Oil on Water (14 page)

—We did what we did because you lied to us.

Naman turned to him fiercely. —I didn’t lie to you. I told you all I knew. Please stay here till we send for you.

—No. We’re leaving today.

—You can’t leave till after the burial.

—When is the burial?

—After the purification ritual.

—And when is that?

—We don’t know.

—What do you mean?

—We don’t know how long the ritual will take, we don’t know what the ritual will be, because we have never been faced with such a situation before. No one has ever desecrated a grave before today.

—But it wasn’t even a grave, there was no body in it . . .

—But what if there had been a body?

At last the bald-headed elder spoke, his voice as whispery as a ribbon of smoke. His voice was almost pleading, but in his rheumy eyes there was a threat.

—We are having a meeting of all the elders today. Please don’t leave your hut till you have permission.

Naman turned to go, then he stopped and looked at us, and when he spoke his voice was a bit softer.

—In any case, there will be no ferry to take you off the island. There will be no movement or activity till after the burial. The whole community will be in mourning.

—If we attempt to leave, will we be stopped?

—How can you leave? Will you swim, Mr. Zaq? We’d rather you didn’t force our hands. This is a moment of great sorrow for us.

And they left us. Zaq stood at the door, watching the men disappear into the trees.

—Do you think they’re serious?

—They seemed serious about the ferry not coming.

He returned and sat down on his mat. After a while he lay down on his back, facing the roof, his arms folded under his head. I sat down and tried to imitate his calm, but my mind was an ocean, choppy and turbulent and roaring with a million thoughts. My job wasn’t the best in the world—I thought I should receive more recognition and encouragement for the effort and enthusiasm I put into it—but it was the only one I had and I certainly didn’t want to lose it. The only way to keep it was to get to the office as soon as I could. And suddenly I noticed the white robe over Zaq’s mat, hanging from a nail. He still hadn’t returned it. I saw myself in it, disguised as a worshipper, slipping unnoticed into the woods and onto the path between the trees, I saw myself standing at the waterfront, waiting for the next ferry, a fishing boat, anything to take me away to Port Harcourt. Zaq watched curiously as I slipped the robe over my head.

—I’ll be back.

I stepped out, hesitant. But everything was as it used to be, men and women in robes came and went, and there were no sentries lurking behind trees watching our door. Perhaps my disguise was working, or perhaps Naman felt his warning had been stern enough to deter us from attempting to escape. I slipped unnoticed into the woods, taking the path between the tall trees and walking fast toward the waterfront, my head bowed, purposeful. But even from afar I could see the usually busy waterfront was empty today. Where were the fishermen setting out or returning in their long narrow boats with their jute nets at their feet and their sturdy oars in their hands? And where were the women waiting to buy the fish fresh from the water, talking to each other and to the fishermen at the top of their voices, now bantering, now flirting, but always bargaining? There was no ferry waiting to take passengers back to Port Harcourt and to the dozens of tiny islands dotting the endless water that now appeared so daunting and so foe-like. I was a lone figure in a white robe walking on the beach, looking about, and when I finally got tired I headed back to the village center. What I needed, I realized, was an ally in the enemy camp, someone who could tell me how serious the elders were about detaining us here, and how long the detention might last. Gloria.

THE TENEMENT HOUSE
was not far from the waterfront. Two women were standing at the front entrance, one with a plastic bucket in her hand, the other holding a baby in her arms. They moved aside as I approached, not pausing in their breathless discussion. My disguise, so far, was holding. But Gloria’s door was locked with a big Yale padlock.

Zaq was still lying on his back, his eyes staring at the roof, when I returned.

—We can’t get away. There are no boats coming or going, and the whole village is staying home. Nothing is happening.

—You should rest. Save your energy.

—But we’re trapped here. We could be here for days, weeks . . .

—Nothing we can do about it, so we wait. Conserve our energy.

I sat on my mat and stared at the open door. At midday two women came in and gave us lunch, avoiding our eyes, evading our questions. At sundown they returned with dinner. I had no appetite. I watched Zaq eat the boiled yam and oil with gusto. Then I slipped out again as soon as it was dark. Surely she would have heard about our situation by now? Why hadn’t Gloria tried to communicate, send us a note? Perhaps she had been warned to keep away from us. I entered the woods, walking fast, almost running, and soon I was out of the trees and once more entering the tenement house. I almost expected to find the two gossiping women still standing by the entrance, but the space where they stood was now empty, the front door ajar. I went inside. The wind stopped suddenly, as if cut off by a switch. Gloria’s door was still locked. I decided to wait. For the first time I noticed the rows of doors to my left and right. Some were half open, and sounds from radios drifted out faintly from behind fluttering curtains. A door opened to my right and a woman came out, a bucket in her hand. She glanced at me as she passed, then she went to a corner and I heard the sound of tap water falling into her metal bucket. I turned and left.

