clothes that tells the world this man has a purpose, a career, a proper place. All those wonderful illusions. Believe them and it’s just as good as if they were true. Now I feel like a stick man in a sack, throttled at the neck. My blue tie with pink splotches. Maryse will remember. Her sister’s wedding. A hundred lifetimes ago. Maryse’s father bringing that young thing, what was her name? Mercedes. With the drug problem. She kept ducking out to the washroom and then drifting back, enlightened.
“Where is it?” Joanne asks. She’s standing by the door of my apartment dressed in a black silk shirt, burgundy bolero jacket embroidered in gold, and flared, 1970s-style pants. She’s even in cloggy high-heeled shoes that make her tower over me. She’s a bit like looking at the sun, she’s so brilliant, and so I keep my eyes lowered. Not for me this beauty, not even if I wanted it.
She repeats her question and I say, “I have no idea where it is. Some things are beyond my shrinking brain.”
“They don’t have to be,” she says. “What’s it called? Wicked Ash?”
“I have no idea.”
“If you don’t use it you lose it.”
“That’s one theory,” I say. “The one I’m operating on is ‘Take it easy, don’t wear yourself out.’ ”
Joanne eventually figures out where we’re going. Wicked Ash Gallery in the Glebe. I let her explain it to the cab driver, Abrahim Abinulla from Nigeria. He drives with one eye on the road and the other looking back at Joanne. Normally she can wheedle a life story out of a taxi driver, but this time Abrahim has her talking about her one trip to Lagos.
“My friend was supposed to meet me at the airport. He was teaching in a village about three hours away and he said, ‘If I’m not there on time you wait. Don’t go off with any Nigerians.’ ”
“Careful, careful with Nigerians,” Abrahim says. I expect a grin but he’s serious. “Some of those guys slit your throat to get your passport.”
“Well, I waited and I waited, no Jeremy,” Joanne says. “I had no one to call. It got dark. These men kept approaching me, offering to bring me to a good hotel. I said my friend was coming to get me. The men said they’d bring me to stay at their aunt’s house. She had an extra room and would give me a good price. I said, no thanks. They went away and came back, went away and came back. Soldiers kept looking at me. There were police too, walking by, staring. Not good. Finally it was midnight and I knew Jeremy wasn’t coming. I picked up my pack and three soldiers started to trail me, two police, another bunch of men. The guy with the aunt. My God. I started to run. They followed. I felt as if I’d been separated from the herd by hyenas. I saw this taxi and jumped in and locked all thedoors. Do you know why I’m so good to taxi drivers? Because of Charles at the Lagos airport. He knew exactly what was happening and he sped away even before I told him where we were going. He said, ‘Sheraton Hotel, yes, ma’am?’ and I said, ‘Sounds good to me. How fast can you get there?’
“We hit a roadblock almost immediately. Soldiers, only they didn’t act like soldiers. They wanted me to get out of the car. I said, forget it. I showed them my passport through the window. Charles talked to them and then some more soldiers came up behind us in a Jeep, the same ones from the airport. I slid down in my seat. Charles talked and talked. He wouldn’t leave the car either. I don’t know what he said to get us out of there, but he got me to the Sheraton Hotel that night. I paid him seventy-five U.S. dollars and told him to be back to get me at eight o’clock the next morning. I bribed my way left and right, flew all the way to Cape Town to get back to Kigali. Goodbye, Lagos! I’ve never felt so relieved to be leaving a place.”
Abrahim says much of his family is still there. “I keep sending them money,” he says. “I think I support half the country by
“Where is it?” Joanne asks. She’s standing by the door of my apartment dressed in a black silk shirt, burgundy bolero jacket embroidered in gold, and flared, 1970s-style pants. She’s even in cloggy high-heeled shoes that make her tower over me. She’s a bit like looking at the sun, she’s so brilliant, and so I keep my eyes lowered. Not for me this beauty, not even if I wanted it.
She repeats her question and I say, “I have no idea where it is. Some things are beyond my shrinking brain.”
“They don’t have to be,” she says. “What’s it called? Wicked Ash?”
“I have no idea.”
“If you don’t use it you lose it.”
“That’s one theory,” I say. “The one I’m operating on is ‘Take it easy, don’t wear yourself out.’ ”
Joanne eventually figures out where we’re going. Wicked Ash Gallery in the Glebe. I let her explain it to the cab driver, Abrahim Abinulla from Nigeria. He drives with one eye on the road and the other looking back at Joanne. Normally she can wheedle a life story out of a taxi driver, but this time Abrahim has her talking about her one trip to Lagos.
“My friend was supposed to meet me at the airport. He was teaching in a village about three hours away and he said, ‘If I’m not there on time you wait. Don’t go off with any Nigerians.’ ”
“Careful, careful with Nigerians,” Abrahim says. I expect a grin but he’s serious. “Some of those guys slit your throat to get your passport.”
“Well, I waited and I waited, no Jeremy,” Joanne says. “I had no one to call. It got dark. These men kept approaching me, offering to bring me to a good hotel. I said my friend was coming to get me. The men said they’d bring me to stay at their aunt’s house. She had an extra room and would give me a good price. I said, no thanks. They went away and came back, went away and came back. Soldiers kept looking at me. There were police too, walking by, staring. Not good. Finally it was midnight and I knew Jeremy wasn’t coming. I picked up my pack and three soldiers started to trail me, two police, another bunch of men. The guy with the aunt. My God. I started to run. They followed. I felt as if I’d been separated from the herd by hyenas. I saw this taxi and jumped in and locked all thedoors. Do you know why I’m so good to taxi drivers? Because of Charles at the Lagos airport. He knew exactly what was happening and he sped away even before I told him where we were going. He said, ‘Sheraton Hotel, yes, ma’am?’ and I said, ‘Sounds good to me. How fast can you get there?’
“We hit a roadblock almost immediately. Soldiers, only they didn’t act like soldiers. They wanted me to get out of the car. I said, forget it. I showed them my passport through the window. Charles talked to them and then some more soldiers came up behind us in a Jeep, the same ones from the airport. I slid down in my seat. Charles talked and talked. He wouldn’t leave the car either. I don’t know what he said to get us out of there, but he got me to the Sheraton Hotel that night. I paid him seventy-five U.S. dollars and told him to be back to get me at eight o’clock the next morning. I bribed my way left and right, flew all the way to Cape Town to get back to Kigali. Goodbye, Lagos! I’ve never felt so relieved to be leaving a place.”
Abrahim says much of his family is still there. “I keep sending them money,” he says. “I think I support half the country by
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