Say You’re One Of Them (34 page)

“When my grandfather came to power, they listened to him too . . . even missionaries. He gave them land to build churches and hospitals and schools, which is how the south became more educated than the north. In my father’s time, it was the same thing. I mean, these big oil companies consulted him regularly, which is why the oil tribes weren’t killing each other, as they do today in the delta. Even the military government worked hand in hand with him. . . . But now, nobody wants to hear anything from
me
. . . not my people, not the oil companies. What kind of democracy is that, my friend?

“Do you know that two years ago, my people, I mean
my
people, burned the cars the oil companies gave me? The youths complained about the polluted land and dead rivers. I tried to talk to the oil companies, but they kept postponing my appointments to represent the people to them. The youths burned down my palace, accusing me of supporting the oil companies and military government! I tell you, if the military government had not rebuilt my palace and given me new cars, I would be homeless today. . . . How can they burn my palace, the very symbol of their existence? If this were my great-grandfather’s days, he would have given all these hopeless delta youth to the white people, free. . . . The military had promised me a house in Lupa when the soldiers vacated power. . . . One day God must bring the soldiers back. I will always miss General Abacha!” He pointed at Jubril. “Then, imagine that young man . . .”

“Be quiet!” someone warned, because the chief ’s voice was rising.

“Let de soldier worchip,” Tega said, “so we can have our peace.”

“Leave dat dog to sleep
o,
” Monica said.

Now realizing that the dog was fast asleep, the chief shook it and turned its head toward Jubril. “Look at that Gabriel,” he said to the dog. “He’s refused to remove his hand from the pocket . . . in spite of our pleas. He and his parents are the type of useless people we would have given to the white man in those days. And we would see how he would have plowed the sugar plantations in America with one hand in his pocket. . . . Or maybe they should have sold him to the Arabs, who would have castrated him immediately.”

THE
SOLDIER
GLANCED
AROUND
the bus and said he wanted something to sacrifice to his goddess, some food or drink to manifest their union. There was nothing, and the people were afraid of what he meant by
sacrifice.
Was he talking about human sacrifice? Was he going to kill someone?

But the soldier opened his mouth very wide and with it covered one of the wounds he had sustained while fighting Emeka. He sucked the blood reverently, as if it was an extension of his sacrifice at the war front. Whatever became of his life, he prayed out loud, he had done his part, and he begged Mami Wata to lead him home. In one final stamp of his foot, he praised her for defeating Jesus Christ and Muhammad in the land. He flashed a crazed smile at everyone.

“Now, who is occupying my seat?” he asked, as he began to pack up his altar. “Yust stand up before I flush jou.”

“If you know you
dey
his seat,” Tega quickly warned the bus, “
abeg,
stand up
o.
”

“But wait a minute,” the soldier said, his eyes scanning the bus. “Where is Nduese? Someone has stolen my dog. My dog or else . . .”

The refugees quickly pointed to the chief.

“Honorable soldier,” Chief Ukongo said, smiling, “the beautiful dog is asleep.”

“Yust give me my dog,” the soldier said. “I am warning jou for the last time.”

“Brave soldier, my apologies. . . . While you were saying your prayers, I took care of it for you.” He stood up, carrying the dog like a bouquet of flowers to the soldier, and bowed curtly before him.

The soldier snatched Nduese from him. “Don’t bow before me, jou old rogue!”

“Please, Colonel, on behalf of everyone on this bus,” the chief said, “I invite you to rest your tired bones on the seat left behind by the misguided spirit-man who fought you.”

“
Abeg,
our broder, make you sit dere!”

“It is a nice seat!”

“You have suffered so much for this country!”

“No, I want my seat,” the soldier maintained. “My oriyinal seat.”

“Just give us time, please, to sort ourselves out,” the chief said. “All of us are behind you.”

“Our dear colonel, be patient with us,” Madam Aniema said suddenly, removing her glasses. Her voice was like a spray of cool water on the fire of anxiety that was consuming the bus. Seeing how the soldier suddenly listened to her, everyone now looked up to her. Only Jubril sat with his face buried in the headrest before him, no longer sure of what to do or whom to trust.

