Smuggle Na Bad Biznes

Making Amends in 1981
by
Simon Lawson

“Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends
So, oh, Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?”
Janis Joplin – Mercedes Benz – 1971

“Dope will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no dope.” – Freewheelin’ Franklin in The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers Cartoon “The Freaks Pull a Heist!”
Gilbert Shelton – 1971

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In loving memory of:

“Gray” – Graham Scott Livesey,
“Lil” – Ian Miller
“Benj” – David Benjamin Hewitt

My fellow nomads, desert travellers, masters of the art of “welkdom”, moody operators, companions on the long road where no condition is permanent. Our journeys continue, on different roads. And not forgetting “Saidu Bamenda” and other friends who have gone on ahead of me over the rainbow.

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One

Rita finally relents, unlocks the door and lets us out of her room. She’s standing, hands on hips, facing Lil. “Kawo kudi! Bring money!” as Lil hands her a 100 Guilder note. “Yes, Mr Lil – dis last night wi don enjoy o! Bot dis na Nigeria, we no dey sex for love, we dey sex for money! – Kawo kudi!”, laughing as she grabs Lil and sways her hips against him – just as they’d been dancing, a few hours earlier. 

We stagger out of the compound, onto the road, rubbing our eyes, blinking against the sudden glare, and wondering which way it is back to Kaduna? Turning to wave at the girls, we spot a large painted sign that announces, in bold lettering, over a giant cutout chilled Star Beer bottle – Welcome to Merry Makers Relaxation Centre.

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A few weeks earlier:

Sitting at my kitchen table studying, one evening in April 1981, the phone rings. “Hello Quinton.” says a familiar voice, “Hello Quantity.” say I. “How do you fancy a couple of weeks in Af.?” “Well that depends…” I reply rather unconvincingly, “..on what exactly you’ve got in mind?” “I want you to drive a Merc with me and Lil to Nigeria. There’s some money in it.” “I’ll think about it, Graham…” I say, but I’ve already half made up my mind, “..are you coming to little Rachel’s party on Saturday?” “Yeah, I’ll be back from Maastricht on Friday, at me mum’s. I’ll come up to you Saturday afternoon with Benj.” “Ok, great, see you at the weekend then, bye Gray.” and that’s that.

I’m already hooked of course, but try to tell myself that I can’t go. Things are already looking pretty grim regarding my future at the University. The idea of blasting across the Sahara with Graham, in a Mercedes Benz, is tempting to say the least, but I’m in the third year of a PhD in bio-systems, and way behind on my thesis. If I didn’t get it finished I’d soon run out of grant, so the thought of telling my mentors that I’m swanning off to West Africa, for a fortnight or so, seems to spell academic doom. I try to put it out of my mind. But, when Gray turns up a few days later, with a gleaming Must Make Amends – a sweet, metallic brown, petrol, auto 280SE 123 model that he wants me to drive to Nigeria – I finally decide to go, the University be damned. It would only be for a couple of weeks anyway. 

“What do you think then Simon? I’ve got three Mercs, there’s me and Lil already, and there’s a thousand Gliders in it for you as well.” I look him in the eye, and say seriously – “I don’t know Gray, I’ll have to think about it… for a few seconds! Of course I will, are you having a laugh?” He grins and we hug each other. “That’s great boy.” he says opening the boot, and pulling out a crate of Grolsch in flip-top bottles, for the party tonight. We go inside to freshen up, with a coffee and a spliff. 

“Where’s Benj?” I ask. “He should be here soon, he’s in his own motor.” We talk about the trip. Gray is going to leave the 280 at his mum’s, and take another motor back to Maastricht, where he’s based when not on the road. He was introduced there by his girlfriend Inez, who he’d met in Agadez, Niger, on a previous trip. He’d found that Limburg was a great location to buy good quality used Merc trucks, from across the border in Germany, which he drives to Nigeria and Cameroon, where they are in great demand. I’d met Graham, eight years earlier, camping in City Park, Nairobi. He’d driven there in an old Bedford Army lorry with nine other lads from Essex – known collectively as the Harold Hill Mob. We’d had several adventures together in Kenya, and become great friends. Since then, after a short sojourn in Delhi at the Indian Government’s pleasure, he had clocked up several trips to West Africa. The plan was that I’d pick up the motor from his mum’s in Harold Hill, and drive it to Maastricht the following weekend, meet up with him and Lil, and the three of us would take off for Nigeria. On his most recent journey with trucks, he’d heard that Mercedes cars were making top money there; he even had some clients lined up – like Janis Joplin, apparently many Nigerians wanted to make amends. He thought a two week blast across the desert would be a good way to test the market. 

It’s getting late, there’s a party to go to and still no Benj. “He should have been here by now.” We have a beer and roll a joint, and then there’s a knock on the door – and there’s Benj, on foot. “Where’ve you been then Benj?” says Gray. “Oh, well me motor packed up near Bedford didn’t it. F’ing thing just stopped, I’ve no tools or nothing, so I left it, and started to hitch. But no sod would stop.” “How did you get here then?” I ask. “Well I nicked a Cortina, didn’t I – piece of piss.” he says, brandishing a well worn Ford key that would open almost anything.” “You what? Where is it? You haven’t parked it in this street, have you?” I say nervously, fearing an unscheduled appearance of the fuzz at the party. “Nah Simon, I left it round the corner, two streets away, don’t worry mate.” 

Benj, was another of the Harold Hill Mob, and Gray’s best mate, who I’d also first connected with in Nairobi – when eight of us hired a Landrover from Seychelles Joe – and drove it up to Lake Turkana for the total eclipse in 1973.

Like Graham, Benj earns his crust buying and selling motors, and now is also into the trans Sahara truck trade. 

