“I… left it there,” I stammered.
“Why?!”
“It stuck in the man’s hand.”
“It did?”
I nodded. “He almost caught me, the soldier. So I hit him with it.”
My brother did not seem to have understood, so as he led me to the tomato garden at the back of the compound, I told him how it had happened. We then removed our blood-stained shirts and flung them over the fence like kites into the bush behind our compound. My brother took up his hooked fishing line to hide it behind the garden. But when he flashed the torchlight, I saw a patina of Abulu’s bloodied flesh impaled to the hook. While he knocked the hook against the wall to remove it, I crouched beside the wall and retched into the dirt.
“Don’t worry,” he said, the chirping of the night crickets punctuating his speech. “It is finished.”
“It is finished,” a voice repeated in my ears. I nodded and my brother, dropping the line, inched forward and embraced me.
THE ROOSTERS
My brother and I were roosters:
The creatures that crow to wake people, announcing the end of nights like natural alarm clocks, but who, in return for their services, must be slain for man’s consumption. We became roosters after we killed Abulu. But the process that transformed us into roosters really began moments after we left the garden and entered the house to find the pastor of our church, Pastor Collins, who seemed to appear almost every time something happened, concluding a visit to our home. He was still wearing a plaster over the wound on his head. He was seated in the lounge chair in the sitting room by the window, his legs sprawled out so that Nkem sat between them, playing and chattering away. He hollered at us in his deep, sonorous voice when we came in. Mother, who had grown apprehensive of our whereabouts and would have pummelled us with questions if the Pastor were not there, threw a curious glance and a sigh at us when we entered.
“The Fishermen,” Pastor Collins cried once he saw us, thrusting his hands in the air.
“Sir,” Obembe and I chorused in unison. “Welcome, Pastor.”
“Ehen, my children. Come and greet me.”
He stood slightly to shake our hands. He had the habit of shaking hands with everyone he met—even little children—with certain unusual reverence and humility. Ikenna once said that he was not a foolish man for his meekness, but that he was humble because he was ‘born-again’. He was a few years older than Father, but was short and solidly built.
“Pastor, when did you come?” Obembe said, flashing a smile, standing beside him, and although we’d thrown our shirts away into the dump behind our fence, he smelt of the esan grass, sweat, and of something else. The Pastor’s face brightened at the question.
“I have been here a while,” he replied. He peered with a squint into the watch that had slid from his arm to his wrist. “I think I have been here since six; no, say, since quarter to six.”
“Where are your shirts?” Mother asked, perplexed.
I was startled. We had not planned a defence, not even thought about what it would be and had merely thrown the shirts because Abulu’s blood had stained them, and entered the house with our shorts and canvas shoes.
“The heat Mama,” Obembe said after a pause, “we were soaked in sweat.”
“And,” she continued, rising to her feet, her eyes scanning us closely. “And look at you, Benjamin, your head all covered in mud?”
All eyes fell on me.
“Tell me, where did you go?”
“We’ve been playing football at a pitch near the public high school,” Obembe replied.
“Oh dear!” Pastor Collins cried. “These street football people.”
David began to remove his shirt, distracting Mother. “What for?” Mother inquired.
“Heat, heat, Mama, I’m feeling hot, too,” he said.
“Eh, you feel hot?”
He nodded.
“Ben, put on the fan for him,” Mother ordered while the Pastor chuckled. “And go right away, both of you, into the bathroom and clean up!”
“No, no, let me do it,” David cried. He hurriedly carried a stool to the switch box pinned to the wall, mounted it and wound the knob clockwise. The fan came to life, swirling noisily.
David had saved us, for while they were at it, my brother and I slipped away to our room and locked it. Although we’d worn our shorts inside out to conceal the bloodstains, I feared that Mother, who often found out what we did, would discover everything if we’d stood there a moment more.
The watt bulb caused me to squint for a moment when my brother turned it on when we entered the room.
