In a first, Oil facilities bombed in the Niger Delta

20 Apr In a first, Oil facilities bombed in the Niger Delta

A little over thirty minutes later at a rundown jetty at the outskirts of Port Harcourt, Hunter alighted and waved Edward goodbye.

“The gun?” Edward whispered.

Hunter raised his hand to show he had no gun on him. He had dropped it in the creek as they approached the jetty when he noticed there was no security man in sight to hand Edward over to. He had other plans.

“Go back quickly to get Julius,” he shouted at Edward and walked triumphantly to one of the three rickety cars at the jetty that operated as taxi cabs.

From the regional office in Port Harcourt where he first went to touch base with the newspaper’s correspondent, he checked into a nearby hotel, got refreshed, changed his clothes and hurried to the airport for the late afternoon flight. He had considered stopping by the local hospital for a check-up, but he was anxious to get to Lagos to see his firm’s doctor who also treated him.

 

( ( ( ( (

 

“Good to see you, Hunter my boy!” Musa Duke looked up reluctantly from the computer screen on Hunter’s ’s entry, looked at his watch and then at Hunter . It was a little past seven o’clock in the evening. “Never a dull moment for you, eh? You look tired but your eyes are sparkling with excitement. Which one do we take first, your pain or your story?” He stood up, took the gum out of his mouth and offered his hand.

Publishers always think about stories first, Hunter thought. He took the hand with a dry smile. “I could stand a few dull moments right about now,” he said as they broke the handshake.

“Okay, boy. What’ve you got?” Duke asked and started drumming on his desk.

“Editors don’t ever change,” Hunter said.

Duke sat down and continued drumming. “Don’t forget you rejected the offer to edit the paper and stay undercover,” he said. “Now let’s go. The sparkle in your eyes or the bruises on your body? Both suggest a big story in the offing. So which do we take first?”

“Boss , there is the oil spill story, which you know about.”

“Yes,” he said with a nod.

“A kidnapping of a News Hub reporter,” Hunter said and showed a bruise on his wrist.

“That is the doctor’s job,” he said of the wound. “And a huge crude oil theft story, but it is a developing story.”

“Nothing like what the Americans foresee?”

Hunter was lost. “Which is what, Boss?”

“Operation Shockwave!”

“Oh, that!” Hunter said. “There is tension, so much tension with the thickness of a blanket, if a bunch of villagers would beat me up and detain me for merely having a look at a spill site.”

“Oh yea?” Duke said. “We do spill story first?”

“Sure, Boss , but I have an appointment with the doctor.”

John Hunter was the paper’s star deep-undercover reporter and Musa Duke’s most trusted employee. It was the combination of Duke’s editorial skills and Hunter’s constant hunger for stories that made The News Hub Nigeria’s leading paper for investigative journalism. Duke, at 56, had seen it all. He’d trained and worked as journalist in London before being hired to raise the Hub’s profile. He was hardworking, creative and always pushing the limits of what could be published. Hunter shared his passion. At 35, he was always chasing great stories to put him in the limelight. Tall, dark and heavily built, he was strong enough to withstand the sort of punishment that came with the job. It was a magic combination that had already exposed much corruption and sent the sales-figures soaring. Duke was very grateful for this and continued to treat Hunter the way he would a favouorite first-born son.

 

 

( ( ( ( (

 

When Hunter finally got home, all he needed after seeing the doctor was to sleep. In his white, twin duplex tucked away in the highly secured Peace Estate in highbrow Victoria Island of Lagos, he left instructions at the gate to keep visitors away.

He had no desire to even speak with Sammy, his houseboy who doubled as a cook, and had little desire to slog through his voicemail messages, but the habits of a journalist did not allow him to let such things go unchecked. He dialled in and sat back waiting for the voices to ring in his ear.

“Hi, Peter,” a friend from university said cheerfully, “I’ll be in town next week and I was hoping we could get together. Give me a call, okay?”

As much as Hunter would have enjoyed catching up with his buddy, he didn’t see that as a priority on his agenda at the moment.

“Peter,” a woman’s voice then greeted him, “This is Lucy. Call me as soon as you get back. I really need to speak with you.”

Hunter had met tall, elegant Lucy Palms at a conference the previous year, where he spoke on corruption and the media. She had asked for a copy of Hunter’s speech and a possible discussion of the subject for her project at post-graduate school.

Hunter was willing to help her but he had warned her he was never available. Lucy would not be discouraged by that. She tried to keep regular contact with him, sometimes offering to help out at home.

