back. He had had several run-ins with the man – Inspector Jeneker of the Cape Town central police station. The policeman focused his attentions on Cape Town’s immigrant community and, for reasons Ifasen could not fathom, had a particular distaste for Nigerians.

  ‘My name is not Nigel, Inspector,’ Ifasen said. ‘It is Ifasen. And no one called the police here. We did not ask for the police. There is no problem here. So thank you, but you did not need to come—’

  ‘No, no Nigel,’ Jeneker interrupted him, saliva building up in the corners of his mouth. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know me; I’ve been here before, haven’t I, my friend? And as for not calling the police, well your wife is all banged up, isn’t she? So she couldn’t call even if she wanted. So you can think of this as a sort of preemptive strike. Ja, that’s right, a pre-emptive strike.’ He paused, pleased with his turn of phrase. ‘So here I am, in your face, to check out whether you’ve had any more spiritual callings recently. And guess what, Nigel, just as I am about to knock on your door, what do I hear? Guess what I hear?’

  Ifasen shook his head slowly.

  ‘I hear you calling your wife all kinds of names. A whore. Now, I mean, is that a nice thing to say? I don’t think so, Nigel. All right, so maybe there’s some truth in it.’ Jeneker paused, sneering. ‘But, I mean, the rest – well, it just isn’t nice, Nigel.’

  ‘Enough!’ Abayomi’s voice came from the kitchen doorway. Her face was firm and undaunted. ‘Enough, Jeneker. I will not have you come into my home and speak like that. I am fine. I did not call you. I did not ask for you to be here. My husband and I were having a discussion. He did not say anything rude to me. My husband is a respectful and loving man, and he would not hurt me. He is an honourable man and you are wrong to speak to him so.’

  Jeneker’s shoulders stiffened and he leant towards her with his fists balled. But he said nothing for a few moments, sizing her up. Then he cracked a smile, moving closer to her and putting his moist hand on the bare skin of her elbow. Abayomi turned her head away from him.

  ‘Your boss sends his regards,’ he said, leaning up so that his half-shaven cheek nearly touched hers. ‘He says he hopes that you are being a good girl.’

  He pulled away from her, still grinning and chewing stale gum. Abayomi stared back at him. ‘So that is why you are here? Did Mandla send you? Does he not have the courage to come here himself? So he sends you, the messenger of the messenger.’ Jeneker’s face darkened at the description. ‘Tell him he is not my boss. He does not own me.’

  ‘That is where you’re wrong. Whore,’ Jeneker replied, carefully formulating the word in his mouth. He was suddenly serious, speaking with an unnerving earnestness. ‘That is where you are so wrong. I’m afraid that you are owned.’ There was almost a hint of sadness in his voice as he spoke. ‘You know it and I know it. The only question is whether your man here really knows it.’ He concluded by spitting out his gum in Ifasen’s dir
ection.

  The unlocked front door cracked open again and a skinny figure flounced in, initially beaming and then jumping when he caught sight of Jeneker in the living room.

  ‘Shit!’ The word escaped in a high shriek. ‘Old age does not come in just one day, but you the scary man do make me old today.’ The man’s dark skin seemed sucked into the hollows of his body. Despite his ill appearance, he moved with amazing pace. He dived across the room and darted into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. The key turned in the lock before Jeneker could reach him.

  ‘You can’t escape me, Sunday boy,’ Jeneker shouted after him. ‘Don’t be running away from me now. I be the man you waiting for,’ he said in a mock-Jamaican accent, rubbing his hand up and down the wooden panel.

  ‘I be sleeping off my old age for the fright you giving me, ma cop man.’ Sunday’s muffled response squeaked from the other side of the door. ‘You be letting me go now, ye’right?’

  Jeneker sighed and walked back towards the front door. He stopped on the threshold and cocked his head back at Ifasen. ‘Nigel. You … I will be watching. Okay? I know you are a wifebeater, just like all the other Nigels. Or you will be slaughtering a goat on your living-room floor, like number 408. Or like number 213, hey, start a little braai in the kitchen using the window frames. How about one of those? I know you, Nigel, I know what you are. All of you. So mess up just once, only one time, that is all it takes, and I will be all over you. You understand, boytjie?’

  Ifasen made no movement, worried that the slightest gesture would spur the policeman on. But Jeneker did not wait to see his response. He pushed the door wide as he strode away, letting the stench from the passageway drift into their living room.