“Colonel, I have always supported your stay on this bus,” Madam Aniema said.

“Jes, that’s true,” the soldier said.

“Yes, she has always supported you,” the chief said. “We are not all bad.”

“Shief, chut up!” Tega said. “Make dis holy woman represent us.”

“Because of jou, madam,” the soldier said, “I will be patient. But I want my seat. All my life I have always made do with what is mine. I am not a thief.”

Having said this, he curled up comfortably on the seat of the expelled Emeka, next to Madam Aniema, stroking his dog and looking into the darkness outside. There was an uneasy calm on the bus. It was as if the biggest worry of the refugees had been solved, and Madam Aniema went back to
The Imitation of Christ,
oblivious to the murmurs of thanks directed toward her. The Catholics held their heads up again and went back to extolling the great things their Church had done over the centuries. Even the police came back in and praised the refugees for their spirit of tolerance and dialogue, assuring them that the driver would soon finish his rest and come to take them home. They reminded the people that whoever caused trouble would be treated like Emeka.

Soon, the colonel and Nduese, to the relief of all, fell asleep. They slept as if they had not rested for the six years he had served on peacekeeping duties abroad.

OUTSIDE
, IT
WAS
GETTING
cold, seeming to deepen the darkness, and more Luxurious Buses started to arrive from the north. Their powerful headlights swept the skies and the bushes as they heaved over the low hills, and their hazard lights twinkled as they negotiated corners. They had turned their horns into sirens, blowing them nonstop. Hope filled the park, with people rushing to the roadside, waving frantically in an effort to stop the buses. Police officers tried to control the crowd and move people off the road but were unsuccessful. Most of the buses slowed down to avoid accident, but they did not stop.

When one bus finally stopped, it was swamped by the crowd. People had their money ready, waving it, eager to pay exorbitant fees to get home. The police quickly ordered them to stand in lines as the conductors started issuing tickets and collecting money. Some refugees preferred to give more money to the police than was necessary. The police then made a profit buying tickets from the conductors.

“Only de brave people go enter de bus,” a police officer said, blocking the door. “No be any coward
o.
”

“There’s nothing we have not seen before,” one lady said.

“Officer, if you want bribe, we go pay,” another passenger said.

“We must reach home by all means.”

When the doors opened, a low cry emanated from the crowd. What they saw jolted them, pushing them back. Apart from a few front seats, the bus was full of dead bodies, and there was blood everywhere. The seats were strewn with corpses of every shape and size: children, women, and men. The aisle was impassable, with bodies piled as high as the seats. It was as if someone had gassed a crowded bus. Most of the bodies had wounds, and some were burned. There were also body parts.

Emeka began to wail. His grief was infectious and seemed to open a dam of human emotion in the park. People were crying for the dead. Their sorrow was such that they would not allow the bus to leave, and yet they could not immediately summon the courage to enter it. They knew that these were the bodies of fellow southerners and formed a barricade in front of the bus. The police tried in vain to encourage the people to board.

Emeka asked the police if he could return to the first bus, saying he could not handle traveling in the second one. He could be heard crying and explaining to one and all what had happened to him on the first bus, but nobody was in the mood to listen to his Spirit story. It was as if the refugees, after what they had seen, had forsaken the aura and mystery of the world of the Spirit. Emeka showed the police his ticket, but they accused him of inciting the stranded refugees to block the bus and said they had suspected he was a troublemaker from the time he offered just ten naira to watch cable TV. They said they would make sure he was the last person to leave the motor park.

“Who still want travel for dis bus?” the police asked the crowd.

“Officers, give us time,” one refugee said.

“De driver of dis luxurious hearse no get time to waste
o,
” the police said. “Just
dey
pretend say de bodies
dey
alive or pretend say you be dead. . . . Last night, many refugees like you
dey
join de hearses. By now dem done reach home . . . or you want make we remove de dead from de bus?”

“No, we must carry our dead home,” someone said.

“We shall never leave them in the north!”

