Oil on Water

by Helon Habila

  Floode turned off the TV and turned to me. —Such great potential. You people could easily become the Japan of Africa, the USA of Africa, but the corruption is incredible.

  I said nothing, I looked to the door to see if the maid was coming in answer to Floode’s ring. He warmed to this topic, scratching his chin vigorously as he spoke.

  —Our pipelines are vandalized daily, losing us millions . . . and millions for the country as well. The people don’t understand what they do to themselves . . .

  —But they do understand.

  —What?

  —Have you ever heard of a town called Junction?

  —No. I don’t think so . . .

  —I’m from there. Almost five years ago I came home from Lagos after graduating from journalism school and found half the town burned down. The newspapers said the villagers brought it upon themselves by drilling into the pipelines to steal oil . . .

  —Yes, I have heard of that, isn’t that a place called Jesse?

  —That is a different place. There are countless villages going up in smoke daily. Well, this place, Junction, went up in smoke because of an accident associated with this vandalism, as you call it. But I don’t blame them for wanting to get some benefit out of the pipelines that have brought nothing but suffering to their lives, leaking into the rivers and wells, killing the fish and poisoning the farmlands. And all they are told by the oil companies and the government is that the pipelines are there for their own good, that they hold great potential for their country, their future. These people endure the worst conditions of any oil-producing community on earth, the government knows it but doesn’t have the will to stop it, the oil companies know it, but because the government doesn’t care, they also don’t care. And you think the people are corrupt? No. They are just hungry, and tired.

  —Hmm, well, I’ve read about it before. A tragedy. But it does illustrate my point—

  —No, actually, it illustrates my point.

  —Ha ha! You argue rather well, I must give you that . . . Now, where’s that . . .

  He picked up the bell and rang it again, impatiently. After a while the door to the patio opened and a maid entered. She was dressed in a blue uniform that reached just below her knees, with a white apron around her waist. She stood next to the TV and stared at Floode, her head inclined, not saying a word.

  —Get my guest here a drink, Koko. What can she get you?

  —A beer will do . . . Star.

  —And a refill for me.

  She turned and disappeared into the kitchen. I watched the movement of her full waist beneath the close-fitting uniform. She returned a moment later with a tray bearing my bottle of Star and a glass of whatever Floode was drinking. She set the bottle on the side table next to me. She was young and plump, not fat, but very heavy around the hips. She looked more like a student than a maid, and though she was not conventionally pretty there was a compelling sexuality about her. I was sitting across from Floode, watching her as she bent forward to place his drink next to him, and I saw his left hand almost absently but gently brush against her thigh, and if she hadn’t turned and flashed him a quick smile I would have dismissed the gesture as an innocent accident.

  —Thanks, Koko. That will be all.

  He saw me staring at him and he shifted his gaze to his drink. I cleared my throat.

  —Mr. Floode, Zaq said I should ask if everything was okay between you and Mrs. Floode. Was there a fight, or . . . ?

  He looked long at me, sipping his drink. I stared back at him. I loved the way his face turned meat-red, and the way he used his glass to cover his mouth, which had suddenly tightened, I loved the debate in his eyes: to kick out this nosy African or to tolerate him. He smiled.

  —I should tell you to go tell him it’s none of his business.

  —He just wants to know as much as possible about the circumstances of the kidnapping . . .

  —She shouldn’t have come to Nigeria.

  —Why?

  —She came hoping to save our marriage, but we had drifted apart long ago. We met at university, you know. But then, after we married, I got this job. I was posted to all sorts of places and I guess she must have got tired of the constant change. Some people like it, some don’t. We agreed that she should wait in England. And I . . . I was just beginning to discover how good I am at my job. I’m a petroleum engineer, and I’m one of the best. Then the transfer to Nigeria came, I left and she remained in Newcastle, and all the time we were drifting apart. Then six months ago she arrived here, but by then it was too late. There’s another woman, you see . . .

  —Does Mrs. Floode know about this woman?

  —Yes.

  —This woman, is she local?

  —Let’s just say she lives here in Port Harcourt. I want to protect her identity as much as I can. She’s expecting our child.

  —I see.

  —Do you, young man? The irony is that Isabel thought we could save our marriage by having a child. That was her plan. The first day she arrived she said let’s make a baby, and what was I to say?

  I opened my mouth to ask another question but I closed it again when I saw what looked like a tear leaving the corner of his eye. Too much emotion, or too much whiskey. He wiped his eyes and looked up.

  —So, will Zaq be all right?

  —Yes, he’ll be attended to by a nurse at the shrine.

  —I wonder if I can prevail upon him to seek a little further, not to hurry back. He’s an excellent reporter, and I’m sure that if anyone can get to the kidnappers, he can. Might he be persuaded, do you think?

  —You’ll have to ask him, I guess, and his editor.

  —As you can see, my mobility is a bit restricted. May I ask you to find out for me?

  —How?

