Able God chuckled. “Your little vehicle cannot take you to London!”

“Yes, it can!” he shouted, moving the tire onward, then up over the gravel mound. The boy lost control, and the tire clattered down the slope. Refusing to be deterred, the boy picked up the tire and steered it carefully back up the mound. When he finally made it to the top, he shouted, “See, I am now in London!”

Able God gave him a tight-lipped smile.

After the final whistle, Morufu beckoned, and they made their way to the abandoned building. Then Morufu left the wall for a few hours. Able God did not mind him leaving. He’d grown accustomed to smoking and drinking without him. Not that he considered himself friends with the other boys, but he was no longer an outsider. He felt comfortable chitchatting with them about nonsense, but he would not go farther than that. Whenever they asked him about his job or where he lived, he withdrew from the conversation.

Morufu came back two hours later with a tall fellow. His head was a mass of bushy hair and whiskers from which two eyes peered out. He wore an oversize, snuff-colored jacket. Morufu was carrying a big leather briefcase covered with faded stickers. They bore slogans like “NO BLOOD” and “GOD’S KINGDOM ON EARTH.”

Able God recognized the stickers. They belonged to the Jehovah’s Witnesses, a religious group that had made persistent visits to his home when he was a child. They came with their glossy pamphlets, briefcases, and the message of living in God’s kingdom on earth. Able God cast a questioning gaze at Morufu, who set the dusty briefcase beside his friend and hobbled forward to speak.

“We have someone here with some very good news. It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

For a moment Able God was confused. He was sure the visitor hadn’t come to smoke and suspected he was some kind of preacher. But the last time he checked, Morufu was Muslim, not a Jehovah’s Witness. Able God took a drag on his joint.

At first, the boys did not pay them any attention, but the fellow cleared his throat to speak in Yoruba, and one by one, they turned to listen to him.

“My name is Ben Ten, and I am here to share with you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I am the CEO of Boys International Airport, a travel agency with a proven record of making dreams come true and taking people to the Promised Land.”

More than what he was saying, his name drew Able God’s attention. Ben Ten the cartoon character? In the cartoon, Ben discovered a strange watch-like alien device that attached itself to his wrist, enabling him to transform into a variety of aliens, each with unique characteristics. Able God wondered if the boys knew this. He wondered if this was all a joke. Ben Ten picked up his briefcase. Morufu rushed to help hold it but was waved off. He found a half-broken brick by the wall and set the briefcase on it.

“I organize travel for clients to Europe, America, Germany, China, you name it.”

“Really?” Able God said in a cynical voice, swigging from his bottle. Ben Ten shot a cautionary glance at him, then plowed ahead.

“Although we help our clients travel anywhere overseas, we are offering a direct service to Europe at this time. You do not need a visa to travel with us. We will go by road, and it is far.”

“Alhamdulillah!” Morufu exclaimed. Ben Ten’s words had put a happy glimmer in Morufu’s eyes. He lifted his face and cupped his hands up to the sky. The rest of the group didn’t seem convinced. Able God thought it was a joke. The news was filled with sad stories of people traveling to Europe by road. Ben Ten was probably just another con man. Able God was waiting for him to talk about the money it would take to make the journey. That would be a deal breaker even for Morufu, who had brought him.

Ben Ten whipped a wrinkled, grease-stained map out of his briefcase and unfolded it on the ash-covered ground.

“This is how the journey will go. From here, we move to Kano and then Zinder in the Niger Republic, then we will proceed to the desert town of Agadez and then up to Sabha before we land in Tripoli, the Libyan capital. From Tripoli, we will take a speedboat across the sea to Europe. Very simple,” he said, tapping his fingers on the map.

A few of them moved closer and peered straight down; some craned their necks from where they stood. Ben Ten took some photographs out of his briefcase and passed them around. Pictures of tall buildings with flickering lights, arched bridges, narrow cobblestone streets, and train stations with high ceilings. “Photographs from Europe,” he called them. There was no excitement, only curiosity. The photographs looked old and smelled of camphor.