“Ben,” he said, his eyes filling with joy again. “We did it. We avenged them—Ike and Boja.”
He locked me in a warm embrace again, and when I rested my head on his shoulder, I felt the urge to cry.
“Do you know what it means?” he said now, detaching from me, but holding my hands.
“Esan—reckoning,” he said. “I’ve read a lot and know that without it, our brothers would never forgive us, and we could never be free.”
He gazed away from me now to the floor. I followed his eyes and saw bloodstains on the back of his left leg. I closed my eyes, nodding in acceptance.
We huddled into the bathroom afterwards and he bathed from a bucket he placed in a corner of the Jacuzzi, scooping water sporadically with a big jug, and pouring it on his body to wash off suds from a bar of soap. The soap had been left in a small pool of water, which had dissolved it into half its original size. To use the soap judiciously, he’d first rubbed it on his hair to lather. Then, pouring water on his head, he rubbed himself with his hands as the water and suds swam down his body. He wrapped himself with the large towel both of us shared, still smiling. When I took over at the Jacuzzi, my hands were shaking. Winged insects that had flocked in from the tear in the netting behind the louvres of the small bathroom window to congregate around the light bulb, crawled about the walls of the bathroom while the ones that had shed their wings formed insect goo around it. I tried to focus on the insects to steady my mind, but I could not. A feeling of some great terror hung about me, and as I tried to pour water on my body, the plastic jug fell from my hand and broke.
“Ah Ben, Ben,” Obembe called, dashing forward. He steadied my shoulders with his hands, “Ben, look me in the eyes,” he said.
I could not so he raised his hands to my head, moved my head to focus on him.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Why Ben, why? Ati gba esan—We have achieved reckoning. Why, why, Fisherman Ben, are you afraid?”
“The soldiers,” I mustered. “I’m afraid of them.”
“Why, what will they do?”
“I’m afraid the soldiers will come for us and kill us—all of us.”
“Shh, put your voice down,” he said. I had not realized that I had spoken aloud. “Listen, Ben, the soldiers won’t. They don’t know us; they won’t. Don’t even think of that. They don’t know where we are or who we are. They didn’t see you come here, did they?”
I shook my head.
“So, why then do you fear? There is nothing to be afraid of. Listen, days decay, like food, like fish, like dead bodies. This night will decay, too and you will forget. Listen, we will forget. Nothing”—he shook his head vigorously—“nothing will happen to us. No one will touch us. Father will come back tomorrow and take us to Mr Bayo and we will go to Canada.”
He shook me to get an approval and I believed—at the time—that he easily knew when he’d convinced me, when he’d totally upturned a belief of mine or a piece of inferior knowledge as one would upturn a cup. And there were times when I needed him to do it, when I deeply craved his words of wisdom, which often moved me.
“You see it?” he asked, shaking me now.
“Tell me,” I said, “what about Daddy and Mama; will the soldiers not touch them either?”
“No, they won’t,” he said, punching his left fist into his rig
ht palm. “They will be just fine, happy and will always come to Canada to see us.”
I nodded, was silent a while before another question—like a tiger—sprang out of the cage of my thoughts. “Tell,” I said softly, “what—what about you, Obe?”
“Me?” he asked. “Me?” He wiped his face with his hand, shaking his head. “Ben, I said, I said: I. Will. Be. Fine. You. Will. Be. Fine. Daddy, will be fine. Mama, will be fine. Eh, all—everything.”
I nodded. I could see that he’d become frustrated with my questions.
He took a smaller jug from inside the big black drum and began washing me. The drum reminded me of how Boja, after he got saved at a Reinhard Bonnke evangelical convention, persuaded us to be baptized else we’d all go to hell. Then one after the other, he coaxed us into repentance and baptized us in the drum. I was six at the time, and Obembe, eight, and because we were much smaller, we both had to stand on empty Pepsi crates to be able to dip into the water. Then one after the other, Boja bent our heads into the water until we began to cough. Then he would lift our heads, his face gleaming, hug us and declare us free.
