Short Story: Welcome to Abuja

By Sumaila Isah Umaisha

SHE has been standing by the roadside, waiting for the car her sister had said she would send to pick her up. She glances at her wristwatch: 4:16 pm. Over an hour of waiting… A red car zooms past. Is that the car? She leans forward, trying to get a better look. She can’t see the number plate, but she can tell it isn’t the car. Hers is a jalopy. This one is new. Somewhat new. Or is it her eyes?

She decides to call her sister again. She takes her phone from the side pocket of her travelling bag, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no thief is lurking nearby, ready to snatch it. She dials, but the number is still unreachable. She has called several times since their first communication, during which she described where the bus had dropped her. What has happened? Has her sister’s battery run down? No. Such a thing doesn’t happen in Abuja, they say. Electricity is 24/7. Maybe she has switched off her phone. Perhaps she is in a meeting or something.

After several more minutes of waiting without any sign of a red car, she decides to walk to the bus stop down the street. She will take a taxi to Area One and get a bike from there to her sister’s house.

At the bus stop, the waiting continues, alongside other passengers. Every passing taxi is either full or heading in a different direction.

‘Area One!’ she shouts several times. But the drivers don’t even look in her direction.

She looks back at the spot she has left. No red car. She stares up at the clouds gathering overhead. Where will she take shelter if it starts raining? Tall buildings stand everywhere. Gated premises with uniformed guards line the road. She decides to move further down, away from the other passengers who are also calling out, ‘Area One! AYA! Mpape! Zuba!’

She walks down the pavement. Halfway to her intended spot, a jeep pulls up beside her.

‘Where to?’ the driver asks, poking his head out of the window.

She ignores him, quickening her pace. I’m looking for a taxi, not a private car. Not a car that will take me to some hideaway to be slaughtered. I have heard a lot about Abuja, and slaughter is the least of what can happen to anyone who doesn’t take her safety seriously.

‘I’m talking to you,’ he repeats, slowing down to match her pace. His voice is deep but tender.

She glances at him without stopping. ‘I’m not going your way.’

‘But I’m going your way,’ he says with a smile.

She keeps walking without responding, eager to reach the vehicles parked ahead, which partly block the roadside. There, he won’t be able to keep pace with her and will have no choice but to drive off.

He does drive off, but slows down after passing the parked vehicles.

What did he want from me? She stops in front of the vehicles. She watches him get out of the car and start walking back towards her.

‘I just want to help you,’ he says. ‘As you can see, it’s about to rain.’ He flashes that smile again. ‘I understand your fear. I, too, was suspicious of people when I first arrived here. But today, here I am, trying to help a beautiful girl like you, without even worrying that you may kidnap me.’

Strangely, instead of making her more suspicious, his remark makes her laugh, showing the sexy gap between her lower teeth.

The clouds rumble. A powerful wind sweeps across the place, lashing against anything in its way.

He walks up to her and stretches out his hand to take her bag. ‘Let’s go before we get wet.’

‘No…’ she begins, then pauses as the clouds rumble again and the storm nearly pushes her into the gutter.

She follows him like a lamb, holding on to her bag protectively. He gets into the car and opens the other door for her. With shaky legs, she climbs into the car.

He speeds through the traffic, narrowly avoiding other vehicles.

She stares through the tinted window, her arm folded across her chest against the blast of cold air from the air conditioner. She wants to ask him to switch it off, but she doesn’t want to be considered a village girl. The two lanes are wide, wider than any road she has ever seen. And so are the two lanes on the other side. Yet they are congested with vehicles speeding as if afraid their destinations will move if they don’t reach them on time.

‘You are so quiet,’ he says, glancing at her.

She forces a smile and says nothing. She is still not comfortable. I shouldn’t be in this car, sitting beside a stranger. I will get out quickly as soon as I get to Area One.

‘Are you still feeling uneasy?’ he asks, manoeuvring between cars.

‘No,’ she says.

‘Then relax and let’s chat. I like to chat when I’m driving. It prevents me from sleeping off and the car from sliding off the road.’

