by Wole Soyinka
“I’ll come with you,” Chalil said.
“No!”
“We’ll have to hurry” the doctor continued, unruffled. “I have just heard the fourth stone go into the house. The next missile might be a lighted torch. They will probably try to smoke him out.”
“There is only this gun” Ofeyi pointed out. “And in any case you don’t shoot.”
Chalil had disappeared into the passage, vanished into one of the rooms that led off it. During the next few seconds of silence they listened to two more windows broken in the house. Then the doctor reappeared, and he had a bow in his hand. It looked a hardier version of the tourist brand sold in their hundreds at airports and outside expatriate clubs. He inspected an iron-tipped arrow from the quiver slung over his shoulders.
“Come on” he said. “I was once a student of contemplative archery, but I was a despair to my guru. There was a question of mine he never could satisfactorily answer: why is a non-target not a target? Since I could not be satisfied on that point I alternated constantly between both. I took pleasure in both. Let’s go. Oh, does the band-leader drive?”
“Zaccheus? Of course.”
“Good. Then perhaps whenever you are forced to let off the first shot he can take that as a signal to get in the car and dash off for help.”
The mother screamed instantly, “Leaving us here alone?”
Ofeyi agreed with her. “No, he will have to take you with him. They will be too busy coping with the surprise of gunfire. I don’t think they’d be expecting anything of the sort.”
Chalil nodded in agreement. “If it’s the same gang as killed Edwin—and I am certain it is—they would feel very confident we will not interfere.”
“Don’t stop for anything Zaccheus. If anyone jumps in the way, don’t brake.”
“I can drive with four flat tyres” Zaccheus promised.
“Ofeyi…” It was Taiila.
“Yes, we’ll be careful.”
They crept out through the back door.
* * *
—
A door was violently shaken in the besieged house. Chalil, crouched beside Ofeyi under a hedge asked, “Isn’t it time to fire your scaring shot?”
“Not yet. And I don’t think there should be warning shots.”
“Can you see in this dark. Because I can’t.”
“Don’t try and look for faces. Look for white smocks. They are mostly dressed in white—a dirty white anyway.”
Chalil strained. “Ah yes, I get your point.”
“Let’s find that rear entrance you mentioned.”
Chalil led. They dashed forward at a crouch. A few yards from the objective they stopped, beaten to it by a figure in white kaftan who now crouched beside it. In his hand were pieces of rags, and a tin which he threw aside. In that still night the acrid tang of petrol hit their nostrils.
Chalil whispered, “Hey mister, don’t you think now…?”
“Maybe we should try yours first. Are you sure you can hit with that thing?”
Chalil had already fitted an arrow to the bow. “Never tried a human target before.”
“Except with a scalpel eh? Well, try and imagine it’s the same thing. Shoot to heal.”
The arrow pulled back into his right shoulder, Chalil said, “I admire your British-type jokes but I need instructions. I can’t cope otherwise, so it’s not a time to be ambiguous. Do you mean merely to wound him or what?”
“I meant that the engineer is your patient.”
Chalil sighed. “A-ah” and let go the arrow. The sound that came from the action was a shotgun blast and a huge red flare in the darkness.
The crazy thought flashed through Ofeyi’s mind before he could fathom the result—is this a magic potency of the oriental archer? Chalil himself, shattered by the result had ducked down into a crouch. The cry of the backdoor arsonist was drowned by the blast itself. It came, clearly, from some other part of the house. The next moment they saw a little window open, not far from the door which had been their goal. A face looked round anxiously, satisfied, it stuck a leg through and proceeded to squeeze his huge frame through the tiny opening.
Ofeyi saw him first and pointed. “Is that he?”
“Oh yes, it’s Semi-dozen. Did the shot come from him?”
“Quickly. Go and help him through. I shall stay here and keep you covered.”
“Good gracious! You really sound like…”
“Hurry!”
