Oil on Water

by Helon Habila

  —His name is Gabriel. He was here before we came, at least two days.

  The voice came from one of the faces seated around Henshaw—possibly from the one named Taiga.

  —Gabriel, I’m Rufus. Have you heard anything about the woman? We saw the battle with the soldiers—were you there? Did you hear any of your friends talking about it? We saw dead bodies. Were you there? Were you captured, did you surrender?

  —Come on, man, stop whimpering like a girl and talk. Talk! Taiga, make him talk!

  The threat did the trick. For the first time the boy nodded his head instead of shaking it. He raised his head and looked into my eyes and now his words came out coherently. He’d been there, at the battle. But he didn’t say anything more after that, and when I threw more questions, he looked defiantly from me to Taiga.

  —Why don’t you find out, since you’re a reporter?

  I crawled back to where Zaq lay and sprawled out beside him. I didn’t feel as if I had gained much information. I still hadn’t found out anything new about the woman. Had she escaped? I hoped not, because she had no way of surviving out there in the swamps by herself: first of all, her skin would be her worst enemy, it’d emblazon her presence like lightning in a dark night wherever she went, and she might escape from one kidnapper only to end up in the hands of another.

  TOWARD MORNING, WHEN A PINK light stitched in through the million micro-openings in the roof thatch, Henshaw crawled over to my side and shook me awake. I sat up beside him, our shoulders touching. Outside, the bugle sounded.

  —I know exactly what they’re doing out there: right now the soldiers will be in line, shoulder to shoulder, all twenty of them, one sergeant, two corporals and the rest privates, all standing at attention, and he’ll be telling them why they must hate the militants, why they must fight to keep the country safe and united. Ten minutes of that. I’ve been here four days now and I know exactly what they do every minute of the day. I can tell you what they eat, what they think, who is tired of the Major’s demented patriotism and just wants to go home. We’ll outlast them. That’s all we need to do. Sit tight. Wait. This land is ours, after all.

  He paused, his eyes closed. All the other faces were staring at him, but their ears were focused on something farther off, somewhere close to where the bugle had sounded, waiting. And yes, there was a distant sound of a voice, firm, authoritative. Too far away for the words to register. After what seemed like ten minutes, he resumed his commentary.

  —Now he’s walking in their midst, putting a hand on this one’s shoulder, reprimanding that one for a smudge on his boots—imagine reprimanding a soldier for a smudge here in the jungle . . . and now he is dismissing them. Five of them are coming this way, guns firmly clasped in both hands, trotting, and here they are.

  Footsteps came to a stop in front of the hut, and Zaq and I waited to see what was going to happen. The door was kicked open, and two soldiers entered in a splash of morning sunlight. The others waited outside.

  —Oya, stand up. Single file. Proceed outside.

  It was the tallest of them speaking. They didn’t kick or hit the prisoners, they just stood there, their guns ready, waiting for the men to get in line.

  15

  The Major waved his hand toward the approaching shoreline, but his voice was drowned out by the noise from the helicopter that suddenly appeared above us, like a bird of ill omen. The Major looked up, then he took out his radio and put it to his ear. When he finished speaking his face had a satisfied grin.

  —Be prepared for what you are about to see. Irikefe is now mostly ashes and rubble, bombed by the gun helicopter over there. Not a hut is left standing . . .

  —What of the people?

  —Most of them would still be there, I suppose. But expect a lot of casualties, unavoidable, of course. This is a war zone . . . Look, look, you can see the smoke from here.

  We descended from the boat into the restless water. On the shore was a line of soldiers in battle gear, pointing their guns at us. They led us toward the trees and then to a field of rubble, which I saw was all that was left of the sculpture garden. Memory is nothing but a view through a car window, fast-changing, impressionistic. Of all the things that I saw that day, and all the words that I heard, what made the most impression was the sight of the broken statues. The arms and legs and heads sundered from the body. I recall a face, its expression of terror so lifelike, the eyes so mobile staring up at me as I passed, its nose broken, its mouth half open and eager to share its secret. And later, when I voiced my lament to Naman—Look, they broke the statues—he smiled sadly and nodded and said, Everything that was made must one day cease to be. It is the nature of existence.

  The fighting was over when we got off the boat, but the earth was still smoldering with the remains of battle, the huts still gave out smoke, and soldiers still fired guns sporadically into the air as they corralled the villagers into one big clearing, trying to determine who among them was a militant and who wasn’t. I couldn’t recognize the hut where we once slept, and the log on which I once sat. Zaq sat down heavily on the first surface he found. I couldn’t sit—I mingled with the worshippers, trying to see if I could find a familiar face, Gloria, or Naman, and yes, here was a familiar face, even though half of it was swollen and covered with blood. It was a man who’d been seated with Gloria and Naman, eating dinner, and if I hadn’t been looking keenly, peering almost rudely into the faces, I wouldn’t have recognized him. His once-pure-white robe was now specked with the green of crushed leaves and the rust and red of blood, and the one side of his face capable of expression looked vacant, vague, tired, like a man after a long trek, thirsty, but unsure where to look for water or rest. When I stopped next to him and took his hand and introduced myself, he licked his chapped lips and tried to smile.

