by Helon Habila
—Well, as if in answer to his request, two years after my arrival in the village, oil was discovered. Be careful what you wish for, they say. Yes, just on the edge of the village, by the water, there was oil in commercial quantities. The villagers feasted for weeks. They got their orange fire, planted firmly over the water at the edge of the village. Night and day it burned, and now the villagers had no need for candles or lamps, all they had to do at night was to throw open their doors and windows and just like that, everything was illuminated. That light soon became the village square. At night men and women would stand facing it, lost in wonder, for hours, simply staring till their eyes watered and their heads grew dizzy. Village meetings, which used to take place early in the mornings on Saturdays in one of the school classrooms, now took place at night under the orange fire: the elders, in their wrappers and holding their walking sticks, would arrange their chairs in a semicircle and hold forth. A night market developed around that glow, and every evening women brought their wares. Some came from the neighboring villages, they bought and sold, they set up portable iron hearths and fried akara and fish, which they sold to happy children under that fire. And when Brother Jonah came back from the city, or, as he described it, from the belly of the big whale, after being away for three years, it was under the orange glow that his congregation met every Sunday night. They’d dance, their faces raised up to that undying glow, singing their thanks and joy, their voices carrying for miles over the water. They called it the Fire of Pentecost. I don’t know what that means exactly, but it made them very happy. They said it was a sign, the fulfillment of some covenant with God.
—Well, I did my duty as their doctor. I told them of the dangers that accompany that quenchless flare, but they wouldn’t listen. And then a year later, when the livestock began to die and the plants began to wither on their stalks, I took samples of the drinking water and in my lab I measured the level of toxins in it: it was rising, steadily. In one year it had grown to almost twice the safe level. Of course, the people didn’t listen, they were still in thrall to the orange glare. When I confronted the oil workers, they offered me money and a job. The manager, an Italian guy, wrote me a check and said I was now on their payroll. He told me to continue doing what I was doing, but this time I was to come only to him with my results. I thought they’d do something with my results, but they didn’t. So, when people started dying, I took blood samples and recorded the toxins in them, and this time I sent my results to the government. They thanked me and dumped the results in some filing cabinet. More people died and I sent my results to NGOs and international organizations, which published them in international journals and urged the government to do something about the flares, but nothing happened. More people fell sick, a lot died. I watched the night market fold up and the council meetings cease. The church also folded when Brother Jonah got a job as a clerk with the oil company. Almost overnight I watched the whole village disappear, just like that. I was their doctor, I should have done more than I did. Well, since then I’ve become something of an itinerant doctor. I go from community to community and I try to create awareness of the dangers lurking in the wells and in the air above. They all share the same story, the same diseases. I do what good I can.
I watched his lips as he spoke, watched his cigarette burn and the ash rise in loops high over his head, adding more pollutants to the polluted air, but all the time my mind was trying to make sense of what he had said about Zaq.
He put a hand on my shoulder. —I’m sorry about your friend. I’ll talk to the Major. I’ll try to persuade him to let you go, but I warn you, don’t expect a quick response. Take your friend to another doctor. Get a second opinion, but that won’t really help much, I’m afraid. I’ve seen this happen many times in this area. A man suddenly comes down with a mild headache, becomes feverish, then develops rashes, and suddenly a vital organ shuts down. And those whom the disease doesn’t kill, the violence does. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here; I tell you there’s more need for gravediggers than for a doctor.
I wanted to ask the Doctor if he thought the fighting would end soon, who was right, who was wrong, if he knew where the Professor was, if he had heard about the kidnapped woman, but instead I turned and looked toward the shed where Zaq lay, breathing away his life.
—Thank you, Doctor. I have to go to my friend now.
—By all means. Let’s go together.
He led the way, belching smoke, his fat arms horizontally suspended from his sides, his fat bottom almost popping out of his trousers, and I could hear his wheezing, phlegmy breathing, and I wanted to shout after him, Doctor, heal thyself!
—The Major will speak with you. I told him about your need to be gone from here as soon as possible. He’s waiting for us in the command hut. Let’s not keep him waiting.
The Doctor led the way, and Zaq and I followed. Soldiers bearing rifles came and went, some nodding briefly to the Doctor as they passed us. The command hut was situated at the edge of the camp, right by the path we took coming in from the boat. The Major met us in front of the hut, waved us in, a smile on his face.
—Hope you had a good night, hope the mosquitoes didn’t bother you.
He was in a good mood today, almost conciliatory, making a joke about the rock-hard bread he gave us and the black sugarless tea in dented aluminum cups. Zaq and I sat on a long hardwood bench that faced the command table, with the Major on the other side of it. The Doctor sat apart, by a square window looking out on the trees by the waterfront. I ate the hard dry bread and sipped the cold tea, but Zaq didn’t even look at the bread, and the tea he downed in a single gulp, more from thirst than from an enjoyment of the bitter, inky taste. He didn’t look like a dying man—he looked rested and alert. The Doctor said it would be like this, good days alternating with bad ones. I hadn’t told Zaq all that the Doctor had said, only that his condition was serious, and he needed to be in a hospital as soon as possible. He had nodded and failed to inquire any further.