Ofeyi darted nervous eyes around, keeping an eye also on the incongruous sight at the window. Chalil seemed to have proceeded sensibly, identifying himself in a whisper before he seized the man round the waist and tried to man-handle him through the narrow aperture. There followed a brief silent argument, then he saw Chalil spring and catch hold of the window-sill and disappear into the room. Ofeyi was still absorbed in this insane development when he heard a sound on the dead leaves almost directly behind him. He froze. A man’s breathing so close that it seemed his next step must stub his toes against his heels. He held his breath. Ofeyi was certain that the man was insensible to his own presence, that his eyes were riveted on the happenings at the window. The man took a step forward. Acting on his hearing alone Ofeyi spun on his knees and thrust the muzzle of the gun upwards in the direction where he judged the man’s plexus would be. He heard a winded gasp and ducked sideways as the man, doubled in pain fell forwards on his face. Unhesitating, he reversed the gun and brought the stock crashing on the back of his skull. The man lay still.
Returning his attention to the window he saw Chalil handing another gun backwards to Semi-dozen, then leaping down beside him. They ran forward at a crouch. Chalil appeared to have to nudge the man forward. Panting slightly Chalil picked up his bow and quiver and pushed Semi-dozen towards his house muttering, “Come on friend. We’ve stayed out here much too long.”
A heavy crash told them that a main door had been broken down at last. Beyond Ramath’s own house they heard a car start up. Zaccheus, obviously mistaking the shot for Ofeyi’s was carrying out his orders. Ramath shook his head in annoyance as he understood. They regained the house, locked the door. Ofeyi went to a window overlooking that rear section from which they had just come. Satisfied that they had not been observed he rejoined them in the lounge. Chalil was already at the sideboard. He returned a moment later with three glasses.
“I know you would rather have your Stout, but as your doctor I recommend this for now.”
Wordlessly, the engineer obeyed. He drained the contents of the glass at one gulp, then sat with his head fallen of its own weight over his chest, staring stonily into the ground. He was like a shambling ape, doped half-insensible, still unaware of his surroundings.
“If you want a wash or anything…”
Surprisingly the man understood what was said to him. He shook his head. The action raised his eyes for the first time and they encountered a table laden with the untouched dinner. He stared at it for several moments as if he was trying to grapple with its meaning. Then he stood up with purpose, pulled out a chair, sat down and began to eat.
Chalil and Ofeyi looked at each other, shrugged and sat down with him.
They ate without speaking.
Outside they could hear the wreckage of the house in progress. The marauders had broken in and were searching for their quarry with increasing fury. The rescued man ate solidly, remorselessly. Chicken legs disappeared and a mound of curry-drenched rice vanished without a trace, accompanied by a dozen items from the side-dishes. Still no word. He finished eating at last, wiped his lips then reached over suddenly and took hold of Chalil’s left wrist. But he only turned it aside to examine his watch. He gave a loud, prolonged belch, pushed his chair back and struck what was unmistakably a listening posture. Ofeyi looked questioningly at the doctor. He shrugged, then looked keenly at the man, nodded as if he finally un
derstood and mouthed the word, “Shock.” Ofeyi agreed with him.
About forty seconds later, an earthquake erupted against their ears. At least so it seemed. It began with a terrifying explosion, then a violent shaking of the ground beneath them. Earth flew against the windows and a huge sheet of flame leapt into the night-sky. Chalil and Ofeyi gyrated in every direction for the cause, the explosion seemed to come from all around them, leaving no choice of a direction in which to take shelter. Only the big man remained unmoved. In the quiet which followed a few moments later, broken only by the steady crackle of the burning house they heard Semi-dozen give a huge sigh. Then he began to speak, softly.
“Don’t bother yourselves about the house. There is nothing in it to be saved. Nothing. It was kind of you to come doctor, but I really had no wish to be saved. All I wanted was to draw them into the house and take them with me.”
