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minutes of the same I stood up to leave. They, too, stirred. I offered my
hand to the old man. Before I was through the doorway he had lain down
to sleep.
There is a rider to this story. Six months later, in London, another
Nigerian friend of mine, also from Ogbomosho, told me he had just been
back for a short visit. He had called in at Ben’s house. He had met the
father. The father had told him that some time ago a visitor from England
had come with a few presents and a letter but had left in a hurry. The
visitor, he said, kept looking at his watch and had refused even to eat. He
himself had returned from the farm shortly after the visitor had gone. He
had sent people to Ilorin – the next town north and where I was headed –
to try and catch him but without success. My friend said: ‘He’s an old, old
man. He wants to see his son again before he dies. I gave them some
money. It wasn’t much; it was all I could afford. But it isn’t money that
they want. They want to see their son again. They want him to get
married and produce grandchildren for them.’
On the way back to the hospital a motorcycle pulled level with the taxi.
My companion leaned out of the window and shouted something to the
man riding pillion. The motorcycle followed the taxi to the hospital. The
pillion rider hurried over to me.
‘So you know Ben?’ he asked, grabbing my hand firmly.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in London.’
‘When is he coming back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s fine. He asked me to deliver some things to his parents.’
The man turned to the woman and said something. Then, to me:
‘Thank you, thank you, we are grateful. You have done well. Please
greet him for us when you return. Tell him we are waiting for him. You
have made us very happy. We are grateful.’
He climbed on the motorbike, waved, and they sped off in a cloud of
dust.
I was given back my stool. A soft drink was pushed into my hand.
They women gathered around my escort as she relayed the details of the
day’s adventure. From time to time one of the traders glanced at me and
smiled in approval. When I finished my drink I indicated that I wanted to
continue on my way.
‘Ilorin,’ I said. They nodded. I was about to get up when one of them
pushed me down again. Presently an ancient mini-bus, jammed to
capacity and with its undercarriage all but scraping the ground, turned the
corner. They hailed it. I was given the conductor’s seat; the conductor, a
young man in filthy shorts, hung precariously out of the door for the
remainder of the journey. It took us less than an hour. At Ilorin motor-
park I booked a seat in a long-distance taxi to Kaduna.
hand to the old man. Before I was through the doorway he had lain down
to sleep.
There is a rider to this story. Six months later, in London, another
Nigerian friend of mine, also from Ogbomosho, told me he had just been
back for a short visit. He had called in at Ben’s house. He had met the
father. The father had told him that some time ago a visitor from England
had come with a few presents and a letter but had left in a hurry. The
visitor, he said, kept looking at his watch and had refused even to eat. He
himself had returned from the farm shortly after the visitor had gone. He
had sent people to Ilorin – the next town north and where I was headed –
to try and catch him but without success. My friend said: ‘He’s an old, old
man. He wants to see his son again before he dies. I gave them some
money. It wasn’t much; it was all I could afford. But it isn’t money that
they want. They want to see their son again. They want him to get
married and produce grandchildren for them.’
On the way back to the hospital a motorcycle pulled level with the taxi.
My companion leaned out of the window and shouted something to the
man riding pillion. The motorcycle followed the taxi to the hospital. The
pillion rider hurried over to me.
‘So you know Ben?’ he asked, grabbing my hand firmly.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in London.’
‘When is he coming back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s fine. He asked me to deliver some things to his parents.’
The man turned to the woman and said something. Then, to me:
‘Thank you, thank you, we are grateful. You have done well. Please
greet him for us when you return. Tell him we are waiting for him. You
have made us very happy. We are grateful.’
He climbed on the motorbike, waved, and they sped off in a cloud of
dust.
I was given back my stool. A soft drink was pushed into my hand.
They women gathered around my escort as she relayed the details of the
day’s adventure. From time to time one of the traders glanced at me and
smiled in approval. When I finished my drink I indicated that I wanted to
continue on my way.
‘Ilorin,’ I said. They nodded. I was about to get up when one of them
pushed me down again. Presently an ancient mini-bus, jammed to
capacity and with its undercarriage all but scraping the ground, turned the
corner. They hailed it. I was given the conductor’s seat; the conductor, a
young man in filthy shorts, hung precariously out of the door for the
remainder of the journey. It took us less than an hour. At Ilorin motor-
park I booked a seat in a long-distance taxi to Kaduna.