I decided to take advantage of the Major’s good mood immediately.
—The old man and the boy . . . when can we talk to them?
—Tell me, what do you know about them?
—They’re simple peasants, trying to make a living. We’ve been together this past week, believe me, they’re not rebels.
—I know these people more than you do. You know the problem with you reporters? You believe everything you read in the papers.
The Doctor laughed, the Major waited for us to laugh, and when we didn’t he went on.
—Let me give you an example. The Doctor here told me that one of your plans on this trip is to interview the Professor, yes? Well, what do you know about him? I’ll tell you what you know: he used to work for an oil company, and one day he grew disgusted with the environmental abuse and he became a militant to fight for change. That’s what the papers say. Well, that isn’t true.
Zaq lifted his empty teacup and put it down again.
—Well, Major, what is true?
—The Doctor can tell you about the deserted villages around here. They used to be well populated, you know, thriving. Now the people have all packed their things and left, because of the violence. People like the Professor are responsible for that, they call themselves freedom fighters, but they are rebels, terrorists, kidnappers. Do you keep up with the news? Ah, yes, you write the news. Well, just now, on that radio, it was announced they just kidnapped a three-year-old girl in Port Harcourt, and you know what, her family is not connected to the oil industry. A three-year-old girl. They don’t care if they’re caught or shot. Their life is so miserable to begin with, and they dream of becoming instant millionaires. It’s my job to pursue them to their swamp hideouts. I capture them, and most times it’s easier to shoot them than to capture them. Saves time, saves the government money.
—Now, let’s come back to this so-called Professor. We have a big file on him,
on all of them. His name is Ani Wilson. A secondary-school dropout, a backstreet thug and bully who went to jail for the first time at fifteen. When he came out at twenty he became a party thug in the pay of his local government chairman, who was up for reelection. He was convicted of murder at the age of twenty-two and sent to prison for life. He broke out of jail at thirty, by which time he had realized there was no future in being a petty thug and hired gun. Luckily for him, his politician godfather had reinvented himself as a pro-environmentalist and won a seat in the senate. But they parted ways when Ani was bought by a rival politician, who paid him to kill his erstwhile godfather; the assassination attempt was foiled, and his godfather called the police on him, and that was when he moved into the swamps and joined a rebel group that specialized in kidnapping foreigners for ransom. You know who the leader of that group was?
—Who?
—He was known as the Professor—only he wasn’t a real professor. It was just his gang name.
—And so—
—And so Ani killed him in a power struggle and took over not only the leadership but the title of “Professor” as well. The myth of the Professor lives on.
—I see.
—I’m glad you see. I know these people. I’m the one who can handle them, the only one. They understand only one language: force. That’s all.
The Major brought down his fist on the flimsy table, making the cups and pens jump.
—And what of your prisoners here? Are you going to try them?
—You journalists, with your fancy ideas about human rights and justice . . . all nonsense. There are no human rights for people like him. You jail them and in a year they’ll be out on the streets. The best thing is to line them up and shoot them. But you people . . .
The Major made a dismissive gesture with his hand and stood up. He went to the window and looked out toward the river.
—We want to interview them, your prisoners. We want to hear their side of the story.
The Major turned to Zaq, his head tilted, considering the unexpected request.
—You, I thought you were sick and wanted a doctor immediately, even though the Doctor here is the best in the whole world. It is true. He saved my life.
The Doctor sipped his tea and continued to look out through the window.
—I’m feeling better, thank you. Let us interview them.
—Well, why not? I’ll bring them over here right away and you will listen to them and afterwards you tell me what you think.
—No. Don’t bring them here. If they think you ordered the interview, they’ll be guarded, they won’t open up. Tonight, lock us up with them, let them think we’re also under suspicion.
—Are you sure you want to be locked up with them?
The Major looked from Zaq to the Doctor to me. Zaq nodded. I nodded, even though this was not something Zaq had informed me about earlier.
—Well, then, you’d better do it as soon as you can, tonight. Tomorrow we leave for Irikefe—that is actually the main reason I called you. We just heard the island has been attacked by your friends the rebels. There is serious fighting going on at the moment and our men need reenforcement. We leave early tomorrow. You can come with me, or you can stay with the rebels till I come back. You decide.
—We’ll come.
—Good. That’s settled. Now, I want to know more about you two. I’m curious about people and their motives. Why did you come here, to a war zone? You could get killed. Are you looking for fame? Is that it? Tell me how you came here.
It was a long time before nightfall, when we’d interview the militants. There was a lot of time to kill. So I told him how I received the assignment to interview the Englishwoman, and about the burning island, and how we all ended up on Irikefe. I told him almost everything. But I did not tell him about Boma, and how I found her waiting for me that day when I returned to Port Harcourt.
