Dear Beneficiary Read online

  ‘I bloody hate flying, don’t you, babe?’ said my fellow passenger in the gravelly voice of one who smokes on a regular basis.

  ‘Well, not really,’ I said, wondering if my new companion knew Nigeria has the worst air safety record in the world. Darius had told me that fact after some crash where the plane had been declared unsafe but the pilot flew it anyway – into a block of flats killing all the passengers and destroying the homes of many families. The airline’s management admitted manslaughter and closed their company, after investigations revealed they were uninsured and heavily underfunded.

  ‘The name’s Tracey. Or Trace. Why you going to Lagos, then? Got yourself a bit of black?’.

  I baulked at my relationship with Darius being described as getting myself ‘a bit of black’, and wanted to argue my case, although I thought an honest explanation of my relationship could be deemed implausible, however vehemently I might have defended it. I also stopped myself from automatically saying I was pleased to meet ‘Trace’, as I felt quite the opposite.

  However, I did feel the need to ask why this common-looking woman, dressed in what I thought could only be described as highly irregular attire for her advancing years, was on her way to Lagos.

  ‘Cos me man is out there, hun. I love him like no other,’ said Tracey, turning to reveal a nose piercing which I’d previously thought was a spot. ‘Can’t do nuffin about it when you want him, know what I mean? He’s asked me to marry him,’ she said – showing a ring that probably cost less than forty pounds, including the presentation box. ‘I said yes, although he’s only a baby. Twenty years older than him, I am. The number of people who ask me if I worried about the age difference and how it might affect our future. But if he dies, he dies!’ she said, cackling to herself.

  I recoiled at the poor elocution of the woman who I’d also noticed had particularly bad teeth and somewhat ravaged skin. Tracey’s choice of a short-sleeved top exposing bingo wings of an excessive nature, plus a poorly fitting bra allowing her voluminous breasts to dangle dangerously unhindered, added to my revulsion. She was fitting earplugs from a mobile phone into place when she turned round and asked:

  ‘So what you going to Nigeria for, then, if it ain’t a bloke? You one of those church people or summin’?’

  If only she knew. I wasn’t sure what to say for fear of giving too much away, not only about my relationship with Darius, but also my impending wealth. This woman did not need to know I was likely to be exceedingly rich very soon. Who knows where it could lead, so I just nodded.

  ‘Yes, something like that,’ I replied, and pretended to go to sleep. I still couldn’t get the smell from the back of the plane out of my nose and wondered what it was. It reminded me of Christmas Eve five years ago when I put the turkey in the oven on a timer but set it for four hours earlier than I meant to. Colin had woken up choking from the smell of burning. We had pork that year. And I was force-fed humble pie.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When the plane hit some heavy turbulence an hour or so into the flight I was obliged to open my eyes as Tracey was screaming ‘We’re all going to die’ at the top of her voice. Standing in her seat, she was demanding she be let off the plane immediately.

  ‘Get me off this bloody thing. We’re going to die, we are all going to die,’ she proclaimed to no one in particular.

  I would’ve been quite happy to allow her to disembark while the plane was fully airborne but decided instead to try and calm her down.

  ‘Turbulence is quite normal – it just means the plane is reacting to the air and pressure around it. Nothing to worry about,’ I told her, repeating what I’d been told when I first flew. I could remember being scared, but not behaving like a raving lunatic, as Tracey was now doing.

  The hostesses showed little reaction to the outburst, bored no doubt by the frequency of such panic, and let me deal with the situation. After a few minutes of talking her through the flight process – as well as pointing out that the stewards were quite happily going about their business, which indicated nothing was wrong – Tracey calmed down.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m on this bleedin’ thing anyway. Bastard probably won’t marry me when I get there,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ve only seen him for three weeks in eight months and two of those were when we were on hols in Magaluf. Half the time I don’t know if I’m coming or going.’

