Oil on Water

by Helon Habila

  —They believe in the healing powers of the sea.

  I turned, startled by the voice above me. A woman, her face unclear because my eyes were still blinded by the sun, was facing me, her back to the sun. She was tall and slim, wearing a long black skirt and a green blouse.

  —Hello.

  I stood up.

  —You were watching the worshippers.

  —The worshippers.

  —Yes. You must be the other reporter. I’m the nurse. I’ve been attending to your friend. I saw you come up this way.

  I pointed at her clothes. —You’re not worshipping with them today?

  —I’m not a worshipper. I’m just the nurse.

  —Well, I see . . .

  Now that I could see her properly, I put her age at about thirty, but she had intimations of lines on her face, signs of habitual worry, or grief, and there were a few white streaks in her hair, but instead of making her appear aged, the lines and gray hair made her look interesting, beautiful in an unconventional way.

  —I’m Rufus.

  —I’m Gloria.

  We stood side by side and watched the procession disappear into the trees.

  —Who’s on the stretcher?

  —You don’t know?

  —No.

  —That’s the head priestess. They’ve started the ceremonies for her death.

  —Death?

  —She announced this week that she is dying. The procession you saw is part of the ceremony.

  —And you, how are you involved in all this?

  Before I could ask another question she looked away, and for a moment I thought she found my direct questions rather rude, but she didn’t look annoyed: she was staring up at a cloud of bats that had suddenly appeared out of the trees, cackling as they swarmed into the darkening sky, frolicking in the last light. She turned and beckoned to me. —Come, we will be late for dinner.

  I followed her down the slope and into the sculpture garden.

  —These islands used to be a big habitat for bats; now only a few dozen remain here and there.

  —Why?

  She wordlessly turned and pointed at the faraway sky, toward the oil fields. —Gas flares. They kill them. Not only the bats, other flying creatures as well.

  DINNER WAS AN OPEN-AIR AFFAIR, with the worshippers in white sitting in little groups under the trees on benches and logs and in the grass, eating with their fingers, laughing and calling out to one another. I felt a bit out of place in my jeans and short sleeves, but having Gloria with me saved me from being the only one not wearing a white robe.

  —This is Rufus.

  I shook hands all around and nodded politely as introductions were made. We had joined a group of four sitting in the grass not too far from the kitchen. Gloria told me to sit while she went to get the food, and as she turned to go I saw Naman coming over to join us. Soon an intricate discussion around theology had started. He gave, I realized for my benefit, a brief history of the shrine. I ate and listened.

  The shrine was started a long time ago after a terrible war—no one remembers what caused the war—when the blood of the dead ran in the rivers, and the water was so saturated with blood that the fishes died, and the dead bodies of warriors floated for miles on the river, until they were snagged on mangrove roots on the banks, or got stuck in the muddy swamps, half in and half out of the water. It was a terrible time. The land was so polluted that even the water in the wells turned red. That was when priests from different shrines got together and decided to build this shrine by the river. The land needed to be cleansed of blood, and pollution.

  —And what of the sculptures?

  —The sculptures came later. As the priesthood grew, some became specialists in mud and wooden figures. These figures represent the ancestors watching over us. They face the east, to acknowledge the beauty of the sun rising, for without the sun there would be no life. And some face the west, to show the dying sun the way home, and to welcome the moon. And each day the worshippers go in a procession to the river, to bathe in it, to cry to it, and to promise never to abominate it ever again.

  —And did that help? Did the rivers return to normal?

  —Yes, and ever since we have managed to keep this island free from oil prospecting and other activities that contaminate the water and lead to greed and violence.

  I looked at Gloria and wondered what she thought of the story, and of the worshippers in general, but she was focused on her food. She looked like a child sitting there in the grass with her long skirt around her shapely legs, a child lost, or merely playing with its toys.

  —So, why aren’t you a worshipper?

  My voice was low so that only she could hear me. But I was not sure she had heard me, because her head was still bent over her plate. I cleared my voice to repeat myself, but she looked up and smiled.

  —Well, I’m quite new here. The shrine hired me to work as a nurse. I really haven’t thought much about the religious aspect of things.

  I pushed my plate aside. The yam with fish stew was surprisingly tasty. The others had finished eating too and were still talking to Naman.

  —How long have you been here?

  —Two months this trip, but I come and go.

  —And you stay here at the shrine?

  —I have a place in the village. I use it whenever I’m here.

  I wanted to bring the conversation around to the kidnapping and the militants, but I didn’t want to sound rude or pushy.

  —Are you happy here? Do you feel safe?

  She looked at me, her expression solemn, thoughtful. —Everything makes sense here.

  —I see. Will you come to see Zaq? He was in pain when I left him.