14
The soldiers led us to the lockup when the sun was setting over the land. They walked behind us, their guns raised and aimed at a point between my shoulder blades; Zaq was walking slightly ahead of me on the narrow path leading to the little hut. The lockup was at the farthest end of the square, next to the water, and as we approached we could see the mosquitoes rising in a thick cloud over the water. I was worried about Zaq. His early morning alertness had gradually given way to bad-tempered enervation as the sun went down, and now his legs dragged, his shoulders slumped as he walked, and even from here I could hear his breath wheezing out of his nose. I had tried to convince him to let me go alone to the lockup, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
—This is what I came for. Besides, how would you explain my absence to them?
—I’d tell them you are not feeling well.
—No, that won’t work. We mustn’t leave anything to chance. Besides, I feel strong.
And I couldn’t argue any further without telling him bluntly that he was dying, and even if I did, it was no guarantee he’d budge. The soldiers opened the door and threw us in, then they closed it. We felt our way to the wall and we sat against it. Immediately Zaq slumped against me, his head sliding down my shoulder and lolling helplessly. And for a moment I asked myself, What if he died, right here, right now? Best to pretend things were the same as before, that Zaq was all right, and we would interview these people, and we’d go back to write the story. I even tried to fashion a headline that would be worthy of such a great story, the perfect, inevitable headline, the one that gets your story on the front cover, an inch high, the one that compels the most indifferent reader to stop and pick up the paper.
When my eyes got used to the gloom in the shed, and when I had controlled the dizzying, nauseating effect of the petrol smell that rose off the men’s bodies and clothes to cast a miasmatic shadow over the tiny room, I saw Tamuno and Michael huddled together in a corner. The boy was asleep, his head resting on his father’s scrawny shoulder, his feet stretched out straight before him. I realized the old man was staring at me, and in his posture I saw an embarrassed apology, as if he were trying to say sorry that things had ended up like this, and I wanted to tell him that it was I who should be apologizing for leading him into this.
Most of the men were lying on the floor, some with faces turned toward the wall. I didn’t know how long they had been the Major’s prisoners, or what other punishment they had endured in addition to the petrol-drenching, but they all looked exhausted and dispirited. In a uniform, spastic choreography they scratched and twitched and rubbed their dry skin where the petrol had scalded them, where it still burned. Only one of them sat without the mad twitching; his head was bowed, but he did not seem defeated or fatigued, like the others; he looked like a man lost in thought, a man seated against a wall in his own compound. I crawled toward him, and as I neared him a huge paw from behind grabbed me by the neck and pulled, and suddenly I was staring at two red eyes that bore into me, unblinking, expressionless. The thinking man raised his head and motioned to my captor.
—Let him go, Taiga.
I couldn’t breathe until the fist released me, then I was gasping, sucking in the fumy air, rubbing my neck, which felt broken. I sat next to the man.
—Thanks.
—Did you think he was going to kill you? We’re not murderers, my friend, regardless of what you guys write about us.
—My name is Rufus, and that’s my colleague Zaq.
—So, what are you doing here?
—We’re prisoners, like you. The Major doesn’t believe we’re innocent journalists.
—Well, are you?
—What?
—Innocent journalists?
—Of course we are. I work for the Reporter, and Zaq works for the Star.
—Is he the Zaq who used to be with the Daily Times?
—Yes, he is—
—Let him speak for himself!
—Yes, my friend. It’s me. What’s your name?
—Henshaw.
—Glad to meet you, Henshaw.
—We came to find out about the British woman. Is she still alive?
—Is that all you want from me, to tell you whether some foreign hostage is alive or not? Who is she in the context of the war that’s going on out there, the hopes and ambitions being created and destroyed? Can’t you see the larger picture?
Henshaw sounded educated and very confident, so perhaps the best way to make progress was to appeal to his reason. Zaq must have sensed that as well. I waited for Henshaw to speak some more, but he didn’t. He kept his head inclined, as if slumbering, already bored by that little exchange. After a while I cleared my throat. I could feel Zaq in the dark, waiting, willing me to go on.
—Does your group have a name?
—No! We used to have a name, but no more. That is for children and idiots. We are the people, we are the Delta, we represent the very earth on which we stand.
—Are you with the Professor?
—No. I have never met the Professor. We’re a different group, the six of us. That man is with the Professor. Perhaps he can tell you about the white woman. Hey, you, talk to the reporters. Go on, talk.
The scratching and twitching and pain-filled groans had stopped as everyone strained to listen to our talk. Even the mosquitoes had somehow stopped singing around my ears. I turned to look at the man. He was seated by himself near the door, his back pushing into the wall, away from all the eyes suddenly turned on him. He began to shake his head as I crawled toward him, and when I was in front of him he turned his face away.
—Look, you heard what I told him. We’re impartial reporters. All we want to know is where the woman is, if she’s alive.
He mumbled something, his voice coming out like a sob. I leaned closer to him.
—What?
Now he turned to me and even in the dark I could see how young he was—between fifteen and twenty. His face was smooth, hairless.