  —Ah, the reporter. But what are you doing here? This place is very dangerous for you. You shouldn’t have returned.

  —Where’s Gloria and Naman?

  He pointed vaguely and continued walking, his eyes looking around for something in the rubble. A woman took me to Naman. He was surrounded by a group of women, all weeping and holding one another, and he went from one to the other, calming them down. I shook his hand and he told me to sit beside him. Like the others’, his white robe was covered in blood, maybe his, maybe not. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I pointed.

  —The statuary is all gone.

  —It is the nature of existence. A thing is created, it blooms for a while if it is capable of blooming, then it ceases to be.

  He said that two days ago the militants had arrived. The worshippers were as usual having their morning dip, chanting their hymn to the sun, and the next thing they knew they were surrounded by gunmen. Of course, they had been visited by the militants before, but nothing like this—usually they came for food, or for medical supplies, or for clothes; once they attempted to abduct a woman worshipper, but Naman had stood in front of the woman and said they had to shoot him first, and of course when their leader, the real Professor, who was a gentleman, found out, he had publicly punished the militants and personally apologized to the community. A good man, the real Professor. But this time it was another leader, a younger one, and he gathered everyone into the worship hut and said he wanted all the worshippers to swear allegiance to him—imagine that. When Naman said that wasn’t really necessary, the man placed a gun on his chest and told him to shut up. Then he said he had discovered that traitors, informers, had been giving information to the soldiers. Someone here at the shrine, on the island, must have given them away to the soldiers just before they arranged to meet with the reporters on Agbuki. He said he and his men would spend the night here and tomorrow they’d be on their way, but before they left they’d take a hostage, just to make sure of the worshippers’ cooperation. And then he pointed at Gloria, and said, You will come with us tomorrow.

  But the soldiers
came early the next morning. First they came in a boat, and there were only five of them. They were on routine patrol; they hadn’t known the militants were there, and they ran into an ambush—it was a massacre. They were all killed instantly. The militants had machine guns and grenades. But the soldiers must have called for backup because this morning the helicopter came and started shooting at everything beneath it, indiscriminately.

  —People running and jumping into the water. It was awful. Awful. The water turned red. Blood, it was blood. In the confusion the rebels slipped away and left the villagers to face the soldiers. Now, see, everything is in ruins. Nothing left, it is a miracle so many are still alive. A miracle.

  He kept repeating it: a miracle.

  —And Gloria, where is she?

  —They took her away like they promised. She was crying and screaming, but they dragged her away.

  I WENT OVER TO ZAQ.

  —A lady was here just now, looking for you. She said she was your sister. Do you have a sister?

  —Boma. Here?

  Zaq looked about, raising his head from the grass. He was exactly where I’d left him over two hours ago, in the grass under a tree, but now he was fully stretched on his back, his head propped up on the tree’s protruding root.

  —I told her to walk about, that you were somewhere out there. Maybe she’s with the women over there.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of that news. What would Boma be doing here? How did she get here? I left Zaq and headed for the group of women. The camp had segregated itself, with the men on one side, closer to the water, and the women camped where the tree line began. The women were seated in groups, the fit ones tending to the wounded, while the children crawled between their legs and rolled about in the grass, oblivious of the moment’s gravity. And on the outskirts of the two groups were the soldiers, their guns raised, their eyes alert to any movement over the water. I found her sitting by herself on a log, looking absently at two urchins wrestling in the grass. She had a smile on her face, and she looked pretty. I was looking at the good side of her face, and suddenly I was back many years to the last time I’d seen her like this, without the scar. I had returned from Port Harcourt after my apprenticeship with Udoh Fotos; Boma and John had started going out then and were already talking of getting married someday. John had pointed at the entire town of Junction with his hand.

  —But we have to get out of here first.

  On the day I left, John and Boma had walked me to the bus station, and as the bus pulled away Boma waved and waved and the sun fell on her smooth face, just as it fell now. Smooth and unmarred.

  —What are you doing here? I know, don’t tell me. You’re hoping to find John in the forest, waiting for you.

  My voice rose as I spoke, and I felt it rising even higher. I pointed around.

  —Look, they’re fighting a war here. You could get killed, Boma. And all for what, for a man who walked out on you because he couldn’t bear to look at your face anymore? It’s time to move on. He’s never coming back. He’s gone. Accept it.

  She was staring at me, her head inclined, as if she were watching a stranger. But I was remorseless. I was tired, and all I wanted was to be as far away from here as possible, but her presence only added to the weight on my shoulders.

  —I came to look for you, not for John.

  I sat down beside her.

  —You were supposed to be gone for only a day. I went to your office to see if they had any news and they said no. Nothing. And then your editor said to tell you not to bother to show up at the office.

  —He said that?

  —Yes.

  How quickly things change. It seemed like only yesterday I was seated at the Chairman’s right hand, being toasted by the staff, and now I had no job.

