The Road to Hadejia

Five Canadians travelling from Kano northeast to Hadejia.

The Road to Hadejia

Colleen widened her legs allowing Dan to slide deeper into her.  Sometimes when her lovers had used the missionary position Colleen, tiring of it, would choose another position but not this time.  Now she was content to lie back and allow Dan to enter her blending her pleasure and breathing with hers.  She studied him as he thrust into her. Thirty years from now, she thought,  they would still be making love to one other. She felt joy; infinite, blissful joy.

Adding to her joy was that Dan looked so much better since his transfer. He had put on a little weight.  His eyes once clouded with care, shone with contentment.  Others saw Kano as a hardship post. Not Dan. Now teaching at Colleen’s school he was able to travel every day with Colleen and Elizabeth.

Holding onto Dan Colleen murmured; “I’ve never really liked my last name.”

“McTeer?”

“No silly. Hagan. It sounds ugly.”

“It’s an old Irish name. O’Hagan.”

What about yours?  Is that Irish?”

“McTeer?  Irish Scottish Some Protestants, some Catholics. Means son of a craftsman. So I guess McTeers were lower class.”

“Really? I’ll remember that when we make love.”

 “Mike McDonell is engaged,” Dan said referring to his former housemate.

“Oh yes? To whom?”

“Filipina lady based in Mallam Maduri.”

“ Mallam Ma …?”

“Mallam Maduri; about twenty kilometres north of Hadejia; on the road to Nguru. There’s a Woman Teacher’s College there. That’s where she’s based. Linda Aquino. Teaches Math. They met at the market in Mallam Maduri, shared a coke and roast lamb.  Anyway Mike is holding an engagement party at his place. We’ve been invited, us and Elizabeth”

“In Hadejia?”

“Yes. Bob and Joy Green have also been invited. He’ll drive us up.”

“So I finally get to see Hadejia.”

“Yeah. Bring your camera. Odd thing about Mike. I always looked forward to getting out of Hadejia whenever I could.  He was content to spend his weekends there.  Sometimes he would explore some of the nearby villages. One in particular he liked; Mallam Madura. Has a good market. That’s where he met Lyn. Nice lady. Tiny, but tough.  One of the few expats the Nigerians really like.”

***

In early September 1981 two Canadian teachers arrived at Government Secondary School in Hadejia.  Assigned to teach English language and literature, they were quartered with an Indian gentleman, Mister Dal, in as new residence.  The house was so new that it was unfinished, floors left untiled; the bathtub covered in splatters of dried concrete and unconnected to the plumbing.  Mike tried the shower.  A timid trickle of water dripped from the spout.

“Put a pail under it” Mike suggested.  “We might be able to accumulate enough for a wash.  We can use a dipper if we can find one.”

When Dan asked Mister Dal when the work would be completed, shrugged.

One night, in the last week of September, Dan was busy reading student assignments.  He had asked them to write a paragraph on Canada. Three had copied directly from an old encyclopedia in the library. A few made an honest attempt, all beginning with “I pick up my golden biro,” Biro being a British term for fountain pen. Most had written in an almost illegible scrawl “Please sir, I don’t know this.”  Bored, Dan looked up at Mike, whose spectacle-topped nose was in a history of Nigeria. “Mike?”

“Hmm?”

“What do you think of Colleen?”

“Who?”

“You know, Colleen Hagan, the girl from Hamilton? You met her during orientation.”

“The one staying with Elizabeth?”

“Yes.”

“Oh? Pretty. Bit of a drinker though. I don’t think she’ll last very long here.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“She came looking for an amusing adventure. Well it may be an adventure but it’s not an amusing one. Mind, she’s not a bad person, just a bit immature. She has no idea of what she’s getting into. WUSC shouldn’t have chosen her.”

“I had no idea either.”

“Yeah but you’re different.”

“How come?”

“Low expectations. Like me, you didn’t come here expecting much.  Less chance of being disappointed.”

“You were in Africa before though, weren’t you?”

“With CUSO*.  (Canadian University Servicve Overseas} Botswana, seventy eight to seventy-nine. Lot different from here; harder, crueler. I expect that some Canadians will stick it out here but most won’t.  Why are you asking?”

“Going to Kano next weekend; thought I’d stop by and see Colleen.  I think she likes me.  Do you want to come?”

“No. Ricardo, one of the Filipino engineers on the Hadejia Dam wants to show me a scooter on Saturday. It might be a good buy. I’d like to see some of the countryside round here.  You notice the Filipinos and South Asians; they work here without too much complaint.  They’re used to poverty and their families back home need the money.  So they stay. We could learn from them.”

***

At eight on Saturday morning in March Bob Green’s green Volkswagen bug pulled up in front of the house.  Bob honked his horn. Having breakfasted, cleaned dishes and used the washroom, Colleen, Elizabeth and Dan stepped outside. Dan carefully carried a white box. It contained a chocolate cake Elizabeth and Colleren had baked for the reception.

