Oil on Water (11 page)

—It’s time to find out a few truths. Time to move on.

—You mean go back to Port Harcourt?

—You know, I’m not going back.

—What do you mean?

—Just what I said. All the time I was in that windowless, airless office, with my good friend Beke out there behind his editor’s desk gloating over the fact that he was now actually my employer, the great Zaq cut down to size—he always envied me, you see—all that time my greatest fear was that I’d die there, unable to get out and follow a true story one more time. I knew all I had to do was stand up and walk out, but I was scared. I’ve failed so many times before, in my profession, and in many other things as well.

—You are talking in riddles, Zaq.

—I have plans. I can get backers. Come with me to Lagos and we’ll start a new paper, a real paper.

—I have to be in the office.

—Well, think about whether to take the ferry back, or to come with me into the forest in search of the woman. Perhaps you’re thinking, Ah, he’s still drunk, tomorrow he’ll have forgotten all about this. But you don’t have to answer immediately. We’ll talk about it some more. But I can tell you have the makings of a real reporter. You ask the right questions, you actually returned to this island, you’re not afraid to take chances.

I listened in silence, though I wanted to say to him, I’m flattered that you think I’m a great reporter, potentially, but right now my sister with her scarred face and even more scarred psyche is in my room, shedding tears. I need to be there to make sure she doesn’t do anything crazy. And, another minor point, if I don’t get back to my office very soon, I’ll lose my job.

But I only nodded.

—Think about it.

In his lecture that day in Lagos, Zaq said that the best stories are the ones we write with tears in our eyes, the ones whose stings we feel personally. After visiting my sister at the hospital, unable to sleep, haunted by the image of burned flesh and the smell of petrol that clung to the hospital walls and corridors, I picked up pen and paper and the words had come effortlessly. I wrote about our childhood, about our days catching crabs to pay our way through secondary school, about Boma’s dreams of becoming a doctor. I had posted the story on the Internet, and it had been quoted and reproduced over and over on websites. And of course I had used it when applying for a job: it was my best writing sample. To be a great reporter required a lot of suffering, a lot of backstory, and I was finding that out for myself.

—One more thing. I do remember now that day at Bar Beach. That day with you and your lecturers at the restaurant.

—Well, good.

—I also remember your call, but I didn’t get you your job.

—What do you mean?

—After your call, I did mean to call your chairman to persuade him to give you a chance, but I was busy that day and—

—And so . . . I got the job all by myself . . .

—I guess you did.

—I don’t know whether to thank you or to curse you.

—I’m being honest with you. Now come. Let’s go see the priest.

12

W
e found him in his hut behind the worship room, changing into
a fresh robe. When he opened the door to our knock, he didn’t look surprised to see us.

—Ah, Mr. Zaq, I see you look better. You must be anxious to return home. We are happy to have you here as long as you like, both of you, of course, but the nurse thinks that you ought to see a doctor soon.

—Where is the British woman . . . and the Professor? Zaq stooped and entered through the low door, then he straightened up pugnaciously before the priest.

—The Professor?

—Come on, it’s no secret that these islands and villages are under his protection. We’re not the army, we’re reporters. We want to know what he’s done with the woman. We want to ask him why he has turned from being a freedom fighter to a kidnapper of women and children. We want to know if the white woman is alive.

The priest sat down on a tall stool, a tired droop to his shoulder.

—I think it would be best if you just went back home.

—Not until we see the woman.

—That may not be possible.

—Why not? Do you have a hand in the kidnapping?

—No. We are a holy community, a peaceful people. Our only purpose here is to bring a healing, to restore and conserve . . .

—Just tell us what you know.

Naman took a deep breath and stood up.

—Come with me.

His words and movements were decisive. We followed him, his fresh robe dragging in the wet, muddy grass. We passed the worshippers, some coming out of their huts, standing under trees, looking after us curiously. Gloria was in a group with three women, talking and laughing, but she stopped talking and stared at us. Zaq bowed slightly in her direction and she nodded. I slowed down, half turning to face her, but Zaq made an impatient gesture with his head and I quickened my pace. We walked on. The priest took us past the sculptures, away from the water, into the woods. Here the heat was trapped between the trees, and the dead leaves on the ground were putrid. Soon we appeared at a clearing surrounded by chicken wire. It was a cemetery, with headstones looking as lonely and forlorn as only headstones can. He pushed open the flimsy wooden gate and waved us in, like a man inviting us into his living room. He stopped before a fresh, unmarked mound.

