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[From IN MY FATHER’S COUNTRY by Adewale Maja-Pearce, first published in
London in 1987 by William Heinemann]
This particular stretch was the worst yet. It didn’t help that we were being driven by a maniac. He was a
small, wiry, talkative man who seemed to find it impossible to keep his eyes on the road as he carried
on a running conversation with the man behind. Each time we hit a pothole there was a tremendous
crashing sound as the undercarriage scrapped the ground, but no matter how many times this
happened he couldn’t be induced to slow down. In the meantime I was engaged in conversation with
the man with the broken sandal. He told me he was from Cameroon and was on his way to visit his
brother in Yola.
It was midnight when we arrived in Yola. It turned out that the Cameroonian’s brother didn’t actually
live in the town but a few miles outside. The driver refused to take us there. The Cameroonian
directed him to a nightclub.
It was an open-air club with a concrete dancing area in one corner. A few men imagined they were
body-popping to a Michael Jackson record. They only women about were prostitutes. Every now and
then a couple would disappear into one of the cubicles that ringed the open space but otherwise there
seemed to be little connection between the sexes. The men danced for the benefit of each other; there
was no suggestion of sexuality. This gave the whole scene a nihilistic quality, made more unreal by the
flashing strobe lights, half of which didn’t work.
The Cameroonian directed me to an empty table and called the waiter for beer. We were soon joined
by one of the women. She didn’t seem to be soliciting for customer so much as taking the opportunity
to be bought a drink. I obliged. She drank straight from the bottle, thanked us and left.
The Cameroonian leaned forward to talk to me above the din of music, which was deafening. He said
he was excited by the fact that I was a writer. There were many things he could show me which would
help me with my book. He would be useful because he had a way with white men. He liked them and
they liked him. Once, a few years ago, he had befriended an American who was also interested in
learning about Africa. He had taken him across the border into Cameroon and shown him a magical
lake. The lake was used by the people of his tribe to judge cases of adultery, theft and murder. It
never failed. Many people had died in that lake. No matter how hard the authorities searched they
could never find the bodies. He could show me many other things besides. He had shown the
American many things. The American had been his very good friend. They had become like brothers.
He even wanted to take him back to America with him when it was time for him to leave. He, the
Cameroonian, had gone with him to the airport. They had both stood on the tarmac in each other’s
arm. The American had been the last to board the plane. Just before they closed the doors for take-
off he had rushed out to say goodbye again. Because of him the flight had been delayed. Only the
other day he had received a letter from him. He had the letter in his pocket. He took it out and showed
it to me. It was with a bundle of other letters. He went everywhere with them. They were his most
valuable possessions. He took the letter out of the envelope, spread it on the round, metal table and
passed it to me. It was too dark to read. I gave it back to him. He put it in the envelope. Yes, he could
help me with my book. I should leave everything to him. He could arrange for me to meet lots of people
and see many things. He sat back, smiling. The Michael Jackson record came on again. It seemed to
be a favourite. It was gone two o’clock. I was very tired. The Cameroonian called for more beer.
A policeman wandered over to our table and glared at me. He was a big, evil-looking man and so
drunk he couldn’t hold himself straight. I ignored him. The Cameroonian said: ‘Why don’t you sit
down?’ He did so. His huge frame filled the seat and drove the legs further into the sand. He
continued to glare at me.
‘If you have something you want to say why not say it instead of looking at my friend like that? Don’t
you see he is a stranger here? He is not used to our ways,’ the Cameroonian said. It hadn’t occurred
to me that there was anything particularly strange about the policeman’s ‘ways’. The policeman
shrugged and stood up. He swayed on his feet and shuffled away. The Cameroonian shook his head.
‘I’m tired,’ I said.
‘Would you like to sleep? Wait here.’
He went over to a nearby table and started talking to one of the women. Every so often they glanced
at me. Finally he came back.
‘I told her that we are both working for the Lower Benue Basin Authority and that we arrived in Yola
too late to meet our boss. I told her that you were very tired and wanted to sleep. She said you can
rent her room for N5.’ He beckoned the woman over and introduced her as Juliana. She was a tall
woman in a cheap cotton dress that fell below her knees.
‘You see how we are with these people,’ he said, meaning me. ‘He bought beer for another woman.
You know that these white men don’t discriminate among us as we do. But she just went away without
asking if she could help him. And then you saw the policeman just now. What will he think of us?’
Juliana looked appropriately downcast. She kept her face averted and told us to follow her. We
entered one of the cubicles. There was a bed, a chair, a table. A single unshaded red bulb dangled
from the ceiling. A few clothes hung from a nail on the back of the door. I lay on the bed. The
Cameroonian asked me if I had money for beer. Juliana continued to look downcast.
‘I am so ashamed,’ she finally said.
‘Why?’
‘Because of the way we have treated you. You must think badly of us.’
The Cameroonian had evidently laid it on a bit thick. I asked her about herself. She said she was
from Katsina-Ala; that her husband had been killed two years ago in an accident at the factory; and that
she had come to Yola to earn money. Her two children lived in Katsina-Ala. They were looked after by
her mother-in-law. As she talked I began to drop off.
I woke with first light. Juliana was standing over the bed. She handed me a plastic lunch box
containing a piece of soap and a sponge.
When I had washed and dressed the Cameroonian came and asked me for N5. I gave it to him. After
he had gone Juliana said:
‘Your friend is not from Cameroon.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He is from my place. He can speak Tiv very well. Be careful, he will cheat you.’
I gave her N10. She asked me if she could have my St. Christopher. I explained that it had magical
properties for my protection and so I couldn’t be separated from it. She understood and didn’t press
me. The Cameroonian, sandals in hand, came back again and we left.
He had got it into his head that we were going to visit his brother together but I was anxious to be rid
of him. I knew he was broke; I didn’t believe in his brother; I wanted to push on to Maiduguri. I
pretended to suddenly remember an appointment I had in Maiduguri. I promised that I would be back in
a couple of days and would meet him at the nightclub. He wasn’t stupid; he didn’t believe me. I didn’t
care. He walked me to the motor-park and then went on his way.
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