After I had been teaching for some time in Nigeria, my math lesson with IIID was interrupted by the appearance outside the class of an elderly white man. I assumed that he would be someone from the British Consulate checking up on me, and therefore was taken aback when his opening line was:
"Sprechen Sie deutsch?"
"Nein”, I replied. Undeterred, he continued:
"Parlez-vous francais?"
"Un peu", I lied. Seeing that this was a conversation that was going nowhere fast, I decided to take a more active role.
“Do you speak English?”, I asked.
“Ach, you are English.”, he replied, happy to have found some common ground at last.
"Well Irish, actually.", I specified, miffed as have been legions of Scots, Welsh and other Irish before me.
It was obvious that aspirant nationalism in the British Isles did not weigh heavily on his mind at that time.
"I have a problem.”, he ·continued. “Can you come to the police station to help me translate?"
I did not really see how I could be helpful, as my knowledge of the local languages was sufficient only to let me barter in the market and greet people. Nevertheless, I gave IIID some work to do and went to the police station with the elderly German, whom to protect the innocent we shall call Herr Schmidt.
The station was directly opposite the main school gate. As we walked out of the playground we were joined by his wife. She climbed down from the front seat of a camper. Evidently, they were touring West Africa together. I was impressed by their pluck, as they both seemed to be over sixty.
We trooped into the reception area of the station to be met by Sergeant Bassi, one of my drinking cronies, whose wife taught at my school.
"Sannu, Sergeant Bassi.", I greeted him, displaying almost the total extent of my knowledge of Hausa.
"Sannu, Mr. Paddy. The D.C. wants to see you in his office at the back. Follow me." The 'D.C.' was the District Commissioner, a very alert man in his mid-thirties, and also, just by coincidence, another one of my drinking cronies.
When we entered his office there was an irate man fidgeting in a seat. Beside him was an Alhaji, opulently dressed, with a calm but serious air.
"Sannu, D.C..” I never called him anything else.
“Sannu, Mr. Paddy. We told this man that there was a bature teaching in the school, so he went to fetch you. He needs you to translate."
"But D.C.," I protested, "you know I cannot speak Hausa well enough to translate."
“Ah, Mr. Paddy, he needs you to translate our African English into English English that he can understand."
And so it began.
The Alhaji was the owner of a fleet of minibuses which were used as taxis on the state highways. These Ford Transits would carry between twelve and twenty persons, plus sacks of rice, millet flour and, occasionally, the odd goat.
The irate fidget was one of his drivers.
Herr Schmidt explained that he and his wife had stopped to picnic at the side of the highway, just beyond the brow of a hill. When they had finished, he started up the camper to continue their course south. He claimed that he checked the rear mirror, looked behind and pulled out. That is when the minibus hit the back of the camper. Herr Schmidt accused the other driver of going too fast.
The minibus driver would have none of this. He needed to go quite fast to climb the hill with a full load. He accused Herr Schmidt of not having exercised enough care when he pulled out.
Herr Schmidt's camper was only scratched. He did not want to be involved with the police at all. However, the minibus had been badly dented. The Alhaji was there to press his claim for financial reparation from Herr Schmidt, preferably for cash in hand, as he did not have time to wait for a German Insurance firm to decide the case, and then maybe not pay.
The D.C., who was more used to dealing with cases of cattle rustling, was in a dilemma. Everyone in Nigeria knew that taxi and minibus drivers drove too fast most of the time. On the other hand the minibus driver had a point: no-one should enter the traffic without exercising due consideration for those already on the road.
I do not clearly remember the final decision, but I believe that the D.C. found in favour of the minibus driver, but told Herr Schmidt that he need only pay a fraction of the grossly inflated estimated cost of repairs which the Alhaji had initially requested.
To enable the D.C. to compile a full report of the incident, I had to help by taking Herr Schmidt's personal details.
"Full name?"
"Johannes Schmidt."
"Home town?"
"Karslruhe.”
"Occupation?”
He hesitated.
"I am not sure how to say it in English.”
“For whom do you work?”, I tried, thinking I could guess his job if it were a famous firm like Siemens or Bayer.
"For the German police."
“Ah, that's easy you are a policeman."
"No. No, I am not a policeman. I teach new German policemen how to drive."