by Helon Habila
Here Chief Ibiram paused in his story, his voice breaking. They were given his body, which was wrapped in a raffia mat and a white cloth, and told to take him away. Just like that. The following week, even before Chief Malabo had been buried, the oil companies moved in. They came with a whole army, waving guns and looking like they meant business. They had a contract, they said, Chief Malabo had signed it in prison before he died, selling them all of his family land, and that was where they’d start drilling, and whoever wanted to join him and sell his land would be paid handsomely, but the longer the people held out, the more the value of their land would fall.
Zaq shifted.—So what happened?
—They sold. One by one. The rigs went up, and the gas flares, and the workers came and set up camp in our midst, we saw our village change, right before our eyes. And that was why we decided to leave, ten families. We didn’t take their money. The money would be our curse on them, for taking our land, and for killing our chief. We left, we headed northwards, we’ve lived in five different places now, but always we’ve had to move. We are looking for a place where we can live in peace. But it is hard. So your question, are we happy here? I say how can we be happy when we are mere wanderers without a home?
4.
The old man Tamuno saw the helicopter first. I couldn’t see anything from where I stood, but I could hear the roar. The fog rose off the water and the mangrove leaves like smoke from wet kindling, blanketing the air and the sky for miles around. Then suddenly the helicopter appeared overhead, shrouded in its engine’s riotous noise, the air pressure from its rotor parting the fog. It banked and cycled and hovered, its weight seemingly borne by the white fog, and I saw the huge oil-company logo on its side. From an open window a guard leaned down, his eyes covered in huge goggles, his machine gun poking through the open window.
—We go. Quick, we go now, please, please.
Tamuno didn’t wait for us; he turned and ran for the boat, his knobby knees knocking against each other. We followed him, awkwardly diving into the boat. I knocked my knee against wood and for a few minutes my left leg was totally paralyzed. I held my knee with one hand and with the other I clung to the side of the boat as the boy tried to bring the engine alive. When it didn’t work, he took the oar and pushed frantically, launching us into the shallow, choppy water. The helicopter followed us, a disinterested bee, watching from a distance. I expected the gunman to start shooting, but nothing happened. The helicopter stayed with us for a few minutes as we progressed slowly toward the distant mangrove cluster on the horizon, then it left. But before our sigh of relief had properly escaped our lips, two speedboats appeared from behind the very mangrove cluster we were making for, their massive bows bearing down on us. In one of the boats a man in a green oilskin jacket raised a loud hailer to his mouth:
—Stop and throw away your oars and weapons. Do it now!
Tamuno quickly and tremulously raised his hands to show he had no weapons. We did the same. The boy threw the oar into the water and crouched on the wet floor between me and Zaq, making himself invisible, peering over the side at the fast-approaching boats. They circled us, guns trained on us. Now we could see the men clearly: they were soldiers, three in each boat, all armed. The names of the boats were printed on their sides in blue cursive characters over a dull white background: one was Mami Wata 1, the other Mami Wata 2. They kept circling slowly, coming close enough to peer into our boat. The man with the loud hailer spoke again, his metallic voice sounding so impersonal, so threatening, in the suddenly cold air:
—You will do as I tell you. If you attempt to escape, or disobey in any way, you will be shot. Leave your boat and swim over to our boats. If you can’t swim, take the rope being lowered and we’ll pull you over. Don’t take anything from your boat.
I went first, plunging into the cold water and grasping blindly for the rope; then the old man, then the boy, and then it was Zaq’s turn. Instead of jumping in the water, he leaned heavily on the side of the heaving boat, trying to reach the rope, and with nothing to counterbalance Zaq’s weight our boat simply keeled over. Zaq went under. I watched helplessly as my tote bag containing my camera and my notebook and all my personal belongings floated briefly on the water before sinking out of sight. I stood up, reaching out, but a gun in my side forced me to sit down again. No one went in to save Zaq. After an eternity he surfaced, spitting out water, holding on to the overturned boat, and somehow he found the rope and was dragged aboard by two soldiers. One of them leaned over and casually shot a round at the overturned boat. We watched as it slowly sank out of sight. I turned away from the horror on the old man’s face as he watched his boat sink beneath a sea of bubbles, and though he opened his mouth to speak, raising his hand like a boy in a classroom, nothing came out of his mouth. He slumped back when the boat finally disappeared. I was in the same boat as Tamuno, while Zaq and Michael were in the other boat. We were seated on a bench side by side, facing the soldiers, who stared back at us through their dark glasses, all except the man with the loud hailer. He had a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves and he was standing a bit in front of the others, looking calmly at us, his eyes waiting for an explanation.
—We’re reporters.
I was sure Zaq, if he could speak at all after that fall into the water, was telling them the same thing in the other boat.
—You can explain yourself to the Major.
After about an hour we saw stunted palm trees on the horizon. They seemed to be jetting out of the water, and behind them the land appeared a few seconds later. A sudden and unexpected place, with the water circling it like a moat, and you didn’t see it till you were practically on top of it. A thin trail of mangroves and palm trees on marshy ground led away from the water to more solid ground and a footpath inland. More soldiers appeared behind trees and out of dugouts and behind sandbags, guns raised, eyes fixed on us as our escorts bound our hands behind our backs before leading us off the boats. We were taken down a path that meandered between the trees, often disappearing beneath thick grass; as we walked I often had to lean against Zaq to stop him from falling to the muddy ground. When I tried to explain to a sergeant that Zaq was not feeling well, he raised his gun at me.