I’ve cooked keema sag and pillau rice, one of Gray’s favourites, so we munge, while catching up, chatting about recent trips – the state of the roads and the borders, the places and people en route – tales full of incidents, near misses and fun. We’d take the ferry from Marseilles to Algiers, then drive straight south through Algeria, across the desert into Niger, and then to Nigeria and maybe Cameroon, if things got iffy in Naija. My appetite for the journey is growing. My mouth watering in anticipation of my second trans Sahara trip – I’d travelled home in a Land Rover from Ghana in ‘74, and couldn’t wait to get back on the road. Then, suitably stimulated, we set off down the road to Little Rachel’s, for a fun night of sweet soul music, lovers’ rock and randy reggae dancing.

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By Easter Monday everything is fixed. I’m to pick up the car from Gray’s Ma on Thursday, and meet him in Maastricht, where we would stay for Nell’s party on the Friday night, before setting off the next day. Wednesday night, I’ve been out for a few drinks with some colleagues at the Old Swan at Woughton on the Green – a former haunt of highwayman Dick Turpin. We decide that the best thing for me to do is simply leave a note on my supervisor’s desk and go! I get in late, a bit merry and excited, and decide to call Mo, an old school mate of mine in London. “Hey Mo, fancy coming over to Holland with me tomorrow evening for a party? You’ll have to make your own way back, but if you fancy the trip I’ll take you.” “Sounds fine Simon, fabuloso.” 

We agree to meet at Liverpool Street the next evening. Early morning, I go into the department and leave a note on Dr Dick Morris’s desk. He’s a lovely man, and one of the few academics who actually encourages my somewhat eclectic approach to research. I hope he’ll understand. “Dear Dick, a great opportunity has come up out of the blue, and I’m off to Nigeria for a couple of weeks. Sorry for the short notice – hope that’s alright. Best wishes, Simon.” Then home to pack, check my passport and vaccination certificates, and off to London to meet Mo at Liverpool street. We jump on a train to Harold Wood and into a cab to Gray’s mum’s, in Harold Hill. After a cup of tea and a slice of cake, Ma Jean gives me the car keys, papers – a ferry ticket past its return date – “Graham said you’ll have moody that, Simon!” and with a chocolate chip cake for Graham, we set off. 

We cruise South, the motor purring through the rolling Essex countryside, the Thames Marshes, Dartford Tunnel and into Kent. It’s a marvellous spring evening, the sky tinged pink as we make our way through the Garden of England, Canterbury, and down the steep hill to the terminal in Dover. With an hour or so to spare, we go for a couple of pints before the ferry. Just as we’re going into the pub we run into some of Mo’s friends, who are just leaving, and speak highly of the Wadsworth’s. They are right as it happens. 

We sail through customs, and ticket check, on the moody ticket – the date and number of passengers changed with a blue biro and smudged a bit – and save Mo seven quid into the bargain. Onto the ferry, and straight out on deck, to watch the white cliffs of Blighty slipping away into the dusk. It’s pretty bloody imminent outside though, so we go back in to see if the bar has opened. Hungry, we opt for the three course meal in Club Class, which Mo insists we wash it down with a bottle of Moët. By the time we finish dinner, we’re approaching Oostende, and in need of a livener before hitting the road. We go into the Gents together, into a cubicle, where Mo crushes up a couple of Black-Bombers, which we snort with a £1 note. He has an accommodating Harley Street quack, who readily prescribes him the amphetamine “Durophet”, for a suitable fee.

We make good time through Belgium, the roads being pretty deserted in the early hours of the morning, rocking up at Nell’s gaff on the Rechtstraat just as Gray and Lil are getting up and at it for the day, Nell having already left for work. After greetings, and our effusive speed fuelled account of our night on the ferry, – Gray taking one look at the wide eyed state of us says to me pointedly: “Champagne eh, very nice! And there’s you driving my motor an’ all.” We have coffee, and get our heads down, while Gray and Lil go off to fetch one of the Mercs from Aachen and buy some spares.

Early afternoon, we check out Mo’s return journey at the railway station, where, after a phone call home, he decides that the chance of a weekend in Amsterdam, with all its business possibilities, would be too good to miss, so he’ll leave me with my friends and the journey ahead. But first we stroll along the old cobbled streets of Maastricht to the Vrijthof and the In den Ouden Vogelstruys (In the Old Bird’s Story) café, to take a look at the dozens of pencil portraits of its regulars – drawn over half a century – which line the walls of the bar. Then after a swift glass of Brand Bier we walk back to the Rechtstraat where Mo makes his excuses – to a few jeers from Graham and Lil… “Oh yeah – You got pressing bizness up there in the D’am. Ha ha, yeah, we understand don’t we? We’d come with you but we’ve got our own bizness to attend to in Nigeria. Have fun.” And with that Mo is off back to the station.

Nell returns with daughter Inge in tow. She’s close to Inez, and that’s how Gray ends up kipping on her living room floor, whenever he is in Maastricht. We hug warmly – we’ve been friends and occasional lovers over the last couple of years and it’s fab to see her. Then it’s off to the chip shop at the end of the street for a mountain of frites met mayo, frinkandelspecials, and loempias, which we all munge while helping Nell sort out the flat for her party. Gradually friends from the Maastricht scene arrive, Bart, Birget, Ger and others, most of whom I know, having spent Carnival with them a couple of years earlier, and visited Nell a few times since. It’s a fun evening, but one on which mindful of le départ scheduled for the following day I try not to get too wasted.

Smuggle Na Bad Biznes – Making Amends in 1981 – © Simon Lawson 2025

Chapter 2 coming soon. If you like what you’ve read so far please let me know.