the beach. I felt his knees buckle briefly.
âAi, I didnât think you were so heavy,â he said as he tipped me onto my feet.
âI weigh nine and a quarter stone. How heavy should I be?â
âYouâve been eating too much yam,â he informed me, examining my frame at armâs length.
The beach was relatively empty at that time of the day. A bald friend of Samâs bounded up to him, slung an arm around his shoulders and whispered conspiratorially into his ear, eyes darting towards me between giggles. I caught the words â. . . at least ten thousand naira,â and prepared myself for the scheming that was to come.
Sam and I sat down on some chairs near a handful of people beneath a shady tree, opposite a makeshift wooden bar run by a female friend of his. For once, I heard birdsong and the rustle of trees in the breeze. Even the gentle whoosh of the sea waves â normally drowned out by Lagosâs noise pollution â was a novelty. I closed my eyes and imagined that we were in the Caribbean, less than 10 kilometres away from Lagos. But my illusions were swiftly demolished when I opened my eyes and turned to face the sea.
Tarkwa Bay sat right in the middle of oil tanker traffic. The huge vessels sailed so close to the beach I thought I was hallucinating. Almost noiseless, they moved along at an unexpectedly fast pace. One minute they were blobs on the horizon, the next minute they were partially obliterating the sunlight as they cruised past like mobile edifices 20 metres from the shore.
Sam and I chatted for an hour or so under the tree. Like me, he was thirty-one years old, an ethnic Birom from central Nigeria, the son of a retired air force pilot. Most of his brothers and sisters were living and working in the US.
âDo you ever want to go to the States?â I asked him. He shrugged his shoulders.
âMaybe one day,â he drawled quietly. âIf God wants it to happen it will happen.â Sam had that preoccupied expression adopted by people who spend time with you solely in the pursuit of money. He wasnât in the mood for conversation. He sat back and stifled a yawn.
âWhat were you doing last night?â I asked.
âI was in a bar on Lekki with some friends. We watched football, danced . . .â Samâs words petered into silence. I bet heâd seduced a woman or two as well. He had the looks and essence of a successful womaniser.
âAre you married?â he asked me. I sighed impatiently. Peopleâs curiosity about me could be frustratingly one-dimensional.
âNo. Are you?â
âNo,â he said. âI hope God will find me a wife soon. I am tired of sinning.â
âWhat do you mean, âsinningâ?â
âIâm tired of committing fornication,â he said, hanging his head in fake shame. I tried to keep a straight face. He took sips of ogogoro , a hot alcoholic drink, and stared dramatically into the sand.
We took a walk along the beach, past a lone, sumptuous-looking house overlooking the water. Sam said it belonged to a European expat.
âMy best friend died here,â Sam said out of the blue. He said the oil pipeline at Tarkwa Bay caught fire and exploded, killing hundreds of people. Samâs best friend was one of them. The locals regularly smash holes in the pipes to steal fuel thatâs otherwise beyond their purchasing power. Nigeria loses millions of barrels of petroleum every year this way from pipelines around the country. The pipes bleed oil until the professionals can repair them. Carelessly lit cigarettes or paraffin lamps can start such fires.
âAde didnât tell anyone he was stealing oil,â Sam said. âHis wife had a baby girl. The naming ceremony was due . . . he needed money to pay for it.â
The fireball engulfed everyone in 900°C flames. Some died within seconds; others, including Ade, staggered towards the beach, ghoulishly charred and
âAi, I didnât think you were so heavy,â he said as he tipped me onto my feet.
âI weigh nine and a quarter stone. How heavy should I be?â
âYouâve been eating too much yam,â he informed me, examining my frame at armâs length.
The beach was relatively empty at that time of the day. A bald friend of Samâs bounded up to him, slung an arm around his shoulders and whispered conspiratorially into his ear, eyes darting towards me between giggles. I caught the words â. . . at least ten thousand naira,â and prepared myself for the scheming that was to come.
Sam and I sat down on some chairs near a handful of people beneath a shady tree, opposite a makeshift wooden bar run by a female friend of his. For once, I heard birdsong and the rustle of trees in the breeze. Even the gentle whoosh of the sea waves â normally drowned out by Lagosâs noise pollution â was a novelty. I closed my eyes and imagined that we were in the Caribbean, less than 10 kilometres away from Lagos. But my illusions were swiftly demolished when I opened my eyes and turned to face the sea.
Tarkwa Bay sat right in the middle of oil tanker traffic. The huge vessels sailed so close to the beach I thought I was hallucinating. Almost noiseless, they moved along at an unexpectedly fast pace. One minute they were blobs on the horizon, the next minute they were partially obliterating the sunlight as they cruised past like mobile edifices 20 metres from the shore.
Sam and I chatted for an hour or so under the tree. Like me, he was thirty-one years old, an ethnic Birom from central Nigeria, the son of a retired air force pilot. Most of his brothers and sisters were living and working in the US.
âDo you ever want to go to the States?â I asked him. He shrugged his shoulders.
âMaybe one day,â he drawled quietly. âIf God wants it to happen it will happen.â Sam had that preoccupied expression adopted by people who spend time with you solely in the pursuit of money. He wasnât in the mood for conversation. He sat back and stifled a yawn.
âWhat were you doing last night?â I asked.
âI was in a bar on Lekki with some friends. We watched football, danced . . .â Samâs words petered into silence. I bet heâd seduced a woman or two as well. He had the looks and essence of a successful womaniser.
âAre you married?â he asked me. I sighed impatiently. Peopleâs curiosity about me could be frustratingly one-dimensional.
âNo. Are you?â
âNo,â he said. âI hope God will find me a wife soon. I am tired of sinning.â
âWhat do you mean, âsinningâ?â
âIâm tired of committing fornication,â he said, hanging his head in fake shame. I tried to keep a straight face. He took sips of ogogoro , a hot alcoholic drink, and stared dramatically into the sand.
We took a walk along the beach, past a lone, sumptuous-looking house overlooking the water. Sam said it belonged to a European expat.
âMy best friend died here,â Sam said out of the blue. He said the oil pipeline at Tarkwa Bay caught fire and exploded, killing hundreds of people. Samâs best friend was one of them. The locals regularly smash holes in the pipes to steal fuel thatâs otherwise beyond their purchasing power. Nigeria loses millions of barrels of petroleum every year this way from pipelines around the country. The pipes bleed oil until the professionals can repair them. Carelessly lit cigarettes or paraffin lamps can start such fires.
âAde didnât tell anyone he was stealing oil,â Sam said. âHis wife had a baby girl. The naming ceremony was due . . . he needed money to pay for it.â
The fireball engulfed everyone in 900°C flames. Some died within seconds; others, including Ade, staggered towards the beach, ghoulishly charred and
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