That Night in Lagos Read Online Free

transporting bananas, mangoes, pineapples, goats, chickens and baskets woven of a coarse rope. Food I couldn’t always recognize was sold alongside slabs of fly-covered mystery meats hanging just out of reach of mangy, tick-infested stray dogs. Both men and women were dressed in bright, colorful material with cheery patterns that transformed the drab streets and buildings into a continuous carnival scene.
    And the odors… My sensitive olfactory nerve was under assault from the odors of cooking meat, fresh fruit, rotting garbage, goat droppings and human sweat.
    The road swerved down to the port and followed the shoreline. Wooden piers pushed themselves away from the shore like crooked, broken teeth in the gums of an old drunk who’s been in a few too many bar fights. Dead fish and drying seaweed mingled with the other scents.
    By the time our destination loomed into view, I was quite done with the tour and ready for a pot of tea and a bit of shade, and fervently hoped the constabulary would have a decent amount of both. There was no mistaking the building for anything but an extension of British law and order. Even without the flag fluttering proudly overhead, the very structure of the place announced its foreign origins. Unlike most of the buildings I’d seen thus far, this one was two stories and made of stone hewn from a far-off quarry. Every line was straight, every surface orderly and clean, everything a reminder of the strength and determination of the British Empire to rule with a firm and decisive hand.
    I snorted at the delusion.
    Even though the Inspector had himself witnessed a glimpse of a world beyond the known human structures, he still refused to wrap his limited mind around the possibility that there were elements of reality that were outside any law that man might make. His lack of imagination perplexed me, even though I knew better than to expect much from my fellow humans.
    As we entered the compound, a scuffling alerted us too late that one of our prisoners had awoken. We turned in time to view the assistant tumbling onto the road, his hands still bound behind him. That didn’t deter him from scrambling upright and running back the way we’d come.
    “Blast it,” Inspector Jones muttered as he abandoned me and gave chase. It shouldn’t have been a contest really, as the African was still recovering from a mild concussion, yet he had enough nerve and energy to run toward a nearby pier, determination overcoming his disadvantages.
    “Get back, you bloody fool,” Inspector Jones shouted, causing a group of workers unloading a boat to momentarily cease their chatter.
    The fool, bloody or otherwise, continued to run down the pier and leaped onto a small barge. The workers began cheering him on with claps, hoots and words that were meaningless to me but clearly intended to encourage the escapee.
    “You can’t bloody well swim,” the Inspector yelled as his boots thumped against the wooden pier.
    That didn’t cause our man to pause. He jumped from the barge onto a passing rowboat that rocked precariously to the delight of the cheering squad and the outrage of the boat’s passengers. And then, before any could stop him, he jumped into the water and sank out of sight.

    By the time Inspector Jones had arrived onto the rowboat, thrown off his jacket and followed his fugitive into the waters of the lagoon, it was too late. He pulled out only a lifeless corpse.
    “Imbecilic natives,” the Inspector sputtered as we later settled into his office and to the much-needed tea.
    As I had no means to measure the intelligence of the town’s inhabitants, I remained mute on the issue and focused on the delightful beverage that was revitalizing my fatigued mind and body.
    “They live in a seaport village, work on the piers and the boats, fish in the lagoon, and traverse the ocean to trade up and down the coastline.” Here, the Inspector paused in his pacing. Perhaps it was for dramatic effect, although I doubted