Oil on Water (7 page)

—Oya, move faster!

The reporters were walking in a single file, their hands raised above their heads, and flanking them were figures in black wearing masks, their guns pointed at the men. There were about five of them, and one saw us and quickly came to the boat. He waved one hand at us impatiently.

—You two, come down. Now!

We raised our hands and joined the others by the water. We watched the incoming tide deposit bits of wood and grass and bird feathers at our feet. Still holding the gun on us, the men climbed into our boat one by one and moved off. Not until the boat had long disappeared into the distance did we slowly lower our hands.

—Where did they come from?

Zaq’s question met with a confused babble as everyone regained speech at the same time.

—They won’t send it back.

—They will, they promised.

—They will.

—How can you trust them?

—Well, they didn’t shoot us.

—I knew I shouldn’t have come on this assignment.

—Remember what happened to Tekena and the other one, what’s his name . . .

—Olisah. They were shot, in the back.

—We’re all lucky to be alive.

—They will send back the boat.

Zaq’s confident comment amid the growing hysteria made us all look to him to see if he knew something we didn’t, but he had already turned away and was facing the water. We turned back and continued arguing.

The militants must have been hiding in the bushes after escaping the unexpected attack by the soldiers, and all the while they had observed us, waiting for the right moment to come out. They had held us hostage for not more than ten minutes, appearing more interested in getting off the island than in doing us harm. Only one of them had spoken to us. He was the shortest and thickest, with what looked like a gunshot wound on his arm.

—Journalists, we go send your boat back. Just wait here small.

When Nkem stepped forward to ask him a question, he made a dissuasive gesture with his gun, making Nkem jump back immediately.

—We’re journalists, and we’re on your side. We want to report the truth, how your men were brutally slaughtered today for no reason. We just want to ask you a few questions.

—No questions. Just wait for your boat.

—But—

—You, which paper you work for?

—I work for the
Globe
—

—You too talk.

—We just want to find out about the hostage . . .

The men in the boat conferred briefly, and then the short man, who seemed to be their spokesman, turned to us.

—The woman dey fine.

And then they left with our boat.

Zaq unscrewed the cap on his hip flask, raised it to his mouth and drained it. He turned to the guide. —Use the radio. Call for another boat.

The man looked sheepish. He wiped the sweat from his face.

—I . . . I can’t. They took away my radio, and my gun.

He looked diminished, jumpy and ready to go with the first suggestion from the reporters. We sat on wet mossy logs and watched the waves rise and fall. It was almost five p.m. and darkness was rapidly setting in, and as we waited we argued in our minds whether or not the boat would return.

WHEN I GOT TIRED
of watching the Lagos journalists try over and over again to make calls on their unresponsive mobile phones, I decided to take a walk on the beach. It was almost seven p.m., and already some of the men, resigned to the fact that we might be spending the night here, had moved inland to look for some kind of shelter. I remained by the water, not because I was convinced the boat would return for us, but because I knew the midges and mosquitoes were fewer here with the sea breeze to chase them away, but even then one needed more than two hands to fight them. They found every exposed spot on the arms, the neck and especially the face.

—Are there bigger islands nearby?

Zaq was leaning against a palm tree, his empty whiskey flask in his hand. His voice was slow, tired. He belched.

—Yes. Lots of them. There are fishing communities all over the islands, and by morning these waters will be busy with boat traffic.

—So all we have to do is survive the night.

—Right.

I left him leaning on the tree, staring into the water after he had thrown the empty flask into it. I walked with the frogs and crickets and crabs. Over the sound of the water the night birds took turns singing the world a lullaby. I walked, feeling the water wash up my trousers and the crabs scurrying out of my way with their surprisingly fast sideways pace, always keeping me in view. I walked to suppress my hunger and the pain in my legs and the rising cold biting at my skin, and when I got tired of walking I turned back. The men, back from their futile search for shelter, had started a fire; its flame glowed weakly, wavering in the humid wind coming off the water, briefly illuminating their anxious faces. I joined them and we stood there, solemn, not talking, staring into the halfhearted fire, listening to the waves and noting how the sound they made oddly resembled the rumblings in our stomachs, waiting and hoping, but not expecting, that the boat would return.

But toward midnight it came, silently gliding over the dark water, its presence betrayed only by the soft slicing of the boatman’s oar.

—It’s here!

The moon was out by now, its silver light murky and mobile on the water. It was a canoe, and in the transforming light of the moon it looked longer than it really was, almost endless, its rear end merging into the water.

—It’s not our boat!

We stared, standing close together like skittish colts, as a man came out of the canoe and pulled it onto the beach. Then he approached us with the oar still in his hands, partly raised across his chest like a shield. There was a second figure in the boat, holding a hurricane lamp, its dim, almost invisible flare bobbing up and down with the waves. In the poor light only the man’s broad outline was visible: he looked thin and wispy, like a spirit of the forest. The oar came up to his shoulder, his shirt was whitish and even in the dark I could tell it was the sort of rough and shapeless homespun worn by the fishing folk in this area. He advanced slowly, perhaps unsure what manner of reception to expect, but it was clear that he wasn’t here by accident, that he was here for us.

—Who are you?

Our guide stepped forward challengingly, towering over the tiny old man, seeking to reassert his lost authority.

—I come carry you go Irikefe. Them send me.

—Who sent you?