Able God stood up with a grin, wondering what tricks were left in Ben Ten’s briefcase. He wondered when the man would get to the point, the point being how much the journey cost.

Ben Ten got out some sheets of paper he called contracts. He read the contract out loud. He said the contract stated they would remit to the last dollar the money committed to the trip. It was in dollars. Thousands of dollars. The contract would give them a minimum of three years to work to pay off their debts when they reached Europe.

“You will not pay anything at the beginning of the trip. You will also work along the way in Sabha and Tripoli. You’ll do whatever it takes to earn money: manual labor for building projects, dishwashing at cafeterias, bartending at local hotels,” said Ben Ten.

“So, we don’t need any money to go on this trip, right?” Morufu clarified.

“That’s right.” Ben Ten’s voice was laced with confidence. “You will work for the money later. We have been doing this for years at Boys International Airport. You can ask around. One hundred per- cent guaranteed to get to Europe. And not only do we service Nigerians, but people come from all over West and Central Africa to join our trips.”

At this point, the boys’ interest was piqued. They all huddled around Ben Ten. Only Able God did not move closer—if anything, he was even more amused. He was impressed by how detailed and strategic Ben Ten was for being a crook. He took another drag from the joint, downed the rest of his codeine cocktail, and tossed the bottle aside. His mind went to the boy with the bicycle tires from earlier that day. From a very young age, the idea that life was better anywhere beyond the shores of the country was instilled into every mind. Able God had also been indoctrinated, but he always believed he could make it in Nigeria if he worked hard enough.

For Calistus, it was a different story, but even then, he had traveled to South Africa by plane. Able God would admit his life was far from where it should be, but nothing would drive him to such a level of desperation. He would rather steal than allow himself to be smuggled across the Sahara like an illicit good. There was Chinedu, his former schoolmate whose uncle made it to Europe and ended up working in Finland. Chinedu enjoyed his uncle’s largess and received money from him often. That was one success story out of many disastrous ones.

Ben Ten kept speaking, his voice stretching like a broken cassette until it faded away.

Able God stared at him for a few moments, not knowing what to make of his thoughts, before shifting his eyes away. He took another drag and leaned back against the blackened fence. A few moments passed, and Ben Ten got out a notebook for the interested candidates to record their names.

“For this trip, I am taking only two busloads of passengers, so spaces for Nigerian delegates are limited,” Ben Ten announced. “Passengers from other countries will join us en route.”

The boys clawed at each other’s throats, trying to add their names to the list. Dust rose from the ground. Able God smiled as he watched them struggle. Ben Ten ordered them to get in line, the now-crumpled notebook raised above his head. Able God couldn’t deny that Ben Ten was a good snake-oil salesman. First he had convinced them of their need for his fake goods, then he had created a sense of scarcity.

Only Morufu did not join in the fray, which did not surprise Able God. He was the middleman; his slot on the bus must have been guaranteed beforehand. Morufu approached him, concern written all over his face.

“Won’t you register?” Morufu asked.

Able God was going to tell him he was being duped. He was going to tell him his dream of going to Europe was just a mirage, that Ben Ten was preying on his desperation. But he had not seen Morufu so happy since he’d met him.

“If you have money in Nigeria, you don’t need to leave Nigeria. I will be one of those who will make it in this country,” Able God said. Morufu burst out laughing. Able God laughed, too. Laughing was a salve.

Later that day, Able God decided to go back to his old shack, although he didn’t think it would still be unoccupied. He took the overgrown bush path right after the spare-parts market as a way of avoiding the old women or anyone else who might recognize him. He did not want anyone tipping off Sir K. He looked to the right and to the left as he trudged through tall weeds, braving the stench of shit.

It was dark all around him, and all was quiet but for the distant sound of music drifting out of the brothels.

He sat and clasped his hands in prayer. He hadn’t prayed to God since the day he’d taken his last final exam back at university. This was another time of need.

***

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Excerpted from The Road to the Salt Sea. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher Amistad, an imprint of HarperCollins. Copyright © 2024 by Samuel Kọ́láwọlé.