* * *
—
Anticipating the event, but only half crediting the threat, Nnodi had decided on the favourite compromise, send the family southwards to safety but ride out the danger himself. The Mining Trust was a state within a state; it ran its own electric power, patrolled its territory with a private police force, maintained its own arbitrary wage structure, untouched by the industrial upheaval of the rest of the land. Naturally, it paid a negotiated tribute to the all-powerful Amuri of Cross-river. In return for this, the Cartel ensured that agitators vanished in the dead of night, even in open day, and no one dared enquire into their fate. Token black faces such as Nnodi were given the trappings of a senior grade and this answered the perennial break into the arrogant cocoon of the Mining Trust by firebreathing trade unionists south of the river. But the result was always predictable. Hounded by agents of the Cartel the trouble-maker was run out, rail-roaded on spurious charges or discovered lifeless on a deserted road. The native protectionists identified their interest with preservation of white Monopoly on their own soil, guaranteed its autonomy, a sovereign enterprise within their sovereign greed.
Inevitably the Mining Trust became a target for the men of Aiyéró.
All that Nnodi thought of however was the inviolability of the Mining Trust territory. If danger threatened he would move immediately into its premises and stop his field-work for a while. The field was his home—there he had no thought of danger, he had an equal chance of survival. Prospecting in the wilderness of Cross-river for ore, Nnodi had grown accustomed to camping out for weeks at a time in company with the denizens of the sparsely forested mountains, moving out of the path of nomad baboon families or tracking a mountain cat until the moment of the kill. A second generation citizen of Cross-river he knew no other home, became one of the first locals to be trained as prospector by the Mining Trust, travelled out for a degree at a mining college in Colorado and returned to be absorbed into the highly ranked post of a prospecting engineer. He could not accept this new definition of himself as alien in Cross-river, nor accept the early hints that this could bring on him the penalty of violent dispossession, expulsion or harassment, even repudiation by Cross-river neighbours. When rumours began of the possibility of far more lethal consequences it had to be explained to him slowly and methodically. Wrapped in the isolated protectionism of the Mining Trust, his circle of expatriate acquaintances and his own isolated passion of the hunt Nnodi remained blind to a degree that bordered on imbecility.
A few political villains had died. The white manager had once or twice summoned a meeting to discuss the menace of certain subversive doctrines spreading through long docile workers. The culprits, he recalled, were identified, chased from the Mining Trust. He recalled that much passion surrounded the name Aiyéró—a town he had never heard of—but that any of this should spell personal danger to him was inconceivable. Still, he sent the family away to friends outside the region. Beyond that, Nnodi refused to recognize the possibility of a change in his status as a gregarious, harmless consumer of the simple pleasures of an elevated social position.
Nnodi drove his family to the motor garage where he had booked the entire first-class compartment of a brand-new passenger lorry for his wife and four children. He gave the driver a professional inspection and was satisfied that he was a sober, responsible type, probably with a family to whom he was every bit as attached as Nnodi himself. He stood by while the lorry filled up with other passengers, then wondered why he had not thought of sending the cured skin of his latest kill as a present to his colleague whose hospitality they were going to enjoy in Ilosa. He asked the driver if there was time for him to dash home and back, twenty minutes at the most. The driver assured him that he could take his time.
On the way back the engineer began to sense the beginnings of panic. About half a mile from the garage he became convinced that a disaster had taken place or was about to overtake him, of a magnitude which turned his palms sweaty at the wheels and urged the car forward at a reckless pace. He rounded the last corner and found his way barred by police vehicles. From scattered points in the motor-park smoke belched thickly and three vehicles lay on their sides. A park which had teemed with a noisy haggling, touting, quarrelsome humanity was suddenly empty. It seemed impossible that such a transformation could have taken place in such a short time.
And then, between two Land Rovers parked across the park entrance, with figures of policemen flashing across the gap he saw the lorry which had contained his family. The policemen were pulling bodies from it and laying them on the ground.
