Short Story

by Cyprian Ekwensi

 No Escape From S. A. P.

If anyone had told Dr Fasanmi of Nigeria that he would be running a Centre in Kuwait in the middle of the Gulf Crisis, he would never have believed it.

"Kuwait? .. You must be joking! Am quite happy here in Lagos, thank you!"

But that was before SAP started biting.

Dr Fasanmi was a low-profile kind of man. He had little time for social life, or for gossip. Though a member of several clubs, he was seldom seen killing time.

When at the club he was either playing a brisk game of tennis or swimming, and then, he would gather his kit, fling them into his official car and speed off to the General Hospital where he worked as consultant.

Late at night, he would go home to his wife, Funmi a pretty accountant with a commercial bank, who had given him two lovely kids -- a boy and a girl.

Fasanmi and his wife had dreams but there was little time to take them seriously.

He had left the club one afternoon and was about to start his car when the radio said, "Here is a special announcement: The following medical doctors in the Health Service have been retired from the service -- with immediate effect ...

He did not stop to listen as the names were reeled off. He was comparatively young, had committed no crime, had not contravened the civil service codes of conduct ...

He drove on. Suddenly, he pricked up his ears. Was that, name his own or someone else's? He could not be sure...

Retired--by a simple radio announcement. Such was the terrifying practice under which one worked these days.

Retired... A cold sweat broke over him and he found himself driving faster towards his home. His wife confirmed that she had heard the announcement.

Fasanmi put on a smile. "Well," he consoled himself. Such are the times in which we live! Appointments and dismissals by radio broadcast.

But the shock of it all remained, and for weeks and weeks he was disoriented. At 45, he was retired from the Public Service. This meant he had to vacate his official quarters, return the government vehicle assigned to him as consultant to the General Hospital, find a new employer or, better still, set up on his own, but where was the capital?

He would be paid a lump sum as gratuity and a pittance of a pension monthly, scarcely enough to set up a practice. He had to do something to get himself together.

The more he thought about his plight, the more confused he became. Occasionaly, sitting by himself, he would burst into fits of self-derisive laughter.

It took him another few months to set up the Family Health Clinic and that was because he was a special kind of man, a survivor. Many professionals of his kind had been destroyed by sudden and unexpected retirement.

Finally , there it was: The Family Health Clinic with its complement of well-turned out staff -- doctors, nurses, medical technicians, located in a side-street in Lagos. The meticulous service, reasonable charges and reliable diagnoses and prescriptions soon gave it a good reputation.

Patronage soared. Returns were impressive. He realized he should have established on his own all this lost time. Now he could give expression to his dreams.

When at the club he heard talk about the damaging effects of the unstable naira against the U S dollar, the talk drifted past his ears. He was not an importer. He dealt only in naira and so far, so good.

He soon began to notice that items were getting more and more expensive. His wife complained of escalating prices of everyday items in the market--fish, meat, yams. This phenomenon had earlier been called belt-tightening, but now it was known as the Structural Adjustment Program, SAP for short, the bitter pill prescribed for reviving Nigeria's ailing economy. Knowledgeable people said it was only just beginning.

Coming to work one evening he found to his surprise that the street leading to the Family Health Clinic had been blockaded. Huge black lorries containing mobile policemen in riot gear surrounded the clinic.

His heart missed a beat. He managed to park his car and hurry inside. Everywhere was chaos. He witnessed how from inside the clinic cartons of drugs were being hurled out into the police lorries.

"What's happening ?" he asked Kwantor, a youth corps doctor working with him.

"I was here on duty when the police arrived. They said they had information that fake drugs were being used in our clinic. They produced a search warrant."

Fasanmi was outraged. "Fake drugs in our clinic? Why don't they raid the manufacturers for God sake!"

Amidst the scream of sirens the police lorries drove off. Fasanmi trailed them in his car. At the station, he wrote a statement. He was told to return the next day. He paid several visits to the station. The case was charged to court without waiting for the lab reports from the drug analyst to whom samples had been sent. The case was adjourned several times. Time passed.

Fasanmi's wife told him she was convinced that some enemy was behind it all, but urged him not to give up the fight.

For months the family health clinic did not have the use of the drugs. Eventually, the police found that there had been a mix-up. The police apologized to Dr Fasanmi and returned his drugs, much the worse for bad handling and poor storage.

Fasanmi's anger reached new peaks.

In this mood, he was standing by the edge of the swimming pool at the club. A young man whom he had often seen but had not spoken to, greeted him and got into conversation with him.

"Have you ever thought of going to Saudi Arabia?"

"What for?"

"They are recruiting doctors."

"Brain drain, that's what it is! ... am not interested in leaving Nigeria right now."

"The pay is good, man! Awfully good, in U S dollars!"