  —Go back to this Irikefe place, talk to Zaq, see what he says. I’m willing to pay him, and you, of course, for your trouble. Go tomorrow: you can return that same day, so you’ll lose hardly any time at all from work. I’ll have a boat ready to take you there.

  —I can’t . . .

  —Why? You’re a reporter: I should think you’d jump at such an opportunity.

  —I . . . have a few personal issues to take care of.

  I was thinking of Boma in my room, her eyes still red from yesterday’s tears, waiting for me to return with some sort of solution to her housing problem.

  He misread my reluctance for bargaining. —Look, dear chap, I’ll pay for your time. I know you’ll need to prepare, buy equipment and so on. How about a hundred thousand naira? All you have to do is go back to the island, give Zaq my message, and come back.

  He was offering a lot of money, more money than I had ever seen. My mind flew in many different directions: I thought of the dead bodies covered by bamboo leaves, and I knew anything could happen to me on such a trip. I had been lucky once: I had gone and returned safely, I had published my story, I had been praised by my editor and the Chairman, why push my luck? But, on the other hand, there was the money. I needed it to pay Boma’s rent, and my own rent, for that matter . . .

  Of course, I could take the money and not go back to the island. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think of that possibility. After all, he couldn’t sue me, could he? I could tell him something came up and that was it. A hundred thousand was nothing to a man like him. Besides, I didn’t really think much of Mr. Floode. If he really cared for his wife, shouldn’t he be out there in the jungle with Zaq, instead of here, drinking cocktails, watching TV, sleeping with the maid—if he was sleeping with the maid, that is? I could take his money and walk out and nothing would happen. Wasn’t he in my country, polluting my environment, making millions in the process? Surely I was entitled to some reparation, some rent money from him? But even as I took the money, and an extra hundred thousand that he said was for Zaq, I still wasn’t
sure what I’d do when I walked out of his gate.

  —Tell Zaq he has my permission to negotiate with the kidnappers. My embassy has warned me against paying ransom just yet, but there’s no reason why we can’t start negotiating. I just want to end this whole thing as quickly as possible. Do you understand?

  I took two plain brown envelopes from him and put them in my jacket pocket, feeling the weight in my chest and shoulders.

  —I will send you a receipt.

  He shook his head and took my hands and looked into my eyes earnestly. —No need for that, Rufus. I have to trust you. You’re my only hope, you and Zaq. My wife’s life is in your hands. I know things aren’t that good between us, but she’s a good person and she doesn’t deserve this.

  I avoided his eyes as I left him to his cocktail, his split-unit air-conditioning, his alluring maid, his BBC news, his stubble, his double-gated seafront house, and made my way back to the city.

  I FOUND BOMA seated on a chair in front of the open door. She was staring ahead at nothing, her head bowed. She looked up and smiled when I touched her on the shoulder. I sat beside her and we watched my cotenants come in one by one, back from work, their eyes tired and vacuous, their shoulders bent. They waved or grunted briefly at us as they went into their rooms to take off their shirts and hang them on the nail behind the door, to be picked up again tomorrow morning on the way to work. Today we had electricity, so those with TV would flop into a chair before it and stare into the flickering surface as they ate soaked garri or whatever food there was to be had. Eating and watching mindlessly till they fell asleep. Those without TV, or those who simply couldn’t bear the steaming heat in their rooms, would come out and sit on the veranda to catch whatever breeze was passing by.

  —Hey, Rufus, my countryman!

  Isaac, my neighbor. He was Ibibio and for some reason he thought I was from his village, and, though I told him I was not, he always laughed and said he recognized my features, and he was sure he knew some of my cousins. And every day he would greet me with his loud, booming call, My countryman! How life? And I had taken to answering back with as much cheer as I could muster after a full day, My countryman! Life de turn man. Family is worth clinging on to wherever one can find it. Which made him feel easier about asking me for a loan when he ran short in the straight and narrow days just before payday. Across the compound Madam Comfort, her husband, Mister John, and their six children were seated on stools in front of their open door, having their evening meal. All along the length of the veranda other families had similarly turned this narrow space into an extension of their living room, eating and calling across to each other or just staring into space.

  —I have to go back to Irikefe tomorrow.

  —You said it is very dangerous out there.

  —I’ll be fine. What of you, what are you going to do?

  —I don’t know.

  She got up and disappeared into the room and then reappeared with a plate of jollof rice, which she handed to me.

  —Thanks.

  —More and more I’m thinking of moving to the village to stay with Mother.

  We had discussed this many times before. Mother was still unused to Boma’s scarred face—it was as if she expected it to one day disappear, and with it the memory of that tragic day. Whenever they met, Mother always broke down at the sight of her daughter’s once-pretty face, now a total scabrous mess. The last time, she’d run into the room and cried and cried, and eventually Boma had joined her and the two had cried together till their voices went hoarse and they couldn’t cry anymore.

  —Is that what you want?

