The Street

Onyeka Nwelue

Osadebe's face was swarmed with anger as soon as he stepped out of the arrival lounge of the Indira Gandhi airport in Delhi. Not because it was winter and it was cold and foggy, but because he was disappointed. This was not the abroad he had thought of; he had gone to the travel agent to help get him a visa to leave Nigeria by all means. And through records, the travel agent told him, 'It will be hard to get a US visa. UK visa, no. Australia, no. Holland, no. All Europe, I don't think you can foot the bill.' So, he asked, 'Which visa would be easy to get now? At the moment.' And the agent looked through his record again and answered, 'Erm, I will check.'

And then he checked. China would be tough. Pakistan, no? Afghanistan, god-forbid-bad-thing. Jamaica? No. Cyprus? That is not for certain. Where else? And the agent was thinking of India. He could do that first. But he didn't want to rush him with that offer, so he could grab whatever he wanted from him. Again, Osadebe might succumb if he had seen a lot of Bollywood movies.

'You dey watch Indian films, shey?' the travel agent asked, sitting loosely behind the long table in his office, almost covered with maps and sheets of papers.

Osadebe looked on magically: 'Yes, but I no like all dat dancing dancing.'

'Argh!' the travel agent nodded. 'A lot of people even prefer India. When you get there, it is possible to get visa to America, I tell you.'

This tickled Osadebe in the ribs. Now, his dream had begun. He had been awoken. It was a relief. Now, it was time to act fast. He listened attentively as the travel agent told stories: a young man had come to him and on getting to India with a one month visa, had applied for American visa in India, got it and had written him from America. For this, Osadebe fell. Falling for this was too simple. Because he knew the travel agent had helped a lot of people with visas to travel. All he had to do was to pay, the travel agent assured him of the Indian visa.

Just then, he stepped out of the travel agent's office and returned the next day with his international passport.

India was on his mind.

But before he left the office, the travel agent cracked up jokes. "You will even get to meet Amitabh Bachchan in person. Nice man. Good-looking. Very charming."

Osadebe remained puzzled.

But all that had happened in Lagos. He had paid and had gotten his visa, so he was off from Nigeria, a country he had badly wanted to get away from. Oh, yes, nothing was working in Nigeria, he kept telling people. And just before he got his visa, he was lucky he had told someone about it and the person knew someone who knew someone that knew someone that lived in India. "He could help you when you get there," he had been promised.

The night Osadebe got his visa, he couldn't sleep. He stayed awake staring at the silver-lined stamp on the 5th page of his passport, signed with green ink. He looked at it and read the details on the visa page closely. It was a one-month visa. He had paid for a six months multiple visa. But the travel agent told him that the Indian government had changed some rules and regulations in their tourist visa category. No wahala, he had said to himself. Half bread is better than none.

The night to the day Osadebe was to travel, he couldn't sleep. In fact, he stopped sleeping the night he got his visa and he stopped 'mingling' with most of his friends on the street after that night, because he was going abroad and they had no future together again. He was better than them. They were going to remain on this street forever, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Not for him. He had secured his future, which was India. He came out to the verandah of their house and observed the street curiously.

"Not me and you again," he said out loud, smiling.

The night that Qatar airlines flight departed Lagos to Doha to Delhi, honestly, Osadebe didn't sleep. He had no business with sleep. Never. Not anymore. He was more concerned about his future in India, a country he knew nothing about. He never bothered to read about it, though. Just he felt comfortable with the beautiful orchards in which people danced in Bollywood movies or the greenery countrysides through which the actors drove past, singing melodious Hindi songs. All that he knew about India and all that he bore in mind about India and all that he wanted to see in India...

But...

As soon as he came out to the arrivals lounge of the Indira Gandhi airport, looking out for the friend who was supposed to welcome him, while the breeze surged into his face, he became purple-raged. He was so angry and disappointed with India.

"Fuck!" he swore silently. "I no expect dis kin' dirtiness o."

But that was before his visa expired. This was after one month. He had stayed and there was no way he could return to Nigeria with the return ticket he had with him, because he was still like he had left the country. No money. No future secured yet. And life was becoming miserable for him. He couldn't do anything to save himself. He began to detest who ever and whatever brought the idea of coming to India. But within him, he kept consoling himself; he had hope.

Osadebe became restless. He was broke. And when you are broke, you can do anything. He didn't know what to do, anyway. He felt he could do something. But what could he do? How? What? He just didn't know. He felt so bad, almost cursing nature for trampling on his destiny, so he believed. He could quietly die; like commit suicide or something, but it was said that Nigerians never commit suicide. So, it grabbed him like a responsibility. If you commit suicide, you are dead and gone and you will pay for it. He was scared to his pants. He was scared and broke and these two things could make a man weak. So, Osadebe was weak and he could fall for anything. Anything. Just anything.

House number 35 in E-Block, Vasant Vihar, is where he is 'squatting' with Uteh, a Nigerian guy who drives a Maruti car. Uteh has money. Uteh has no 'known' job. Uteh pays his house rent in advance. Uteh is a 'big boy' among Nigerians in Delhi. Uteh has been in Delhi for over four years, even though he came on a three months visa, which is surprising and he for once never left India, but he is a proud holder of a residence permit and drives around Delhi the way he wants. He doesn't care about the police. He is a big boy and anyone can go to hell. So, Osadebe is safe in his house. He doesn't give a damn if Osadebe is broke or not. He makes sure Osadebe eats, buys anything he wants. In fact, Uteh is so kind that people are suspicious of him. He's so kind. Very very kind and you can see that from the way he treats people. He tells Osadebe sometimes, "I know how you feel. But just stay cool, ‘til you stand on your feet." But Osadebe is afraid that he can't stand on his feet in India. It's a sinking ground in Delhi, he keeps muttering to himself.