Dr Fasanmi's thoughts were elsewhere.

In the early hours of the next morning, armed robbers broke into the clinic, terrorized the patients, tied up the doctor on duty, shot the night guard and made away with the cash register and the special diagnostic equipment. Fasanmi became almost delirious.

"Somebody doesn't want me around!"

He toyed with the idea of selling off the Family Health Clinic packing up bag and baggage, and moving off to -- Saudi Arabia? Why not? Brain drain they would call it, but it would only be his survival strategy.

Besides, was he not a retired man? Retired and -- free!

He went back to his new friend at the club, who promised to link him with the recruitment officer for Saudi Arabia, Dr Mahmoud Abdul Fazir, who at that moment was living it up in a suite at the Federal Palace Hotel.

Dr Fasanmi's wife, Funmi, was alarmed.

"You're not going to Saudi Arabia, SAP or no SAP. You're not a Muslim!"

"Being Muslim has nothing to do with it, dear! Are you not crying every day and night about hardship? What am I to do? Now I want to go out and bring home some dollars, you say no. You women!"

"You men! You always act without consideration for others. What do you plan to do with us?" She waved at the young ones who were playing outside.

"You'll be safe here in Nigeria, looking after things"

"Even the Clinic?"

"Even the Clinic! I've planned everything in detail."

"Mphm... I

"You don't appear to be convinced."

"SAP is biting harder," Dr Fasanmi pressed on.'There's barely enough money to pay salaries. Workers are crying for the approved minimum wage and allowances. Some of our nurses are resigning. The bank has doubled the interest on loan. We're in arrears with repayments. It's only a matter of time and the Clinic will be up for sale by public auction...'

"Okay-O!" said his wife in the voice of the long-suffering housewife.

Dr Fasanmi negotiated a six-figure salary in U S dollars with matching allowances for a preliminary 18-month tour. He caught the next flight for Saudi Arabia.

He had not been in Saudi Arabia two months when he began to feel homesick. Of the $50,000 allowance he was paid on arrival, he sent home $40,000 to his wife Funmi with detailed instructions. Change the dollars into naira. You'll have plenty. Pay back so much to the bank to offset the high-interest rate on the money borrowed. Use so much to equip the clinic. Keep so much for running the clinic. Reserve so much for domestic expenses. "Not a bad start," his letter ended.

He decided that with his first salary he would order some modern medical equipment to be shipped direct to Nigeria.

He soon made friends with a Zimbabwean doctor called Mennyange, a man about his own age, who had been at the same King Faisal Medical Centre two years before Dr Fasanmi.

Mennyange told him he had left Zimbabwe for political reasons and was supporting movements for a new democratic government, freely chosen by the people.

"I miss my family," he told Fasanmi.

"Me, too!" Fasanmi said.

Fasanmi and Mennyange compared notes. They came to the conclusion that to survive in today's Africa, one had to develop a special kind of resilience.

"SAP's ugly head is raised everywhere on the continent," said Mennyange. Our money is rendered worthless outside our countries. And inside, too! SAP is a conspiracy by foreign powers!"

Deep inside him, Fasanmi wanted to return to Nigeria. He now saw that on balance his leaving home was a delusion. The problems of harmonious living, financial independence, and social relevance were not solved by running away into exile.

Besides, something in the air made him feel ill at ease. People moved about easily and peacefully. They answered the five times daily call to prayer, enjoyed the desert delicacies, drank sweet tea from glass cups, but there was always that alertness.

Israel could attack at any time. The Palestinian Movement could plant bombs in supermarkets. Christians and Muslims could clash at the flimsiest provocation. Even among the Muslims, the fundamentalists could start machine-gunning. Everything was volatile. Not so, back home.

Surely there was too much money to be made. Good oil money and it attracted the brains into a drain-pipe from all over the world. Suppose he had all this money, in U S dollars and never lived to enjoy it. Dr Fasanmi laughed to himself.

"But I must go home, better to sit it out under SAP and live, than to become a millionaire here - and die!"

Not long after this he and Mennyange were transferred as chief medical officer and deputy-chief medical officer to Kuwait. Dr Fasanmi's salary was upgraded by 20 percent, while Mennyange who was senior was rated fifty percent more.

Their patients were exclusive monarchs and filthy-rich princes. Their perquisites were limitless. When Dr Fasanmi prayed at night, he told his God, "If this is a dream, let
me not wake up... If it is not, give me the strength to know when to quit!"

One morning, Dr Fasanmi and Dr Mennyange were on their way to work when they saw, coming up the streets, a long dark line of Centurion tanks with huge gun-barrels pointing skywards. The flags they were carrying were undoubtedly Iraqi flags.