She smiles again. This time, it is a genuine smile, despite her mounting anxiety. He finds the dimpled smile charming. She will be nice, he thinks.

‘You came to Abuja to look for work?’ he asks.

‘Is it only for work that people come to Abuja?’

‘Mostly, yes. They come to work or look for work.’

‘Maybe you are right. My sister found a job for me.’

‘You see what I mean?’ he exclaims. Then, turning serious, he says, ‘Do you know we’ve passed Area One?’

‘What do you mean?’ She sits upright. She stares through the window in horror. Tall buildings and giant billboards whizzing past seem to wave her goodbye. ‘Drop me!’

‘I’m taking you to your sister’s place,’ he says casually.

‘Drop me here!’ she shouts. ‘Right here! Or else I’ll shout!’

‘No need,’ he says with a laugh, enjoying the drama. ‘Just relax. You’ll be at your sister’s place in no time.’

‘You don’t know my sister’s place,’ she says, almost like a little child rather than the twenty-year-old she is.

He loves her naivety too. ‘She’s the one who sent me to fetch you,’ he says. ‘She described what you were wearing, just as you told her. When I didn’t see you at the spot where I was supposed to meet you, I drove on. Then I spotted you. Beyond your dress, your beautiful face confirmed I had found the right person. You share your sister’s beauty.’

‘This is not my sister’s car.’ She begins to loosen her seat belt.
‘It is. She sold the red one a long time ago, even before she met the senator.’

She stares at him. He knows about her sister’s red car and her late senator husband? She relaxes a little.

‘Why didn’t you tell me she sent you?’

‘Just to play,’ he says. ‘I love playing.’

‘Are you her driver, then?’

‘She’s my mummy.’

‘What do you mean, mummy?’ She scrutinises his face. He looks well over thirty. And her sister is about the same age.
‘She’s my mummy because when I came to Abuja, looking wretched and labouring, she took me in. Since the death of her senator boyfriend, we’ve been together.’

‘Boyfriend or husband?’

‘He never got round to marrying her before he died. But they lived together. In fact, she’s still living in his house.’ He pauses. He doesn’t want to go into details that may scare her. There is no need to mention the legal battle between her sister and the senator’s family over the house, which was bought in her sister’s name. ‘We first met at a construction site, one of the senator’s housing projects. She liked me, so we became friends…’

‘But we knew the senator as her husband, not her friend,’ she interrupts. The whole story seems upside down to her, especially the court case with the senator’s family. They have never heard anything about it back home.

He doesn’t want go any further with the conversation. He concentrates on driving, slows down, turns left and climbs an overhead bridge.

Looking down at the passing vehicles below, she quickly turns her face away. She has a phobia of heights. She is also allergic to complicated issues.

‘They were husband and wife,’ she says. ‘That’s what she told us. My brother was here to attend the burial. He did not tell us a different story.’

‘They were just friends,’ he says, then pauses. He is tempted to say more to prepare her mind. He loves her innocence. He wishes he were still as innocent as she is. But how can he go into details about the senator’s death, the lingering suspicions of the senator’s family, or the police investigation? Of course, his own involvement in the death is not something he could tell anyone about. He died of cardiac arrest, the autopsy said. No poison was mentioned…

He suddenly honks the horn and slams on the brake. The car halts abruptly amid screeching tyres, inches from a pedestrian at the zebra crossing.

‘I nearly killed him,’ he says and starts to drive off.

‘God forbid,’ she says, heaving a sigh of relief and pressing her forehead, which nearly smashed against the windscreen. She closes her eyes and prays she has not come to Abuja on the wrong footing.

As they approach the gate, he presses a button on the dashboard. The gate automatically slides open, and he drives in just in time to meet Hajiya Mairo descending the stairs.

‘Honey, what took you so long?’ she asks anxiously. ‘My phone suddenly went off just like that, and I couldn’t call you.’

‘Honey, I’m sorry,’ he says, alighting from the car. ‘I had a flat tyre and had to fix it.’

Hajiya Mairo goes round to the other side as her sister struggles to open the door. She opens it for her. And they hug excitedly.

‘Welcome to Abuja!’ she says.

THE END.