I visited Southern Nigeria in the mid 90’s for the first time.  While being displayed to ancient ‘uncles’ and ‘aunts’ all around the hometown, Sapele, it was suggested that I should visit ‘The Village’, to show my respects.  Now, being a south Londoner visiting ‘The Mother Land’, I was only too keen to bask in the adulation that my arrival spawned everywhere I went.  The thought of visiting the ‘home’ village, deep in the forest was too big an opportunity to miss.

Visiting the villages is something that needs to be planned and you have to leave out early, so that you are out of there before nightfall.  So half four in the morning, we are up and on our way.  I had no worries about the day ahead, as my cousins, Lucky and Dick, who were my chaperones, were not bringing supplies or anything, so I was not expecting an expedition.  However, I got more than I was expecting.

On arriving at the ‘gateway’ to the bush, my Dad tried to arrange motorcycles to take us in, as there are no roads, but, the bikes can follow the logging truck routes.  There were not enough bikes and in rural Nigeria, there is never a rush.  Not wishing to hang around for an hour waiting for the off-chance that a motorcyclist might turn up, I suggested to my cousins and father that I would like to walk to the village.  This was greeted by some tittering, but, I was serious and asked them if they could take me.  I wanted to take the opportunity to experience the bush. 

My dad declined, and decided to take the one motorbike there.  My cousins, ever willing to please, said they would take me if that is what I wished.  So off we set.  Great fun at first.  A very hot day, but, it was lovely and cool under the large cathedral-like canopy as we made our way through the ever-present screech of bug-life.  I saw flowers, plants, gullies, fungi and many things of interest – a constant source of amusement to my relatives.  No animals, though.

Anyway, as we walked, the bush started to close in.  The path, no longer wide and level, became narrower, uneven and less predictable.  As we were walking through what was starting to become quite bushy, I could hear a squelching and splashing beneath my feet.  The more we progressed, the deeper the water became.  My cousins were unperturbed, but, by the time the water was up to shin height, with my Timberlands over my shoulder and socks in my pocket, we came across a man strolling through the bush.  It was almost surreal.  There I was, thinking that I was pushing back boundaries here, making my way through thick bush, only to realise that I was on what could best be described as, a bush-highway.  A recognised and busy passage through the forest. 

The fellow informed us in his language that the water was high.  I could not understand exactly what he was saying, but actions speak louder than words, and he was making a gesture that further ahead, the water was as high as his collar bone.  He indicated towards me with the word ‘oyebo’, thinking it would be a problem for me: - ‘oyebo’ - white man: they thought I was a white guy with a heavy tan   : )

My male ego bruised by this, I said it was no problem and refused the offer of the long old walk around.  The water was rainwater that had collected in a bowl-like depression, as apparently there was no stream near this part.  Buoyed by this, after all, there was unlikely to be nasties swimming in rain water, was there?  We proceeded. 

The water was up to the top of my thighs and only a splash or two away from ‘my family jewels’, when something long and black, swam or ran over my foot.  If you have ever tried to run flat out in waist high water, on uneven ground, you will have some sympathy for my plight.  It could not have been a fish, as this was rainwater, so what was it?  We had been travelling with one of my cousins in front and one behind me, so there was a degree of concern when I went splashing past, without a word.

I am not ashamed to say, although, I most certainly should be, that I travelled through the rest of the water on my cousins back.  I am just under 6 foot and he is probably about 5 ft 6 on a good day, so we would have made an odd sight emerging from the water, but I could not afford to get bitten by something or have something crawl in my doo-daa and cause me major problems.  My cousins, I presume would be more hardy to such attack, being locals, but, I was not taking chances.  I’m ghetto.

Further on, and a couple of hours later, we were walking through a part where the canopy was thick, and it became quite dark, dank and humid under there.  Anyway, all of a sudden, there was this loud scream, that sounded like a woman falling off a cliff.  I cannot express what went through my mind at that point.  I would have run if I had been able to decide on a direction.  My state of alert was interrupted when I realised Dick and Lucky were laughing.  The ‘scream’ was from a tree.  This tree has seeds like a big 4-pack of beers in a thick skin.  If the seed-pod drops in the sun, the skin dries out until it bursts open and fires these seeds out.  This was the scream I heard.  It sounded exactly like a human.

I shall continue this story another time, as I have written too much already and there is so much more to tell of this day, but needless to say, do not be seduced by these TV 'Bush Guides' that tell you that it is great living with nature in the forest.  

They are lying...