—The kidnappers brought her here four days ago, and yes, one of them was the Professor. We try as much as possible to keep out of their way, and they leave us alone. We don’t talk to them, or to the army. But they brought the white woman, here. I objected. But he said they only came because she was seriously ill, and they knew we had a nurse here. They said they’d be on their way in a few days. Well, after two days some of them set out in a boat. They had two boats, and they set out in one, about seven of them, including the Professor. The woman was attended to by our nurse, who diagnosed a fever and diarrhea. We waited for the rest to leave, and when they didn’t I went to their hut and asked what was going on. They said they were still waiting for the Professor to return. They looked uneasy. Well, as we were talking, the Professor came in, with only two men. The rest, he said, had been killed in the fight with the soldiers. He was wounded but he wouldn’t sit. He said they had to leave at once. I left them, then . . .

The priest stopped speaking and stared silently at the fresh mound of earth in front of us.

—Then what? Did she die?

—He came to me just before they left. He brought me here and said, They will come looking for her, if they do, show them her grave. This is for the men they killed. Maybe this will teach them not to mess with us in the future.

—
I DON’T BELIEVE HIM
.

—But he wouldn’t lie to us, surely . . .

—That’s what I find confusing. Why would he lie about a thing like this?

I shared Zaq’s feeling. Something didn’t feel right. Not in my wildest dreams did I ever think our quest would end so suddenly, with an unmarked grave in a shrine. Zaq said nothing more all day. He lay on his mat, facing the conical thatched roof, a second bottle in his hand. To my questions he gave only monosyllabic grunts. I slept and woke up around five p.m. I picked up my camera.

—Where are you going?

—Taking a walk.

—I think you should go meet that nurse.

—Gloria.

—Ask her what she knows about the Englishwoman.

—What if she doesn’t want to talk?

—Didn’t I tell you she likes you? Hold her hand. Kiss her. Just get her to talk. It’s very important. Don’t you like her?

—She’s a very pretty woman, Zaq.

I TOOK PICTURES
of the cemetery, making sure I had a close-up of the fresh mound of earth, then I turned my lenses to the sculptures. Afterward I walked about aimlessly, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gloria, but I did not see her anywhere. I went and sat on the hill to stare at the water and the faraway gas flares that emerged suddenly from pillarlike pipes, holding up their roof of odious black smoke. I thought of so many things, of the priest’s words, of the white woman, dead and buried all this while, of Zaq’s offer. When I got tired of thinking I descended to join the worshippers for dinner. I found Gloria in the spot where we’d eaten yesterday.

—I was just coming from your hut.

She looked beautiful, her smile cheerful.

—Did you meet Zaq?

—Yes. He was quite chatty today. I think he’s recovering very well. Just keep him away from the bottle.

I wondered what she and Zaq had talked about. I wondered what her story was, why she wasn’t married, or if she had been married before.

—Have you eaten?

—No. Actually, I’ve been cooking and I was going to invite you and Zaq to come and eat at my place. But Zaq said he wasn’t hungry.

—So—

—So you have to eat for both of you. Come on, let’s go.

I followed her through a path in the woods and after a few meters it was as if we had stepped into a different dimension, away from the sea and sculptures and huts and worshippers. The tall iroko trees shaded the sun completely, and whenever a single ray found its way through the million leaves and branches and fell on our skin or on the dead leaves below, it looked so pure and startling, as if it had been refined through a thousand sieves. But at last we came out of the foliage into the busy village: sudden, noisy, alive with movement, and with smells from a hundred pots in a hundred kitchens. The roads were dusty and open, the houses few and well kept—they had verandas at the front and narrow windows that let in the noise and dust. We passed men seated on chairs, their heads bent, their mouths open, sleeping away the afternoon as chickens poked around for tidbits between the legs of the chairs.

Gloria’s room was in a huge, rectangular compound with a leafy gardenia tree in the center. She said there were very few such tenement houses in the village, since there wasn’t much need for them, the village being without any form of industry to attract outsiders. Almost every house was a family home. The shrine was the main industry, and after it came fishing. Sometimes outsiders visited the shrine and took pictures of the sculptures. Sometimes they rented a room for the night in the tenement compound. None of her cotenants seemed to be about: the thick wooden doors were shut and silence hung in the air like the black smoke from the faraway pillars.

It was a tiny room, and, seated in the only chair, I constantly had to move my feet out of the way as she bustled about to get me something to eat. In a corner was a table with a few jars of body cream, and a hairbrush, and a mirror and a cup with toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste. The wind through the small square window played with the flimsy curtain.