  Then she laughed nervously. ‘Actually I always know when I’m coming! One thing the bugger is good at.’

  I resisted the urge to concur, adding my own views on the superiority of shiny black men in the bedroom department and flicked through the in-flight magazine which had mostly been torn apart, rendering it unreadable.

  We were nearing the end of the flight before I’d calmed Tracey down completely, as she was prone to repetitive agitation and panic. I’d kept her seated for most of the time, mainly by asking questions about herself, which was a subject she found very engaging. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when the hostesses started to rush about the plane for no apparent reason. The smell we’d noticed when we first sat down had got worse throughout the flight, and now there was a constant smog around the rear toilets, one of which was blocked and leaking into the cabin, adding further fumes to the already acrid mixture. Despite repeated questions to the stewards about it from various travellers, everyone was assured it was all perfectly normal.

  And then came the announcement: ‘We are sorry to tell you we’re experiencing problems with one of our engines and may have to undertake an emergency landing. Please brace yourself and pray to your god.’

  That did it for Tracey. If ‘bracing yourself’ meant jumping up and down and crying hysterically then she was doing a very good job. I got out of my seat and ransacked the contents of the drinks trolley, to no resistance from the now petrified air crew, one of whom was clutching a crucifix and repeating the Hail Mary over and over. Throughout the aisles Africans were on their knees with their hands clasped together, some were on their mobile phones, despite their use not being permitted in-flight, leaving messages for loved ones. Others were catatonic, staring into some kind of middle distance that offered a neutral solace against the prospect of impending doom. The big black lady I’d fallen into was reciting the Lord’s Prayer very loudly from her seat, demanding that those around her join in.

  Chucking twelve small bottles of brandy at Tracey, and keeping four for my own internal emergency, I told her, ‘Drink this. Whatever happens it might help to be drunk at the time.’

  Tracey seemed only too happy to oblige, and between us we necked the whole lot in a matter of seconds, while the plane rumbled and rolled, dropping bumpily out of the sky and eventually heavily, but thankfully not too dangerously, onto the tarmac below.

  ‘We’re pleased to report we have landed safe and sound on the main runway at Lagos airport. The pilot would like to apologise for any concern, and asks you to remain in your seats while an external check is made of the plane and suitable arrangements are made for your exit,’ said a voice over the tannoy.

  All the passengers, when they realised they were still alive and had been given the explanation that a large bird had been caught up in one of the rear engines, probably since take-off, clapped gleefully and whooped with joy. All but Tracey, who looked completely stunned, as if her expectations couldn’t have been more wrong.

  ‘Bloody hell. We’ve made it. Thought we were goners then.’

  A fire engine raced to the side of the runway and a team of around twenty officials hurried to the front of the plane. After a few minutes we were told we could leave by the front exit.

  My own relief at landing in one piece was palpable, even though I did try to keep my emotions to myself for the sake of dignity and good breeding. There was no need for screaming and crying at the inevitable. But my resolve nearly crumbled when we got out on the runway and felt the searing heat of the tarmac at Murtala Muhammed airport. Walking towards the arrivals area I thought I’d stumbled into one of those refugee camps
you see on the Comic Relief films, with so many people sitting around on lumpy luggage.

  ‘Jesus H. Christ, what is this dump?’ I heard Tracey shout from a distance behind. Despite all efforts to shake her off, the woman seemed to be following me.

  In front of us was a large white building full of people struggling with massive amounts of luggage, in sapping heat and humidity. A throng stood before a varied selection of what looked like makeshift service counters, manned by bored and shifty-looking customs officials who were stopping people at random and taking inordinate amounts of time looking through their cases. Most seemed to enjoy extracting the most embarrassing contents they could find and holding them aloft for all to see.

  Scrabble sets, underwear, vibrators and mobile phones attracted the most attention. And anything belonging to anyone who looked like they would play the backhander game of parting with dollars for an easy passage through security.

  I couldn’t see any type of queue or system when it came to getting out of the place.

