The Foreign Service Journal, June 2008

Lagos is notorious for its chronic “go slows.” Fridays are the worst, as Victoria Island becomes completely gridlocked. I left my office with half an hour to spare and still arrived at Megaplaza five minutes after 12. For another five minutes, I stood alone. Then my businessman contact ap- peared. Two more Israelis followed, one on a motorcycle. Ten minutes later, Sharon arrived. He had come straight from the airport. Time was slipping away and we were only halfway to the minyan. I feared we would fail to get the requisite quorum, and began pacing. Cell phones were still a novelty in Nigeria, and I did not yet have one. But count on the Israelis not to be so technologically challenged! They pulled their cell phones off their belts like six-shooters and began calling the others. “Yitzhak, where the hell are you? We need you!” one shouted in rapid-fire Hebrew. “No excuses, this is a mitzvah!” By 12:40, the rest had appeared. On the Megaplaza curb stood exactly 10 men — 10 Jewish men. We set out into the traffic mael- strom and reached Ben’s home at 1:15 p.m. Following the odyssey of getting there, the brief service was rather anti- climactic. As soon as we finished the prayers, the Israelis offered their con- dolences to the family and quickly departed. Jewish interments cannot occur on Saturday, the Sabbath. So Nina’s would be on Sunday in Onitsha, Ben’s hometown, halfway across southern Nigeria on the east bank of the Niger River. By car, the drive is seven hours on a good day. Unfortunately, Nigeria rarely has good days. The highway between Lagos and Onitsha is notori- ously potholed and dangerous. Parts of the road are completely washed out. Most of the immediate family trav- eled to Onitsha Friday afternoon after the service. Ben arranged for a bus to take friends, including the Jewish con- tingent — Marla, Michelle, Sharon and me — on Saturday. For three hours, all went well. Traffic was light. The bus reached the main road and made good time. Sitting in one of the front rows, how- ever, I noticed that the engine seemed to be struggling. Heavy condensation emerged from the overhead air condi- tioning system. The gearbox beside the driver emitted too much heat. The engine began to run rough. Then the bus died, drifting to the side of the road. No amount of coaxing or cajol- ing by our driver could resuscitate it. We were marooned in the middle of Nigeria, beyond the service range of cellular phones, along a stretch of road well known for highway banditry. With Nina’s friends, we stood along the side of the road to await the next miracle. Soon it came, in the form of an SUV. Our Good Samaritan was Pamela Watson, book group member, adventurer and author, who was also on her way to Nina’s burial. Our stranded Nigerian companions insist- ed we squeeze in and travel with Pamela. We did, promising to send help as soon as we reached the next town. The group agreed to reunite at a roadside motel in Benin City, about two hours away. Despite the overcrowded vehicle, time passed rapidly as Pamela regaled us with vignettes of her solo journey across Africa by bicycle. Forty min- utes later, we stopped at a petrol sta- tion, where Pam hired two minivans to return to the broken bus. In the meantime, our fellow bus passengers had succeeded in flagging down other vehicles to carry them to Benin City. By the time they arrived, we were already enjoying frosty Cokes in the motel’s darkened lounge. Free of the bus from hell, we planned our next move. Our destination was Asaba, just across the Niger River from Onitsha. Ben had arranged for us to spend Saturday night at the Grand Hotel. On Sunday morning, a driver picked us up and took us across the Niger River to the family home. Ben had followed my instructions meticu- lously. A water bowl was placed by the gate leading to Nina’s grave for wash- ing hands after leaving the cemetery and before re-entering the home. To shade well-wishers from the hot sun, a tent had been set up. The chairs soon filled with Nina’s family and friends, including many of Lagos’ esteemed literati. Some were living encyclopedias of Nigerian histo- ry and culture. All had made the trek to Onitsha to bid goodbye to their close friend. In comparison to what these people could say, I feared my own words of comfort would be shal- low. Yet once the service started, words seemed to come out of my mouth effortlessly. I had learned much dur- ing the last couple of weeks about this special woman whom I met only once. Others spoke of Nina from close per- sonal experience. After the eulogies, the casket was placed in the grave. We recited the Kaddish and tossed dirt onto the casket, helping the deceased return to the earth, as she must. The mourners filed past and we adjourned into the house, having closed the book on Nina’s last wish to be buried as a Jew. Inside, Nina’s sister Margaret in- 54 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U N E 2 0 0 8 With Nina’s friends, we stood along the side of the road to await the next miracle.