ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY, 1981

As soon as we drove to the front of the house, we knew something was wrong. There was a crowd of nearly twenty people waiting for us.

“Mr. Rufus, good thing you are back,” said a neighbor stepping forward from the crowd. “Nobody knows what the problem was, but we had to break down the door to your house….”

Before he could complete his story, Josephine, ran to the Mitsubishi bus, breathless, “Papa Ru. That your friend almost killed Steve! I ran out to call the neighbors, but when I went out, he jammed the door. They had to force the lock to free Steve from him!”

“Which of my friends is that?”

“I don’t know his name.” Josephine said. “But he visits you frequently. With gray hair.”

“Obaseki?”

“Yes,” replied Josephine. “That’s him.”

She was Rufus’s girlfriend. We had left her with Steve just about two hours earlier to get some fried rice for Steve, who arrived just about four hours earlier from London. Steve could not eat the amala that Josephine prepared. The amala idea was mine. “They say Europeans like African things,” I told Josephine. Neither Josephine nor I had lived with any European before. And it seemed to be an emergency, because Steve, who arrived unexpectedly, said he was hungry.

Steve actually did not arrive so unexpectedly. We knew he was coming. And Rufus had driven to Lagos to meet him at the airport. There was some miscommunication. Steve decided to take a taxi from Lagos to Benin, and when Rufus got to the airport, Steve was already on his way to Benin. We were surprised to see a taxi stop in front of the house, with Steve and his luggage.

“You must be Steve,” I said, welcoming him. Josephine and I helped him with his luggage as we explained to him that Rufus went to Lagos to pick him up. We set him up in his room. And when he dumped his stuff there he joined Josephine and me in the sitting room. I looked in the fridge for a beer, asking him, “Care for a beer?”

“Yes,” he said, “But I’m starving. Anything to eat?”

“We have some egusi stew. And we can make you something. You want to try amala?”

“I don’t know what that is,” he said, “but I’ll eat practically anything now. So hungry!”

Josephine jumped from her seat, saying, “I’ll make it. Moyo is not the best amala maker in the world.”

Josephine was still making the amala when Rufus barged in. He hugged Steve and they exchanged greetings. “What are you making for Steve, Josephine?” Rufus asked, taking a look. “Amale kẹ̀! He can’t eat amala.”

“I’ll try it,” said Steve.

“You can’t eat it,” Rufus insisted. “Remember that dark meal I made for you way back

in London, and you said tasted like sour rubber? That’s amala. It’s a delicacy here.”

“Oh, that!” said Steve. “I’m sorry. I already tried that. I can’t do that.”

“It’s okay,” said Rufus. “Moyo, let’s go get him some fried rice at the Chinese. We can eat the amala when we return. Hey, Steve, you want to stay and rest, or come with us?” Steve decided to stay. He was jetlagged, he said. “I can share a beer with Josephine while you go.”

We jumped in the van and on the way, Rufus filled me in with the details about Steve that I didn’t know. Steve’s dad, Dan, a white British gentleman who was a producer at BBC, sent Steve to stay with Rufus. Rufus and Dan were great friends when Rufus was a student in Bradford. Whenever Rufus came to London, he stayed with Dan’s family. He had known Steve since Steve was a baby. Now at seventeen, Steve as going to Cambridge, after graduating from high school. There was a gap of nine months between the high school and university calendars, and Dan didn’t want Steve roaming the pubs in London, so he sent him to Rufus in Nigeria.

“Don’t worry about him, Dan,” Rufus said he told Dan. “I’ll take care of him.”

And, now, on Steve’s first day in Nigeria, he had been beaten to a bloody pulp by Obaseki. “Where are they now?” Rufus asked.

“Steve is at the private hospital that the neighbors took him to.” Josephine explained, “and the police took Obaseki away to the police station.” Almost immediately, the Peugeot 404 of the neighbor who took Steve to the hospital arrived. Steve came out. He had some band-aid plasters on his forehead.

“They gave him some stitches,” said the good Samaritan. “The doctor is my friend. I settled him already. Don’t worry about it, Mr. Rufus.”

“Thank you,” said Rufus. He turned to Steve, a tall and lanky white lad, about 6 feet three inches, who stood above everybody gathered in front of the house.

“Mr. Rufus, Obaseki is crazy,” said the good Samaritan. “We forced the door to get in. He was plummeting Steve on the floor, as if he wanted to kill Steve. We forced Steve out of his hands.”

Steve looked dazed. “Are you fine, Steve?” Rufus asked.

“Did you get the fried rice?” Steve responded.

“Yes, we did.”

“I’m going to be fine,” Steve said.

“Does anyone know the police station they took Obaseki to?” Rufus asked.

“It must be the Central,” someone said.

“Moyo, let’s go to the police station,” Rufus said. “I have to strangle that Obaseki with my bare hands today. That madness that he says he has will leave him when I lay my hands on him.”

To be continued