  I was reluctant to leave her. So far she had been willing to answer my questions, and perhaps if I could take her to the hut she’d be willing to answer even more direct ones. She was not a worshipper, and she had been on the island long enough to know what was going on, which made her an ideal source. And I found her very attractive.

  —Yes, of course. I’ll see how he’s doing before he turns in.

  We found Zaq seated on his mat, facing a fire in a brazier that had been placed near his feet. His back was propped against the wall and his face didn’t change expression when he saw me enter with Gloria. He appeared lost in thought.

  —The nurse is here to see you.

  It took him a few minutes to look up, sighing heavily as he did so. The flames danced in the light and shadows on his face, merging with and accentuating the hollows and lines on it. His eyes were shiny, and I knew that he had been at what was left of the bottle. When the nurse knelt before him and took his wrist in her hand, she noticed it too. She also saw the bottle of whiskey near his pillow. She reached forward and took it.

  —You’ve been drinking. Your pulse is very weak, I can’t allow you to drink.

  And she flung the bottle at the open doorway, into the dark. To my surprise, Zaq did not protest. He looked at her with a fixed gaze.

  —Ah, Nurse. You look great today.

  —And you look drunk today, Mr. Zaq.

  —Rufus, isn’t she very pretty?

  The sternness went out of her face, and for a moment she appeared uncertain—her hand went up to adjust her scarf—and then she became serious again. I went out and sat on a tree trunk by the hut door. From there I could see the sculpture garden: the frozen community watching the night, warding off evil, ears cocked for the night’s watchword, whatever that might be. She came out and stood quietly beside me. I wanted to talk to her, but there was a stillness about her that I didn’t want to shatter. At last she turned and looked at me.

  —It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?

  She sat down on the log beside me, and I felt the back of her hand brush against mine briefly. W
e sat in silence for a long time, watching the darkness.

  —It is my fault. I brought him the drink. I thought it would cheer him up.

  —You didn’t force him to drink it. He’s old enough to know what’s good for him.

  —He is a good man. A great reporter.

  She didn’t say anything to that. At last she stood up.

  —I have to go now. My place in the village is near the jetty. You must come and see the jetty if you’re still here tomorrow. It’s beautiful in the evening when the boats come in.

  —I will.

  She left, and I watched after her until her shape became one with the night, invisible.

  —I THINK SHE LIKES YOU, Rufus, my friend.

  Zaq had come out onto the grass and felt around on hands and knees till he found his whiskey bottle. Now he kept spitting out bits of grass as he took long sips at the bottle.

  —No, she doesn’t.

  —She likes you. Trust me. I may not look it, but I do know about women. I saw the way she was looking at you. No doubt about it. She likes you. You’re not married, are you?

  —No. Not yet.

  —Surely you must have a girlfriend back in Port Harcourt? Look at you, a very fine young man, and being a journalist the girls must be after you all the time.

  —Well, not really. I’m always busy with the job.

  There was Mary, whom I’d met at journalism school, but I didn’t tell him about that. Mary, who wanted so badly to get married. She had made all the plans, and at night she’d go over them with me in the little room we shared not far from the campus. It was a tenement house, a face-me-I-face-you. I moved in with her a shirt, a brush, a shoe at a time. It was cheaper if we stayed together, she said. Looking back, I guess she must have started planning to marry me from the first day we met. She was that kind of girl. Forward-looking.

  She was a TV journalist and her employers had sent her to the journalism school to specialize in news editing. Sometimes she’d go away for the weekend, and I knew she was away with her old boyfriend from her office. She never talked about him, and I never asked her—why would I, since I didn’t really love her? She was pretty and clever and the sex was good, but I didn’t see myself spending the rest of my life with her. Whenever she came back from her little trips she’d hold me all night long, tight, sometimes crying just to show how much she’d missed me.

  Once, she went to Ibadan to visit her parents, and when she came back she had changed. She was scared, and for two nights she didn’t sleep. When I asked what was wrong, she told me about the holy man. Her father had died many years back, and her mother wanted to remarry but wasn’t having any luck, and so she asked a holy man to pray for her. He moved into the guest room, and then one day Mary came home to find he’d moved into her mother’s bedroom, and had impregnated not only her mother but also her seventeen-year-old sister. She went to the police, but her mother refused to back her up, and her sister was terrified and confused and didn’t know whom to support, and all the while the holy man was there in the background, not saying a word, clutching his Bible, taking the name of God in vain. And she had left. She gave up. She held me tight, till I couldn’t breathe, sobbing, I don’t have a family anymore, you are all I have. Promise me you’ll be with me always.

  But I didn’t tell Zaq any of this.

  —My last girlfriend wanted to get married, but I wasn’t ready. We were too young. Twenty-three, both us. She wanted us to run away to Abuja and start a life together. Alone. Away from family and friends.

