“At least sixteen police officers have been killed in an ambush outside Kano.”
That was the leading news item on Nigerian TV as Larry Brown sat waiting for his flight to Kano. CNN had more. “Warnings are in place for Americans travelling or working in Northern Nigeria.”
But having spoken to Kevin earlier, Larry was in no mood to abandon his plans. He knew he’d stand out like the affluent American he was if he wore a suit and tie and carried a briefcase, so he changed into a pair of worn jeans and a plain white tee shirt and stuffed everything he needed for an overnight stay into a backpack.
Kano’s Mallam Aminu International Airport was quiet, but security was tight with armed police on patrol inside and outside the building when he arrived. Once outside, he shopped around for a taxi driver who he could hire for what remained of the day and into the evening, if necessary.
A young man calling himself Jonathan fitted the bill. Jonathan wore a clean blue shirt, a pair of shoes with the laces tied and a good smile on his face. Even his car, an old Toyota, looked as if it may recently have been given a wash. “Where to, sah?”
“Kofar Wambai Road,” Larry said, settling himself next to Jonathan.
“Start one end, drive along it, and I’ll tell you when to stop.”
The day was hot, dry, and still, and the upside-down plastic banner advertising the Kofi Clinic still hung limply outside the door, but the door itself was wide open. The reason was obvious when Larry checked. The hinges were gone. It was, therefore, a surprise that the door itself was still there.
He told Jonathan to wait and looked up at the drooping sign. The clinic itself had been the middle building of a row of three. All were single storey with identical, flaking pale blue paint as if once owned or rented out by one person. Whatever had happened in the adjacent vacant premises was unclear. They were covered in Arabic graffiti but looked as if they might once have been repair shops or something to do with the shoe-making industry.
The only change from Larry’s visit of a few days before was the wrecked car outside. It was already covered in a fine layer of dust and now stood without wheels, axles, windows, engine, dashboard, or steering wheel. Like everything else, it was slowly burying itself into the ground.
But the street itself was busy. Two local Hausa men, Moslems in long white gowns, sat together on broken wooden chairs. A third sat on his haunches, leaning against the car wreck while motorcycles, cars, trucks, and pedestrians passed by.
The three men watched Larry as he stood outside the clinic doorway and then venture a few steps inside. Then they watched him come out and go to the taxi as if he was leaving. One of the men, a tall black-skinned man with grey stubble and wearing a deeply embroidered cap, came over. “Yes, sah,” he said as if he might be able to help give directions or information on something.
“Sannu,” Larry said, trying to conceal his American accent. “I’m looking for the doctor who ran this clinic.”
“Me ya sa,” said the man. “Why? Why you want this likita? Bastad.”
“Dr Mustafa? It was his clinic.”
“No good, no good, bastad man. Gone.”
“Where?” Larry asked, convinced they were now talking about the same man.
“Bastad man” was repeated as two more men who were passing also stopped. Soon there was a crowd of about ten surrounding Larry who was leaning casually on the taxi’s open door.
“I’m looking for Dr Mustafa,” Larry said for the benefit of the gathering crowd.
“Gone away,” said one. “Why you want to know?” asked another.
“Who are you?” asked a third.
“Was he at Dala Hill?” Larry asked.
They looked at one another. “You mean on top of the hill, man?”
clarified one. Two others giggled.
Larry smiled. “I’m not too familiar with the city.”
“You American?”
“I’m a doctor.”
“You’re too late. It’s a pity you didn’t come earlier.” The man, younger than the others and clearly with a better command of English, beckoned Larry to come closer. Behind him, Jonathan shut the door of his taxi.
“You want a coke?” the man said in a quiet voice.
“Sure,” Larry said.
“Come,” the younger man said and grabbed Larry by his shirt sleeve.
He then turned and said something in Hausa to the other men who seemed to lose interest and dispersed.
“My name’s Larry Brown,” Larry said, thinking it was a good idea and possibly safer to introduce himself. “Dr Larry Brown.”
“Abdouleye,” said the Nigerian and turned to shake Larry’s hand.