—So, tell me about Zaq.

—What do you want to know?

—Have you two known each other long?

—No, not really. This assignment is the second time we’ve met.

—He told me that . . . that . . .

—That what?

She turned away, avoiding my eyes, moving about as she spoke, picking up things and putting them down again. She placed a plate of jollof rice before me.

—He said you told him that you think I’m attractive?

—Well, yes. I think you’re attractive.

She smiled and shook her head and for the first time she stopped moving. She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel she was holding, then she hung the towel on a hook. I went over to her. I put my hand around her waist and drew her against me. She turned her face as I tried to kiss her and my kiss landed on her cheek. She looked at me.

—I’m much older than you, you know. And—

—And?

—I have a fiancé. In Port Harcourt.

Slowly I let my hands slip down from her waist. But she took my hands and put them firmly around her hips, pulling me against her.

—Are you so easily discouraged? Aren’t journalists supposed to be very, very persistent?

I tried again, and this time she let my lips descend on her open mouth, her eyes fixed on mine. I spent the night with her, in her narrow bed, and all night long she held me tight, as if to stop me from slipping away in the dark. I woke up once and saw the wind lightly shaking the flimsy lace curtain on the window, and I felt as if the wind were blowing through the fields of my mind, gently stirring up particles in forgotten corners. Then I went back to sleep.

—
TELL ME ABOUT
the Englishwoman.

It was morning. I had dressed but she was still lying in bed, the sheets drawn up to her neck. I could see the outline of her breasts beneath the sheets.

—Naman told me you were going to ask me that.

—And?

—And he said to tell you all I know.

—We’re reporters, Gloria. It’s our job. You’ll be helping us. Zaq and me.

She sighed and stared at a hanger on the wall over her bed bearing her nurse’s uniform, white and crisp, waiting to be worn.

—Well, what do you want to know?

—Tell me about the woman. You attended to her when they brought her here.

—Yes. She was in the room where you’re staying now.

—Naman showed us her grave. Could she have died from natural causes?

—She was weak and dehydrated. But that wouldn’t have killed her.

—Did she talk to you, anything in secret, anything at all?

—No. I attended to her only once. There were men holding guns in that room. Wearing masks. I was too scared even to look at her properly. I wouldn’t recognize her if I saw her again.

—Then what?

—Well, afterwards one of the men walked me out and told me if I talked about the woman or about the men to anyone, terrible things would happen to the community, and it would be my fault.

—How many were they? Did they talk to you?

—About ten of them. They stayed for only two nights, and they kept to themselves. They talked only to Naman. They left not long before you first arrived.

—I don’t know what your plans are, but her death could mean big trouble for the community. As soon as we report it, the police and army will be here. They’re sure to arrest some of your people as accomplices. You have to think of leaving here, at least until this thing blows over. Think about it.

She appeared unhappy talking about the kidnappers and the white woman.

—It just doesn’t make sense.

—What?

—Her death. It was so sudden. She didn’t look like she was dying.

—Maybe they killed her accidentally. Maybe she attempted to escape. I have to go now. Zaq will be waiting for me. We have to decide what to do.

—Will I see you later?

—Yes.

THE NEXT NIGHT
, around midnight, Zaq woke me up holding a lamp close to my face. He sat down beside me.

—Our job is to find out the truth, even if it is buried deep in the earth.

I watched him, an ominous feeling creeping up my chest. He had a crazy look in his eyes, I could smell the drink on his breath, and he hiccuped as he gave his little speech.

—This is something we must do. You have no choice. Without this our mission will be incomplete. Come with me.

And, half excited, half petrified, I followed him. The night was silent, broken only by the faraway sound of waves beating against the shore, and what might have been the call of bats or owls or other night birds. We walked through the ranks of the staring statues, which was rather like running an ominous gauntlet, a staring match with the unblinking, unmoving figures. At the edge of the sculpture garden was a toolshed whose rusty lock Zaq effortlessly broke with a single twist. He handed me a pick and a shovel and we set out for the cemetery. I was cold, whether from the chill air or from nerves, I wasn’t sure. Zaq’s portly frame strode before me purposefully, holding up the lamp as if it were a shear cutting through the dense foliage of night. When we got to the white woman’s grave he squatted down beside it, the lamp still in his hands.

—Dig.

As I dug he took out the whiskey bottle from his pocket and filled his mouth, and when I paused for breath he handed me the bottle.