There were a few moments of desperate hope. It was possible that his lorry had left and that that spot had been filled by another vehicle. It had to be a new transport lorry whose grisly load was now being unloaded. It had to be. How otherwise could it be, when their presence in the motor-park was solely to ensure their own safety. What other meaning could there be to the present activities except that the Nnodi family was already rolling happily towards safety in the brand-new lorry with a careful driver who took no chances on dangerous curves and did not overtake on the crest of a hill and knew at what moment not to stand on his rights and invite unnecessary delays when a simple bribe of a few shillings could open the toughest barriers of the traffic police….
The First Class Compartment, the narrow strip built next to the driver’s cabin, facing the direction of travel while the rest of the passengers sat with their back to it, that section he saw charred, blackened and smouldering from what must have been the most sudden and total conflagration ever yet to overtake a passenger vehicle. The police brought them out one by one, a woman, then a boy…Nnodi, with an animal cry sprang through the police cordon and raced for the spot….
Petrol fumes penetrated every sense. The corner of his eyes remarked for the first time little skirmishes still in progress between the police and individual members of the gangs which had attacked the motor-park. Through puffs of smoke he recognized the shapes at last. Arrows stuck to the bodies and there were matchet cuts on the mother. The little girl’s face was blown apart by what could only have been a shotgun blast at close range. As the last of the family group was brought out it struck him suddenly as an irrevocable moment, the abrupt cessation of laughter, mischief, domestic squabbles, school fees and school reports, midnight vigils by a fevered bedside, an end to vague bonds which, now that he thought of it all in one coherent whole, he felt he could define at last in terms of love…“my Semi-dozen Dr. Chalil, well, counting me the begetter and my assistant in the proceedings, I like to do everything in semi-dozens you see…well of course if another should chance along there will be a semi-dozen not counting me, and if another, well, it is still a semi-dozen not counting the mother….”
His eyes took in the slashed tyres, the smashed windscreen. Then he saw the driver’s body and recollected that he too was an alien in Cross-river.
Then a voice was at his ear, a hand on his shoulder. He turned and there stood a police officer asking him, “Did you have anyone in the lorry?”
The
officer repeated his question a few times and Nnodi was surprised to hear himself answering “No. No one at all.” And he turned and walked back to his car.
Hours later he walked from the loneliness of his home to where the Ramaths lived. When the doctor asked him if his family had left he said yes, they got away safely. The mother expressed relief, there had been trouble in the town from what Chalil reported. Yes, said Semi-dozen, yes I know. I am leaving early tomorrow myself, I just came to say good-bye and drink my last semi-dozen at your house. They all laughed.
He drove that night to the Mining Trust. He had his own key to the explosives store and he filled the car with gelignite. On his way out he informed the gate-keeper, a Cross-river native that he was going to his house on the reservation and would not step out of it until all the trouble was over. “I shall simply lock myself in” he grinned, “stock up on stout and drink the wahala dry. So if the management or anybody else wants to know why I haven’t come to work, they know where to find me.”
He drove home to wait. Nothing seemed more certain to him at that moment than that a visitation would be at his home before the week was out.
* * *
—
Zaccheus saw and heard the explosion, drove madly into the largest and most central hotel and made the women wait in the crowded lounge. His imagination painted the most lurid versions of the events which had taken place in and around the holocaust and he found himself lost and powerless but strangely clear-headed. Booking a double-room in the name of Mrs. Ramath he took the key, returned to where he had left them, pressed the key in their hands and instructed them to take immediate occupation, barricade themselves in until they heard his own or Chalil’s or Ofeyi’s voice. Before the women could voice a protest he had disappeared.
The debate, whether or not to summon the police took him a surprisingly long time. Before he could quite resolve it within the terms of the fantasies he had spun around the unexpected explosion he found himself already out of the city centre, speeding towards the expatriate reservation. Ah well, if the numerous patrols claimed not to see that virulent signal it meant that they did not want to see it. He was still uncertain which was the least menace, the murderous squads which roamed about at will, the army, equally murderous and uncontrollable, or the police who mostly meant well but were terrified of both.