“Come.”
Larry was led back towards Kofar Wambai Road. “You been to Kano before?”
“Once,” Larry said. “A few days ago.”
“Fucking hell hole.”
“It’s interesting,” said Larry as they passed a stall selling sweet corn and edged their way past diners and others standing nearby.
Abdouleye stopped at another stall. “Coke or Nescafe?” he asked.
“Coke,” said Larry and waited as two cans were pulled from an ice box and handed over.
“Four hundred naira,” said Abdouleye. Larry handed over the money and followed Abdouleye once more, walking and drinking from the cans as they went.
“Was Dr Mustafa anywhere near Dala?” Larry asked.
“Yes.”
“Was he living there?”
“He had an office. The clinic was down there.”
“How long was he here?”
“Not so long. Come and go, come and go.”
“Did he have many patients?”
Abdouleye shrugged.
“What do you know about him?”
Abdouleye pulled Larry into the shade of another stall. “Why you want to know? What are you doing here? It’s not safe right now, even for a black American.”
“I know,” said Larry. “I didn’t come here for my safety. I just want to know why this doctor disappeared, where he is, and what he was doing. I’ve heard stories and don’t like what I heard. OK?”
Abdouleye looked straight at him for the first time, pushed his cap back, and scratched a mop of curly black hair. Larry estimated he was about thirty, Moslem, and educated. “No one says anything. Everyone stays dumb. Well known. Typical Nigeria,” Abdouleye said.
“What’s well known?”
“No good doctor. Maybe not a doctor. He advertised for men to test a new medicine. Said they could earn a lot of Naira.”
“No women?”
“Hausa men from big households. Money would go to the wives and children.”
“Then what?”
“They took the medicine and got sick.” He took Larry’s arm. “Look, man, I only got rumours, OK. But I believe the rumours because they’re all the same.”
“Did the men get paid?”
“Sure.”
“Then what?”
“They got sick. Mustafa said it was normal, and they now needed to go to hospital for checks. More money was given, but they never came back. The families went to his office. Mustafa told them not to worry. The men were being checked. More money was paid, so they took it and went away. Then he disappeared.”
“What are the police doing?”
“Nothing.”
“What about the state government or the health authority?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
Abdouleye rubbed his thumb and first finger together, which meant bribes. Then he looked around. They were standing close to the junction at Kofar Wambai Road. It was noisy and filled with traffic.
The air was thick with smoke, dust, and exhaust fumes. Arabic graffiti was everywhere.
“People are scared,” he went on. “They don’t say anything. There’s trouble here.” He drained his can of Coke and threw it towards an overflowing trash bin, but it bounced into the gutter. He watched it roll and turned back towards Larry. “Listen. I don’t know what you want or why you’re here, but everyone is shit scared and don’t report things anymore. They just spread rumours.”
“And the next rumour is?” asked Larry.
“That Dr Mustafa was an American working for the Nigerian government, and they were testing a drug to use on terrorists.”
“Why do they think America was involved?”
“Because a white man was seen with the doctor.”
Larry burped on the last few drops of his can of Coke.
“Listen,” Abdouleye went on. “When you get a masked man dressed in black, waving a Kalashnikov and saying he’ll kill anyone and anything that God commands him to - chickens, goats, and especially Americans - then surely that’s like a declaration of war on Americans and the West. So why wouldn’t they test out some new weapons?” He paused. “That’s the rumour,” he concluded.
Standing in the shade of a food stall selling ground corn buns and pepper soup, with dozens of people standing around trying to make out what was being said in English to a smart-looking black man in
jeans and tee shirt who clearly didn’t look Nigerian, it was apparent to Larry that Abdouleye no longer felt comfortable. Neither did Larry so he thanked Abdouleye. “OK,” he said, “I get the message. Does the name Mohamed El Badry mean anything to you?”
Abdouleye shook his head.
“OK. Never mind. Thanks for the help. You speak good English.”
“Yeh,” Abdouleye replied. “I’m a doctor too. I studied medicine in England.”