Aderonke Adeola

Off/Spring

Novel extract

Prologue

As Phil stood in line, the wind arrived and dissipated some of the stubborn fog which revealed the extraordinary vessel known as the ‘MV Apapa’. The ship must have been ten times the size of Buckingham Palace. Phil stood in wonder and regaled at what was ahead of him. He reached into his pocket, clasped his rosary to ask the blessed Virgin Mary for safe passage and a plan, but he was interrupted. The man standing in front of him decided to occupy himself by haphazardly swaying side to side while singing folk songs. His voice was shaky at times but also sonorous. Phil may have enjoyed this display if it weren’t for the wafts of whisky vapor mixed with the scent of questionable hygiene that emanated from him. The stench was pronounced and sharp. At Phil’s age, there was nothing alarming in seeing a drunk man at six a.m. Sorrow didn’t adhere to a timetable. As the intoxicated man shuffled from one foot to another, he caught sight of the back of a Black man’s head, who was also standing in line. He must have been an immigrant returning home. Phil stared at the mop of hair with fascination. The interlaced curly dark hair strands defied gravity.  This man and his kind reminded Phil of dandelion seeds, scattered by the wind across London, vulnerable to the harsh and unkind elements of the city. Phil knew of these people well enough. He held what he’d regard as a healthy indifference to them. They were as inoffensive as foxes. He thought to himself.

The inebriated man continued his pendulum-inspired dance. His uncoordinated yo-yoing of his body from one side to another continued to reveal a clearer view of the immigrant, who had shifted position, showing the very bruised left side of his face. This made Phil’s stomach lurch. He further noticed that the immigrant leaned to his right. Though not a physician, Phil knew when a man had been beaten up, and most likely by more than one person. At this point, Phil’s mouth was agape as he noticed a bruise on the immigrant’s eye and a deep purple gash on his cheek. He wanted to look away but Phil was transfixed. He wondered what had befallen the man: was he running away from an angry debtor? He heard that some of these foreigners were into prostitution and gambling. Did the man fight a gang of thieves that broke into his lodgings? Had he been discovered with another man’s wife? While these may have been plausible reasons, Phil suspected it was connected to the man’s skin. He was probably at the right place at the wrong time. He’d seen the newspapers headlines: ‘Police clash with community’ ‘Race rioters rampage across London’ ‘Teddy boys defend community’. As an Irish immigrant himself, his time in London was not easy either.  

The drunk man continued his oscillatory jig while Phil observed the immigrant closely, who was hunched over, heavy with fatigue, but with enough strength to retrieve a hand sized photograph from his pocket. Phil was able to catch a quick glimpse of the beguiling eyes of a brunette smouldering out of the photo in the man’s hands. Mesmerised, Phil was tempted to shove him aside to gain a clearer view. He took a few steps closer but his curiosity was no match for the drunken man’s acrid bodily scent. Phil jerked in response to the offensive smell and looked up to the sky for reprieve. Seagulls flew with their wings gliding as the stingy British sun began to fully reveal itself. Phil wondered if seagulls suffered from unpleasant perspiration. He also imagined what the Nigerian sun held in store for him, and the challenge that awaited him in Lagos. His assignment was straightforward: Go to Lagos. Protect his employers’ interests and therefore protect his own livelihood, then return to London. Simple. Phil worked for the Royal Niger Company. The largest manufacturing conglomerate in Europe. There was nothing the Royal Niger Company didn’t make: cement, textiles, pharmaceuticals and steel. While the managerial arm was headquartered in London, all of the companies’ operations were in Nigeria. Thus, the name. Phil’s role in the company was Administrative manager. It was his job to make sure all the heads of units had sufficient support. All the executive assistants reported to Phil.

