Oil on Water

by Helon Habila

  Now Black Suit and James were at the door. Black Suit pulled it open.

  —Gentlemen, thanks for your time. This visit must remain between us . . .

  Zaq said it was the tone of the man’s voice that made him look up. The voice was dismissive, almost derisive. And he felt what he hadn’t felt in a long time: pride, vanity—two things he had always tried to avoid because they had no place in a reporter’s life.

  —I’ll go. I’ll do it.

  The men stopped at the door. James shook off his companion’s hand, turned back and took Zaq’s hand. He brought out a photograph from his pocket. She was a pretty woman, her hair a unique mixture of red and brunette, and in the picture she looked young, carefree, smiling confidently into the camera. Zaq guessed it must have been taken when she was younger, perhaps at university.

  —How old is your wife?

  —Thirty-nine. Her name is Isabel. She also went to Leeds.

  Zaq nodded, staring at the picture. He saw no point in telling James that he had only gone to Leeds for a six-month journalism certificate course. He had never gone to university—he was an autodidact, everything he knew he had learned in the newsroom and on the streets and from books, but what he knew he knew well. He could quote from Aristotle and Plato and Tolstoy and Shakespeare and Soyinka and Fanon and Mandela and Gandhi and Dante in a conversation, casually, perfectly.

  —So far we’ve had over a dozen ransom demands by different groups: the Black Belts of Justice, the Free Delta Army and the—

  —The AK-47 Freedom Fighters.

  —It’s all so confusing. This is a chance to make contact with the real kidnappers. We’ll negotiate, as long as she’s alive, we’ll pay . . .

  —How do you know which group is the real one? Do they have a name?

  —No name. Here’s their letter: no signature. In the letter was some of her hair: I know her hair, it’s really distinctive. There’s a request for five million dollars. They want us to send five reporters to confirm she is alive and well.

  —Very professional.

  —There’s something more.

  —Yes?

  —Her driver, Salomon: we believe he’s had a hand in this. He hasn’t been to work since the day she disappeared.

  —Did they go out together?

  —No. But we can’t find him.

  Black Suit, at last wiping the surprise off his ruddy face, stepped forward.

  —Your job is simple. Just confirm she’s alive, take pictures and we’ll take it from there. It should be easy. You leave in two days, early, and by sundown you’re back. Of course, we’re willing to remunerate you quite decently for your trouble. And remember, make them understand that nothing must happen to her. She’s a British citizen—

  Zaq interrupted him, not raising his gaze from the picture. —So, does that make her more important than if she were, say, Nepalese, or Guyanese, or Greek?

  The man made to open his mouth, but the husband spoke first. —Simon, old chap, let me handle this.

  After the men left, Beke went over to Zaq and shook his hand, patting him on the back at the same time.

  —This is it, Zaq. Our big opportunity. Don’t forget to take our subscription form when next you meet them.

  —Come on, Beke. The man’s wife has been kidnapped.

  —But, still, an opportunity is an opportunity. How often does the oil company come knocking on your door, asking for a favor? We’re talking petrodollars here, and a major scoop! Come on. I can imagine the headlines already. This will be the making of us. Our circulation will hit the roof—

  —But first I have to survive the little trip to the kidnappers’ den, wherever it may be.

  —Well, yes. Everything will go well. God willing. They don’t harm reporters.

  —What about those two reporters shot in the back on a similar assignment just weeks ago? You have a short memory. Or would you like to go in my place?

  —You can handle it, Zaq. You’ve been in worse spots.

  —I’m already regretting this decision.

  Beke led Zaq back to his tiny windowless office and stood at the door watching as Zaq cleared his table and picked up his jacket.

  —You’re not going home, are you? The day’s still young. Who’s going to write the editorial, the Metro column, the book review?

  Zaq brushed past him. —Why don’t you write them yourself, just for a change?

  And that, he said, was how he was recruited.

