Circles in the Air
Early in the morning we stopped for re-fuelling en route to Nigeria. I sat watching the sun come up, wondering at the strange landscape of sizzling palm trees shading the red soil. I wondered if my suitcase was safe in the hold and glanced upward to the space where I had nervously stowed my new shoulder bag the night before. My hands felt tense against the pattern of pink flowers on my latest mini-skirted dress.
I wondered if my husband of a few weeks would be there to meet me at the airport. He was, and we drove far through cool, thickly darkly forested roads, shaded from the heat of the burning blue sky.
My parents and the UK were left behind now. Financially and psychologically abandoned by a father who could not come to terms with his daughter being married to a black man, and physically separated from an adoring mother who couldn't bear to lose her only child.
My life in this strange new world was not easy. The heat was intense. Often the taps were dry. We collected rainwater from the roof in buckets. We collected piped water in plastic cans. When the taps flowed, we filled the bath with water, not to bathe, but to conserve this precious resource. When there were power cuts in the evening we lit candles stuck onto tin lids and tended them carefully. In the night we simply sweated. But I had three children to bring up and I faced the daily physical tasks with energy and determination. I was content.
These were happy times in a world of brightness, colour and exuberance: the chat and laughter of friendliness; the sounds of the market waking up, people calling to each other; the greens and yellows of mangoes, avocados and pawpaw fresh from the tree; the reds of palm oil, peppers and tomatoes; the smell of plantain or beancakes frying; the normal things of life.
I had arrived in Nigeria at the end of the civil war, with the oil boom yet to come but with it unknown wealth and untold greed.
Later, political and economic instability became the order of the day. Coups were swift and not unexpected. An unpaid police force turned to bribery and turned a blind eye. Crimes were committed and criminals not brought to book. Innocent people, trying to stir the conscience of those in power, disappeared.
Robbers used the small hours to ply their trade: we would awake in darkness, vulnerable inside our burglar-proofed windows and padlocked doors, sometimes to the sound of shouting and gunshots, witness to shootings, robberies and burglaries. I sat quietly by my best friend when her husband was assassinated, and kept the anger and hurt inside me when my youngest daughter was taken from me at gunpoint.
Laughter was giving way to fear, trust to vigilance. Shadows moved in. The normal things of life were dwindling.
I had packed three small bags, one for each child, containg passport, cash, warm clothes, ready to entreat the British High Commission to let us onto a plane out of the country.
I received a postcard from my aunt in Scotland: a simple scene in subtle, gentle colours, remote and peaceful. I knew this could be mine. I let my husband know that I would be returning to the UK, for how long I could not tell, and saw the dark emptiness gathering in him day by day as I imagined his feelings of abandonment.
This time the roads were scarred by erosion, worn, dusty and deforested.
This time the overnight flight was flowing with vocal, excitable passengers. How I wanted to lie down, close my eyes to the bright lights, rest a body sapped of strength by twenty-five years spent in intolerable heat, but I had to sit up through the night listening to conversations I had no wish to hear. My clothes were worn and weary. I had no care for my suitcase.
I watched the grey dawn at Gatwick Airport, the soft cool rain sliding into puddles reflecting the planes above them and felt the coldness in the air. I was home.
But I was not alone. I had my youngest daughter at my side, nervously clutching her suitcase and wondering at her strange new world.