A few months ago, everything changed. Nigeria had achieved its independence and luckily, there had been a peaceful transition of power. At least that was what the newspapers reported. However, there were rumours brewing of a law that threatened ownership. According to diplomatic circles, there was a new law in development that would enforce all companies in Nigeria to have at least forty per-cent ownership by Nigerian citizens as well as at least thirty per-cent members of the director’s board. This had caused Phil’s boss and chairman of the company, Stanley Northrup, great distress. For weeks, the company had agonized and strategized on how to solve this obstacle. One day, an external force of nature, it could have been the devil, his own intuition, ambition or even God himself, helped Phil devise a plan. On a Tuesday, Phil had marched into Mr. Northrup’s office to nominate himself to go to Nigeria. He shared that he had a contact that worked with Nigeria’s newly setup Ministry of Trade and Investment. Mr. Northrup gladly accepted Phil’s offer with a new job title, a promotion, a salary increase, and a life pension plan that nearly made Phil collapse. That was how Phil Vickery found himself at the Tilbury Dockyard waiting for the MV Apapa to ferry him to Nigeria.

Except, it was all a lie. Phil’s path to Tilbury Dockyard was paved with falsehoods. He knew no one and nothing about Nigeria. He had only heard of Africa’s heat, the devil worshipping, cannibal eating savages and of course the death doling mosquitoes. If Phil failed, he’d probably have to kill himself to protect his family. The company had a generous life pension and with his new position, his family would not suffer beyond emotional anguish.

‘All aboard,’ the Naval officer shouted.

No two ordinary words had ever made Phil’s heart race. He saw that the wooden ramp had been laid ready for passengers to embark. The hairs on his skin contracted in fear and excitement. The thrill of a new beginning transformed Phil to a child visiting the circus. However, this time the show was his life, and everything that awaited him on the other side of this nautical journey. Phil was Odysseus, Heracles, men on a quest of honour, but in reality, he was Achilles. His weak tendon was the lie he told. An innocent lie where he stood to gain and lose everything. As Phil embarked the ramp, the drunk man recommenced his song and dance; there were some sharp body jerks with his hips and hands to accompany his singing. He looked more like he was possessed by a demon. The immigrant slowly shuffled ahead. Suddenly, the drunk man made an awkward misstep, which made him fall forward, and unfortunately, he took the immigrant down to the floor with him. Their crash sounded like a bag of grapefruit had fallen out of a sack. Bags opened and contents of their bags flew in the air. Before Phil could react, a fierce gust of wind arrived, stealing some of their belongings, and shared them with the sea. The drunk man remained on his back, smiling and continued singing his ditties, while the immigrant groaned gently massaging his left hip. He collected himself by slowly moving to and all fours position. Phil was moved by the immigrant who had been knocked down and was trying to get up again. He approached him to offer his hand, but his gesture of admiration was ignored. The immigrant was focused on collecting the strewn contents of his rucksack. A look of horror flashed across the man’s face. His movements were slow but became hurried and frenzied. He searched the floor then began patting his trouser pockets.

‘Where is it?’ he said.

Phil was astonished to hear a very upper-class accent.

 ‘Where is it?’ he repeated. 

The immigrant turned around and continued searching the dirty and gravelly ground. Another gust of wind arrived and further strew his fallen items across the pier. The immigrant limped down the ramp in pursuit of his belongings as speedily his aching limbs allowed. With no clear notion as to why, Phil followed. Perhaps feeling a sense of responsibility for the immigrant or curiosity. Near the edge of the pier, Phil caught sight of the immigrant who had just reached what seemed to be the rest of his belongings. One item stood out amidst a handkerchief, dry crackers and a notebook. It was the photograph of the beautiful brunette. Phil had more time to regale at her pale skin, hazel eyes and voluminous hair. A gorgeous woman that Phil Vickery would have happily approached at the dance in his local town hall during his single days. A rare beauty. Just as the immigrant reached for the photo, another aggressive gust of wind attacked. This time, the impact made Phil jostle forward to his knees. The wind cleared everything in its path and took the photograph into the sea. The immigrant screamed, ‘Agnes.’

He limped with more energy towards the picture until he was at the edge of the pier. Terrified he’d jump into the freezing Thames, Phil wrapped both his arms around the man’s torso and leaned back. Phil’s slightly port body absorbed the shock of the collision with the ground softening the immigrant’s crash. 

‘Agnes,’ he screamed again.