Both doctors hurried to the safety of the Medical Centre and soon learnt that Kuwait had been overrun by Iraqi troops, that the monarch had fled and a new government was in place, that the Iraqi cry over the radio was Kuwait is part of Iraq!

"The radio announcement again!" cried Fasanmi, remembering how he had been retired by radio. For him the world had hit rock-bottom.

As soon as he could talk to Dr Mennyange alone, he confided in him. "I cannot stay here any longer. This is what I feared might happen all along -- a war!"

"But your contract --"

"The contract didn't say I should die here!"

"What do you suggest?"

"We do something about leaving."

"You will not be allowed."

"That is, if we ask for permission."

"You mean we will simply walk away?"

"Just so. "

"Well, well!" light shone in Mennyange's eyes. After a moment he said, "Give me a little time to think about it. I, too, will not stay. We will simply be sacrificed for nothing."

The siege of Kuwait had been going on for some time. President George Bush of the United States of America and Mrs Margaret Thatcher of Great Britain had been hurling invectives at President Saddam Hussein of Iraq, calling on him to withdraw his troops from Kuwait and restore the monarchy. At the same time, troops were massing up from the western world, particularly from the United States, leader of the build-up of the eighth military wonder of the world.

The air space above Kuwait screamed with the sound of technocratic planes. Chemical and nuclear extinguishers of human life reared their heads and rolled towards the scene. But beneath it all, Kuwait's oil, God's gift to the people of Kuwait rumbled inexhaustibly -- the lifeblood of modern living, the igniter of the flames of war. Everybody on earth heard the intentions of both warring sides. A doubting world still prayed for a peaceful resolution.

Though Dr Fasanmi tuned to BBC and Voice of America broadcasts, he did not hear of any Third World country offering either to mediate or to evacuate its citizens from the impending carnage. But fleeing women and children from Europe and America were already congesting the airports and departing by special flights for their home countries.

Late one night Dr Mennyange knocked at the door of Fasanmi's apartment. Fasanmi in his pyjamas opened the door.

Mennyange came in accompanied by a tall Arab who wore a Jesus Christ beard.

"This is Hamzat Abu Sadiq. He is arranging our escape."

The word escape sent shivers down the spine of Fasanmi. "Escape?"

"Yes! We aren't staying here any longer. Bush of America and Hussein of Iraq are both crying for blood. Have you not heard that the mother of all wars is coming?

"We stay here, we perish!" Fasanmi's hands became wet.

"Escape to where? I came here to escape from SAP, remember?"

Hamzat smiled. He had beautiful teeth in the dim light. "Across the border. I will have everything under control! Trust me! I will guide you back to Saudi. From there...' he shrugged.

"Yes," said Mennyange. "From there, after we have escaped--"

"Escaped?" Fasanmi began to feel a throbbing in his head.

"We can then fly back to our homes. Remaining here in Kuwait is out of the question. In Saudi, we are safer ."

"No, no , no!..." said Fasanmi. 'If I escape from here, it's straight home to Nigeria ... Oh yes! My wife warned me--"

All three were silent. Fasanmi brooded. "I should have stayed
in Nigeria. Let SAP bite. Now I'll be killed trying to escape from Kuwait. What will I tell my ancestors? I tell you, my wife warned me. Women have intuition. Men think women are cowards. They're wrong. Women feel danger better than men... My wife said, SAP is good for the country, for Africa and bla bla bla! I wasn't listening! Now I've gone from the SAP to the fire. I like that! From the SAP to the fire! Believe me, it's not funny!"

"Who started this war, is not our business. Our business is to escape," said Hamzat. That will cost you fifty thousand dollars, U.S., of course!" His face suddenly wore a distant look.

Fasanmi whistled.'Fifty G, what for?'

'To escape! By Allah, can't you see the risk I am taking? If I am caught, I will be tried for treason and hanged. Besides, only I know the safe route. Soldiers everywhere. Road blocks! Guards who must be pacified. The price I ask is reasonable."

"Lord!" cried Fasanmi.'Fifty thousand dollars. Do you know what that is in naira? Dollars lured me here, dollars will bury me! I am dead already!"

"Stop talking that way," Mennyange scolded him. "Dollars will not kill you. Dollars will save your life, will help you escape.'

Hamzat said, "The journey has to be taken at midnight."

They greeted all round and he left.

After Hamzat had left, Mennyange began to recount. He said, "All Africa is indebted to the developed world. They want us to repay the loans granted for development -- the World Bank and the IMF continue to play Shylock, looking for their pound of flesh without drawing blood. It's useless running away from our countries because of bad debts. If we continue to do so, we and even our children and their children will be paying this debt forever , unless --"

"Unless we endure the pains of SAP," Fasanmi said. "I've heard it all before. It's not easy!"