Hunter did like her; he liked her intelligence, humility and secretly admired her figure-8, accentuated by her height.

He thought he deciphered a sense of desperation in her voice on the phone, but upon replaying the message, he couldn’t be sure. He forwarded through all of his messages, most of which were innocuous, and found that Lucy had called three times.  She was desperate to speak to him, but he had no idea why.

He was much too groggy at that point to discuss her situation, whatever that may be, but he felt the need to acknowledge her. He called her mobile number and was grateful to hear her outgoing voicemail message rather than her actual voice.

“Hello, Lucy, this is John Hunter,” he said tiredly on the prompting by the beep. “I wanted to let you know that I received your messages. I have been out of town on assignment. I will contact you sometime tomorrow. Thank you.”

With that, Hunter trudged off to bed. Exhausted as he was, he found himself wondering about Lucy.

When Hunter awoke the next morning, he was curious to reconnect with Lucy, but he realised that Duke needed him to work on the report. First he checked the Internet for any news on Jones Canaday and their rescue. There was none. Next, he dialled the head office of the Crust Oil Company.

“Crust Oil, how may I direct your call?”

The voice startled Hunter. He was expecting to be connected to an automated call-sorting system that would order him to press a combination of numbers before he was connected to a human being.

“Ah…the External Affairs department, please,” Hunter said quickly.

He sat back and listened to the classical music that played through the earpiece while he was placed on hold. As he waited, he shuffled through some notes he had taken and prepared to take more.

“External Affairs,” a male voice finally announced.

“Good morning, sir,” Hunter said. “My name is John Hunter. I’m a reporter from The News Hub in Nigeria.”

“My name is Lam Simson,” the man responded. “I am an external affairs manager.”

Simson’s accent sounded Scandinavian, but he wasn’t sure about the country where he picked the heavy accent from.

“Mr Simson, I would like to ask you a few questions regarding the recent oil spill.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Oil spill?” the manager said.

“Yes, sir,” Hunter said. “Why has your company not sent a team to the oil spill site at Urodo?”

“Urodoo?”

“Yes, but I think the people call it Urodo.”

“Thank you,” the man said.

Hunter rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure if the manager was completely uninformed or if he was merely playing dumb.

“This occurred five days ago,” Hunter said, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice. “Are you really telling me that no one in Crust has any information regarding this spill? The local environment is devastated, and the residents are furious that no one has come to deal with the mess.”

After another long pause, the manager said, “Where are you calling from, Mr Hunter?”

“I am currently in Lagos.”

More tense seconds passed.

“Lagos is not in the Niger Delta,” Simson said.

Hunter’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me?” he said. “Are you saying you won’t comment on the spill to me because I’m in Lagos? Mr Simson, I cover stories all over the world. Tell me why Crust is not showing any interest in a spill that is devastating the environment.”

“Excuse me for a moment, sir.”

Hunter sat back and waited. He could hear voices in the background and the manager whispering to some unidentified person. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but he had a feeling that the parties involved were working hard to quickly synchronise their stories.

“Mr Hunter,” the manager blurted out when he finally came back on the line.

“Yes.”

“I am told that the spill at Urodo is being investigated, and that the cause is perceived to be local sabotage.”

How convenient, Hunter thought. He noticed again the wrong pronunciation of Urodo by the expatriate. “Excuse me?” he asked, hoping for clarification.

“Yes, sir,” Mr Simson said nervously. “It has been ruled that locals sabotaged the facility in the hope that Crust would respond by providing financial compensation.”

“Which locals?”

“Excuse me?”

“To my knowledge, no one has been arrested for sabotaging the pipeline,” Hunter said.

“Not at this point.”

“Crust states that it knows that locals sabotaged the pipeline, yet there has not been any official investigation or arrests for the crime,” Hunter continued. “How can Crust claim to know the motives of the perpetrators when no one has been arrested and questioned?”

Hunter heard Simson shuffle through some papers on his desk. At least he hadn’t hung up on him yet.

“Sabotage has been determined as the cause of over 80 per cent of the spills in our areas of operation,” the manager finally said.

“What about the other 20 per cent?” Hunter asked.

“Well….”

“Has anyone from Crust travelled to Urodo to determine the cause of this spill?”

“We normally have a helicopter fly over to check spill sites,” the manager said.

“When was the helicopter dispatched to Urodo?” Hunter pressed.

Hunter heard more shuffling of papers and some clicking of computer keys.

“About a week ago,” Simson said.

Hunter blew out an angry sigh. “This spill isn’t yet a week old, sir.”