  —No. She was wrong, and selfish. You can’t run from your family. It’s not right.

  THE NEXT DAY ZAQ was a changed man: he woke me up early, in time to see the procession go for its morning dip.

  —It’s time to find out a few truths. Time to move on.

  —You mean go back to Port Harcourt?

  —You know, I’m not going back.

  —What do you mean?

  —Just what I said. All the time I was in that windowless, airless office, with my good friend Beke out there behind his editor’s desk gloating over the fact that he was now actually my employer, the great Zaq cut down to size—he always envied me, you see—all that time my greatest fear was that I’d die there, unable to get out and follow a true story one more time. I knew all I had to do was stand up and walk out, but I was scared. I’ve failed so many times before, in my profession, and in many other things as well.

  —You are talking in riddles, Zaq.

  —I have plans. I can get backers. Come with me to Lagos and we’ll start a new paper, a real paper.

  —I have to be in the office.

  —Well, think about whether to take the ferry back, or to come with me into the forest in search of the woman. Perhaps you’re thinking, Ah, he’s still drunk, tomorrow he’ll have forgotten all about this. But you don’t have to answer immediately. We’ll talk about it some more. But I can tell you have the makings of a real reporter. You ask the right questions, you actually returned to this island, you’re not afraid to take chances.

  I listened in silence, though I wanted to say to him, I’m flattered that you think I’m a great reporter, potentially, but right now my sister with her scarred face and even more scarred psyche is in my room, shedding tears. I need to be there to make sure she doesn’t do anything crazy. And, another minor point, if I don’t get back to my office very soon, I’ll lose my job.

  But I only nodded.

  —Think about it.

  In his lecture that day in Lagos, Zaq said that the best stories are the ones we write with tears in our eyes, the ones whose stings we feel personally. After visiting my sister at the hospital, unable to sleep, haunted by the image of burned flesh and the smell of petrol that clung to the hospital walls and corridors, I picked up pen and paper and the words had come effortlessly. I wrote about our childhood, about our days catching crabs to pay our way through secondary school, about Boma’s dreams of becoming a doctor. I had posted the story on the Internet, and it had been quoted and reproduced over and over on websites. And of course I had used it when applying for a job: it was my best writing sample. To be a great reporter required a lot of suffering, a lot of backstory, and I was finding that out for myself.

  —One more thing. I do remember now that day at Bar Beach. That day with you and your lecturers at the restaurant.

  —Well, good.

  —I also remember your call, but I didn’t get you your job.

  —What do you mean?

  —After your call, I did mean to call your chairman to persuade him to give you a chance, but I was busy that day and—

  —And so . . . I got the job all by myself . . .

  —I guess you did.

  —I don’t know whether to thank you or to curse you.

  —I’m being honest with you. Now come. Let’s go see the priest.

  12

  We found him in his hut behind the worship room, changing into a fresh robe. When he opened the door to our knock, he didn’t look surprised to see us.

  —Ah, Mr. Zaq, I see you look better. You must be anxious to return home. We are happy to have you here as long as you like, both of you, of course, but the nurse thinks that you ought to see a doctor soon.

  —Where is the British woman . . . and the Professor? Zaq stooped and entered through the low door, then he straightened up pugnaciously before the priest.

  —The Professor?

  —Come on, it’s no secret that these islands and villages are under his protection. We’re not the army, we’re reporters. We want to know what he’s done with the woman. We want to ask him why he has turned from being a freedom fighter to a kidnapper of women and children. We want to know if the white woman is alive.

  The priest sat down on a tall stool, a tired droop to his shoulder.

  —I think it would be
best if you just went back home.

  —Not until we see the woman.

  —That may not be possible.

  —Why not? Do you have a hand in the kidnapping?

  —No. We are a holy community, a peaceful people. Our only purpose here is to bring a healing, to restore and conserve . . .

  —Just tell us what you know.

  Naman took a deep breath and stood up.

  —Come with me.

  His words and movements were decisive. We followed him, his fresh robe dragging in the wet, muddy grass. We passed the worshippers, some coming out of their huts, standing under trees, looking after us curiously. Gloria was in a group with three women, talking and laughing, but she stopped talking and stared at us. Zaq bowed slightly in her direction and she nodded. I slowed down, half turning to face her, but Zaq made an impatient gesture with his head and I quickened my pace. We walked on. The priest took us past the sculptures, away from the water, into the woods. Here the heat was trapped between the trees, and the dead leaves on the ground were putrid. Soon we appeared at a clearing surrounded by chicken wire. It was a cemetery, with headstones looking as lonely and forlorn as only headstones can. He pushed open the flimsy wooden gate and waved us in, like a man inviting us into his living room. He stopped before a fresh, unmarked mound.