Oil on Water (13 page)

—Who?

—He was known as the Professor—only he wasn’t a real professor. It was just his gang name.

—And so—

—And so Ani killed him in a power struggle and took over not only the leadership but the title of “Professor” as well. The myth of the Professor lives on.

—I see.

—I’m glad you see. I know these people. I’m the one who can handle them, the only one. They understand only one language: force. That’s all.

The Major brought down his fist on the flimsy table, making the cups and pens jump.

—And what of your prisoners here? Are you going to try them?

—You journalists, with your fancy ideas about human rights and justice . . . all nonsense. There are no human rights for people like him. You jail them and in a year they’ll be out on the streets. The best thing is to line them up and shoot them. But you people . . .

The Major made a dismissive gesture with his hand and stood up. He went to the window and looked out toward the river.

—We want to interview them, your prisoners. We want to hear their side of the story.

The Major turned to Zaq, his head tilted, considering the unexpected request.

—You, I thought you were sick and wanted a doctor immediately, even though the Doctor here is the best in the whole world. It is true. He saved my life.

The Doctor sipped his tea and continued to look out through the window.

—I’m feeling better, thank you. Let us interview them.

—Well, why not? I’ll bring them over here right away and you will listen to them and afterwards you tell me what you think.

—No. Don’t bring them here. If they think you ordered the interview, they’ll be guarded, they won’t open up. Tonight, lock us up with them, let them think we’re also under suspicion.

—Are you sure you want to be locked up with them?

The Major looked from Zaq to the Doctor to me. Zaq nodded. I nodded, even though this was not something Zaq had informed me about earlier.

—Well, then, you’d better do it as soon as you can, tonight. Tomorrow we leave for Irikefe—that is actually the main reason I called you. We just heard the island has been attacked by your friends the rebels. There is serious fighting going on at the moment and our men need reenforcement. We leave early tomorrow. You can come with me, or you can stay with the rebels till I come back. You decide.

—We’ll come.

—Good. That’s settled. Now, I want to know more about you two. I’m curious about people and their motives. Why did you come here, to a war zone? You could get killed. Are you looking for fame? Is that it? Tell me how you came here.

It was a long time before nightfall, when we’d interview the militants. There was a lot of time to kill. So I told him how I received the assignment to interview the Englishwoman, and about the burning island, and how we all ended up on Irikefe. I told him almost everything. But I did not tell him about Boma, and how I found her waiting for me that day when I returned to Port Harcourt.

14

T
he soldiers led us to the lockup when the sun was setting over
the land. They walked behind us, their guns raised and aimed at a point between my shoulder blades; Zaq was walking slightly ahead of me on the narrow path leading to the little hut. The lockup was at the farthest end of the square, next to the water, and as we approached we could see the mosquitoes rising in a thick cloud over the water. I was worried about Zaq. His early morning alertness had gradually given way to bad-tempered enervation as the sun went down, and now his legs dragged, his shoulders slumped as he walked, and even from here I could hear his breath wheezing out of his nose. I had tried to convince him to let me go alone to the lockup, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

—This is what I came for. Besides, how would you explain my absence to them?

—I’d tell them you are not feeling well.

—No, that won’t work. We mustn’t leave anything to chance. Besides, I feel strong.

And I couldn’t argue any further without telling him bluntly that he was dying, and even if I did, it was no guarantee he’d budge. The soldiers opened the door and threw us in, then they closed it. We felt our way to the wall and we sat against it. Immediately Zaq slumped against me, his head sliding down my shoulder and lolling helplessly. And for a moment I asked myself, What if he died, right here, right now? Best to pretend things were the same as before, that Zaq was all right, and we would interview these people, and we’d go back to write the story. I even tried to fashion a headline that would be worthy of such a great story, the perfect, inevitable headline, the one that gets your story on the front cover, an inch high, the one that compels the most indifferent reader to stop and pick up the paper.

When my eyes got used to the gloom in the shed, and when I had controlled the dizzying, nauseating effect of the petrol smell that rose off the men’s bodies and clothes to cast a miasmatic shadow over the tiny room, I saw Tamuno and Michael huddled together in a corner. The boy was asleep, his head resting on his father’s scrawny shoulder, his feet stretched out straight before him. I realized the old man was staring at me, and in his posture I saw an embarrassed apology, as if he were trying to say sorry that things had ended up like this, and I wanted to tell him that it was I who should be apologizing for leading him into this.