The computer keys on the other end of the line clicked in frantic despair.

“I’m sorry,” Simson said. “I will confirm the exact dates.”

“You sound like you don’t know much about this spill,” Hunter said.

Simson resorted to reciting the company lines. “In the event of an accident, Crust brings together a joint investigation team to review the facts of the …”

“Well, I have already visited the site, Mr Simson,” Hunter said, “and I will be reporting on the damage I witnessed.”

“Mr Hunter,” the manager said quickly, “Crust always performs effective clean-up and remediation of all sites affected by accidents. It is our policy to ensure that regions are returned to their original conditions in all cases.”

Hunter thought of a few choice words for Simson, but in the interest of professionalism, he kept them to himself.

“Thank you for your time, sir,” he said sarcastically. “Please call me if you have anything to add—and remember: I have a deadline to meet.”

 

 

 

( ( ( ( (

 

 

Sammy, the cook, woke Hunter up from an afternoon nap for his favourite lunch of pounded yam and palm nut soup. After that the journalist resisted the temptation to write and opted instead for more distractive moments. Lucy came to mind. He sat back and let out a long, tired sigh. He had promised to call her, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be side-tracked with her situation—whatever it was—at the moment. In an instant, he felt guilty for feeling that way.

He struggled with the conflict between his professional responsibilities and his personal loyalties of varying degrees. At last he dialled her number on his land line to invite her over.

Lucy was at Hunter’s place in an hour or so. While he waited, he watched the news. Nothing important. So he was happy to see Lucy walk in gracefully. In the tight local design of blouse and long skirt that reached to her feet, she looked taller and radiant.

“Thanks for calling back, Mr Hunter”, she said rather formally as she made herself comfortable on his living room sofa, her long legs crossed. “I know you travel all over the world and meet so many people. When I called, I was afraid you wouldn’t have much time for me as you warned earlier on.”

Hunter smiled. “Of course, I do my best not to disappoint my friends,” he said. “I must say that I was quite surprised when I got your messages. I’m rather curious. I hope you’re all right.”

Lucy flashed a faint smile. Hunter studied her face. Despite the upturned lips, her expression was not a particularly happy one. In fact, it seemed intent upon hiding a sense of distress. The last time he met her, she was blossoming in a curvy body, accentuated by a tight and short black dress.

“I understand that you recently spent some time in the Niger Delta,” she said, mouth dropped open in surprise.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” he said. “I can’t say it was an especially pleasant visit, but it was certainly educational. How did you hear about that?”

“Word gets around,” she said in a wry tone.

That explanation didn’t satisfy Hunter. In an indirect way, she was trying to tell him something. “Seriously, Lucy,” he said, pressing her, “how did you know where I was?”

Lucy leaned back into the sofa cushions. “I am originally from Urodo,” she said. “I still have family and friends back there.”

Hunter found himself suddenly intrigued. “Is that right?” He sat back to take in the surprising information.

“It was so hard leaving my family behind when I pursued my studies,” Lucy said, “but I just couldn’t stay there any longer.”

“Why not?”

Lucy’s eyes became watery. “There is no future for most people in the Niger Delta, John,” she said. “The oil companies are capital-intensive, so they don’t employ many people, and all the messes they have created have destroyed everything. My father was a fisherman, and once the water in the area was poisoned he couldn’t earn enough money to take care of the family. Some of the fishermen made money by taking boats out further into the waters in search of better catches, but that only led to serious accidents.”

Hunter carefully monitored Lucy’s body language. She seemed to grow smaller and more vulnerable right before his eyes.

“I tried to join the police force after secondary school, but I left the force, exactly one year after Police College,” she said. “Guess what? I was a detective?”

“Why did you leave?” Hunter asked with great interest

“On the excuse that a policeman was assaulted at Umuchi the police stormed the village, and virtually destroyed it.”

She sighed. “You heard about that? I wondered what I would have done if was in that unit. They can’t use the police to destroy our people.”

“You must be a very principled lady.” Hunter said. “And you decided to get some more education first?”

“Yes I studied hard so I could go to the University in the North for my first degree in Psychology, and now Lagos for a Master’s degree,” she said. “I hoped education would lead to a better life. I went back to see my family in between semesters, but every time I returned, their condition seemed to be worsening. My parents boiled water like crazy just to make it partially drinkable. No matter what they did, it was never completely clean.”

She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts.

“My goal was to become successful and wealthy enough to move my family out of the squalor in the Niger Delta.” She paused. “John, you may not have had a chance to see much while you were there, but I’m sure you got a sense of how awful the conditions are. If things continue on this course, I don’t know what will become of the people.”