The harmattan wind sniffed the land in short livid bursts, sending up a low cloud of heavy dust that stung the refugees’ nostrils and eyes. They pulled whatever clothes they had tighter around themselves and gathered at the back of the bus near the heat of the exhaust pipe.

THE
POLICE
BUNDLED
THE
sick man on the veranda and brought him toward the luxurious hearse. He was no longer babbling, but weak and flailing his arms. He protested as the police dumped him on the bus.

“I don’t want this bus!” the sick man shouted.

“But you be as good as dead!” a policeman shouted back. “Dem
dey
count fish, crab
dey
talk!”

“Please, let me die in the north!” he begged.

“No, you must go home!” Then the officer turned to the refugees: “See, you no go die if you enter de bus. Even dis sick man no die. He even get energy to shout.”

Gradually, silently, volunteers got onto the bus and filled up the few remaining seats at the front. Some, still weeping, sat with the dead. As more people entered the bus, the space became tight. A group of men came up with a plan to maximize the space for both the living and the dead. They grabbed the corpses like logs of firewood and rearranged them, pushing them toward the back so they rose like a hill, reaching the TV set near the ceiling. Some tore their scarves or shirts into strips, which they used to blindfold their children before boarding the bus. Others argued that it was too long a journey to make in a blindfold and forced their children to gawk at the dead until they got used to the sight.

Two more buses arrived.

THOUGH
THE
REFUGEES
IN Jubril’s bus knew that colonel Usenetok had the police on his side, they were not yet completely defeated. When they were sure the soldier and his dog were sound asleep, they began to plan their next line of attack.

“Jesus no go let de devil win for dis war!” Tega whispered to those around her.

Madam Aniema said, “My daughter, why don’t we let the sleeping dog lie, as they say? I’m sure this soldier is not going to cause any trouble on the way.”

“No talk rike dat, madam,” Ijeoma said. “What of Emeka?”

“We need Emeka for dis bus,” Monica said.

“De man done pay for de bus,” Ijeoma said. “And
wetin
I go tell my ferrow virragers who know
am?
”

Madam Aniema hushed. People began to talk about how to bring Emeka back. The bus had taken on the feel of a community whose progress had been thwarted by a temporary evil, a misfortune whose duration no one knew, but whose defeat was certain.

“My people, these days we need the hottest kind of Spirit,” the chief said. He stood up, cracked his knuckles, and adjusted his beads. “The kind that possessed Emeka . . . to cleanse this country. As we say, if a ghost rat is stealing from your house, you also buy a ghost cat, not an ordinary cat. . . . I know what needs to be done!”

“De chief is making sense,” Ijeoma said.

“So, Chief,
wetin
we go do?” Monica asked.

“My people, we must act fast now that the soldier is asleep. A little while ago, we taxed everybody so we could vote him out, remember?”

“Yes, yes!” they said.

“Let us contribute more money. Enough to get the soldier out, enough to bring Emeka back. I will do a quick e-commerce with the police. I know them. If we give them enough money, they won’t remember who is wearing a military uniform or not.”

They began to tax themselves again. The old man went out to negotiate with the police, and they let Emeka back in. The police did not throw out the mad soldier. Emeka came in looking very somber. The drunken, spiritual dazzle that had covered his face when he spoke in tongues had long since deserted him. Now, he looked like an ill-prepared
akpu
and shivered from the cold. They found a place for him to stand, away from the soldier. No matter how much the refugees tried to lift his mood, telling him how useful his spiritual powers would be for the journey, Emeka was inconsolable. He babbled nonstop about the corpses he had seen in the other bus.

THE
POLICE
FINALLY
WOKE
up the driver. A huge, muscular fellow, he shuffled to the bus, looking like he had carried the drum of diesel from Lupa to the motor park on his head. The passengers were relieved to see him and actually applauded him, the way passengers sometimes clap for a pilot when a turbulent flight has touched down safely. As he entered the bus, the refugees stranded outside screamed uncontrollably. He turned on the engine and revved it, causing echoes in the savannah. The two police officers came onto the bus and took their seats, and as the driver negotiated his way out of the park, he turned off the cabin lights.