A redundant question. It was clear the militants had kept our boat and had convinced the boatman—with money but more probably with terror—to take us to wherever we could get lodging for the night. Keeping our new and spacious boat was not a surprising thing for the militants to do, but sending the boatman back for us was definitely unexpected. They weren’t inhuman, after all. I was glad we weren’t spending the night on this spooky, cold and ravaged island. Somehow the eight of us all fit into the dugout canoe with its two planklike cross-benches. I sat on the wet floor, my back against somebody’s knees, my knees pulled up to my chin, and as we pulled away from the beach I lowered my head and listened to the rhythmic sound of the oar slicing the water and the occasional anxious question being thrown at the reticent boatman. He had the same answer to all our questions.

—Yes, sah. Irikefe Island. No far, but e far small. Soon we go get there.

His companion was a small boy of about ten, his son perhaps, who said nothing throughout the trip. No one in the boat had heard of Irikefe, so with our imaginations we built various versions of what awaited. I saw a hotel, with clean water, and a clean bed, and a huge meal; I saw a long restful sleep and an early departure tomorrow; I saw us reaching Port Harcourt before noon to a hero’s reception from our colleagues and editors; I saw my story on the front pages; and, finally, I saw myself being restored to my rightful place as a reporter. In the weeks to come we’d get drunk for free in our various press club rooms as we added yet another detail to the already overwrought tale of our daring adventure. I had a draft of my story in my head, and trapped for posterity in my point-and-shoot Sony digital camera were images of the gutted bodies half hidden in the bushes, the thatchless, burned-down huts, the bullet-broken palm trees, and the spectacular fire throwing up a cloud of smoke over the tall trees. I must have been lulled to sleep by the movement of the boat, for I came awake suddenly when the boat lurched up, then down, and then stopped. We were on shore. I got to my knees and looked to land. Trees, and far away what seemed to be dim flickers of light from houses or cars. The others were already jumping out of the boat. I joined them, but as we got set to go, we were stopped by the boatman’s voice.

—Wait small for Oga here. E be like say e no too well.

It was Zaq. He was hanging over the edge of the boat, retching into the water, and then he collapsed back inside it. We all rushed over to see him lying in a pool of water at the bottom, his sweaty face illuminated by the boatman’s lantern, his unfocused eyes staring up at us, breathing with difficulty through his mouth. I reached down and tried to pull him up, but it took three of us to get him out. We staggered to dry ground, where we sat him down and stood over him, unsure what to do next. The Lagos reporters stood to one side, looking at their watches, impatient to be off, not attempting to assist in any way. I knelt beside the boatman, who was trying to communicate with the bowed Zaq. As I touched his arm, which was hot and dripping with sweat, he looked up at me, licking his dry lips.

—If I can get a drink, I’ll be fine. I’m just tired. All I need is a drink. Just a little bit.

His voice in my ear was hoarse, whispery. I felt sad and disappointed by this once-great reporter, whose success and dedication had to some extent inspired my own career and doubtless that of many others. I turned away from the beseeching, pitiful grin on his sweaty face, and suddenly I felt angry. It was a helpless, directionless anger, and it disappeared almost as soon as it came.

—If we can get to a hotel you can have something, I’m sure. But we have to go now. It’s late already.

I moved away from him. He lurched to his feet, and the boatman went to him and held his left arm.

—Is . . . is there a hotel nearby?

—Hotel? No hotel. We go shrine.

—Shrine?

—Yes. You get food at shrine.

—Did you hear what he said? Do you know where you’re going?

My shout reached the others, who had already put a good distance between themselves and us, drawn to the faraway lights, like camels scenting water, and they stopped and waited for us.

—Aren’t we going to a hotel? There must be a hotel here somewhere.

—The man said we’re going to a shrine . . .

—Shrine? What shrine?

I had no answer for them, so I urged the alarmed boatman and his boy to keep walking. The man seemed harmless enough, and if he said we should go to some shrine, I was willing to follow him, especially if there was food to be had.

We went slowly, supporting the weak, dead-weight Zaq between us. Twice we had to stop as he slipped gasping onto the muddy ground. Then we dragged him up and started again. It was an arduous, backbreaking progress, worsened by the humidity in the airless, tree-bordered path, and I was soaked in sweat by the time we got to the shrine, about a quarter of a kilometer from the water. The thick vegetation suddenly disappeared and we were in an open yard where still, silent shapes couched in darkness watching our approach. Our steps faltered, finally coming to a stop in instinctive response to the menacing air of the immobile figures ahead of us. At first I thought: the kidnappers, waiting in ambush. But why were they so still? The boatman lifted his lamp so the light fell on the figures.

—Na statue. Many statue. For the shrine.

We passed the statues warily, once more packed together like skittish colts, our heads swiveling wildly to keep the figures in view, half expecting them suddenly to jump on us. At the edge of the yard we could see an open doorway in which a lamp glowed brightly. The boatman disappeared into the hut and we waited outside, straining to hear the exchange coming faintly from within, but we didn’t have to wait long. He soon came out, followed by a man leaning on a stick, a blanket flowing down from his shoulders.

—We have been expecting you.

He spoke in English, his words slow and distinct, and he looked from face to face as he spoke.

Nkem stood boldly, almost challengingly, before the man, his arms akimbo. —You were expecting us?

—Yes. I am Naman, assistant to the head priest. Apologies, the head priest is not well and cannot be here to receive you. We’ve been instructed to take care of you for the night. Tomorrow you can catch the ferry back to the city.

The man’s voice carried easily over our heads and into the open yard behind us, a voice accustomed to addressing congregations. There was confidence in the way he raised his hand as he spoke, and in the way he threw his chest forward when he moved, and yet the voice remained even, clear, polite.

—Come inside.

He stepped aside and waved us forward, smiling. The hut was surprisingly roomy, and would easily accommodate all six of us. It was bare of furniture except for mats strewn over the mud floor. We took off our shoes and sat, gladly, on the hard floor, our backs against the curving wall.