Oil on Water

by Helon Habila

  —I realized how lonely I had been all this while. What we had, me and James, couldn’t really be called a marriage. At first we used to phone every day, but then many days would pass without a word from him. He always claimed that the infrastructure in Nigeria was just awful. Well, I had a brilliant idea. I was going to have a baby. I was going to go to Nigeria on a surprise visit, get pregnant, and everything would be fine.

  At first he appeared happy to see her, and every day he came home early from work; there were invitations from other families for cocktails and garden parties, and trips to Lagos and Abuja—in the evenings they’d sit out on the veranda, with its view of the distant sea, and eat, refreshed by the sea breeze. But then, abruptly, things changed. A bomb exploded at his office, and the next day an Italian worker was kidnapped. He started coming home late, saying things were crazy at the office, and he had to be there all the time. After a month of waiting for things to change, of going to the club to play tennis with some of the wives, of sipping sherry under umbrellas by the pool, alone, she realized that was it, and things were not going to change.

  —When, in desperation, I told him about my intention to get pregnant, he said it was out of the question. And that was when he told me he was seeing someone else. He didn’t tell me whom, and I assumed it was one of the many expatriate women I always saw at the club. He told me he wanted a divorce.

  I kept nodding, keeping my expression pleasant and interested, comparing what she was telling me with what her husband had told me. I tried to calm my excitement: I was being handed a major scoop, and, though I had no pen or recorder, I was storing every word, every inflection of her voice.

  —Well, he said the affair had been going on for a while, and . . . and that she was pregnant. You can imagine how I felt, the shock. It was as if a cloud had risen in the room, roaring and blocking out every other thing. I couldn’t see. I needed to be alone, to think. It was late at night and I didn’t know the roads very well. The driver, Salomon, always took me out, but I didn’t care. I took the car and went to the club. My plan was to leave for London the next morning.

  But she was surprised to find that Salomon had come to look for her there. At first she thought he was waiting to drive her home, but then she noticed he wasn’t wearing his blue-and-black uniform.

  —Hello, Solomon . . .

  —Salomon.

  She realized she had always referred to him as Solomon, and he had never corrected her, till now.

  —Oh, sorry.

  —It’s okay. No problem.

  —Did James send you?

  —No, madam. I came to talk to you about something serious.

  He looked and sounded different. He was wearing a jacket—a bit tight around the shoulders—and it gave him a more formal air than the uniform ever did; and he wasn’t speaking the usual pidgin English that she found so irksome and that always had to be explained to her. Today he spoke a grammatically faultless English, and even the accent was modified, easy to understand. Later she discovered that he was actually a university graduate who, like a lot of young men in the Delta, had been forced to take a job far below his qualifications while he waited for that elusive office job with an oil company. She gave him the car keys and they drove—she had no idea where they were going, but she didn’t care. Something told her what she was about to hear wasn’t going to be pleasant. He said nothing as he drove but she could feel him watching her in the car mirror. Finally they stopped at what looked like a roadside motel.

  —Can I get a drink here?

  —Yes. My uncle owns this place.

  —Good. I’ll have a whiskey.

  He led her into a deserted bar, and they sat in a dark corner. The bartender glanced briefly at them and returned to reading his magazine. Salomon went to the bar and returned with her drink.

  —Thanks. Aren’t you having anything?

  —No, madam. I’m fine.

  —Okay, what is it?

  —It’s about Koko.

  —Koko? What about Koko?

  Koko was the maid. She cooked and cleaned three days a week.

  —Koko is my fiancée. Yesterday she told me she was pregnant.

  He looked mournful, uncomfortable. He sat stiffly on the edge of his seat, and he avoided her eyes as he spoke.

  —Well, Salomon, congratulations, but I’m in no mood to celebrate—

  —No, not by me. She is pregnant by the Oga.

  She didn’t feel anger or sadness; she had already exhausted that emotion the night before. She only felt surprised that she had been unable to detect what was going on, right under her nose, and she felt sadness, not for herself but for Salomon.

  —Do you love her?

  He nodded, the bitterness now plain on his face, making his mouth twist at the side and his eyes turn red and teary.

  —I love her.

  —I’m sorry.

  —It is not fair. How can Oga do this to me? I respected him. I trusted him, and see what he did to me. Why? I want to know why, can you please tell me?

  —And, suddenly, I didn’t feel like seeing James again. I didn’t want to go home; I couldn’t. I told Salomon to take me to any good hotel, and he suggested I stay there, at his uncle’s motel.

  —And you weren’t scared of staying there? You trusted Salomon that much?

  —I guess I did. I had known him for over six months by then, and . . . it was a good motel, really. It was quite clean, but, most important, it was the last place James would come looking for me.

  —But why didn’t you go back to the club?