Most of the men were lying on the floor, some with faces turned toward the wall. I didn’t know how long they had been the Major’s prisoners, or what other punishment they had endured in addition to the petrol-drenching, but they all looked exhausted and dispirited. In a uniform, spastic choreography they scratched and twitched and rubbed their dry skin where the petrol had scalded them, where it still burned. Only one of them sat without the mad twitching; his head was bowed, but he did not seem defeated or fatigued, like the others; he looked like a man lost in thought, a man seated against a wall in his own compound. I crawled toward him, and as I neared him a huge paw from behind grabbed me by the neck and pulled, and suddenly I was staring at two red eyes that bore into me, unblinking, expressionless. The thinking man raised his head and motioned to my captor.

—Let him go, Taiga.

I couldn’t breathe until the fist released me, then I was gasping, sucking in the fumy air, rubbing my neck, which felt broken. I sat next to the man.

—Thanks.

—Did you think he was going to kill you? We’re not murderers, my friend, regardless of what you guys write about us.

—My name is Rufus, and that’s my colleague Zaq.

—So, what are you doing here?

—We’re prisoners, like you. The Major doesn’t believe we’re innocent journalists.

—Well, are you?

—What?

—Innocent journalists?

—Of course we are. I work for the
Reporter
, and Zaq works for the
Star
.

—Is he the Zaq who used to be with the
Daily Times
?

—Yes, he is—

—Let him speak for himself!

Zaq coughed and sat up straight.

—Yes, my friend. It’s me. What’s your name?

—Henshaw.

—Glad to meet you, Henshaw.

—We came to find out about the British woman. Is she still alive?

—Is that all you want from me, to tell you whether some foreign hostage is alive or not? Who is she in the context of the war that’s going on out there, the hopes and ambitions being created and destroyed? Can’t you see the larger picture?

Henshaw sounded educated and very confident, so perhaps the best way to make progress was to appeal to his reason. Zaq must have sensed that as well. I waited for Henshaw to speak some more, but he didn’t. He kept his head inclined, as if slumbering, already bored by that little exchange. After a while I cleared my throat. I could feel Zaq in the dark, waiting, willing me to go on.

—Does your group have a name?

—No! We used to have a name, but no more. That is for children and idiots. We are the people, we are the Delta, we represent the very earth on which we stand.

—Are you with the Professor?

—No. I have never met the Professor. We’re a different group, the six of us. That man is with the Professor. Perhaps he can tell you about the white woman. Hey, you, talk to the reporters. Go on, talk.

The scratching and twitching and pain-filled groans had stopped as everyone strained to listen to our talk. Even the mosquitoes had somehow stopped singing around my ears. I turned to look at the man. He was seated by himself near the door, his back pushing into the wall, away from all the eyes suddenly turned on him. He began to shake his head as I crawled toward him, and when I was in front of him he turned his face away.

—Look, you heard what I told him. We’re impartial reporters. All we want to know is where the woman is, if she’s alive.

He mumbled something, his voice coming out like a sob. I leaned closer to him.

—What?

Now he turned to me and even in the dark I could see how young he was—between fifteen and twenty. His face was smooth, hairless.

—His name is Gabriel. He was here before we came, at least two days.

The voice came from one of the faces seated around Henshaw—possibly from the one named Taiga.

—Gabriel, I’m Rufus. Have you heard anything about the woman? We saw the battle with the soldiers—were you there? Did you hear any of your friends talking about it? We saw dead bodies. Were you there? Were you captured, did you surrender?

—Come on, man, stop whimpering like a girl and talk. Talk! Taiga, make him talk!

The threat did the trick. For the first time the boy nodded his head instead of shaking it. He raised his head and looked into my eyes and now his words came out coherently. He’d been there, at the battle. But he didn’t say anything more after that, and when I threw more questions, he looked defiantly from me to Taiga.

—Why don’t you find out, since you’re a reporter?

I crawled back to where Zaq lay and sprawled out beside him. I didn’t feel as if I had gained much information. I still hadn’t found out anything new about the woman. Had she escaped? I hoped not, because she had no way of surviving out there in the swamps by herself: first of all, her skin would be her worst enemy, it’d emblazon her presence like lightning in a dark night wherever she went, and she might escape from one kidnapper only to end up in the hands of another.