The immigrant showed no gratitude, instead, like a fearful and wounded animal, he feebly writhed and tried to stretch his arms, but Phil remained resolute, and tightened his grasp.

‘Stop it,’ Phil said slightly breathless.

The immigrant maintained his physical protest with the faintly audible seagulls squawking and the wheezing and breathy inhalations of a man in pain, providing the soundtrack.  

‘It’s just a bloody photograph,’ Phil said.

Perhaps it was the cold, the impending voyage, a change of heart or fatigue, the immigrant slowly stopped thrashing and rested his head on the cold concrete floor right next to Phil’s with his uneven and jagged breathing and the squawks of the circling seagulls providing the soundtrack. Phil’s grasp remained firm. However, there was the small matter of boarding the ‘MV Apapa’. Phil had to ensure the immigrant had ended his lunacy. In a bid to test the immigrant’s resolve, Phil loosened his grip slowly but cautiously. If there were any abrupt movements or tensed muscles, Phil would have to return to his vice grip. Satisfied, Phil let his marginally sore arms rest on the ground. The immigrant let his body remain on top of Phil’s for a few seconds. This was ungentlemanly behaviour but Phil could sense the exhaustion of the immigrant so he didn’t protest and let him rest until the immigrant gathered the strength to roll off in a swift swoop.

The increasingly jagged and strained breath of the immigrant concerned Phil until the brawny sound of the escaped from the direction of the MV Apapa. Phil immediately stood up and answered the call. The sun banished all traces of the earlier fog and the harbour was fully visible. Distracted, Phil witnessed the pattering of people across the pier. He was enthralled by the parade of floating vessels on the Thames that also seemed to meet the sky. It dawned upon Phil that not only would they sail to Lagos but they would almost fly there. The majestic horn made repeated itself, calling out to Phil, at least that’s what he thought. Phil cast his eyes towards the MV Apapa. The queue in front of the ship had thinned significantly and his heart began to beat rapidly. There was excitement for what the future held but also fear. Phil cast his glance toward the MV Apapa and then to himself. His white shirt displayed patches of a watercolour brown and little granules of dirt. The stains were less visible on his tweed jacket but that didn’t help address his feelings of disappointment. This was not the start of trip he’d planned. Enough. Phil said to himself. As far as he was concerned, he had completed his good deed for the day. Phil brushed off the grains of dirt and his belongings, turned away from the immigrant and made his way to the MV Apapa. Phil thought of his family, his wife Helen, if she were with him she’d say, ‘Poor thing. We’ve done enough for him. I’ll say a prayer for him. His Father would say, ‘Poor bastard, those people have it worse than us.’

 Finally, Phil thought of his son Domhnall, ‘Father, maybe we should stay with him a little. It’s not nice to be alone.’

Phil paused in his tracks and smiled to himself as he turned around and returned to the immigrant. Maybe it was a voice. There was certainly a feeling, a notion, a whim, an impulse, a moment of madness, an unspeakable force which told Phil that he had to ensure the immigrant boarded the ship. Phil returned to the immigrant who was still sat on the dirty ground staring at the sea. In ordered to catch his attention, Phil cleared his throat but the immigrant ignored him. 

‘You’ve got three options: you can stay here, jump in the water or get on that boat,’ Phil said tersely.

The immigrant remained stationary. Phil turned around and saw five people in the queue.

‘The water is cursed,’ The immigrant said without looking at Phil. 

 ‘You should see my flat when it rains. At the lightest drizzle, water finds its way in then my wife finds a bucket,’ Phil continued not quite sure what he was saying but he knew why, ‘Then the water feeds the bloody mould on the ceiling. You can paint over it but then it rains again and again and again,’ Phil said staring into the sea, ‘But look at it. It’s bloody beautiful. We can’t live without it.  If the water can take something from you maybe it can also give it back,’ Phil said.