"SAP is a bitter medicine," said the Zimbabwean. "In your case, your country, Nigeria, has oil. Sometimes you make a big sale in the world market ... So many dollars extra per barrel, one million barrels a day."

Suddenly, Fasanmi said, "For God's sake, I would rather die of SAP in my own country than be trapped and perish in some foreign land, in another country's war."

"That's the spirit! ... Now you're talking!"

Hamzat arrived the next midnight. He looked all set. Mennyange gave him the envelope containing fifty thousand U S dollars. He balanced the money in his hand, then said, "But there are two of you, where's the rest of the money?"

"The balance will be paid at the other end," said Mennyange. "Let's not waste time. Move!"

But there was more ding-dong argument, more screaming voices before Hamzat thrust the envelope into the voluminous pocket of his robes. Dr Fasanmi had not slept since the planned escape. He wore a safari suit with many pockets. He heard the planes streaking like comets across the sky. When he locked his apartment and came out into the street, he noticed one particular star in the firmament on which he fixed his gaze. This star was big and bold and bright and Fasanmi prayed for guidance through the dangers of the night.

They rode in an open Jeep. There was one other man with Hamzat. He wore a leather jacket and very dark glasses. His eyes could not be seen. He never spoke but at each check point he got down and handed some gratification to the fierce-looking heavily-armed guards who waved them on.

In this way they proceeded till they got to a plain desert. "The border is just one hundred kilometres away. Hamzat lowered his voice as he spoke. You must dismount about twenty-five metres to the border ... carry your bundles, pretend to be refugees from the coming war..."

Fasanmi started to shiver. He felt naked and exposed. He blamed himself for his greed and foolishness. He glanced at Mennyange to speak with him but Mennyange appeared to be in a daze.

The Jeep slowed down, then stopped.

Fasanmi and Mennyange dismounted.'Good-bye! They embraced all round. Fasanmi and Mennyange began to walk , at first slowly, then faster.

They heard the sound of Hamzat's heels on the soft earth behind them. "My balance!" cried Hamzat, trying to block them. "My money, please! My job is done... I have conducted you to the border as promised. Now you must find your way!" His voice rang bells in the stillness of the desert.

The two friends were so frightened, they ignored his rantings. They were within sight of the opposing camp when thunder struck.

A patrol vehicle laden with armed men suddenly appeared, firing at Hamzat's Jeep. Hamzat turned and fled towards the Jeep.

Dr Fasanmi threw himself down and lay flat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mennyange racing towards the camp. Suddenly he screamed, "I'm shot! I've been shot!" He fell on his face.

Still lying down Fasanmi saw Hamzat's Jeep burst into flames, overturn and crash with a tremendous noise. Hamzat racing for his life, his robes streaking with flame let out an endless yell for help.

Then Fasanmi heard the growl of an approaching vehicle. He acted dead. A shadow loomed over him. A booted foot struck him in the ribs. He screamed and was picked up and dumped into the patrol van. Mannyange, still groaning, was also picked up.

They were driven to King Faisal Medical Centre. Fasanmi immediately recognised the young Nigerian doctor in charge, a man called Kwantor, the youth corps doctor who had run the Family Health Clinic with him back in Lagos.

Fasanmi gazed hard at him, surprised. There was no time for questions. Kwantor did not smile at Fasanmi but took over Mennyange, put him under drip, wheeled in the oxygen and began the battle to save the Zimbambwean's life.

Fasanmi was examined and treated for shock.

In a few days he was well enough to shake Mennyange's hands and to bid him good-bye. His flight, a Saudi Arabian Jumbo Jet was waiting to board, and soon enough they took off and after an uneventful flight landed at Murtalla Muhammed International Airport in Lagos.

When finally he knocked on the door of his apartment in the suburbs of Lagos, his wife opened the door and stared at him open-mouthed. He lifted her into the room.

"Where are the kids?" were his first words.

" Ah-ah?" said his wife, "What happened?"

"I'll tell you later. Give me a good plate of eba with okro soup, I'm starving!"

"Didn't they feed you on the plane?"

"I couldn't eat."

His wife smiled and hugged him closer. "So you're back, really back to SAP?"

"Give me my country chop, woman ... Don't waste my time!"

He released her tenderly and sighed. The usual Lagos street noises came floating into the room. The commotion raged at his doorstep between a bus conductor and a passenger, now exchanging blows over refusal to pay the new fares.

He peeped through the curtains and saw the growing crowd of onlookers ever hungry to witness a spectacle in this spectacle-hungry city.

"Welcome, Daddy," chanted the kids, crashing into the room and embracing him.

"Now I am truly back home," Fasanmi murmurred as his wife placed the warm food on the table. Life goes on -- with SAP. There's no escape!"