Oil on Water (5 page)

AND SO, UNDERSTANDABLY,
this time the invitation to interview a hostage hung unanswered in front of the editor’s office. The editor took down the notice, shaking his head regretfully.

—I don’t blame you guys for holding back, but I hate to see other papers outscoop us. The event is tomorrow, and already three reporters have signed up, from the
Globe
, the
Voice
and the
Daily Star
.

He laughed. His voice grew derisive. —Guess who from the
Star
? Zaq.

I was standing with the other reporters in the little passage between the editor’s office and the newsroom, listening, avoiding the editor’s eyes, but when I heard Zaq’s name I stepped forward.

—I’ll go.

The editor opened his mouth to laugh, but when he saw I was serious, the laugh turned to a sneer.

—Well, well, the little photographer wants to be a real reporter, eh? Well, come into my office and tell me what you have in mind.

The editor sat facing me, his paunch almost resting on the desktop, his expression switching between contempt and a frown. On his left sat the news editor; on his right, the deputy editor.

—Well, talk.

I stammered. I hesitated. I mumbled. I told them I’d write it not as a kidnapping story only, but I’d try to find out what kind of woman the hostage was: if she had children, if she regretted coming to Nigeria, if she had any message for her husband. Things like that. The three men waited to hear more, but I fell silent.

—Is that all?

I could see the editor was trying hard not to snigger.

—Well, sir, there is also the effect on the international price of oil.

—Aren’t you afraid of the danger? You could get killed.

—I see it as a great opportunity to show what I can do, sir.

I didn’t tell them that, though I wasn’t sure exactly what to look for, I was confident that with Zaq there everything would work out fine. He’d be my guide, my teacher. Once, when he was drunk and helpless, I had looked after him; now it was his turn to look after me. Fate, it seemed, had brought us together.

5

T
he Major sat on a field stool, the type made by unfolding the top
of a swagger stick, his rifle on the muddy ground by his foot, talking into a radio. Seven men knelt facing him under the trees in the central clearing, their hands tied behind them, all wearing the same abject expression on their faces. They looked dirty, their skin was flaky and reptilian, chalk-white, as if they had been dragged through an acreage of ash. Behind the seven, but not very far away from them, were Tamuno and Michael, squatting on their haunches, looking perplexed and anxious.

The Major stood up and pointed at the kneeling men with his swagger stick, shaking his head to show his disappointment in them. He hadn’t looked in my direction yet. The boy started crying and held his father tight when the Major went over to them and stared down at them for a long time without saying a word. Then he came over to me.

—So, you are the journalist. Where’s the other one?

He turned to his men when he asked the question, not waiting for my answer. Two of them stood behind me, their guns vaguely pointed at me. A soldier had found me in the Doctor’s shed in a chair next to Zaq’s narrow cot, my eyes closed, my ears waiting for the slightest sound from Zaq. He had kicked me in the shin to wake me up, and even in the gloom of the shed I could see his glare.

—You, come! Both of you. Now. The Major wan see you. Now. Oya.

I stood up and almost fell down again. I wasn’t aware of how tired and disoriented I was. I swayed like a height-drunk alpinist, halfway through his climb, unsure if he was ever going to get to the top, and not really sure if he cared anymore.

—He can’t come. He’s sick.

—Well, you come.

The Doctor was seated behind his desk, writing on a piece of paper. He didn’t look up as the man led me out into the dying day. Now I watched the Major walk up and down in front of us, his tall legs stretching out fully beneath his oddly foreshortened torso, as if measuring the ground, and finally he stopped in front of me and looked me full in the face.

—Do you know what danger you run, two journalists, an old fisherman and his son, running about in these waters? How old is the boy?

The boy, seeing the Major staring at him and now walking toward him, took his father’s arm again, burying his face in the old man’s shoulder. The old man looked up at the Major, a rictuslike smile on his face.

—Sorry, sir, no be him fault. Na small pikin, sir.

The old man bowed down his head when he had finished speaking, ready to take on himself whatever blow was meant for his son. For a moment the soldier looked as if he would reach out and drag the boy out of his father’s arms and force him to answer the question, but then he turned away from the two and faced his men.

—Put them with the others!