  ‘Where on earth are British citizens supposed to go?’ I asked one of the passengers in front of me. ‘It’s chaos. There should be a proper queue.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky,’ drawled the suited man in response. ‘This place is nothing but a scrum. I hope you’ve got some cash on you, preferably dollars, or you’ll never get out of the place.’

  He pulled out a wad of notes from the inside of his loosely fitted jacket and marched towards one of the customs officers, who appeared to know him.

  ‘Jager, good to see you,’ I heard him greet the uniformed man. I strained to hear any more of the conversation but at that point was moved to one side by what I thought might be a police officer, although it was difficult to tell as he was chewing gum and had his jacket open to the third button, which I considered wasn’t very professional.

  ‘Here. Over here,’ he ordered, yanking on my right arm to get me into the throng of what I assumed were tourists, based on their sheep-like mentality when it came to dealing with the process of getting out of the airport. I found myself wedged up close to Tracey, who was trying to make a call on her mobile phone.

  ‘Bloody thing doesn’t work. Been ringing Abassi since we landed and no tone,’ she said.

  ‘Well, maybe he’ll be waiting for you on the other side,’ I said, wishing the woman would go away. I felt she was the type of person who created trouble without knowing it.

  ‘Better be,’ she replied. ‘He owes me five grand.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I walked through the revolving doors from the airport’s arrivals area and onto the pavement outside, then wondered what to do. Having managed to deal with the corrupt practices of the customs officers with harsh words and my sternest countenance, I didn’t know what to expect next.

  I looked at the Western Union address on the email again and tried to see if I could find a map, but there didn’t seem to be anything at all. Not even an information desk.

  The heat was oppressive and the sheer volume of people in the area overwhelming. So when Tracey came over to ask where I was going, I couldn’t help but feel pleased to see her; mainly for the vague idea I might be able to use my new acquaintance as some kind of bargaining tool with the locals.

  ‘I can’t get through to Baz at all. The number isn’t bloody working,’ said Tracey as she bowed her head to pull a cigarette out of a packet with her teeth. As she blew smoke out of her mouth from the first puff she added: ‘Bet the arsehole has forgotten.’

  As we stood together, asking each other what to do next, a lean and well-dressed man appeared from one of the few clean cars parked outside the arrivals area.

  ‘I think you might be expecting me. Where you looking to go, ladies?’ he asked, walking purposefully towards us. He was about six feet tall and wearing well-cut trousers and a brightly clean white shirt that showed off his dark skin. He had a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on top of his head and dangled his car keys in his left hand, reaching out his right as he approached us.

  I noticed how long his fingers were as he touched my arm in greeting: ‘I’m Fasina and will be your guide while you stay in Nigeria.’

  He had a slight American lilt to his well-spoken, otherwise African, accent, and while I thought his approach rather presumptuous, decided in the circumstances it might be a good idea to have someone with us who knew their way around.

  ‘I’m looking for this address,’ I said, showing him the email I’d printed out before leaving home. ‘I need to find my friend Darius, or Osezua as he is known here,’ I mentioned, hopefully.

  I ignored Tracey who took her attention away from her phone for once. She was unlikely to have anything interesting to say so I looked around for someone who might be in authority.

  A plane took off overhead as Tracey told Fasina: ‘I’m looking for Abassi Osolase. Do you know him?’

  He seemed to smile to himself as he looked carefully at the address he had been shown, but I put it down to the fact he had as low an opinion of Tracey’s appearance as I did.

  Fasina moved close to us as if in conspiracy.

  ‘No problem, my ladies, you’re safe with me. I know everyone. Come, I have a car with air conditioning. And put your phone away, it will get snatched here. There are big problems with crime and many thieves.’

  That was enough to persuade me to trust this man. He knew the dangers and was well-spoken. After some negotiation he said he’d charge us four thousand naira, just over fifteen pounds, to take us to our destinations, which seemed a fair price – particularly if he was going to put me back in touch with Darius.

