Dear Beneficiary by Janet Kelly Page A

tan.
    â€˜We’re nearly there,’ he replied. ‘We can’t drive this way by road without a four-wheel drive. The boat is our best transport.’
    Fasina hastily moved along the vessel and started to punt us along the narrow channel at good speed for a man who lacked obvious muscle. We passed hundreds of wooden shacks perched above the water, which were occasionally connected by weak-looking bridges. I thought how I’d be worried walking along them with Darius who was, after all, a man of sturdy build and therefore some considerable weight – particularly in comparison to the man now before us.
    Some of the boats were covered with tarpaulins and Fasina explained that families who’d lost their homes lived on them now.
    â€˜We don’t need a government any more. They take our homes. We have our own system now.’ A shiver ran down my spine, for a reason I couldn’t explain.
    After about twenty minutes of silent punting, he stopped the boat and moored up close to an area that appeared to be surrounded by a mud wall about seven feet tall. There was an archway made of brick, beyond which five or six shacks were apparently linked together with makeshift corridors, covered with struts of cane, tarpaulin and in some places, plastic sheeting. It looked dark and empty, but as Fasina tied up the canoe and helped us out onto the bank, a giant of a man, dressed in a green cotton shirt and wearing a skull cap, came towards us.
    â€˜Ladies, welcome,’ he said in a manner that was anything but welcoming.
    Fasina shook the man’s hand vigorously and introduced him as Chike, pronounced ‘cheeky’, which seemed incongruous for a man with heavily bloodshot eyes, drooping jowls and a scar running from the bottom of his lip to his ear.
    Tracey and I looked at each other. If she was as nervous as I was, she hadn’t voiced her opinion as yet. She moved closer to me so she couldn’t be heard by the men and whispered: ‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t think these guys are going to find us our men. We need to get out of here. They are creeping me out.’
    Regardless of my view of this peculiar woman, I agreed she had a point. It was difficult to know what to think, but I knew we needed to do something. I tried to keep an open mind as to what. Throughout the journey here I’d questioned if we were really on our way to our desired destination but could see no reason why we wouldn’t be. What would someone like Fasina want with me and, more relevantly, Tracey?
    But there’d been a distinct lack of banks, roads and the normal tourist facilities I’d come to expect when accompanying Colin on his many business trips. It was worrying.
    â€˜Listen here. We really don’t want to put you out but I’m not sure we are in the right place to find our friends. I need to find the Western Union bank where I’ll be collected and can get on with why I came here,’ I said, thinking I’d been incredibly diplomatic and persuasive.
    Fasina and Chike looked at each other before bursting out laughing and ‘high-fiving’ each other.
    The sweat on my bottom was starting to cool and as I thought about damp patches I worried about wetting myself, remembering I hadn’t been to the toilet since the vomiting incident. Not only that, I’d developed wind from a combination of my recurrent diverticulitis and the flight – and was getting stomach cramps from trying to hold it in.
    â€˜You come with me,’ said Fasina, grabbing both of us firmly by the arms. He’d stopped being the polite and enthusiastic guide and adopted what appeared to be a snarl.
    I pulled back, bringing Fasina to a halt: ‘Now, young man. I don’t know who you think you are but that is no way to speak to ladies. We don’t want to be here and so must insist you call us a taxi so we can be on our way.’
    At that point Tracey threw up. Possibly