The next day I sat on my mat, staring at Zaq, saying nothing, eating when the women brought food, going to the outhouse when I was pressed. When the sun had traveled all the way across the sky and still nothing had happened, no one had come to talk to us, I lay on my back and closed my eyes. I conserved my energy, as Zaq had suggested. Boma would be worried by now, wondering what had happened to me.

—If we were to go after the woman, all the way, how would we get off the island? We don’t have a boat, we don’t know where the militants are camped . . .

Perhaps I spoke out of desperation, knowing that my job might not be waiting for me when I got back to Port Harcourt. Or perhaps I was swayed by Zaq’s promise of starting a real paper, or maybe a secret part of me had always been waiting for a chance like this, I didn’t know, but suddenly I was excited. I wanted to go after the kidnapped woman, to find out what really happened, to interview the Professor . . .

—But we have money.

Zaq was smiling as he brought out his brown envelope.

—I’m sure we can get some local guide, some fisherman who knows his way around.

—And then—

—The rest we will deal with when we come to it.

But, as it turned out, we didn’t have to go looking for a boat—one came to us. Early in the morning, before the cocks began to crow, there was a tentative knock on the door. Zaq and I jumped up at the same time, but I got there before him. I stared at our visitor with disappointment. It wasn’t Gloria. It was the old boatman, looking as unobtrusive, as natural, as the grass and the trees outside. The morning light fell on his frayed homespun shirt and bare feet, and on the long oar in his hand, held against his chest.

—What do you want?

—Oga Naman send me. He say make I carry you go where you wan go, but you must come quick-quick.

Zaq and I looked at each other and we didn’t wait for him to repeat his offer. We followed him to the boat and soon Irikefe Island was behind us, swallowed by the distance and the darkness of the mist that rose like smoke from the riverbanks. Midriver the water was clear and mobile, but toward the banks it turned brackish and still, trapped by mangroves in whose branches the mist hung in clumps like cotton balls. Ahead of us the mist arched clear over the water like a bridge. Sometimes, entering an especially narrow channel in the river, our light wooden canoe would be so enveloped in the dense gray stuff that we couldn’t see each other as we glided silently over the water.

16

I
t felt surreal to be back again on the island, trapped again, but
this time not by harmless priests and worshippers, but by the Major and his soldiers. Many times in the night Zaq had woken up agitated and sweaty, looking at me as if trying to remember where he had seen me before. Then I’d hold his hand and shout his name, attempting to penetrate the fog in his eyes, but they just looked at me, confused and teary, growing cloudier every minute. And at last, when Zaq went back to sleep, I let go of his hand and sat with my head bowed. I felt cold and nauseous. Perhaps I was coming down with a fever. I wanted to stay awake, but every so often I’d nod off, only to be jerked back to consciousness by Zaq’s voice, low and faint, coming from a measureless distance, asking for a drink.

—A drink. Just a sip. One sip, please.

It’d be a miracle if he lasted the night. I felt the tiredness and the hopelessness weigh down on me and, not knowing what I was doing, I turned to him and grabbed his hand, my arm shaking as badly as his.

—What are we doing here, Zaq? It makes no sense. No sense.

Toward dawn I fell asleep, and when I woke up I found Zaq and Naman whispering together, and I couldn’t conceal my surprise at how fresh and rested they both appeared. Zaq was sitting without help, and talking lucidly. He smiled at me.

—Hello.

—Where is Boma?

—Somewhere about.

The soldiers herded us to the water to do our morning ablutions, the women behind a huge boulder away from the men. I watched the men wade in and out, dipping their faces into the water and washing under their armpits, their faces blank, their motions mechanical. Some tried to wash the blood spots off their white robes, without much success. I sat with them on the beach as they waited for their robes to dry, some dressed only in their trousers and some in underpants, their eyes lost, faraway. After a while I noticed that the people were moving back to the campsite. Ahead a soldier was waving them forward toward the Major, who was making an address. He was standing on a huge, still smoldering log, looking over the heads of the people, his uniform and his boots as spotless as ever. He raised his rifle and pointed around with it, calling for silence.

—It has come to our attention that the militants who killed our men yesterday, and who caused this massive destruction upon your island, are still out there, not far from here, perhaps planning another attack.

The men looked at each other wearily, while the women pulled the children closer.

—We are also aware that among us here, there are some who are sympathetic to the militants, who are in cahoots with them. We will find you and we will deal with you. We will return fire for fire. As long as you do what we tell you, you will be safe. Nothing will happen to you. You will be confined to this island for at least one week. No going, no coming. You have enough food here on the island. And for those of you who are wounded, we have a doctor. He will be brought here today to attend to your wounds. He is good, he saved my life once when I—

A murmur began among the people and it soon turned into an uproar. The Major stopped talking and looked down at the people. His men raised their rifles nervously and the uproar died out as quickly as it had started. The Major lowered his rifle and turned his back on the crowd.