  —Because that was the first place James would come looking for me. And I didn’t want to see them, my fellow expatriates, with their phony smiles, laughing at me behind my back. I just wanted to be alone . . . I gave Salomon a note for James. I told him to give Salomon my things, that I was leaving the next day, that I would call him when I got to London. And—

  She was interrupted by a hand parting a slit in the tent’s entrance and a face peeping in—it was the young girl, Alali, and she entered with a single item of clothing held gingerly in her hand. Isabel took it—it was a blouse—and put it beside her on the mat. She smiled up at the girl, who smiled back and skipped out of the tent.

  I waited for her to resume where she’d stopped, and as I waited my nervousness returned. She had told me a great deal, but there was still a lot more to tell, and what if she didn’t want to go on—how should I persuade her to finish the story? So far all I had was one half of a story. What would I do with it if I didn’t get the other half? She closed her eyes and held one palm to her forehead—she wasn’t well, it was obvious.

  —Mrs. Floode . . . are you all right? Do you need a rest? We can continue later . . .

  She nodded gratefully.

  —Yes, please. I have a crushing headache . . .

  I left. It was a long way to Port Harcourt and I was sure there’d be another opportunity to finish the interview. Besides, I was also feeling tired. The initial burst of energy I’d felt when she granted me the interview was dissipating. I met the girl outside and she took me to Tamuno and Michael. They were by the water, stripped to the waist, working on a boat, patching holes with tar and scraping mud from the bottom. Other men were equally busy getting their boats ready for departure. The old man took my hand and pumped it energetically. The boy wrapped his arms around my waist and for a moment I was reminded of how he had done the same to Zaq when Zaq agreed to take him back to Port Harcourt. Now I wondered if that promise would ever be kept.

  —But where Oga Zaq? You come alone?

  I sat next to them and told them about Irikefe, about the fallen statues and the burned houses, about the injured worshippers held more or less as prisoners by the occupying soldiers. They worked as I talked, and the water in the river flowed, and the men came and went, calling out
to each other, and for a moment I believed that my adventure was over and that by this time tomorrow I’d be in Port Harcourt, perhaps writing my story, safe, and wiser from my experiences.

  19

  But that was a dangerous thought, an illusion—like a drowning man letting down his guard at the sight of shore, deceived by the promise of safety, and drowning as a consequence. We were still deep in militant territory and, as if to remind me of this, the militants came. They must have been watching us and waiting, as we were, for nightfall. They waited until all the boats were loaded and everyone was on board and about to sail before they appeared. The roar of their speedboats was deafening, the glare of their flashlights blinded our eyes and threw the women and children into panic and confusion. Some of the women and children started to jump into the shallow water, some threw themselves below the benches, but, above the cries and wails of women and even men, one voice rose and tried to maintain calm—it was Chief Ibiram’s, from the lead boat. I could see his silhouette as he stood up, his arms raised.

  —Calm down. Sit still. Everybody, sit down.

  The militants said nothing and continued to circle in their boats, blocking all avenues of sudden escape, and then at last, when the noise had gone down a bit, a man in one of the boats stood up and shouted over the water:

  —We want the white woman now. Give us the white woman and her driver and we won’t harm you. If you don’t we will sink all your boats and set fire to your things. If you tink say na joke, try us.

  I was in Tamuno’s boat with Isabel and Salomon. We were sitting side by side, and behind us father and son watched and waited in silence. I waited. And then the man started to count:

  —One, two, three . . .

  The third count was accompanied by gunfire aimed into the cloudy night sky. Isabel stood up, holding on to my shoulder for balance, and I could feel how her hand shook. And when she spoke her words were almost a sob:

  —I . . . am here. Please . . . don’t shoot. I’m here.

  The light fell on her. She removed the black scarf covering her chopped hair, and with the other hand she covered her eyes from the blinding flashlight.

  —Bring her here. Now!

  This was accompanied by another wild gunshot into the sky. The old man lowered his oar into the water and rowed, and slowly we went past the other boats, past the neutral space between our men and the militants, and then we were with them. Two men jumped out of a boat, still holding their guns on us, and helped Isabel out and into their boat.

  —Where is the driver?

  Salomon stood up and, in trying to get out, fell into the water and came up again, gasping for breath. The two men pulled him out and pushed him onto a seat next to Isabel, and then, when we thought it was over, the leader of the militants let off another shot into the sky.

  —Chief Ibiram, why did you do this? Are you now on their side? Are you trying to take her back to get a reward, is that so?

  —It is not so. We are only trying to help her. She came to us and begged—

  —She came to you, then you should have known what to do. Tell me, what should you have done when my prisoner escapes and comes to you? I can’t hear you. Louder!

  —I should have come to you. I am sorry. This will not happen again.

  —You are right, it will not happen again. To make sure it doesn’t I will take one of you with me. Just as insurance. When we are sure you haven’t gone to the government soldiers to betray us, he will be released. You decide who.

