On the way to the congregation in Wari, I have what is most definitely my scariest experience in Nigeria.  I am in my usual spot in the front of the car, shooting some of the area.  We stop at an intersection so someone can make a phone call, and I am filming a woman at a makeshift kiosk and a bicycle.  A moment later, an irate man approaches the car wanting to know the problem.  I apologize and shut off the camera.  I have encountered a few people liked this who don’t want to be photographed, but they have been the rare minority.  This guy is upset and about 20 other young men suddenly have joined him.  They are banging on the car and demanding both my camera and the tape.  Shmuel Okuma and Cohen are trying to talk to the men and refute some of their accusations: I am  spying for the government, or I am a foreign journalist trying to make them look bad.  Shmuel Okuma explains I’m here touring his church – sensing they won’t understand anything related to Judaism.  I don’t hear this, but it seems to calm down the crowd and we have made some progress.  One of the men approaches me, and asks which church I am from.  Not knowing the previous conversation, I reply that I am not from a church.  The crowd erupts in anger once again.  The original man is shouting “I will seize that camera” and now there is a guy sitting on our hood.  I coyly try to unwrap a fresh tape to hand over, but someone spots me.  I think about the morning headlines of nine foreign oil workers kidnapped in the area.  I don’t want to lose my $3500 camera, the tape with Asher’s interview, nor do I want to be kidnapped.  Cohen is blocking my window, but I still feel like an arm will come in and snatch the camera at any moment.  I roll up my window but the driver stops me saying it’s a bad idea.  The arguing and menacing looks seem to go on forever, but as quickly as it began, it seems to be over.  My friends are getting back in the car and we are driving off.  Shmuel Okuma says he offered money, but they weren’t interested.  The original man was most upset because the scuffle had caused his lunch to get cold.

 

I am somewhat shaken, and Shmuel Okuma seems upset that this is his visitors’ first impression.  Our trouble is not completely over for one of the motorcycle taxis is trailing us.  When he speeds up, passes us and cuts infront, he skids out and he and the motorcycle go flying.  He rolls countless times to the side of the road, bloody and bruised.  We don’t stop.  I can’t help but wonder if he will accuse us of the accident, or for not helping him.  Either way, we will still have an angry mob.

 

Life is a little calmer as we drive into the villages.  The roads are made up of a yellow dirt, and the people seem simpler.  Less clothes, less possessions, just hanging out on the street.   The Wari synagogue is still in its infant stage.  There is no building yet, just a big open tent, but they have land and a good core group of people, organized into a democratic executive.  Shmuel Okuma has told me about his dream of expanding the land, providing housing for several families, creating a business, and letting the families work and share in the profit.  He is a Kibbutznik without even knowing it.  He just wants to be surrounded by Jews.

 

Shmuel Okuma takes me over to a structure that looks like it’s been around a long while.  Its about 2 feet off the ground, and looks like it measures about 6’ x 12’.  It’s hard to imagine its original use, but Shmuel Okuma explains that this is an ancient Igbo ritual site.  He shows where people sat, where sacrifices took place, objects used, and how men and women were separated.  He is convinced that many of the rituals that the Igbos performed were derived from traditions of the Israelites.  As I sit in the structure, I can see the place come to life and the possible Hebrew connection.

 

An already unusual day got stranger when Asher tells me that he just had a call saying the rabbi was sick and heading back the 7 hours to Abuja.  We were to re-connect with him tomorrow morning in Agagaliki.  After trying unsuccessfully to place calls to him and Habbakkuk, we go into town and try calling from one of the many call centres – a table with some chairs set up on the corner with a girl and a couple of cell phones.  No luck reaching anybody.  We drive back through intense gridlock traffic, surrounded by cars, motorcycles, people and animals.  Nobody is moving.  In this place  whose volatility I’ve already experienced, I’m keen to get home and sort out what’s going on.

 

Back at the house, we are greeted by Shmuel (from Port Hartcourt), which makes me feel better.  We reach somebody by phone that says the rabbi is fine, and it seems we just received some bad information.  I tell Shmuel that I would like to speak to Howard anyway, and at last he is on the phone.  Howard says he is on his way to Port Hartcourt to fly home tonight.  We are all surprised and devastated.  He says he has not been feeling well, but I sense there is more.  I imagine he is frustrated and exhausted, and that there has been more politicizing, more fracturing, and more demands.  He says he’ll explain more later.  Howard is confident I am in good hands, but I am sad to lose my travel partner.  For Shmuel and the others, there is tremendous sadness.  No goodbyes and they will be the ones who will have to tell their communities to stop the planning as the rabbi will not be visiting them.

We console our long, difficult day with beer and The Olympics.  Since Nigeria is not competing for obvious reasons, we all root for Canada.  Shmuel Okuma wants some help preparing for his Pesach/Passover seder, and brings out some papers with the songs and readings.  As I teach him “Ma Nishtanah”, unprompted, the three youngest kids pipe in and repeat after me.  It is definitely a night unlike any other.