—Keep walking.
At last we arrived at a camp: a few sheds and huts arranged in a square formation around a central clearing where three low and leafy trees grew. We sat under the trees and watched the Sergeant make a call on his radio, not saying much, occasionally grunting a yes and a no, then finally, —Over. He put down his gun and waved impatiently to one of the men, who stepped forward and untied us.
—So, you are the journalists. We have been expecting you.
Zaq started to stand up, then sank back to the ground, falling flat on his face. I rushed forward and tried to help him up, but he slumped back again.
—What’s wrong with him?
—He needs to see a doctor.
The soldier looked at Zaq, then at me.
—Well, the Major said to treat you well till he comes. You’re lucky we have a medic here. Just don’t try to escape. If you do, you’ll be shot.
I looked at him, trying to determine if he was joking. Escape how, to where? But his red eyes showed no trace of merriment.
—We can’t escape without our boat.
He motioned to one of the soldiers. —Take them to the doctor. No, just you two.
—The old man and the boy work for us. They’re our guides . . .
—They will be fine. Go.
HE WAS WEARING military fatigues, so I asked him if he was also a soldier. He laughed.
—A soldier? No, no, just a doctor. A bloody civilian like you.
His voice was thin and slow and precise.
—Dr. Dagogo-Mark. Call me “Doctor”; everybody does.
His shed was a little removed from the other huts; its large doors and windows made it airy an
d cool; in a corner was a table carrying a few tins of medicine, carefully labeled. Near the table was an open wooden chest in which I could see a jumble of medicine bottles and syringes and various containers. On another table behind the chest was what looked like a titration stand with tubes hanging from it, while under it was a burner connected to a gas cylinder. An old and dirty white laboratory jacket covered the Doctor’s fatigues; the jacket was a size too small for him and stretched tightly across the shoulders. Occasionally a foul stench from the faraway swamps blew in through the open window on the back of a sporadic and wispy wind. Zaq lay on his back on a cot on the floor, knocked out by the injection the Doctor had given him. Beside him were two other cots with soldiers sprawled out on them, still dressed in their camouflage uniforms and boots, their eyes dulled by fever. The Doctor had looked at Zaq and asked me how long he had been ill.
—Well, on and off for about twelve days now.
He had taken blood and urine samples and said he’d work on them and let us know what was wrong by tomorrow. And then he had knocked Zaq out with the injection. I was seated in a wooden chair close to Zaq, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. I wanted to ask the Doctor about this place, about the Major who seemed to be the man in charge, but my mouth remained heavy and stiff, so I let my mind wander. It wandered all the way back to the day, at the office, when I raised my hand and volunteered to come on this assignment.
The invitation—written in black ink on a ten-inch-square handbill—to interested and experienced reporters to go to interview the kidnapped British woman had hung unanswered for two days on the notice board next to my editor’s office, and now he was going to take it down, but first he wanted to make a speech. The editor, Dan Itega, a man in his fifties who for some reason disliked me on sight, loved making speeches.
The Reporter was the third-largest paper in Port Harcourt, with lots of experienced reporters, and ordinarily such an important assignment wouldn’t have come my way: I was a mere cub reporter, and technically not even that anymore because the editor had unceremoniously transferred me to the photography department. But fate had started its work in my favor two weeks earlier when two reporters, Max Tekena and Peter Olisah, were killed after answering a similar invitation. Olisah worked for a Port Harcourt evening paper called the Voice—I had never met him—but Tekena was my colleague. He was a star.
IT IS MY FIRST WEEK in Port Harcourt after graduating and I am about to be interviewed for a job. I am standing in front of the gates at the Reporter. I am wearing a jacket, my only jacket, and underneath my shirt is properly tucked in; flanking me on each side is another applicant. We have survived a rigorous pruning process from a list of over fifty and now our fate is in the hands of the proprietor, known by all his employees as the Chairman. Only one of us will make it. Now we are in the Chairman’s anteroom, and we have been seated here for hours, looking up hopefully whenever the door to the office opens. This is our third day of waiting. Subeditors sit with us waiting to go in to consult with him over the next day’s edition. A young secretary sits behind a typewriter, a cravat fashionably tied around his collar, his face fresh and alert. Ah, how accomplished he must be to work directly for the Chairman. He must be the best among the best. Max Tekena sits to my right: he is a talkative boy of about my age and loves to reel off his CV—he has been an apprentice on three papers, one of them a Lagos paper, and he is sure this one will be a shoo-in for him. He is tall and lanky, his eyes are alert and restless, he has a way of licking his lips as he speaks, a born predator. The other applicant is a girl: she is quiet, but apparently more accomplished than me. She has her own blog and can talk about complex trends in fashion and knows who is sleeping with whom in Nollywood and Hollywood. Her list of sources and contacts and informants is endless, and she is the prettiest thing I have ever seen. How can the Chairman resist her? We all clutch our portfolios in our sweaty hands. Mine contains the few pieces I did at journalism school, and my single claim to fame: my online article about the oil fire that consumed my little town, killing and maiming a quarter of the population, including my sister and my best friend’s father. My heart is beating fast and for some reason I am sure I will never get the job, but I am willing to stick it out with the others. To wait them out. We have been coming to the office for three days without seeing him and it seems he is testing us to see who will give up first. Patience, after all, is a foremost virtue in journalism—Zaq told me that at Bar Beach in Lagos.