TOWARD MORNING, WHEN A PINK
light stitched in through the million micro-openings in the roof thatch, Henshaw crawled over to my side and shook me awake. I sat up beside him, our shoulders touching. Outside, the bugle sounded.

—I know exactly what they’re doing out there: right now the soldiers will be in line, shoulder to shoulder, all twenty of them, one sergeant, two corporals and the rest privates, all standing at attention, and he’ll be telling them why they must hate the militants, why they must fight to keep the country safe and united. Ten minutes of that. I’ve been here four days now and I know exactly what they do every minute of the day. I can tell you what they eat, what they think, who is tired of the Major’s demented patriotism and just wants to go home. We’ll outlast them. That’s all we need to do. Sit tight. Wait. This land is ours, after all.

He paused, his eyes closed. All the other faces were staring at him, but their ears were focused on something farther off, somewhere close to where the bugle had sounded, waiting. And yes, there was a distant sound of a voice, firm, authoritative. Too far away for the words to register. After what seemed like ten minutes, he resumed his commentary.

—Now he’s walking in their midst, putting a hand on this one’s shoulder, reprimanding that one for a smudge on his boots—imagine reprimanding a soldier for a smudge here in the jungle . . . and now he is dismissing them. Five of them are coming this way, guns firmly clasped in both hands, trotting, and here they are.

Footsteps came to a stop in front of the hut, and Zaq and I waited to see what was going to happen. The door was kicked open, and two soldiers entered in a splash of morning sunlight. The others waited outside.

—Oya, stand up. Single file. Proceed outside.

It was the tallest of them speaking. They didn’t kick or hit the prisoners, they just stood there, their guns ready, waiting for the men to get in line.

15

T
he Major waved his hand toward the approaching shoreline, but
his voice was drowned out by the noise from the helicopter that suddenly appeared above us, like a bird of ill omen. The Major looked up, then he took out his radio and put it to his ear. When he finished speaking his face had a satisfied grin.

—Be prepared for what you are about to see. Irikefe is now mostly ashes and rubble, bombed by the gun helicopter over there. Not a hut is left standing . . .

—What of the people?

—Most of them would still be there, I suppose. But expect a lot of casualties, unavoidable, of course. This is a war zone . . . Look, look, you can see the smoke from here.

We descended from the boat into the restless water. On the shore was a line of soldiers in battle gear, pointing their guns at us. They led us toward the trees and then to a field of rubble, which I saw was all that was left of the sculpture garden. Memory is nothing but a view through a car window, fast-changing, impressionistic. Of all the things that I saw that day, and all the words that I heard, what made the most impression was the sight of the broken statues. The arms and legs and heads sundered from the body. I recall a face, its expression of terror so lifelike, the eyes so mobile staring up at me as I passed, its nose broken, its mouth half open and eager to share its secret. And later, when I voiced my lament to Naman—Look, they broke the statues—he smiled sadly and nodded and said, Everything that was made must one day cease to be. It is the nature of existence.

The fighting was over when we got off the boat, but the earth was still smoldering with the remains of battle, the huts still gave out smoke, and soldiers still fired guns sporadically into the air as they corralled the villagers into one big clearing, trying to determine who among them was a militant and who wasn’t. I couldn’t recognize the hut where we once slept, and the log on which I once sat. Zaq sat down heavily on the first surface he found. I couldn’t sit—I mingled with the worshippers, trying to see if I could find a familiar face, Gloria, or Naman, and yes, here was a familiar face, even though half of it was swollen and covered with blood. It was a man who’d been seated with Gloria and Naman, eating dinner, and if I hadn’t been looking keenly, peering almost rudely into the faces, I wouldn’t have recognized him. His once-pure-white robe was now specked with the green of crushed leaves and the rust and red of blood, and the one side of his face capable of expression looked vacant, vague, tired, like a man after a long trek, thirsty, but unsure where to look for water or rest. When I stopped next to him and took his hand and introduced myself, he licked his chapped lips and tried to smile.

—Ah, the reporter. But what are you doing here? This place is very dangerous for you. You shouldn’t have returned.

—Where’s Gloria and Naman?