  Early next morning, before we left Chief Ibiram’s house, I took the old man to one side and asked him if we needed to pay his brother for our board. The money would come out of our expense account anyway, and the Chief had been a perfect host. He hesitated, then he shook his round, hairless head.

  —No, no pay. Na my brother, Chief Ibiram.

  Last night, when we urged him to ask his brother if he had heard anything of the missing woman, or if he knew where we could make contact with the militants, he had shaken his head and said no without the usual diffidence to his voice. I guess he didn’t want to get his family involved in our quest, and if what happened to Karibi was an indication of what also happened to informers, then I respected his decision. Communities like this had borne the brunt of the oil wars, caught between the militants and the military. The only way they could avoid being crushed out of existence was to pretend to be deaf and dumb and blind.

  We got Zaq into the boat with the help of the Chief and we drifted almost aimlessly on the opaque, misty water. The water took on different forms as we glided on it. Sometimes it was a snake, twisting and fast and slippery, poisonous. Sometimes it was an old jute rope, frayed and wobbly and breaking into jagged, feathery ends, the fresh water abruptly replaced by a thick marshy tract of mangroves standing over still, brackish water that lapped at the adventitious roots. Then we’d have to push the boat, or carry its dead weight on our shoulders, till we found the rope again. Sometimes it was an arrow, straight and unerring, taking us on its tip for miles and miles, the foul smell of the swamps replaced by the musky, energizing river smell, and at such times we’d become aware of the clear sky above as if for the first time. But the swamps and the mist always returned, and strange objects would float past us: a piece of cloth, a rolling log, a dead fowl, a bloated dog belly-up with black birds perching on it, their expressionless eyes blinking rapidly, their sharp beaks savagely cutting into the soft decaying flesh. Once we saw a human arm severed at the elbow bobbing away from us, its fingers opening and closing, beckoning. In my dreams I still see that lone arm, floating away, sometimes with its middle finger extended derisively, before disappearing into the dark mist.

  About an hour after we set out our engine spluttered, spewed out a thick clump of black smoke and went quiet. The old man and his son fiddled with the engine and attempted to restart it, but finally they gave up and we took turns rowing with oars. We rested by the riverbank whenever we could, and by the time we got to the next village the sun was going down and we left the boat on the deserted beach and went to look for shelter for the night.

  It turned out this wasn’t a village at all. It looked like a setting for a sci-fi movie: the meager landscape was covered in pipelines flying in all directions, sprouting from the evil-smelling, oil-fecund earth. The pipes crisscrossed and interconnected endlessly all over the eerie field. We walked inland, ducking under or hopping over the giant pipes, our shoes and trousers turning black with oil. The old man took me to the edge of the field and pointed into the distance. Zaq joined us.

  —Oil rigs.

  —So why haven’t the militants bombed the pipelines here?

  —Because the oil companies pay them not to do so.

  —Or perhaps the oil companies paid the soldiers to keep the militants away.

  —Or that. Yes.

  We spent the night by the water, fight
ing off insects, unable to fall asleep till early morning, when the bright sun chased away the insects. When I opened my eyes the old man was talking to Zaq. They were standing near the water’s edge. The boy was seated in the wet sand, idly picking up pebbles and throwing them at the boat, listening to the dull wooden sound as they hit, pausing once in a while to glance back at his father. I stood up and stretched. The old man shouted something at the boy, apparently telling him not to throw stones at the boat, for he ceased immediately, lowering his head, but a moment later, like a sleepwalker, he picked up another pebble and weakly threw it, but this time into the water, where it landed with a tiny plop. I wondered what the old man was telling Zaq. He wasn’t looking into Zaq’s eyes but at the ground, rooting in the sand with his bare, gnarled toe, waving his hand occasionally to expatiate on a point, and once he pointed at me. Zaq was not speaking; he was gazing at the boy, a sort of doubtful, surprised look on his face. I turned away from them. If they wanted me involved in whatever it was they were discussing, Zaq would let me know. But, even as I turned away, Zaq called out:

  —Rufus, you’d better come and hear this.