And then he steps out of his office with an entourage of three behind him and he looks at us and turns to his secretary with the blue-and-white cravat and says, Who are they, what are they doing here in my anteroom?
It is the first time I’ve seen him in the flesh.
The Chairman tells us, Go and write an essay each on today’s top headlines. And we, What exactly should we write? And he, It doesn’t matter, just remember this: keep to the point, stay close to home. The farther from home you wander, the closer you get to Siberia. Always remember that.
The girl is the first to drop out. She says she has an offer elsewhere, a fashion magazine, and really she can’t waste her days sitting in some anteroom trying to figure out silly riddles about Siberia. Before she goes, she calls me outside and says, You’re wasting your time. The boy is from the same village as the editor. He’ll get the job. It’s all arranged. I thank her and return to the anteroom, where Tekena and I continue to sit, not next to each other as before, united, but facing across from each other, adversarially, and when I get tired of his cocky, knowing smile I stand up, go to the toilet and call the number Zaq gave me at Bar Beach. And he answers.
—I need your help, Mr. Zaq.
In the end both Max and I are hired. But from the beginning it is clear that I’m not in the same league as Max Tekena. He is a natural, and before the end of our probation period he has a front-page story. The editor walks him round the newsroom, from table to table, the cover in his hand, praising him, and at my corner he stops and says, Young man, you will accompany Max here on local assignments, but as a photographer. Your CV, if it is all true, says you have done some photography. Well, work with him, and you might learn a few things.
I didn’t hate Max Tekena. He turned out to be my only friend in the newsroom; at lunch we always sat together and talked about girls and soccer and movies. I’d have hated him if he were just the editor’s kinsman, but he was also talented. He had it, that instinct only a real journalist has, the ability to almost effortlessly predict what story is going to grow, and to follow it relentlessly to its logical conclusion. Maybe that was why he died early. He had gone with six other reporters deep into the forest to interview five foreign hostages taken from their offices, in broad daylight, by masked gunmen. The kidnappers, eager for publicity, would usually invite a select team of reporters to their hideout to confirm that the hostages were alive and unharmed, after which they would make long speeches about the environment and their reasons for taking up arms against the oil companies and the government, and finally they’d send a ransom demand through one of the reporters. After a week or so, depending on how quickly negotiations went, the oil companies paid up and the hostages were set free, unharmed, each with his bagful of anecdotes. But this time things didn’t work out quite so smoothly. One of the hostages, a desperate Filipino contractor, perhaps doubtful of ever regaining freedom, had suddenly bolted and attempted to get away in one of the speedboats waiting to take the reporters back to Port Harcourt, but he didn’t get far. The militants, in black overalls, their faces covered in masks made of green leaves, fired wildly, and afterward three men lay dead on the pebbly beach. One was the Filipino; the other two were the reporters Max Tekena and Peter Olisah.
AND SO, UNDERSTANDABLY, this time the invitation to interview a hostage hung unanswered in front of the editor’s office. The editor took down the notice, shaking his head regretfully.
—I don’t blame you guys for holding back, but I hate to see
other papers outscoop us. The event is tomorrow, and already three reporters have signed up, from the Globe, the Voice and the Daily Star.
He laughed. His voice grew derisive. —Guess who from the Star? Zaq.
I was standing with the other reporters in the little passage between the editor’s office and the newsroom, listening, avoiding the editor’s eyes, but when I heard Zaq’s name I stepped forward.
—I’ll go.
The editor opened his mouth to laugh, but when he saw I was serious, the laugh turned to a sneer.
—Well, well, the little photographer wants to be a real reporter, eh? Well, come into my office and tell me what you have in mind.
The editor sat facing me, his paunch almost resting on the desktop, his expression switching between contempt and a frown. On his left sat the news editor; on his right, the deputy editor.
—Well, talk.
I stammered. I hesitated. I mumbled. I told them I’d write it not as a kidnapping story only, but I’d try to find out what kind of woman the hostage was: if she had children, if she regretted coming to Nigeria, if she had any message for her husband. Things like that. The three men waited to hear more, but I fell silent.
—Is that all?
I could see the editor was trying hard not to snigger.
—Well, sir, there is also the effect on the international price of oil.
—Aren’t you afraid of the danger? You could get killed.
—I see it as a great opportunity to show what I can do, sir.
I didn’t tell them that, though I wasn’t sure exactly what to look for, I was confident that with Zaq there everything would work out fine. He’d be my guide, my teacher. Once, when he was drunk and helpless, I had looked after him; now it was his turn to look after me. Fate, it seemed, had brought us together.