SOLOMON'S BRIDGE {Part I}

DEJA VU *3*

DR. JAY

He's been here before. It comes to his mind as he steps off the plane at the Shirley Bassey International Airport, this intense feeling of deja vu that persists on the scenic ride to his hotel room. Seeing many curious black faces for the first time, and yet again, confuses him, drawing him closer to the heart of this quaint little metropolis. Is there something in the wind calling out to him, inviting him to breathe in the clean, fresh air, to hear subliminal whispers that say, he's been here before?

It isn't a fleeting fancy, or the type of reminder people get when they stumble back into a really good bookstore. This is a happy daze; like a soldier who never expects to make it back home, suddenly back home. Which doesn't make any sense at all, since his real ancestral home is very much in Birmingham.

"Oga na dis be ya fust time hia abi? This is twenty nine days, to the night of Fust Rain, Oga! Fust Rain! You sabi wetin I dey talk? This season, na serious time for hia! Dangerous time! Abeg no dey do J.J.C for road, oh! As I take see how you wan waka comot dey parambulate for area." This, from the hotel madam the very next day, after she thoroughly inspects his hiking gear with big, bulging eyes.

Twenty nine days to the night of First Rain?

"I see. Please, what is J.J.C?"

Its a 'Johny' just coming into town and not knowing his left from his right, showing off his ignorance and doing things the locals didn't do...

"Oya make I tell una dis tory wey happun for hia last year! See dis oyibo dey come from yankee jus mumu as una dey do, come dey yanga for road wit all dis kyn kaya una dey show, nah yahoo boys wey catch am put am for hole e siddun gidigba dey wait for gbese and dem take juju kpafuka his head oh! Oga, dey use am build house finish, troway am for bush, e dey waka for road nah, nah him be zombie for dis area! Nah why I dey tell you say no dey show mumu dey para like JJC for Naijah oh! Dis is Naijah!"

This is Nigeria.
He is so captivated by the way she murders the English language, that he doesn't at all question, how it is that he understands her so well, not until his reply escapes his mouth, shocking the both of them, "Dem for kukuma kill me nah, as I no get shi shi for dem! Mama, I be Akpruka, I no dey draw nyiansh to chop iron, I'm a British Boy confirmed, we no dey carry last, na dem wey go dombaleh!"

He leaves her with her big mouth hanging open, in a similar state of amazement himself. So! He is more than fluent in pidgin! What other impossible thing will he discover about himself, in Canaan? He wondered, if, at the end of this final mission, he'd still recognize himself. Can it be... that without his knowledge or consent, his government has turned him into a clone? Has he been black zoned, or is it... PTSD? Is this a melt down? He leads, and they follow. That's how it's always been, except this time it's different; they need him. Dr. Jay suspects that there is a secret knowledge only he possesses, a certain information that must first be unlocked, rediscovered, remembered, for them to get access to the virus. His eyes scan the sky in search of spy drones. They think that he knows where the African Codex, is. Are they watching him right now? This mission feels personal, because, it is.

Personal.

Dr. Jay is already half way to his destination, when he realizes that he didn't ask for directions. He stands still for a minute, dumbfounded. How does he know the way to this tunnel? All structures and edifices are new to him, yet, every step he takes is so hauntingly familiar. He does not have a google map, gprs locator, or local tourist guide but he sees it in his mind's eye, as an old faded memory. Dr. Jay continues his solitary trek like a man first made from clay, whose very primal essence is one with the earth, his footfalls aligning with the molecular trails of an energy signature in dust fragments from the past, invisible air waves stuck in-between the myriad fabrics of the layered atmosphere, a pantomime, resilient through the patient interweaving of time, a route so complex, so well hidden, just waiting for him to walk right back into old footprints re-stepping expired steps, his road rugged boots pounding the ashphalt till he gets to a rocky mountain passage, till finally, at last, he arrives in old town, a wide billboard at the forked crossroads calling it, WaterTown.