He pointed vaguely and continued walking, his eyes looking around for something in the rubble. A woman took me to Naman. He was surrounded by a group of women, all weeping and holding one another, and he went from one to the other, calming them down. I shook his hand and he told me to sit beside him. Like the others’, his white robe was covered in blood, maybe his, maybe not. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I pointed.

—The statuary is all gone.

—It is the nature of existence. A thing is created, it blooms for a while if it is capable of blooming, then it ceases to be.

He said that two days ago the militants had arrived. The worshippers were as usual having their morning dip, chanting their hymn to the sun, and the next thing they knew they were surrounded by gunmen. Of course, they had been visited by the militants before, but nothing like this—usually they came for food, or for medical supplies, or for clothes; once they attempted to abduct a woman worshipper, but Naman had stood in front of the woman and said they had to shoot him first, and of course when their leader, the real Professor, who was a gentleman, found out, he had publicly punished the militants and personally apologized to the community. A good man, the real Professor. But this time it was another leader, a younger one, and he gathered everyone into the worship hut and said he wanted all the worshippers to swear allegiance to him—imagine that. When Naman said that wasn’t really necessary, the man placed a gun on his chest and told him to shut up. Then he said he had discovered that traitors, informers, had been giving information to the soldiers. Someone here at the shrine, on the island, must have given them away to the soldiers just before they arranged to meet with the reporters on Agbuki. He said he and his men would spend the night here and tomorrow they’d be on their way, but before they left they’d take a hostage, just to make sure of the worshippers’ cooperation. And then he pointed at Gloria, and said, You will come with us tomorrow.

But the soldiers came early the next morning. First they came in a boat, and there were only five of them. They were on routine patrol; they hadn’t known the militants were there, and they ran into an ambush—it was a massacre. They were all killed instantly. The militants had machine guns and grenades. But the soldiers must have called for backup because this morning the helicopter came and started shooting at everything beneath it, indiscriminately.

—People running and jumping into the water. It was awful. Awful. The water turned red. Blood, it was blood. In the confusion the rebels slipped away and left the villagers to face the soldiers. Now, see, everything is in ruins. Nothing left, it is a miracle so many are still alive. A miracle.

He kept repeating it: a miracle.

—And Gloria, where is she?

—They took her away like they promised. She was crying and screaming, but they dragged her away.

I WENT OVER TO ZAQ
.

—A lady was here just now, looking for you. She said she was your sister. Do you have a sister?

—Boma. Here?

Zaq looked about, raising his head from the grass. He was exactly where I’d left him over two hours ago, in the grass under a tree, but now he was fully stretched on his back, his head propped up on the tree’s protruding root.

—I told her to walk about, that you were somewhere out there. Maybe she’s with the women over there.

I wasn’t sure what to make of that news. What would Boma be doing here? How did she get here? I left Zaq and headed for the group of women. The camp had segregated itself, with the men on one side, closer to the water, and the women camped where the tree line began. The women were seated in groups, the fit ones tending to the wounded, while the children crawled between their legs and rolled about in the grass, oblivious of the moment’s gravity. And on the outskirts of the two groups were the soldiers, their guns raised, their eyes alert to any movement over the water. I found her sitting by herself on a log, looking absently at two urchins wrestling in the grass. She had a smile on her face, and she looked pretty. I was looking at the good side of her face, and suddenly I was back many years to the last time I’d seen her like this, without the scar. I had returned from Port Harcourt after my apprenticeship with Udoh Fotos; Boma and John had started going out then and were already talking of getting married someday. John had pointed at the entire town of Junction with his hand.

—But we have to get out of here first.

On the day I left, John and Boma had walked me to the bus station, and as the bus pulled away Boma waved and waved and the sun fell on her smooth face, just as it fell now. Smooth and unmarred.

—What are you doing here? I know, don’t tell me. You’re hoping to find John in the forest, waiting for you.

My voice rose as I spoke, and I felt it rising even higher. I pointed around.

—Look, they’re fighting a war here. You could get killed, Boma. And all for what, for a man who walked out on you because he couldn’t bear to look at your face anymore? It’s time to move on. He’s never coming back. He’s gone. Accept it.

She was staring at me, her head inclined, as if she were watching a stranger. But I was remorseless. I was tired, and all I wanted was to be as far away from here as possible, but her presence only added to the weight on my shoulders.

