Panic and guilt

The car slowed to a crawling pace on the tiny incline, and then the engine died. We'd managed about 15 metres. The policeman scraped the key in the ignition, it chuggered and spluttered, died again -the driver swore- and then it came to life, roused like an asthmatic smoker. I looked at my watch. "Don't panic", I thought. Only a few minutes until I have to check in, and I've managed 30 ft. My friend is getting married, and I promised him I'd come back for it. If I miss this flight...
The armed police guard at my apartment was doing me a great favour. He'd been washing down his car at the end of his shift when I'd appeared, the heavy blanket of night not yet lifted, blinking away sleep, looking for my taxi.
The day before, a full 21 hours before, I'd asked the apartment's driver if he could take me to the airport. I wanted to make sure that he was ok with that, because the strike was due to start, and no one but the funnel and pipe boys had any petrol, so I gave him enough time to get some fuel.
"Tell me if you won't be able to take me, if you won't have any fuel, but tell me soon, so I can make other plans."
"It is ok sir," he'd said, "I will be there."
And here he wasn't. Rousing Emmanuel the security guard I asked where Suleiman was. "He was here…" I looked at my watch again, "he said he went for fuel."
I looked at Emmanuel. What? Where exactly did he think he was going to get fuel at this time in the morning? I'd given him nearly 24 hours notice. Rage was building behind my eyes.
A year ago I think I probably would have lost it at that point. I wasn't apoplectic, I don't think I would have gone into meltdown, but I would have definitely allowed the curling edge of panic creep into my temperament. But somehow, after a year in Nigeria, this morning I was determined not to lose my rag.
"Why would he do that, Emmanuel?" I asked.
"Don't worry sir, you will take another taxi." I looked out into the street. It's a back crescent, nice and quiet. On one side, you can see the hills and green bushes, on the other, a clutch of newly built houses. A neighbour owns goats who graze on the grass verges. The sound of the goat chewing, and the dawn chorus, were the only things I could hear. We were the only ones in the street.
"Where Emmanuel? Where are the cars?"
"They are plying…" he said vaguely waving his hand up and down the street.
"But it could be two hours before one comes." A far-away look came to Emmanuel's eyes, as if he'd just seen a fairground on the horizon. In the end the Mopol man who was going off shift said he'd help me find a taxi.
He said: "You have a car, why don't you drive to the airport?" I don't think that it's secure to leave it there I replied. "You could give me the keys and I'd drive back," he said.
"Ummm…"
"I am a policeman, you can trust me."
"Let's just find a taxi shall we?"
In the end we found a car waiting outside one of Garki's brothels. "Do you know how to drive fast?" I asked.
"Yessah!" came the reassuring reply, and we were off.
The sky was stating to lighten as we hit airport road. We were a little behind, but I didn't think it would matter. I checked my bag once more for my passport and ticket which were safely there, and suddenly we stopped.
I looked up in surprise to see the back end of a truck. The road was completely blocked, two lanes had become four and they were all completely stationary. Someone had abandoned their 4x4 on the side of the road, others were pushing their cars, inching toward the Texaco station. We'd hit the fuel queue. I'd heard it costs over $100 to fill a car on the black market now.
The driver whacked his car into the central ditch and climbed the other bank. Adopting a standard manoeuvre, we drove for a mile against the oncoming traffic, blaring horn and flashing light.
Of course we made it to the airport on time, and really -compared with what many people will be facing this week- my experience is a trifling inconvenience. But I felt a small sense of triumph that I hadn't succumbed to panic. It took the edge off the guilt I felt for running away before the strike brought everything to a standstill.
I looked out of the window as the plane took off, zooming over the cassava plots like whorled fingerprints and the pinhead cows at the water pans. And there was the fuel queue… Ok maybe I wasn't feeling that guilty after all.