return. “I don’t know, madam. And I can’t say.”
“What difference does it make?” James asked. “Why do you care if he’s here?”
“Just curious.”
She asked the reception clerk to book a long distance call—she needed to give her whereabouts to the foreign desk and tell the editors to expect a feature on Roxanne—and was told, to her surprise, that there would be no problem. Then they had to choose a room.
The hotel offered two options. One possibility was relatively modern with air-conditioning (no small consideration). This was where James usually stayed in Ibadan. The other was what the management called a “Safari cottage”—a round mud hut with thatched roof, part of a simulated African village. Intrigued, they decided to investigate it, and the clerk offered to take them around the back for a look. James started to follow him. Lindsay hesitated a minute and slipped the receptionist fifty naira to let her know if he found out who Billy Anikulo was visiting.
The hut appeared authentic, though it did include some modern amenities—a phone on the bedside table and, to judge by an immobile ceiling fan, possibly electricity. A few shafts of light filtered in through tiny windows. African crafts had been randomly scattered around—a woven rug, reed baskets, soapstone and small thornwood carvings of zebras and giraffes. In the center was the pièce de résistance—a lumpy double bed surrounded by a ragged mosquito net.
Lindsay said she was game, but James was appalled. Only after Lindsay poked fun at his bourgeois heart did he relent. Inside, she picked up the phone and ordered two bottles of Star beer. The air was hot and muggy, the ceiling fan moved too slowly to create a real breeze, and flies buzzed aggressively around their ears, but, for once, none of this bothered Lindsay. Waiting for the drinks, she asked if she could see the statues he bought, but he was reluctant to unwrap them. Then came a moment of awkward silence as she wondered who was going to make the first move.
She glanced at the bed. “It looks pretty uncomfortable.”
“Yeah.”
She walked over and sat on the edge. The mosquito net had huge holes in it. “Doesn’t look like it offers much protection.”
“No.”
She lay down and bounced a few times. “It manages to be lumpy and hard as a rock at the same time. Why don’t you come over here for a minute and try it out?” she invited.
He didn’t move. Then, after a long moment, he turned toward the door. “If we want those beers, we’d better go to the bar. They’ll never get around to delivering them here. And we should get something to eat before the restaurant closes.”
She quickly got up, straightened her shirt, and headed for the door. Suddenly he pulled her back, put his hand under her chin, leaned down and kissed her very lightly on the lips.
“You’re irrepressible,” he said. “I feel like I’ve plugged into a private energy source.” Then he opened the door for her.
They ordered the only dish the waiter said was available—chicken piri piri, a fiery hot chicken stew served over rice with plantains—and two bottles of beer. When the drinks arrived, Lindsay quickly drained her glass and asked for another. She didn’t eat much, but he finished everything on his plate and then ate what she left. She drank a third beer and relaxed, feeling a little light-headed.
“Tell me about your ex-wife,” she said abruptly.
He looked up, surprised. “Not much to tell. We met in college, sophomore year, University of Michigan. I transferred to Michigan because the African arts faculty was stronger. I came from Atlanta, she grew up in Ann Arbor. We met the first day of classes and were together all three years. We married the summer we graduated. But we were too young—it lasted for only two years.”
“Did you love her?”
He paused, taken aback briefly. “That’s a hell of a question to throw out between dinner and the coffee.”
She played with
“What difference does it make?” James asked. “Why do you care if he’s here?”
“Just curious.”
She asked the reception clerk to book a long distance call—she needed to give her whereabouts to the foreign desk and tell the editors to expect a feature on Roxanne—and was told, to her surprise, that there would be no problem. Then they had to choose a room.
The hotel offered two options. One possibility was relatively modern with air-conditioning (no small consideration). This was where James usually stayed in Ibadan. The other was what the management called a “Safari cottage”—a round mud hut with thatched roof, part of a simulated African village. Intrigued, they decided to investigate it, and the clerk offered to take them around the back for a look. James started to follow him. Lindsay hesitated a minute and slipped the receptionist fifty naira to let her know if he found out who Billy Anikulo was visiting.
The hut appeared authentic, though it did include some modern amenities—a phone on the bedside table and, to judge by an immobile ceiling fan, possibly electricity. A few shafts of light filtered in through tiny windows. African crafts had been randomly scattered around—a woven rug, reed baskets, soapstone and small thornwood carvings of zebras and giraffes. In the center was the pièce de résistance—a lumpy double bed surrounded by a ragged mosquito net.
Lindsay said she was game, but James was appalled. Only after Lindsay poked fun at his bourgeois heart did he relent. Inside, she picked up the phone and ordered two bottles of Star beer. The air was hot and muggy, the ceiling fan moved too slowly to create a real breeze, and flies buzzed aggressively around their ears, but, for once, none of this bothered Lindsay. Waiting for the drinks, she asked if she could see the statues he bought, but he was reluctant to unwrap them. Then came a moment of awkward silence as she wondered who was going to make the first move.
She glanced at the bed. “It looks pretty uncomfortable.”
“Yeah.”
She walked over and sat on the edge. The mosquito net had huge holes in it. “Doesn’t look like it offers much protection.”
“No.”
She lay down and bounced a few times. “It manages to be lumpy and hard as a rock at the same time. Why don’t you come over here for a minute and try it out?” she invited.
He didn’t move. Then, after a long moment, he turned toward the door. “If we want those beers, we’d better go to the bar. They’ll never get around to delivering them here. And we should get something to eat before the restaurant closes.”
She quickly got up, straightened her shirt, and headed for the door. Suddenly he pulled her back, put his hand under her chin, leaned down and kissed her very lightly on the lips.
“You’re irrepressible,” he said. “I feel like I’ve plugged into a private energy source.” Then he opened the door for her.
They ordered the only dish the waiter said was available—chicken piri piri, a fiery hot chicken stew served over rice with plantains—and two bottles of beer. When the drinks arrived, Lindsay quickly drained her glass and asked for another. She didn’t eat much, but he finished everything on his plate and then ate what she left. She drank a third beer and relaxed, feeling a little light-headed.
“Tell me about your ex-wife,” she said abruptly.
He looked up, surprised. “Not much to tell. We met in college, sophomore year, University of Michigan. I transferred to Michigan because the African arts faculty was stronger. I came from Atlanta, she grew up in Ann Arbor. We met the first day of classes and were together all three years. We married the summer we graduated. But we were too young—it lasted for only two years.”
“Did you love her?”
He paused, taken aback briefly. “That’s a hell of a question to throw out between dinner and the coffee.”
She played with
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