—You are dismissed.

—
YOU CAN SLIP AWAY
quite easily if you want to.

I looked at Zaq. He and Naman had been in a huddle again since we returned from listening to the Major, and I had been wondering what it was they were whispering about, but now I knew. Far away, next to the rubble that had been the communal kitchen, a sort of field kitchen had been set up, supervised by the women, who were in turn supervised by the soldiers. A line of hungry men, women and children had formed in front of the triangular hearths.

—Slip away and go where? Besides, my sister is here. I have to look after her. And you, Zaq, we have to get you to Port Harcourt.

—I’ll be fine, and so will your sister. The worst is over, I think.

Boma was with the group of women at the hearth. I could see her red blouse standing out in the cluster of white robes around her. She was laughing as she bustled about, organizing the children into a neat line, ladling porridge from a pot into cups and bowls. She looked really happy, and for a moment I almost started to believe that the worst really was over.

—What do you want me to do?

—It’s not what we want you to do, it’s what must be done, and the truth is, you are the only one in a position to do it.

—What do you want me to do?

—Slip away. Go to Port Harcourt and tell the editors what’s happening here. We’re trapped here for at least a week—you heard what he said. No one out there knows what’s going on here. These people need help. Soon, in a day or two, if they don’t get it, they’ll start dying . . .

—My editor won’t listen to me. I’ve lost my job.

—Go to Beke, my editor. He is a resourceful person. He has his faults, but he can talk to the other editors. He has good contacts in Lagos. Tell him what’s going on here. You have to do it, you have to do it now.

Escaping the camp was easier than I had expected. I put on the white robe Naman gave me and kept my head low. I entered the woods and went toward the cemetery, all the while keeping half an eye on the soldiers, but none of them seemed interested in me. Only later did I discover the reason for this lack of attention: there was simply no means of leaving the island by boat, even if one escaped the camp. The boats had been systematically riddled with bullet holes by the soldiers, and the narrow, dugout canoes had been chopped to bits and were being used as firewood. I did as Naman instructed, and once I left the cemetery I headed north, making for the water. I swam away from the shore, and then took a deep breath and dived. Naman said that all I had to do was let myself be carried by the water and I’d end up near the pier where the fishermen kept their canoes, and once in a canoe, I wouldn’t take long to get to Tamuno’s village and there Chief Ibiram would help me get to Port Harcourt.

But as I dived and touched bottom, everything went dark. I lost consciousness. When I opened my eyes I was on the shore, my legs in the water and my head in the sand, and above me the sun was harsh, burning into my face. I stood up, looking around, trying to determine where I was and how long I had been unconscious. I dragged myself to the line of trees. To my left I could see the fencing around the cemetery, so I had really not gone very far at all in the water. The pier was still way off, about a kilometer away. I decided to walk through the trees, keeping the water in view till I got to the pier. I was so hungry and weak that I fell down after taking only a few steps. I hoped I was not coming down with the same fever as Zaq, but I didn’t want to think about it. I forced myself up and resumed walking, sitting down sometimes for over thirty minutes to rest my wobbly legs, and as I got nearer to the pier, I kept my eyes open for the canoes, and for the soldiers who might be out there patrolling, looking for stray villagers or invading militants.

Much later, driven by hunger, I came out of the woods and headed for the village center, ducking behind a tree whenever I heard a noise. I passed houses with wide-open doors through which I could see the empty compounds. Some of the houses had broken walls and roofs, with smoke still issuing from the rafters, yet some were surprisingly untouched. At Gloria’s tenement I found the front door was kicked in, and it now lay beside the doorway, its zinc sheet twisted and torn. I went in slowly, staying close to the walls. The central space in the compound was littered with all sorts of objects abandoned by their fleeing owners: a lady’s shoe, a magazine, a shattered earthenware pot by the kitchen door. The door to Gloria’s room was open, and I entered. I looked at the broken pieces from a mirror on the floor, and the open wardrobe, and the cracked window, and I imagined her being dragged out by the men as she cried and begged to be spared. I sat on the bed where we had once made love. Over there was the seat where she had entertained me with a bowl of jollof rice. At the thought of food my stomach rumbled, my knees felt weak and I knew that I might have to return to the shrine and admit to Zaq that I had failed. But first I needed rest. I lay back and closed my eyes; when I opened them again it was dark. I was sweating and shaking, my mouth was dry and I could feel the heat rising off my skin. I was definitely coming down with something. I curled up in the bed, watching the compound through the open door. I was too weak to care anymore if I was discovered by the soldiers.