  I noticed Tamuno inching closer to his son and putting a protective arm around him; I was sure that behind me, in the other boats, mothers were wrapping their arms around their children, and fathers were lowering their heads in anxiety.

  —Chief, we are waiting. One, two, three . . .

  Again a flash and the rude sound of gunfire, followed by silence. I could imagine Chief Ibiram in his boat, and the million things going through his mind.

  —Well, since no one is willing to come, we will take this boy here.

  And again the two men jumped into the water and came to our boat.

  —Nooo! Abeg. Please! Noo!

  The cry came from the old man as the men approached our boat; he threw himself at them as they began to drag Michael out of the boat, his puny arms rising and falling ineffectually against the men’s burly frames, but still he fought them, his rage churning up the water. The boy grabbed tightly on to my arm, screaming for his father. I saw a gun rise and then descend on the old man’s head and he slumped against the boat and then into the water. Slowly I stood up, my arms raised. An image of the boy proudly scrawling his name in the sand came to my mind, and it seemed like just yesterday. The old man had served us diligently in the hope that we’d take his son to Port Harcourt and a better future, and instead we had led him to incarceration and being doused in petrol. Now the old man lay faceup in the water, and his son was about to be taken away.

  —I will go. Take me. Leave the boy alone.

  I got into the water and helped Tamuno back into the boat. Then the two men took my arms and we waded to their boat, where they shoved me in beside Salomon and Isabel.

  THEY WERE THE MASTERS of the waterways—they knew every turning, every shallow, every rapid; many times I expected our boat to crash into some shadowy form looming suddenly in front of us—a tree, a rock—but our boat would effortlessly curve away into the darkness and into an open expanse of water and the men would let their guns roar as if in defiance of danger and death. There were five boats with four men in each, all armed, all eager to shoot off a few rounds at the slightest opportunity. Salomon and Isabel and I hung on for dear life as the boats ate up the darkness. I had expected a blindfold, but nobody paid me or my fellow prisoners any attention once we left Chief Ibiram and his people.

  Our destination turned out to be closer than I had anticipated—we got there in under thirty minutes, and even in the dark I could appreciate how impregnable the approach to land was. It was one solid slab of granite rising sheer from the water, and not till we left the boats did I see the tiny steps cut into the rock face; they looked no more than hand- and toeholds, but they were cut in a curving zigzag, making the climb easier than one would have expected, yet still daunting to someone not fully recovered from a fever, and hungry, and prodded by guns in the back, and unsure of whatever lay in store. Our arrival was announced by more gunshots and whoops and calls, but the camp was clearly asleep. A few fires burned to illuminate makeshift sheds and tents, and two sentries appeared suddenly from behind trees, their presence indicated only by the inevitable cigarette between their lips. Salomon and I were dumped under a tree, while Isabel was led away to a group of tents. Although we couldn’t see any guards in our immediate vicinity, I knew they were there, shadowy, watching, waiting. I turned to my companion, but he had dragged himself to the foot of the tree and was seated with his back against it, his head lowered to his knees, and after a while I realized he was sobbing.

  —Salomon, are you all right?

  He said nothing, and I decided to let him cry in peace. I could imagine how terrified he must be. After all, he had helped the woman escape, and he knew a terrible punishment awaited him in the morning. I hoped he would be composed enough to grant me an interview before they came for him . . . for us. I was aware that unless I could prove I was a journalist, and that I could be useful to the militants with my piece, my fate wouldn’t be any better than Salomon’s. I lay on my back and closed my eyes, but that night sleep didn’t come easily.

  IN THE MORNING I was awakened by a kick in the ribs. I sat up, holding my aching side, and saw a man with a gun standing over me. He said nothing, only motioned with his gun. He wanted me to stand up. I stood up. Salomon was already on his feet, and from his swollen and bloodshot eyes I could tell he hadn’t slept much last night.

  —Let’s go.

  Another gunman appear
ed and led the way through the center of the camp. The militants were already awake and busy. Men and a few women crawled in and out of canvas tents; others sat or stood under trees in groups, talking and smoking and cleaning their guns. All seemed to be dressed in black, some wearing headbands and some wearing masks.

  —Keep walking.

  We went deeper into the camp, away from the river, and as we went the trees grew denser, our path grew narrower and I kept looking around trying to spot Isabel, or Gloria. We passed a group standing before an open fire, and when the smell of the meat they were roasting reached me my legs almost buckled. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. We passed another group standing in a circle, singing in loud, discordant voices, and when I recognized the song as one from my long-ago Sunday school, I did so with shock. A tall man with gray hair stood in the center of the circle, frenziedly waving a Bible in the air, his eyes closed, leading the song. Our escorts finally led us to another group sitting under a leafless tree standing by itself in a large circular clearing. There were already about half a dozen men sitting under the tree, and they all looked abject and forlorn. At the edge of the clearing I saw two militants sitting on boulders, guns lying in the grass beside them.