—I came to look for you, not for John.

I sat down beside her.

—You were supposed to be gone for only a day. I went to your office to see if they had any news and they said no. Nothing. And then your editor said to tell you not to bother to show up at the office.

—He said that?

—Yes.

How quickly things change. It seemed like only yesterday I was seated at the Chairman’s right hand, being toasted by the staff, and now I had no job.

—How long have you been here?

—I got here yesterday; the fighting began just after I arrived.

The kids wrestling in the grass were now eating out of the same bowl, placed before them by their mother, who stood watching over them as they ate. She was a tired-looking woman with her hair in knots; she held her grimy white robe bunched up at the hip, lifting it clear of the muddy grass. Her exposed calves were thick and chunky, merging into her ankles without definition.

—I was worried about you.

I felt tired. I felt ashamed at my outburst.

I tried a joke when I saw how crestfallen she looked.

—I’m the Lucky One, remember? Nothing will happen to me.

—Have you found the woman?

—What woman?

—The white woman you were looking for.

—No.

—I met your friend, Zaq, over there. What’s wrong with him?

—He’s not well. He’s dying.

—He’s dying?

—That’s what the doctor said.

—So, what are you going to do?

—Find a boat and take him to Port Harcourt. They have to evacuate these wounded people soon anyway.

I SAT UP ALL NIGHT
beside Zaq. Boma was curled up on her spread-out wrapper close to us, fast asleep, her head resting on her arm, her face beautiful in the glow of the fire someone had started not too far away. I listened to the anxious murmurs of the men around the fire as they sat hunched forward, still in their white frocks. Some of them would look up and stare at me and I’d look back at them, my face full of questions, but I got only silent head shakes. Some shrank from me, as though I were an interrogator brandishing tools of torture. From the women’s section came the cries and whimpers of children, from the waterfront came the crunch of soldiers’ boots on the hard pebbles of the beach. I watched the fire burn bright and die. I was exhausted but I did not sleep. Instead I let my mind remember the many conversations we had had, right here on this island.

Once Zaq had asked me:

—Rufus, what books have you read?

I mentioned a few journalism books, but he shook his head impatiently.

—You must take a year off, one of these days, before you’re old and tired and weighed down by responsibility. Go away somewhere, and read. Read all the important books. Educate yourself, then you’ll see the world in a different way.

It was the day after we had dug up the empty grave. We had gone to sleep exhausted by all the excitement; perhaps that was why we didn’t hear them the next morning when they opened our door. They came very early. We didn’t hear them enter, but the sun on my face woke me up. It was a wafer of a ray, flattened by a narrow crack in the door that directed the sun squarely on my face. I opened my eyes; then, seeing the three men standing solemnly just inside the doorway, I sat up. Zaq, like me, was just waking up, but already his eyes looked alert, and he was getting to his feet.

It was Naman, with two other men I had never seen before, but who, from their clothes, seemed like priests. They stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, the gravitas around them as solid as a rock. Naman, in the middle, was tall and upright; the others were shorter, stooped, and older. One was thin and bald and mustached, and the other was portly, with a fine head of hair.

—These are my fellow priests, and together we represent the entire community.

Zaq stood up and faced them.

—You are welcome, but did you have to wake us up like this?

—You have committed a grave ill. By going to the burial ground and digging up a grave last night, you have desecrated the place, and now—

—Hold on. What are you talking about? Who said we were at the burial ground last night?

Zaq tried to outstare the unblinking priests, but there was neither power nor conviction in his eyes and voice. I said nothing. I sensed a certain change in Naman: this wasn’t the same man I had talked to yesterday. He seemed more distant, sadder, and yet there was a determination, a coldness I had not noticed before in him. He was here to carry out a task, and he was going to do it, though he found the task unpleasant. Now he suddenly stepped forward and before I could draw back he took my right hand and raised it up to Zaq. I was taken by surprise and quickly curled my fingers, trying to hide the telltale red earth that my hasty washing last night hadn’t removed from under the chipped nails. Zaq’s stare wavered. He sighed.

—Well . . .

—Our head priest died this morning. And now we cannot bury her because your activity last night has disrupted the balance of things. A purification ceremony has to be carried out. In the meantime, please remain in your hut. The elders will hold a meeting and decide what is to be done.