Hunter sat forward in his chair. “There may be a more immediate problem,” he said. “I can honestly say from my personal experience that the potential for violence cannot be overstated.”

“Yes,” Lucy said, “you were attacked because the villagers thought you worked for the oil company.” She bit her lower lip and grimaced. “To be honest, I think all of those oil monsters deserve to be beaten senseless—or worse.”

“I assure you that circumstances will probably get worse before they get better,” Hunter said.

Lucy dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and nodded. Hunter sat back and let her regain her composure. She tried to hold back the sobs and put on a brave face, but her combination of sadness and anger could not be completely contained.

“So, Lucy,” Hunter said, “how are you otherwise? How is your project?”

“Fine, I’m good,” she said and forced a smile. “Truth is that I came to show appreciation for your interest in our problems. I know what a powerful journalist you are.”

“Oh, thanks,” Hunter l said, “but as a matter of fact, I’m just doing my job.”

“But Mr Hunter , again your job has touched my life,” she said and stood up slowly. “And I’m grateful”. She took in a deep breath and stretched. “I must go so you can have some more rest. ”

“I had thought you would stay long enough for dinner, Lucy.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to see my Professor this evening. Traffic out of the Island is crazy now. If you are in, I will come and cook you something tomorrow. You have stopped me twice from cooking.”

“When tomorrow comes, Lucy.” Hunter said and got up to see her to the gate.

Back alone in the living room, where they were, he was overcome by cold loneliness. She has left with all the warmth in this place, Hunter thought, and comforted himself with the idea he would see her again the following day.

But as he lowered himself into the black two-seater sofa, where he had sat, he felt a gush of coldness run down his nerves. Images of Lucy’s smiles, the dimples, and the base of her 36-D breasts, exposed in a low-cut blouse besieged his thoughts. Imaginations went wild.

Impulsively, he reached for his mobile and called her. “Hi, Lucy. Something I forgot. Please can you come back?”

“Oops, Mr Hunter. I am out on Ozumba already and Lagos traffic is building up.”

Hunter said nothing

“Okay, then.. The cab is making a u-turn.”

“Thanks,” Hunter said and reclined on the sofa. He had met Lucy a couple of times, but he never felt as strongly for her as he did at that moment. Unmarried, Hunter spent most of his time on dangerous assignments where survival became his primary concern. But there were times when he was pressed for female company. He felt some warmth in his limbs as his houseboy announced her return.

Hunter stood up as Lucy hurried in. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have allowed you to leave that soon,” he said.

“Emotional honesty?” Lucy asked and flashed her trademark dimpled smile.

“Meaning?” He took her bag and gestured her into the three-seater opposite him.

“Saying exactly what you feel.”

“Right,” Hunter said.

“So what do I prepare for you?” Lucy said and stood up slowly; not exactly the excited response Hunter had expected.

“Prepare just tea, Lucy.”

“Stalling again?” she asked. “Sure?”

He smiled boyishly and pointed to the kitchen. “I will join you after a call.”

She returned the smile and walked slowly away.

Hunter’s eyes fed on her bum. He felt it was Lucy’s company he needed, not tea. He abandoned the call he was to make and joined her. They soon returned to the living room without the tea, Hunter’s hand around her curvy waist.

 

 

 

( ( ( ( (

 

“Have you heard the news from the Niger Delta?”

Duke didn’t bother to identify himself or even preface his remarks with a simple greeting when Hunter answered the phone.

“No, sir, I haven’t,” Hunter replied and looked at his bedside clock. It was three a.m.

Duke clicked away at his computer keys. “I just got a call from a friend of mine in the U.S. There’s been an explosion at a facility of One Oil Nigeria Company, some 60 kilometres from Port Harcourt.”

Hunter winced. “They know about this in the States,” he said. “Has anyone noticed it on our side of the world?”

“Noticing it and reporting it are two totally different things.”

Hunter nodded. “Very true,” he said. “What was the cause of the explosion?”

“What do you think?”

“Could be oil facilities…., pipelines, something else. It could have been anything.”

Duke groaned. “C’mon, John. Remember Scenario Number One?”

Hunter exhaled a tired sigh. “We’re not working for the CIA now, are we?”

“To hell with that kind of talk,” Duke said. “Let’s not pretend that this is none of our business. Everything that happens in this country is our business. We are the premier newspaper in this part of the world, and you are our best investigative reporter.”

“Thank you, sir. “

“So…get on the first flight to Port Harcourt later this morning.”