  He didn’t sound worried, but he didn’t sound cheerful either. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than this barren landscape, or our aimless search, which was becoming as murky as the convoluted water over which our tiny vessel bobbed and shook, as if impatient to be gone from here.

  —He wants us to take the boy with us.

  I looked at Zaq. —What do you mean, take the boy?

  The old man nodded at every word we uttered, as if by doing so his meaning would become clearer to me.

  —He wants us to take the boy with us when we go back to Port Harcourt. You better tell him yourself, old man.

  —Yes. He no get good future here. Na good boy, very sharp. He go help you and your wife with any work, any work at all, and you too you go send am go school.

  —But neither of us is married. We can’t take him to Port Harcourt just like that.

  —But see, wetin he go do here? Nothing. No fish for river, nothing. I fear say soon him go join the militants, and I no wan that. Na good boy. I swear, you go like am. Intelligent. Im fit learn trade, or driver. Anything. Na intelligent boy, im fit read and write already even though him school don close down, but im still remember how to read and write. Come here!

  The boy stood up and ran to us, looking at his father expectantly. He knew what was being discussed. His father must have primed him for this, and now it was his turn to join the pitch.

  —Write your name.

  The boy fell to his knees and quickly cleared away the twigs and dead grass from the brown scorched earth at our feet, then he wrote out the letters of his name: m-i-c-h-a-e-l. Looking at the proud smile on his face as he glanced up at his father, expecting a word of approval for having done his part, I realized that all this while I hadn’t even known the boy’s name, or his father’s. They were just the old man and his son, guiding us in these waters that they depended upon for their livelihood, daily throwing in a line and hoping, always hoping, that something would bite. I felt ashamed. The look on Zaq’s face mirrored mine. He patted the boy on the head.

  —Hello, Michael. My name is Zaq.

  —And I’m Rufus.

  I shook the old man’s hand. There was a smile on his face, similar to the boy’s as he had finished writing.

  —My name na Tamuno, but people call me Papa Michael.

  Zaq took me to one side. —What do we do?

  —We say no, of course. Unless you want to take him with you.

  —But where, how? I live in a single room. At the end of the month I’m hardly able to pay my rent. Of course, he could stay with Beke, my editor. But the man is a mean bastard and will only treat him as a servant. Don’t you have any family?

  —I have a sister, but she—

  —Can’t she take him?

  —Well . . . it’s complicated. No . . . she can’t . . .

  —Well, then, clearly we can’t take the boy.

  I looked over at father and son. They were staring intently at us, but both immediately dropped their gazes as I turned to them. The father held the boy’s hand in his, patting him gently on the shoulder with the other hand.

  —We’ve heard your request. And you’re right, your boy is a clever boy with a bright future. However, we’ll discuss it some more and let you know what we decide before all this is over.

  The disappointment on the man’s face was unsightly. Zaq put a hand on his shoulder.

  —We’re not saying no, you understand.

  —What Zaq is saying is that this is so sudden . . .

  The boy began to cry. Zaq looked from the boy to me to the old man.

  —Look. Okay. We’ll take him. I will take him. I’ll find a way.

  —But . . . are you sure . . . ?

  —No, I’m not. But I will take him. I’ll find a place for him somehow. And he could be an office boy at the Star. Now, you, stop crying. Let’s go.

  At the father’s urging the boy ran to Zaq and wrapped his arms around the veteran journalist’s thick midsection.

  —Thank you, sah.

  Zaq, embarrassed, pushed him away gently.

  I OFTEN THINK BACK to our first night in Chief Ibiram’s front room. It was too early to sleep, and the Chief and his brother had withdrawn to one side, speaking softly, listening to the radio. And the Chief had hesitated a long time when Zaq asked him, Are you happy here? But finally he lowered the radio volume and cleared his voice. He whispered briefly to his brother and then he turned to us.