The soldiers grabbed the old man and his son and led them to the seven kneeling men. I noticed how puffy and sleep-deprived the eyes of the seven men looked. I stepped forward to protest to the Major but a hand on my wrist pulled me back. I shook off the hand, thinking it was one of the soldiers, but it wasn’t. It was the Doctor.

—Wait. This is not a good time to talk to him.

The Doctor looked tired. We watched as the Major berated the men in a loud, but surprisingly passionless, voice.

—You call yourselves freedom fighters? To me you are just crooks and I will keep hunting you down and shooting you like mad dogs. This country is tired of people like you. Sergeant, bring the watering can!

The Sergeant was standing with five other soldiers under a tree, close to the kneeling men, and at the Major’s order he picked up a rusty iron watering can from the ground and took it to the Major. I sensed a hush descend on the men. The soldiers seemed to have forgotten to raise their guns and point them threateningly at the kneeling men. The Doctor shifted on his foot and I heard his sharp intake of breath as the Major raised the can and started to pour the water on the head of the man on the outer right. Then the unmistakable acrid smell reached me.

—Is he pouring petrol on them?

The Doctor nodded. I pulled away from him and in a few steps I was standing beside the Major, and when he turned and glared at me my courage faltered and for a moment all I could do was shake my head and point at the boy and the old man.

—Major. We are really sorry if we broke the law by coming into these waters. But we were invited by the kidnappers . . . and this man and this boy, they work for us. They’re innocent. Let them go. Please. We just want to find the kidnapped woman and to interview the militants, that’s all.

The Major turned and stared at me for a while before speaking, and then with each word he poked a finger into my chest.

—Listen, here I decide who is a criminal and who is not. I say who is a good egg and who is bad. Don’t dare to tell me what my job is. Remember, you could easily be there on your knees with them. You are still not free of suspicion. Don’t forget that.

He turned away, stretched out his hand and commenced dripping oil on the bowed heads. I returned to the Doctor, shaken. I turned away so as not to watch the shock and pain and frustration on the bowed faces as the precious, corrosive liquid touched their skins. The Doctor also looked away toward the water, lost in some detail of the ruined, decomposing landscape. But I couldn’t turn my face away for long. I was a journalist: my job was to observe, and to write about it later. To be a witness for posterity. I witnessed the stoic and anticipatory posture of the kneeling men. I witnessed the brutal anointing in silence, smelled the reek of petrol hanging in the air, pungent, and I wondered how the men could stand it. Already I felt sick and dizzy from the fumes. I had never liked the smell—it brought up memories in me, memories I would rather have kept down.

—This isn’t the first time this has happened, is it?

—No. It’s not.

The Doctor sounded agitated, but his eyes remained fixed on the Major, who was moving up the line, systematically dousing the bowed, cringing heads.

—Look at the soldiers, look at their eyes, all feverish with excitement and expectation.

—Expectation of what?

—Of the day when the Major will strike a match and throw it at the bowed, petrol-soaked heads. One day it will happen—see how the Major’s hands shake with the temptation.

The Major’s loud mocking voice cut the air.

—What, you can’t stand the smell of oil? Isn’t it what you fight for, kill for? Go on, enjoy. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll hate the smell of it, you won’t take money that comes from oil, you won’t get in a car because it runs on petrol. You’ll hate the very name petrol.

—They say he became like this after his daughter was raped. She was only eighteen. A student at the university. She was the brightest in her class, she was studying to become a doctor . . .

—You want resource control? Well, control this. How does it feel? This will teach you to kidnap innocent children. This will teach you to terrorize innocent villages.

—One day she’s walking to the hostel from the library, it’s late at night, she has an exam the next day and she’s been reading and doesn’t know it’s so late. Then a car pulls up beside her and she’s offered a lift. She recognizes one of the faces, a classmate. She gets in.

—Sergeant! Get me more petrol. These people are so thirsty. They drank it all up. Would you believe that? Hurry up.

—But the car doesn’t take her to her room. They head for the city. She begins to scream when her pleading to be taken back to the hostel meets with only drunken laughter. They take her to a strange room in some run-down hotel and lock her up in the wardrobe after sealing her mouth with duct tape. They leave her there all night. That boy that she recognized, he was about to be initiated into a campus fraternity, and part of his initiation ceremony required rape, and he had to supply the girl . . .