We were dressing when Mother called out that we should hurry up, because Pastor Collins wanted to pray for us before he left. Later, when the Pastor asked my brother and me to kneel, David insisted he would join us.
“No! Get up!” Mother barked. But David made a face, ready to cry. “If you cry, if you try that, I will flog you.”
“Oh, no, Paulina,” the Pastor said, laughing. “Dave, please don’t worry, you will kneel after I finish with them.”
David agreed. Placing his hands on our heads, the Pastor began praying, occasionally splashing spittle on our heads. I felt it on my scalp as he prayed from deep down in his soul, that God should protect us from the evil one. Midway through the prayers, he began talking about the promises of God concerning His children as if delivering a homily. When he’d finished this, he asked that these things might be “our portion” in Jesus’s name. He then begged for God’s mercy on our family—“I ask, oh heavenly Father that you help these kids move on after the tragic events of last year. Help them to succeed in their quest to travel overseas and bless them both. Make the officials at the Canadian embassy grant them the visas, oh God, for thou art able to make all things right; Thou art able.” Mother had been interjecting a loud “amen” all along—followed closely by Nkem and David, and the muffled ones from my brother and me. She joined the Pastor, who suddenly broke into singing, interspersing the song with hisses and clicks.
He is able/ abundantly able/ to deliver/ and to save/
He is able/ abundantly able/ to deliver/ those who trust in Him.
After the third round of the same tune, the Pastor returned to the prayers, this time more spiritedly. He delved into the issue of the papers needed for the visas, the funds, and then for our father. Then he prayed for Mother—“you know oh God, how this woman has suffered, so much; so much for the kids. You know all things, oh Lord.”
He raised his voice louder as the sound of Mother’s stifling sobs made its way into the prayers. “Wipe her tears, Lord,” and then, he continued in Igbo, “Wipe her tears, Jesus. Heal her mind forever. Let her not have any cause to ever cry over her children again.” After the entreaties, he thanked God, many times, for having answered the prayers, and then, requesting that we shout a “thunderous amen,” he ended the prayers.
We all thanked him and shook his hands again. Mother left with him and Nkem to walk him to the gate.
I had lightened up after the prayers and the burden I’d brought home had felt slightly lifted. It was perhaps the assurance Obembe had given me, or the prayers; I did not know. I knew, though, that something had lifted my spirit from the pit. David informed us “our beans” were in the kitchen. So, my brother and I were eating when Mother returned from walking the Pastor, singing and dancing.
“My God has finally vanquished my enemies,” she sang, lifting her hands. “Chineke na’ eme nma, ime la eke le diri gi…”
“Mama, what is it, what?” my brother said, but she ignored him and trailed into another round of singing while we waited impatiently to know what had happened. She sang one more song, her eyes on the ceiling, before turning to us and with tear-filled eyes, said: “Abulu, Onye Ojo a wungo—Abulu, the evil one is dead.”
My spoon, as if pushed out of my hand, fell to the floor, throwing mashed beans about. But Mother did not seem to notice. She told us what she’d heard: that “some boys” had murdered Abulu, the madman. She’d met the neighbour who found Boja’s body in the well on her way from walking the Pastor. The woman was exultant and was coming to our house to break the news to her.
“They said he was killed near Omi-Ala,” Mother said, tightening her wrappa around her waist after it came slightly undone when Nkem tugged at her legs. “You see, it was my God that kept you safe when you were going to that place every evening to fish. Although it still caused a major damage in the end, but at least none of you was hurt there. That river is such a place of evil and horror. Imagine the body of that evil man lying there?” she said, pointing at the door.
“You see, my Chi is alive and has finally avenged me. Abulu lashed my children with his tongue and now that tongue will rot in his mouth.”