  Once upon a time they lived in paradise. It was a small village close to Yellow Island. They lacked for nothing, fishing and hunting and farming and watching their children growing up before them, happy. The village was close-knit, made up of cousins and uncles and aunts and brothers and sisters, and, though they were happily insulated from the rest of the world by their creeks and rivers and forests, they were not totally unaware of the changes going on all around them: the gas flares that lit up neighboring villages all day and all night, and the cars and TVs and video players in the front rooms of their neighbors who had allowed the flares to be set up. Some of the neighbors were even bragging that the oil companies had offered to send their kids to Europe and America to become engineers, so that one day they could return and work as oil executives in Port Harcourt. For the first time the close, unified community was divided—for how could they not be tempted, with the flare in the next village burning over them every night, its flame long and coiled like a snake, whispering, winking, hissing? Already the oil-company men had started visiting, accompanied by important politicians from Port Harcourt, holding long conferences with Chief Malabo, the head chief, who was also Chief Ibiram’s uncle.

  One day, early in the morning, Chief Malabo called the whole village to a meeting. Of course, he had heard the murmurs from the young people, and the suspicious whispers from the old people, all wondering what it was he had been discussing with the oilmen and the politicians. Well, they had made an offer, they had offered to buy the whole village, and with the money—and yes, there was a lot of money, more money than any of them had ever imagined—and with the money they could relocate elsewhere and live a rich life. But Chief Malabo had said no, on behalf of the whole village he had said no. This was their ancestral land, this was where their fathers and their fathers’ fathers were buried. They’d been born here, they’d grown up here, they were happy here, and though they may not be rich, the land had been good to them, they never lacked for anything. What kind of custodians of the land would they be if they sold it off ? And just look at the other villages that had taken the oil money: already the cars had broken down, and the cheap televisions and DVD players were all gone, and where was the rest of the money? Thrown away in Port Harcourt barrooms, or on second wives and funeral parties, and now t
hey were worse off than before. Their rivers were already polluted and useless for fishing, and the land grew only gas flares and pipelines. But the snake, the snake in the garden wouldn’t rest, it kept on hissing and the apple only grew larger and more alluring each day. And already far off in the surrounding waters the oil-company boats were patrolling, sometimes openly sending their men to the village to take samples of soil and water. The village decided to keep them away by sending out their own patrols over the surrounding rivers, in canoes, all armed with bows and arrows and clubs and a few guns. But daily Chief Malabo was feeling the pressure. As a chief he had no control over the families’ decision about what to do with their land, but as a chief his word carried weight, especially among the elders. But what of the young men who were still grumbling, and looking enviously across the water at the other villages? The canoe patrol was something of a desperate measure, and this soon became very clear. It turned out to be the excuse the oil companies and the politicians who worked for them needed to make their next move. One day the patrol came upon two oil workers piling soil samples into a speedboat. There was a brief skirmish, nothing too serious—one of the oil workers escaped with a swollen jaw, the other with a broken arm—but the next day the soldiers came. Chief Malabo was arrested, his hands tied behind his back as if he were a petty criminal, on charges of supporting the militants and plotting against the federal government and threatening to kidnap foreign oil workers. The list was long—but, the lawyer said, if the elders would consent to the oil company’s demands, sell the land . . . A politician, who introduced himself as their senator, came all the way from Abuja and assured them that their situation was receiving national attention, it was in the papers, and he was going to fight for them to see that their chief was returned safe and sound. With him were two white men, oil executives. The villagers chased them away. Others came, but they were all liars, all working for the oil companies, trying one way or another to break the villagers’ resolve. But the villagers remained firm. Chief Malabo, whenever they went to see him, told them not to give in, not to worry about him—but they could see how he was deteriorating every day. And then they went to see him one day and were told he was dead.