Bar Beach Police Station Maxim Matusevich (bio) In August 1999, I flew to Nigeria from Chicago via St. Petersburg, Helsinki, and Amsterdam. If you get a kick out of experiencing intense and disorienting contrasts, try that route. My childhood friend Alex drove me to Helsinki from St. Pete. Alex was driving like a madman—honking incessantly, tailgating, yelling at slower traffic. Just past Vyborg a traffic policeman signaled us to stop. Alex slowed the car to a crawl but didn’t quite stop it. We continued to roll along the curb, with the police officer trotting next to the driver’s side window and Alex feeding him hundred-ruble notes: one, two, three . . . Enough? No? Okay . . . four, five . . . Eventually the cop (who never stopped jogging next to the moving vehicle) gave a sign that he’d received enough and wished us a happy onward journey. “These greedy assholes,” grumbled Alex as he floored the gas pedal. Soon after, we crossed the Finnish border and the minute we did Alex miraculously turned into a sensible just-under-the-speed-limit driver. I looked at him surprised. “You see, it’s a civilized country, they got laws, and you can’t really bribe anyone,” explained my friend. We both sighed, he—with visible regret, I—with some relief. My flight was early in the morning, and we slept in Alex’s Audi hatchback parked in some field, not far from the airport. Ah, those childhood friendships, very special . . . I had a long layover in Amsterdam, which was great, because I was able to drop by another childhood friend Dina and her husband’s place on Keerkstraat and take a shower. Florian was watching the news, which happened to be from Nigeria. Nigeria was very much in the news at the time due to the recent mysterious death of the country’s dictator, General Sani Abacha. Florian looked worried and suggested that instead of flying off to Lagos I stay with them in Amsterdam. Florian and Dina are among the most hospitable people I know; they are always hosting someone, sometimes for months on end. It’s been twenty years, but they are still at it. It would’ve been nice to stay with them, but I really couldn’t. We hugged and I left for the airport to board my flight to Lagos. The first few weeks in Nigeria were surreal, exhausting, maddening, exciting. The place was outrageously corrupt, palpably dangerous, and, in the aftermath of Abacha’s demise, overflowing with wild political rumors. But I also kept meeting [End Page 169] the most wonderful and warm people, who were eager to take me under their wing and help me out in any way they could. The mixture of dysfunction, brutality, and generosity would’ve been disorienting had it not been so familiar. In many ways, it felt like my native Russia. Strangely, Nigeria proved to be easier for me to figure out than the US (still a work in progress). That year Lagos was simmering with anticipation. My colleagues at the Nigerian Institute of International Affairs (NIIA) on Victoria Island warned me that another coup was inevitable. They hinted darkly that Abacha had not died a natural death. Frankly, I would’ve been surprised had it been otherwise. And then there was this whole business of “armed robbers.” Every few weeks the army and the black-uniformed police fought pitched battles against gangs of marauding vigilantes (“area boys”) on the outskirts of the city. By December, the unrest would reach a boiling point and erupt into open warfare on the mainland. The posher neighborhoods of Victoria Island and Ikoyi remained relatively safe, but I was advised to drop my habit of hitching okada rides to the campus of the University of Lagos. Instead, I now spent most of my time working at the institute library. On the weekends, my friend Isaac and I would go to one of the city beaches— Bar Beach or Lekki Beach—to hang out under a rented canopy of palm leaves, which gave a lot of shade. We bought weed from the Hausa beach traders, who, once you’ve made your first purchase, would never...
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