James rolled a cigarette. Real imported tobacco, confiscated from Customs. A smile, a joke and a tap in the back usually go a long way. Especially when you’re six feet tall and slightly less stocky than a bull. That was something that Ethan had said when they had first met. A piece of wisdom from Britain’s finest.
He lit his cigarette and sat down on a chair across the kitchen table. A hefty fish lay half-eaten, its maws showing a slightly serrated set of tiny teeth. The smell of roast dominated the room and through an open window the grill on the small porch could be seen; a few coals were settling down, their heat meaningless in the suffocating summer night of Lagos.
A wedding feast was being held down the next street, the gathered crowd milling about like a colourful circus troupe, dancing and singing with vigor despite everyone being thoroughly drenched in sweat. James peered at the small spectacle and stared blankly for a minute or two, as if his thoughts were completely disconnected with what was going on in front of him.
The crowd brought the groom to the fore, the improptu stage the middle of the street and made a circle around him. He was all dressed up, smiling brightly. Everyone showered him with flowers and small gifts, while they danced to a deep, rhythmic beat of drums. His face seemed to shine almost imperceptibly with a gold sheen that somehow looked only natural under the light of the torches.
The burning tip of the cigarette fell on James’ arm. He shook instinctively, ash marking the spot of the slight burn on his skin. His face didn’t flinch though, nor did he seem to notice his cigarette was out. The phone in the bedroom was ringing with a mindless persistence that only a salesman would envy.
When James finally got up from his chair, the phone was ringing again. He stormed outside dressed in nothing but his shorts and ran towards the moving wedding feast barefooted. As he ran, he traced his tongue across his lips but couldn’t tell his tears from his sweat. It could have been Enkele's wedding feast.
Well met on an ill road
“Hello, Richard Owls. London Times. I presume you must be Dr. Ludwig Manteuffel. Glad you could take me in on such a short notice.”
A somewhat plumb, blond-haired man with a scruffy look and a thin, wiry receding hair line looked up from his writing pad through thick glasses and saw a red-haired, tall and almost gaunt man smiling and squinting under the uncomfortably radiant morning sun:
“There’s room for more, actually. Your editor-in-chief was very pleasant on the phone and quite convincing.”
Ethan laughed politely and replied, tilting his head only barely so he could shade his eyes at least:
“He’s a wily bastard, I’ll say. When he can tell his arse from his elbow that is.”
The doctor extended his hand casually and smiled, a bit puzzled:
“I hope he’s not exhibiting a cognitive disfunction of such proportions. It could prove quite problematic in his line of work.”
Ethan shook the doctor’s hand with some hesitation, shaking his head in ignorance:
“I can’t say I’m quite following you, doctor.”
Dr. Manteuffel wiped the sweat on his forehead with the arm holding the writing pad and exhaled briskly with the hint of a slight laugh:
“Distasteful doctor’s humor, Mr. Owls. Can I call you Richard? Please call me Ludwig, we’ll be on the road together for some time. This isn’t exactly a dinner party we’re going to, yes?”
A number of people around them was busy loading the Land Rovers with all sorts of crates, bags, and sacks with everything from gauzes to canned food and flour. Ethan looked quite accustomed to the heat and the Nigerian sun, at odds with the stocky German doctor who seemed to be discomforted immensely, even though he tried his best not to show it. Ethan nodded with a sparkly grin and said:
“Can’t see any drinks on offer, and the timing’s off too. Ludwig, then?”
The german doctor motioned with his pad to the paltry shade offered by a nearby tent, filled with crates stamped with the sign of the Red Cross and Ethan lead eagerly. The doctor replied:
“You can also call me Baron. It’s a nickname my colleagues often use, jokingly of course.”
“No real title then?”
“Oh, the family name is old and at some point there was some land associated with it. The land was sold but the title stuck. The war, you see.”
Ethan put down his knapsack and welcomed the shade, settling on a crate. His eyes seemed suddenly old, staring outside at the crowd of volunteers when he said:
“There’s always some kind of war going on. Isn’t that why you’re here now?”
The doctor put down his pad on one of the crates, pulled a fold-up chair from a corner of the tent, spread it open and sat down, his relief obvious in the way he splayed his feed, heels on the dirt. He took a few short breaths before answering in a peculiar, thoughtful voice:
“I’m here to help in what way I can. Famine and disease are just as lethal as bullets from what I’ve seen. But why are you here?”
Ethan frowned in puzzlement and smiled in his usually disarming way. He tried to sound casually baffled when he said:
“Tell the world what’s going on in Biafra. Take some pictures. Perhaps ask London for a raise too once I’m famous.”
The doctor put one leg on top of the other and seemed somewhat distraught, perhaps worried: