When we finally got to the Citibank on Broad Street, Flaherty was standing out front, smoking. The first thing he said to me was, “Jack Nicholson in Chinatown.” He grinned at his little joke, then said, “You squeamish?”

“Not so much. Why?”

He pointed at my nose. “We can make a quick stop after this. Fix you right up.”

Meanwhile, he said, I should go in and get my replacement cards and also the cash I owed him. Plus whatever I needed for myself and at least two hundred American, in small bills if I could get them.

“What for?” I asked.

“Grease.”

I took him at his word and did what he said. From there, my driver took us across Five Cowrie Creek to the more upscale of the city's major islands-Victoria-and to a private medical practice on the fifth floor of an office building. Very private.

The doctor saw me right away. He examined my face and then gave me one quick, and excruciating, adjustment. It was the strangest doctor visit I've ever had, hands down. There were no questions about my injury and no request for payment. I was in and out in less than ten minutes.

Back in the car, I asked Flaherty how long he'd been based in Lagos. He had obvious juice here, and plenty of it. He also knew enough not to answer my questions.

“Oshodi Market,” he said to the driver, then sat back again and lit another cigarette.

“You might as well chill,” he said to me. “This is gonna be,a while, trust me. You know what they call Lagos?”

“The go-slow city.”

He turned down the corners of his mouth and exhaled a cloud of white smoke.

“You learn fast. Some things, anyway.”

Chapter 51

VISUALLY OSHODI MARKET was a lot like the rest of Lagos-crammed end to end with busy, hurrying people, either buying something or selling something, and possibly doing both.

Flaherty curled his way through the crowds and the stalls like a skinny white rat in its favorite maze.

I had to keep my eyes on him to stay with him, but the exotic food smells and the sounds of the market still came through loud and strong. I took it all in-and liked it very much.

There were grilled meats and peanutty things and sweet-spicy stews over open fires, all of it reminding me of how hungry I was. Accents and languages came and went like radio stations, or maybe jazz. Yoruban was the most common; I was starting to pick that one out from among the many others.

I also heard livestock braying from the back of trucks, babies crying in a line for vaccinations, and people continually haggling about prices pretty much everywhere we went in the market.

My pulse ran high the whole time, but in a good way. Faced with squalor or not, I was finally pumped to be here.

Africa! Unbelievable.