Free An African Affair by Nina Darnton

military officers at busy intersections, armed with threefoot-long whips called kabukis. If a motorist ignored any traffic regulation, he was summarily yanked from his car and whipped on the spot. Unfortunately, this only aggravated the problem, as no one could pass until the motorist resumed driving.
    Lindsay had heard about this novel approach to traffic control, but had never witnessed it firsthand until John was turning onto Awolowo Road. Cars were at a standstill and a hapless Renault driver in a cotton suit was lying on the ground, shielding his face as a military policeman whipped him furiously.
    “Please, sir, I no go do dis no more,” he begged, while the crowd watched, adding their own insults.
    “Dey no go fix go-slow dis way,” John commented under his breath. But there was nothing they could do but wait. Finally, the cars started inching forward.
    They pulled up in front of the Lagos Motorboat Club. She got out and looked around, hoping that the police had dropped their tail. There was no sign of James, so she waited in front of the boatyard, facing the road and watching the approaching cars. After a few minutes she heard a low whirring noise and turned toward the water. James was in a speedboat, waving one arm above his head. He pulled up at a jetty.
    “So this is your secret,” she said as she climbed into the bow.
    He smiled conspiratorially and sped off. Looking back, Lindsay saw a black car arrive in front of the club. A man in a military uniform got out and stared at the receding boat. She smiled, imagining the surprise of her pursuer.
    James stood in the stern, one hand on the throttle, his dark hair tousled by the breeze. She stood next to him, watching the whitecaps ahead.
    “Where are we headed?” Lindsay shouted over the din of the motor.
    “We’re going to Agaja Beach,” he said. It’s not too far away, and it’s a nice place for a picnic and a swim.”
    They crossed the harbor and headed west on the lagoon. On the shore to the left were groves of coconut palms and on the right thick mangrove swamps. James docked the boat in a calm inlet and they disembarked on a spit of sand about fifty feet wide. They walked across it to reach the open sea. The beach, a strip that extended all the way from Lagos to Benin, had small palms in the center and half a dozen open-air shelters. Inside were benches and small wooden tables. The sound of the surf was louder now, and stretching before her, as far as she could see in either direction, was endless white sand. Absolutely no one was in sight.
    James carried a large wicker picnic basket toward the huts. He handed her a heavy ice cooler.
    “Are we expecting company?” she asked.
    “No. Just us.”
    He walked toward the ocean. They reached the water’s edge and stood silently, watching the waves that smashed against the shore, sending up a thin haze of spray and hanging tiny rainbows in the air. They kicked off their shoes and waded into the dark green water. Their feet sank into the wet sand.
    “It’s spectacular,” Lindsay said, gazing at the sea.
    “It’s a special place. A guy named Henry Stewart brought me here when I first came to Nigeria about five years ago. He was the West African rep for Shell Oil. There’s a fisherman’s village farther up the coast, but otherwise it’s pretty much deserted. It’s one of those little perks the big companies provide to cushion their people from the problems of daily life in Lagos.”
    “Well, they can’t avoid the go-slows,” she said. “That’s the great equalizer.”
    “Oh yeah, they can. Helicopters. Anyway, they all have boats and get away on weekends. You’d be surprised what a difference that little break makes.”
    “I can imagine. It’s the constant frustration that’s the worst. This is the first relief from the crowds and smell I’ve had since I got here. Up till now, my happiest moment was feeling the air-conditioning in the American embassy, which is really a sad statement,