One of the men returned with the watering can and handed it to the Sergeant, who handed it to the Major.

—So, where were we, who is next?

—She only happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The next day, they take her to a graveyard and rape her repeatedly, then they let her go. The frat boys didn’t think she’d give up their names; besides, one of the boys was some minister’s son. But she did. Nothing happened to him, of course; he was only suspended from university for a semester. The Major here, he took it calmly, surprisingly. Many thought he’d lose his head and maybe shoot the boy, and in anticipation of this the boy’s father sent his son away to a university in London. Well, the Major is a patient man. He waited. A year later the boy came home for Christmas. The Major heard about it and one night he got two of his men and went to the boy’s favorite nightclub and abducted him right in front of everyone. They took him to the graveyard and shot him in the groin after breaking his four limbs. He didn’t die. They made sure of that. He phoned his father, who came and got him and flew him overseas for treatment. The Major was arrested, and court-martialed. The army sent him away to this place as punishment, and he’s been here three years now. One day he’s going to light that match. Even his men know it. Just a matter of time.

—What happened to his daughter?

—They said she transferred to another university in the north, Zaria or Maiduguri, and completed her studies.

The boy, Michael, was last in line. The Major was as conscientious with him as he was with the others, making sure the petrol found every exposed surface on the boy’s face. I witnessed the boy desperately spitting out the petrol as it ran down his face, wiping his eyes and nostrils with the sleeve of his homespun shirt, but the friction from the wiping only chafed his skin, inflaming it, making the petrol sting harder. I promised myself that if I got out of here I’d write about this, every detail, every petrol trickle, every howl of pain. Now I knew what Zaq meant when he said so long ago in that lecture that this job will sometimes break your heart. He said journalism shows you firsthand how nations are built, how great men achieve their greatness. And then he had quoted the proverb about how elephants achieve their great size: they simply eat up everything that stands in their path, trees and ants and plants and dirt, everything. I lowered my head to control the rage. I felt impotent, helpless, like a man running in his sleep with his legs crossed. At last the Major flung away the empty watering can. He strode over to us, his face contorted by some obscure rage. He was breathing hard.

—Journalist, you want to interview the rebels, well, here they are. There will be time for that.

I looked at the kneeling men. One of them, the eldest, with gray hair, the one in the middle, looked like he was finding it hard to focus, wiping his face and swaying, intoxicated by the oil fumes; then he pitched forward and puked into the muddy brown grass in front of him.

—Take them away, and make sure you bring them out here tomorrow morning for their morning shower.

—When can I interview them?

I was following the Major into his shed, the command shed. He turned and stared at me for a long time, thinking, then the anger left his face, to be replaced by a malevolent smirk. He put a hand on my shoulder.

—You—how can I be sure you are who you claim to be? Do you have any ID? Nothing? Not even a recorder, a pen, a notebook? What kind of reporters are you?

—We lost our things when your men sank our boat.

—Hmm. So far I have treated you like gentlemen. I am a gentleman, an officer and a gentleman. Ask my men. They love me because I am a fair man. But I have one question only for you: how can I know you are who you claim to be? That is all. Answer me that question and you are free.

He smelled of sweat and the marshes, and petrol. The petrol had left stains on his trouser legs and on his boots.

—We’re looking for the Englishwoman, for the story. That is all.

—I’m looking for the woman too, everyone is looking for her. You think you can find her if we can’t? Still, I don’t trust you. I can’t trust you, you see my dilemma? You have till tomorrow to think of something. Talk to the other guy. Tomorrow, I want proof. Answers. Otherwise I’ll have to lock you up with the rebels and treat you the same way.

—What of the old man and his child? They’re innocent, nothing to do with all these—

—Go. I have work to do.

—I must insist, Major.

—Insist? Did you say insist? Do you know what’s going on out there? There’s a war going on! People are being shot. In Port Harcourt oil companies are being bombed, police stations are being overrun, the world oil price is shooting through the roof. You insist! I can shoot you right now and throw you into the swamp and that’s it. Now get out.