  If hope could rise it was doing so in my nether regions. I was sweating profusely, so much so that my knickers were stuck to my bottom and I was sure I was developing an unsightly damp patch. I desperately wanted a shower, something to eat and a change of clothes. I started to feel completely out of place. Which I suppose I was.

  Meanwhile, Tracey seemed to be happy to come along for the ride, and while Fasina placed our luggage in the boot we got comfortable in the back of the old, but classic, Saab estate.

  As we drove away from the airport, I looked at the vast numbers of people who were spilling out of the airport without any sense of order. The crowds were untamed, animate and busy. It was almost impossible to think one country could find enough for so many people to do at one time.

  Fasina talked throughout the whole journey about Nigeria, its people, customs and expectations. He also claimed Nigeria was on its way to destruction, that the resources of the country were being looted by the same people who had a duty to protect and preserve it.

  ‘We cannot continue like this,’ he said. ‘The World Bank actually warned us to focus on managing resources and plan ahead, but our leaders – most of them self-appointed – have no respect for our system and state.’

  I thought he was on a bit of a soap box. It wasn’t any different to listening to some of the bridge club members going on about leftie liberals and the need to bring back national service. It wasn’t my place to comment, and Tracey was preoccupied with her non-existent phone service.

  ‘They abuse, exploit, disrespect and manipulate our processes, policies, systems, laws and procedures to maximise their own gains and to take undue advantage of the nation and the people,’ he went on.

  ‘Thieves run our nation and control our resources while the majority of our people wallow in abject poverty; many are hopeless. Does the sight of a homeless, helpless and jobless youth not worry those who lead us?’

  He went on to talk about something called the Ribadu Report, which I’d little interest in, but felt I had to feign some curiosity since Tracey made it clear she wasn’t going to listen to anything about this man’s country, so obsessed had she become with trying to make her phone work.

  I wasn’t quite sure of his point. His tirade went on to cover fuel scams and the dirty deals of Nigeria's oil ministers.

  ‘The current band of thieves must not be allowed to go unpunished. The civi
l society must be active and take the front seat in ensuring every penny stolen is recovered, the thieves punished severely, and the funds used to make the nation better,’ continued Fasina.

  I half-listened but found my anxiety about finding Darius growing with every minute. I wasn’t terribly interested in supposed corruption, as it really had nothing to do with me. I was just looking for a friend and wasn’t bothered about how these people ran the country, which felt a long way from the suburban glades of Surrey, England.

  I took in the scenery as we drove through Lagos, which was a world entirely different to anything I’d seen before. What started as a journey through an apparently prosperous area changed abruptly as we drove past dark and dirty alleys barely wide enough for two people to pass. Where before I’d seen suited men going about their business, the people in the streets looked downtrodden and undernourished. Children weren’t playing, but carrying large pots and packages on their heads, taking part in activities that would be alien to any of the children I’ve known.

  Tracey had put her headphones in and didn’t seem to notice what was going on, so I continued to concentrate on the journey, making a mental note about the differences between home and Lagos. It was quite difficult to find appropriate comparisons, as I asked myself if parents cared about their offspring in any way or just needed them to fetch and carry. What about supermarkets or schools? Did anyone play golf? Did teenagers have computers? I thought fondly of Tom at that moment and felt some guilt I hadn’t told anyone in the family that I was going on a trip – quite an unusual one at that.

  After a few minutes in my own thoughts, I noticed Fasina had gone quiet but reckoned maybe he’d had enough of talking to us, particularly as my companion wasn’t responding at all, unless singing along to a pop song out of tune counted.

  Twenty more minutes into the drive I saw a sign for Manita and was surprised to find we were entering a district that appeared to be built on stilts, elevating all the buildings above a shallow lagoon. The roads were narrow and the houses derelict. There were very few cars, which I assumed was down to poverty.