  —But what is there to do? I’m beginning to get tired of waiting. Sometimes I’m not sure anymore what I want to do.

  I took out some money from the brown envelope and handed it to her.

  —Here, use this to pay your landlord . . .

  —No. I’m not going back there. I’ll look for another place.

  —Of course, you can stay here till you find somewhere suitable, I just want you to be sure about what it is you want.

  I moved my chair out of the way as my next-door neighbor came out of her room to go to the kitchen.

  —Hello, Rufus. Na your sister be dis?

  —How now, Grace. Na my sister.

  Boma lowered her face instinctively.

  The Lucky One, that was Boma’s name for me, Mr. Lucky. Growing up, I always had a knack for coming out unscathed from the most scary accidents. But in this one case I wish I had been unlucky, I wish I had been there when it happened, to share in her pain, my family’s pain. Instead it was John who had been by her side as she was taken to the hospital screaming and shouting that she was blind, she couldn’t see. When I came home, proudly clutching my journalism certificate, he pulled me aside and told me they were getting married as soon as she was out of the hospital. They had had five very good years of marriage, I could vouch for that, being their neighbor, but it would have been better if he had quietly broken up with her after she had left the hospital, as soon as she was able to look in the mirror without crying, left her to create her own thick skin, her own defenses.

  I had never seen Boma so broken, so defeated, as on the day she told me he had gone.

  —Maybe if we had children? A nice little boy to make him feel proud. It’s my fault, I kept telling him to wait, wait . . . I know it is this face. He used to run his hand over my face and say he didn’t really care, that as far as he was concerned, I was still the same beautiful girl he’d met when we were kids, when they moved into the house next to ours.

  Now that it was dark and cooler, the neighbors got up one by one and took their chairs inside. In one of the rooms a man and his wife were fighting, their words loud and full of hate. In the background their children were crying, there was the loud sound of a slap, the crying stopped, the shouting stopped. Peace reigned.

  10

  Zaq was lying on a mat under an acacia tree, and though the air was hot and humid, he was covered up to his chin in a brown wool blanket. He attempted a smile when he saw me, but the smile was soon overtaken by a grimace.

  —I’m cold. I’m so cold.

  His face, gaunt and dejected, turned toward the faraway still figures. In the distance I could see a few worshippers in their long white robes, standing in groups before one of the huts. I was shocked by his appearance.

  —Maybe you ought to think of returning to Port Harcourt: you don’t look very good.

  —I don’t know what you came back to do, but I’m glad to see you.

  His voice was so faint I had to ask him to repeat himself.

  —See, I brought you a few things.

  At the waterfront in Port Harcourt, while waiting for the boat, I had impulsively stepped into one of the many stores facing the sea and grabbed two bottles of Johnnie Walker. I guess I was still haunted by the image of Zaq begging for a drink that day on the beach. He forced himself up and reached greedily for the bottle, his hands shaking. And suddenly I had misgivings.

  —I’m not sure this is a good idea . . .

  But his hand tightened over the bottle, and I was surprised at how much strength there was in his grip. He leaned his back against the tree trunk and opened the cap; his hands shook and the spirit spilled as the bottle found his mouth. He drank as if he were sucking life and health out of the bottle, but finally he stopped, gasping and coughing, and the spark gradually returned to his eyes. After that greedy, focused exertion, he kicked off the blanket and released a long, blissful sigh.

  —Ahhh! You’ve just saved a life, Rufus.

  —Has the nurse been to see you?

  —Yes. She was quite nice to me.

  In the distance I saw a figure in white coming toward us: it was Naman, the officious priest who had welcomed us three days ago. He knelt beside Zaq’s mat and his face momentarily cloude
d when he saw the open whiskey bottle, but he said nothing.

  —Welcome back, Mr. Rufus.

  —Thank you.

  —I see you’ve returned to see how your colleague is doing? Perhaps take him back with you?

  —No, actually, well, yes. If he’s strong enough to go.

  —Nurse Gloria said you are making good progress, Mr. Zaq. She said you had a rough time last night, but now that the fever has broken, you will feel better. She will be back this afternoon to take a look at you.

  —Where’s the nurse now?

  —She has business to attend to in Port Harcourt, but while there she will buy some more medicines for you.

  Zaq moaned and held his head. —I think I’m dying. I feel like a ghost already. Do you believe in ghosts, priest?

  —Of course we believe in spirits, good and bad. The bad ones are the ones who have sinned against Mother Earth and can’t find rest in her womb. They roam the earth, restless, looking for redemption—

  —Okay, okay. I am not interested in your theology.

  I put Zaq’s bad temper down to the fever, his truculence to the whiskey. The priest stood up.

  —Actually, I came to help you back to your room, but I am sure your friend here will help you. I have to go. It is time now for our evening worship.

  He shook my hand.

  —Good to see you again. Let me know if you need anything.

  —A very busy man, isn’t he?

  Zaq stared thoughtfully after the departing priest, belching as he took another sip from the bottle.