  —How long have you been here?

  —I got here yesterday; the fighting began just after I arrived.

  The kids wrestling in the grass were now eating out of the same bowl, placed before them by their mother, who stood watching over them as they ate. She was a tired-looking woman with her hair in knots; she held her grimy white robe bunched up at the hip, lifting it clear of the muddy grass. Her exposed calves were thick and chunky, merging into her ankles without definition.

  —I was worried about you.

  I felt tired. I felt ashamed at my outburst.

  I tried a joke when I saw how crestfallen she looked.

  —I’m the Lucky One, remember? Nothing will happen to me.

  —Have you found the woman?

  —What woman?

  —The white woman you were looking for.

  —No.

  —I met your friend, Zaq, over there. What’s wrong with him?

  —He’s not well. He’s dying.

  —He’s dying?

  —That’s what the doctor said.

  —So, what are you going to do?

  —Find a boat and take him to Port Harcourt. They have to evacuate these wounded people soon anyway.

  I SAT UP ALL NIGHT beside Zaq. Boma was curled up on her spread-out wrapper close to us, fast asleep, her head resting on her arm, her face beautiful in the glow of the fire someone had started not too far away. I listened to the anxious murmurs of the men around the fire as they sat hunched forward, still in their white frocks. Some of them would look up and stare at me and I’d look back at them, my face full of questions, but I got only silent head shakes. Some shrank from me, as though I were an interrogator brandishing tools of torture. From the women’s section came the cries and whimpers of children, from the waterfront came the crunch of soldiers’ boots on the hard pebbles of the beach. I watched the fire burn bright and die. I was exhausted but I did not sleep. Instead I let my mind remember the many conversations we had had, right here on this island.

  Once Zaq had asked me:

  —Rufus, what books have you read?

  I mentioned a few journalism books, but he shook his head impatiently.

  —You must take a year off, one of these days, before you’re old and tired and weighed down by responsibility. Go away somewhere, and read. Read all the important books. Educate yourself, then you’ll see the world in a different way.

  It was the day after we had dug up the empty grave. We had gone to sleep exhausted by all the excitement; perhaps that was why we didn’t hear them the next morning when they opened our door. They came very early. We didn’t hear them enter, but the sun on my face woke me up. It was a wafer of a ray, flattened by a narrow crack in the door that directed the sun squarely on my face. I opened my eyes; then, seeing the three men standing solemnly just inside the doorway, I sat up. Zaq, like me, was just waking up, but already his eyes looked alert, and he was getting to his feet.

  It was Naman, with two other men I had never seen before, but who, from their clothes, seemed like priests. They stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, the gravitas around them as solid as a rock. Naman, in the middle, was tall and upright; the others were shorter, stooped, and older. One was thin and bald and mustached, and the other was portly, with a fine head of hair.

  —These are my fellow priests, and together we represent the entire community.

  Zaq stood up and faced them.

  —You are welcome, but did you have to wake us up like this?

  —You have committed a grave ill. By going to the burial ground and digging up a grave last night, you have desecrated the place, and now—

  —Hold on. What are you talking about? Who said we were at the burial ground last night?

  Zaq tried to outstare the unblinking priests, but there was neither power nor conviction in his eyes and voice. I said nothing. I sensed a certain change in Naman: this wasn’t the same man I had talked to yesterday. He seemed more distant, sadder, and yet there was a determination, a coldness I had not noticed before in him.
He was here to carry out a task, and he was going to do it, though he found the task unpleasant. Now he suddenly stepped forward and before I could draw back he took my right hand and raised it up to Zaq. I was taken by surprise and quickly curled my fingers, trying to hide the telltale red earth that my hasty washing last night hadn’t removed from under the chipped nails. Zaq’s stare wavered. He sighed.

  —Well . . .

  —Our head priest died this morning. And now we cannot bury her because your activity last night has disrupted the balance of things. A purification ceremony has to be carried out. In the meantime, please remain in your hut. The elders will hold a meeting and decide what is to be done.

  —We did what we did because you lied to us.

  Naman turned to him fiercely. —I didn’t lie to you. I told you all I knew. Please stay here till we send for you.

  —No. We’re leaving today.

  —You can’t leave till after the burial.

  —When is the burial?

  —After the purification ritual.

  —And when is that?

  —We don’t know.

  —What do you mean?

  —We don’t know how long the ritual will take, we don’t know what the ritual will be, because we have never been faced with such a situation before. No one has ever desecrated a grave before today.

  —But it wasn’t even a grave, there was no body in it . . .

  —But what if there had been a body?

  At last the bald-headed elder spoke, his voice as whispery as a ribbon of smoke. His voice was almost pleading, but in his rheumy eyes there was a threat.

  —We are having a meeting of all the elders today. Please don’t leave your hut till you have permission.

  Naman turned to go, then he stopped and looked at us, and when he spoke his voice was a bit softer.

  —In any case, there will be no ferry to take you off the island. There will be no movement or activity till after the burial. The whole community will be in mourning.