EIGHT
9/12 Lagos
Desmond Greer amp; others are back. I like him. Back story is ghetto kid, horrible family, street-fighting man, now cool with white academic culture. Headed for the usual, dope amp; crime, one Sunday he happens to drop into the Field Museum to get out of the cold, runs into Ndeki Mfwese, the greatest African Africanist of his generation. Des sees this carbon-colored guy in flowing robes amp; skullcap floating down the hallway amp; he follows him like, as he says, the pied fucking piper. Mfwese befriends him amp; the rest is history. Man knows more about Yoruba cosmology amp; religion than most Yorubas do, he’s an initiate in the Shango cult, adopted into the Ogunfiditimi clan. He’s incredibly sweet to me, as if he knows what happened the last time I tried fieldwork?strange because I don’t even know that. He knows M., though … has he talked to him? About me? A natural anthropologist, like M., that scuba-diver talent, total immersion amp; then withdrawal. Where does it come from? Deracination? M. a Jew, a refugee in childhood, transplanted into French culture, family killed by the Nazis. Des a black guy in white (mainly) profession.
W. somewhat frosty to him, and I can’t figure out why. Oedipal thing? Jealousy of Des’s authentic ghetto upbringing? A little spat later in our room.
The rest of the crew reasonably pleasant. Coleman Lyttel amp; Carol Washington are Des’s grad students; Godwin Adepojin, Nigerian grad student, did his undergraduate work in the States at Madison, back home to do his dissertation under Des on Aripon mask dancing in the Ketu region. Godwin, unfortunately, has made himself into what seems to me a parody of hip-hop-ness, backwards ball cap, baggies, big sneaks, the boxer shorts over the belt line. Tunji worships him as a god. Music sometimes drifts through the hotel?he has a boom box in his room?and it drives W. nuts. Six thousand miles amp; I still have to listen to Dr. Dre? A little culture war available for study without leaving the premises.
Des not pushing me, my Yoruba still crummy, also studying the dialects over in Egbado, Gelede cult center. Godwin helping me at this, because his area is in the same region, to the west, in Nigeria amp; the Rep. of Benin. In return I am teaching him French, as Benin (where Ketu proper is located) is Francophone. Des thinks Gelede will be a good area for me, a female-dominated witch cult, one of the few here in macho Africa.
Also working with Ola Soronmu = project major domo, semi-official liaison with the bureaucracy amp; our all-around fixer. Mrs. Bassey has no use for him, confirms my general opinion, hints broadly that he was connected with the military government. Mrs. B. says he is low, a flash man.
Ola’s working w/ me on our shipment problem, cases containing laptops, tape recorders amp; video equipment, Honda DC generator, solar power rigs, accessories amp; spares. Most bought w/ Doe Foundation funds, so I have been elected to sort it out. Ola slippery as a smelt, things are complex, video equipment, the authorities don’t know what you will do with it, it is political … short version: they claim we want to make porno films. Oh, yes, this is a big problem, Europeans come here amp; buy girls amp; little boys amp; make terrible movies. Lie so outrageous, I’m not sure he even believed it himself. Who wants the bribe? A Colonel Alouf Musa, who controls air shipping in amp; out, hence a smuggler amp; an extortionist. Been bribed already according to O., still refuses to part with our stuff.
Organized expedition to yell at Musa, Ola objecting. The Colonel was a busy man. The Colonel was not a small person, you understand, in the government, he had many friends, truly, Jane, seriously, this is not done, this is not at all done. All the way to the car. W. came, too, and we set out for the airport. W. amp; Ola are best buddies now. Ola somehow got hold of one of W.’s poetry collections, and quotes him from time to time, always the way to my man’s heart. It’s great that he has a pal, because I think he is more disoriented by Africa than he lets on. I don’t think it was what he expected. I tried to talk to him about it the other night, when he was silent during dinner, and morose afterwards, which is not like him at all. In NY, he was always the life of the party. But he wouldn’t cop to anything being wrong.
State House on Lagos Island, past the gunned-up scary teenagers in green uniforms. Ola nervous, talking rapidly, he had been here before, and got the runaround, I didn’t listen to him, stupid probably, and simply barged into Colonel Musa’s office. Air-conditioned, expensive furniture, raffia on the walls. I demanded to see the Colonel. The Colonel was fat amp; covered with medals, probably for rape above amp; beyond call of duty, valorous murder of helpless civilians. He was leaning back in a big leather chair, cleaning his nails with an ivory letter-opener, the complete image of not-busy. W. should put this character into a book. He said our equipment impounded subject to judicial hearing. Bullshit about making pornography?video cameras, computers?the regime was suppressing this vice.
Didn’t bother to object to this absurdity, demanded to see stuff in warehouse. He refused. Light dawned, wasn’t bigger bribe he wanted, bastard had ripped off the shipment, probably sold it already. I accused him of this, got yelled at, shook his fist, said I’d insulted honor of Nigerian Army, serious crime, threat of prison. I said, just try, bub. He started screaming in a language I didn’t understand, prob. Hausa? then four soldiers came in amp; dragged us out amp; tossed us onto the street. Bruises, amp; Ola’s nice suit ripped knees amp; lapels. W. weird, almost jolly about it, said you sure showed him! Lawsie me, Miss Ann, she threwed a tantrum amp; de darky didn’t do what she said. Whatever is de world coming to? Kicked him in the ankle, went back to the car, drove in silence until I saw that we were passing the main post office, stopped car, went in, called Dad.
Explained rip-off?he got upset too. Doe family gives it away but can’t stand getting robbed, which made me feel that I wasn’t crazy, or not crazy about this issue, amp; he said he’d call Hank amp; Uncle Bill amp; they’d take care of it. Famous Doe Family Emergency Red Handle, not for me personally, but principle of the thing.
Back at the truck, W. asked did I call Daddy and I said, as a matter of fact, I did. Got some more mockery. Why is he doing this?
Then back to Yaba amp; I went up to our room to collapse amp; Ola Soronmu amp; W. went off to get a drink. When he came back, I was pretty chilly to him, he was drunk, trying charm, like with Mom at Sionnet. Mom likes being with charming drunks, me amp; Dad being no fun. Mom not here in Lagos however amp; I resented it amp; the more he charmed the more I resented it. He tried to be masterful amp; sexy, said a good fuck would clear the air. Lost it then, screaming how dare he trot out that Miss Ann horseshit amp; how dare he imply it was racist to get our stuff back from a corrupt thief, representative of a regime that had murdered amp; tormented more black people than KKK, plus Musa stealing from locals since we were donating that stuff to poor starving University of Lagos.
He came back with I didn’t understand, how I couldn’t comprehend this country because I was locked up in white skin, I had embarrassed Ola with pushy neocolonial ways, how dare I impose discredited Eurocentric concepts on black men! Exactly the kind of speech W. would have put into mouth of some dashiki-wearing associate professor of black studies as parody.
Threw things then, water jug, washbasin, bedside lamp, alarm clock, a copy of The Yoruba of Southwestern Nigeria, by W. R. Bascom, yelling who the fuck are you amp; what have you done with my husband? Haven’t thrown things before, so missed with most, except clock, which broke.
Flung myself onto the bed and burst into tears, exactly like Scarlett fucking O’Hara-type person he was making me into.