Uteh tells him again: "You can enter the street."

But he doesn't understand. Does that mean he is being asked to leave? Is this finally the time? Oh, Uteh, don't do this, please! Please Uteh, there's no other place to squat in, please. Don't do this.

Tears trickle down onto his cheeks and he quickly wipes them. When Uteh sees that, he is alarmed.

"Wetin you tink say I talk, Osadebe?"

He doesn't talk.

Uteh is angry. He frowns. "Enter street and you just begin dey cry?" He is saying this to him, as both of them sit in the sitting room of Uteh's posh flat. The flat, if it has to be described, is beautiful. It has a flat screen TV. There are blue-coloured sofas. There's a refrigerator that keeps everything chilled and iced. And the flat has a toilet, a kitchen and a bathroom (attached to the toilet). It is a flat any rich Delhite would be envious of. For this, Uteh doesn't a give a damn about his neighbours too. Already, he doesn't give a damn about anyone. So, who the fuck are his neighbours? He sees them as spies, as nose-pokers! He doesn't care what they think about him, so he keeps living his 'simple' life, because he says it is simple. "Love your Nigerian brothers more than your Indian neighbours, for Indians are never to be trusted, " he had told Osadebe once. "De people no get any sense of privacy. They are scary."

And this scares Osadebe, because he doesn't know that at all.

"Osa, " Uteh fondly calls him, holding him by the shoulder. "Street na anoda ting wey I talk.

Silence.

"Scam, " he says, looking straight into Osadebe's eyes. "I fit teach you. You go dey on your own. You go dey comfortable. You go dey chop the kin' money wey you want. Every club for Delhi go know you."

Of course, Uteh is well known in Delhi. Every weekend clubber in south Delhi knows the hunky-looking Nigerian guy who drives a Maruti. He comes to the clubs and under the shades of red and blue lights will buy drinks for everyone and also make them understand that everything is moving smoothly. Sometimes, he doesn't feel the disgust the other Africans feel towards them in the club. Sometimes he hears them say them, but he doesn't care at all. Sometimes, he says, all they say to him is shit...

"Nigerians are too loud, " a Zambian in the club had once remarked and Uteh looked at him and smiled.

That smile was killing.

He heard another African say, "Nigerians just want to appear superior, when they are not."

And he looked at him and smiled.

That smile was more killing.

It made them look stupid.

So, Osadebe thinks about all the fame and power Uteh has in Delhi, because he has money and nods his head. He wants to learn and he wants to make money, so he could send back to his family in Nigeria. The pressure is there already. They are calling all the time on the phone, asking wazzupwazzupwazzupwazzzup? No greenlight yet? Wetin dey happen for dat una India sef? Una no dey do wetin oda people dey do? And Osadebe thinks his head is swelling and will explode soon. He is tired of all the mails he gets:

hey, nicca, wetin dey? abeg, no forget my side wen you dey come back. Buy me some nice shoes and watches...

and more offline messages on his Yahoo! Messenger:

bro, abeg, when you go come online? i wan discuss something with you. like wen you dey come back Naija? i wan make you help buy me some fabrics. peace

But with which money? Osadebe asks Uteh.

Uteh laughs boisterously and asks: "Na me send you message?"

And both of them laugh.

Gently, Uteh begins to teach Osadebe the arts of Internet scam. It is a gradual thing, he tells him. You need to be patient and persistent. Don't give up on a 'maga' too easily. They are too greedy to leave you. They just may not have the money then and say they can't afford to involve in the deal, but with time, you will find out that they have gone to get loans and stuff.

Week one: Osadebe knows how to do the job very well.

Week two: Osadebe begins to send and receive e-mail messages.

Week three: Osadebe gets a 'client' who pays him 1 lakh.

Week four: Osadebe begins to party hard in clubs.

So, when he signs into Yahoo! Messenger, he appears offline to everyone in his address book. He doesn't read offline messages from his friends again. He doesn't even call his people. Life is good, he thinks.

One day, Uteh comes home and someone expects him to ask Osadebe to find his own place, but he says to Osadebe smiling ruefully: "I no say you never fuck since two months wey you don dey India. Make I carry you go GB Road!" And Osadebe bursts into laughter. He feels shy. Why is Uteh treating him like a kid? And why is he also treating him like a brother? He doesn't like this, partly, because he doesn't expect it. Through the brightly lit streets of south Delhi, Uteh drives to GB Road, passing Pahar Ganj down to Kashmiri Gate. Not that Osadebe is particularly interested in doing that, but because Uteh has offered, he can't refuse. It is like stretching out your hands and asking, 'God what can you do now?' Because God will be angry and will snap back: "What can I do? I will make you breathless!" If he could do that is left for the other to take. On GB Road, there are brothels and the girls are always waiting for customers, so as soon as Uteh stops, they start ogling at them.

"African people, very big," one of the prostitutes says and withdraws back into her room.

And it is to her room that the 'big African boys' are coming to.