His spectacled, bearded face beaming, Bob and Joy his wife seated next to him, waved hello. “It’s going to be tight but we can get everyone in."

He stepped outside and opened the trunk. Supervised by Elizabeth and Colleen he slid the box into the trunk. On the way back to his seat he turned to Colleen. "Colleen you’re the shortest so you take the middle of the back seat.  Sorry.”

“The story of my life” Colleen sighed climbing in beside Elizabeth.

“Ringim is halfway to Hadejia” Dan told Bob “You can fuel up there if you like. If there’s power they might have cool drinks.”

Bob nodded.

“Washrooms?” Colleen asked.

“Pit toilets. A tap if there’s water.  Whoever wrote about the romance of travel in Africa, didn’t spend much ink on bathroom facilities.”

***

An hour out from Kano; the beetle sped through a flat brownish-grey landscape of huts, thorn bushes, scattered acacia trees and burnt out vehicles.  Colleen frowned. She thought it to be the least attractive landscape she had ever seen.  Occasionally she might glimpse a tall Fulani with a herd of thin long horned cattle.  Mostly she would see trucks rushing past covered with loads topped by people.  

A faded sign indicated that they were twenty kilometres from Ringim. Then they saw the barrier. In front of it stretched a stalled line of vehicles. Consisting of wooden stakes held together by wire the barrier had been stretched across their lane.  Three policemen in green uniforms stood behind the barrier. Two officers were armed with Kalashnikovs. The third, a sergeant, carried a stick.  He was talking to a truck driver.  The driver reached down handing something to the sergeant. He pocketed it and then waved at the other officers to open the barrier. The truck moved on.  The sergeant waved at the next vehicle.

“Did you always have to go through this” Colleen asked Dan.

“Depends on the time of day I travelled by public transport so we’d usually just get waved through.  It’s the private cars and big trucks they’re after.”

“Are they looking for smugglers?” asked Elizabeth.

“No. Lunch money.”

Colleen and Elizabeth stared at him.

“It’s quite simple. They’ve been dropped off here with a barrier. You don’t see a police car, do you?  About twelve they’ll be picked up by other officers. Whatever the sergeant has collected will pay for food and beers for the men in the station.  Common practice. It’s cheaper than raising their salaries.”

The next vehicle being a bus, the sergeant waved it through.  Three cars now remained between the barrier and the Volkswagon.  Inside the small car the heat began to climb.  To get air circulating they opened the windows.

The sergeant glancing at the line of waiting vehicles notice the green Volkswagon filled with Baturis.

“Could be trouble.” he thought Baturis could mean power. Pocketing five nairas, he waved a Peugeot through. Then he reflected.  They could also mean nairas, a lot of nairas.

***

“Passports.” The policeman held out his hand. He examined each passport in turn, eying them suspiciously.

The tall policeman, his face marked by tribal scars examined Colleen’s passport.  He stared at her and back at the passport. “Expired” he declared. “All passports are expired.”

Colleen sat forward.  The policeman tapped the birthdate on her passport page “August 3 1955. Expired.”

“That’s my birthdate,” said Colleen trying not to sound too irritated. She could feel the perspiration trickling down her back and longed for a cold drink. Dan touched her shoulder.  “Shh.”

“Expired.  You must pay fine.  Twenty nairas fine, each passport.  No nairas, no passport.”

“Expensive lunch” murmured Colleen.

Robert turned back to the others as if looking for some suggestions. Getting none, he took his wallet out of a trousers pocket.

“No Bob,” Joy his wife.”

He hushed her.

The sergeant seeing the wallet knew that the rich baturis would pay.

Robert opened his wallet.  Instead of taking out Nairas he took out his WUSC identity card.

His finger under the maple leaf on the card centre he showed it to the sergeant.

“Do you know who I am sergeant?”

“Sir?”

“See the card. We are technical advisors with the Canadian High Commission. My friends and I are guests of your government. We are assisting President Shagari in the development of the north. Yesterday we were guests of the Emir of Kano. Last week we were guests of the Sultan of Sokoto.  Now we are going for dinner with the Emir of Hadejia. The Emir will not want to be kept waiting, will he? He will talk with the Emir of Kano and the governor who will talk with the president who will talk with the Prime Minister of Canada.”

The four other baturis frowned at the sergeant.

The sergeant handed back the passports. He then waved his stick indicating that they could move on. Robert slipped his ID card back into his wallet. He then took out a five naira note.  With a look of benign patience he handed it to the sergeant.  “For your trouble.”

The sergeant saluted.

The car pulled back onto the road, the baturis still having solemn looks on their faces.  A few yards down the road the solemnity dissolved into laughter.