Mother carried on her celebration while Obembe and I tried to understand what we had brought on ourselves. But we could not, for if one attempted to look into the future one would see nothing; it was like peeping into a person’s earhole. It was hard for me to believe that knowledge of a deed carried out in the cover of darkness had spread so widely; Obembe and I had not expected this to happen. We wanted to kill the madman and let him die off by the river shore with his body only discovered after it had begun to decompose—just like Boja.
My brother and I retired into our room after dinner to sleep in silence, with my head filled with images of the last minutes of Abulu’s life. I was thinking about the strange force that’d possessed me in that moment, for my hands had moved with such precision, such pressure that every blow had cut deep into Abulu’s flesh. I was thinking of his body on the river, of the fish crowding it when my brother, who, like me, was unable to sleep and was oblivious that I too was awake, suddenly rose from the bed and burst into tears.
“I didn’t know… I did it for you, we, Ben and I, we did it for you; both of you,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry for this Mama and Daddy. I’m sorry, we did it so you may not suffer anymore, but—” The words went inaudible, drowned in a storm of jerking sobs.
I watched him discreetly, my mind tormented by the fear of a future I thought was nearer than we could imagine—a future that was the next day. I prayed then, quietly, in the faintest whispers possible, that the day might not come, that the bones of its legs be broken.
I did not know when I’d slept, but I was awoken by the voice of a distant muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. It was at the neck of the morning, and early sunlight had percolated into the room through the window my brother had left open. I could not tell if he’d slept at all, but he was seated at his study table, reading a dog-eared book with yellowed pages. I knew it was the book about the German man who walked from Siberia to Germany, the title of which I’d forgotten. He was nude to the waist, his collarbones prominent. He’d lost a considerable amount of weight over the weeks of deliberation and planning of our now accomplished mission.
“Obe,” I called out at him. He was startled. He rose briskly to his feet and came to the bed.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
“No,” I said at first, but then said, “But I still fear those soldiers might find us.”
“No, no, they won’t,” he said, shaking his head. “We have to stay inside, though, till Father comes, and Mr Bayo takes us to Canada. Don’t worry, we will leave this country and all of it behind.”
“When are they coming?”
“Today,” he said. “Father is coming today, and we might leave for Canada next week. Possible.”
I nodded.
> “Listen, I don’t want you to be afraid,” he said again.
My brother stared blankly on, lost in thoughts. Then, collecting himself and thinking it might have worried me, said, “Should I tell you a story?”
I said yes. Again he was lost for a moment; his lips seemed to move but articulated no words. Then, again calling himself to order, he began the story of Clemens Forell who escaped from Russian imprisonment in Siberia and journeyed to Germany. He was still telling the story when we began to hear loud voices in the neighbourhood. We knew it must be from a mob gathering somewhere. My brother stopped telling the story and fixed his eyes on mine. Together, we went out to the sitting room where Mother was preparing to leave for her shop, dressing up Nkem. It was long into the morning, about nine and the room smelt of fried food. There was a plate of leftover fried eggs between the prongs of a dinner fork, and a piece of fried yam on the table beside the plate.
We sat in the lounges with her and Obembe asked her what the noise was about.
“Abulu,” she said, as she changed Nkem’s diapers. “They are taking his body away in a truck and they say that soldiers are going about searching for the boys who killed him. I don’t understand these people really,” she said in English. “Why can’t someone kill that useless person? Why shouldn’t the boys kill him? What if he’d put some stark fear in their minds that some evil will befall them? Who should blame them? Anyway, they said the boys fought the soldiers, too.”
“Do the soldiers want to kill them?” I said.
Mother looked up at me and her eyes betrayed surprise at my question. “No, I don’t know if they will kill them.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway, both of you should stay indoors—no going out until this has cooled. You know that already you are connected to that madman in some way, so I don’t want you to witness any of this. None of you is getting involved with that creature again ever, whether in life or in death.”
My brother said: “Yes Mama” and I followed in a broken voice. Then Mother, with David repeating every word of the order, asked that we come and lock up the gate and the main door as they left for work. I rose to go lock the gate.
The Fishermen Page 24