Phil’s words hung in the air loitering and wafting in between Phil Vickery and the immigrant sat up on the ground staring out into the Thames. Phil took another glance at the queue, there were three men waiting. He didn’t have the heart to look at his watch. Instead, Phil closed his eyes and took a slow breath of the moisture infused and salty air. As he inhaled, he imagined his little boy with his mother’s golden-brown hair and his father’s mischievous green eyes, in his choir boy uniform singing in church looking out for his parents and grandparents. Once again, Phil smiled because his son was proud of him. Phil may have deceived Stanley Northrup but he knew why. Was a lie still deceipt if it were for a greater good? What is more important than family? There wasn’t a cause nobler trying to liberate his accursed son of the ill-fate of being born of Irish immigrants. Domhnall was doomed to experience the same hatred befallen on his parents. Phil would have told a thousand lies to change his family’s fate and with that thought opened his eyes to behold the immigrant whose hand was stretched out towards Phil.

‘Are you alright?’ The immigrant asked.           

‘You’ just tried to jump in the water,’ Phil replied.

‘You’re the one crying,’ The immigrant retorted tersely.

Phil touched his face to feel his wet cheeks and a wash of warmth spread across his face. He was embarrassed and tired.

‘Please could you assist me,’ The immigrant said with his arm still reaching towards Phil.

Phil reached out his arm to help steady the man to his feet. The immigrant leaned a great deal on Phil to stay upright. Once Phil felt the man was stable, he gently guided the immigrant’s arm around his shoulder and they walked towards the MV Apapa.

‘My name is Bisade. What can I call you sir?’

Phil detected a different accent when he said his strange name.

‘Phil.’

‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

‘Are you Jamaican?’

‘No. Nigerian’

‘I should have guessed.’ Phil said with a quiet laugh. 

Phil noticed a sharper and more audible wheeze in Bisade’s laugh. After their introduction. The two briefly shook hands and in silence, they continued towards the ship, went up the ramp and finally boarded. They were the last passengers. Phil turned his gaze towards the pier, his last glimpse of London. Certain that whenever he’d return, if he’d return, he’d become a completely new person and so would the city. When Phil returned his gaze to Bisade who stood a few steps away. Up close, his eyes were framed by purple dark circles but his actual eyes were sorrowful and weary. Phil insisted on assisting Bisade to his lodgings

‘Thank you but I am perfectly capable of making my way.’

Those were the last words Bisade said before shaking Phil’s hands and hobbling away like sadness personified.

Phil was shown to his first-class cabin. It was the size of the flat he shared with his parents, wife and child in Crouch end. The cabin boasted three bedrooms, two en-suite bathrooms, varnished wood panelled walls, a chandelier, oak wood cabins for the four sets clothes, thick velvet curtains and golden rugs. There was a complementary whisky set in the sitting room with a bowl of fruit. Phil sat on the very edge of one of the chairs, poured himself a whisky in the fancy glass and deeply inhaled it.  Before he could drink, he thought of Bisade, left his cabin, and followed the signs to the lower decks. He remembered the room number Bisade was assigned, walked to his door and knocked. He expected Bisade to be fast asleep but he was the one who opened the door still wearing his coat.

‘Is everything alright?’ Bisade whispered.

Phil looked past Bisade in the poorest excuse for a room. There was a bunk bed, sterile white walls and not much space for anything. On the bottom of the bunk bed, there was a middle-aged man fast asleep and snoring loudly. In Bisade’s condition, he could not reach the top of the bunk bed. Phil walked past Bisade, picked up his duffel bag and walked away.

‘What are you doing?’ Bisade said in pursuit.

‘You can’t stay there,’ Phil said.

‘Where else am I supposed to stay?’ Bisade said.

Phil remained silent with a concealed smile as he heard Bisade shuffling behind. He slowly led Bisade back to his cabin. By the time they arrived, Bisade was breathless and wheezing. Phil watched him as he bent over to catch his breath then went to pour water for Bisade.

‘Thank you,’ Bisade said softly as he slowly sipped on the water and sat down, ‘This is quite the cabin.’

The wheezing in Bisade’s breathing increased.

‘I really cannot accept your offer-’ Bisade dropped the glass of water and it shattered into pieces as his beaten and bruised body slumped to the floor.