Tiny Sunbirds, Far Away

by Christie Watson

  I had kept Father a secret. Made him something he was not. I had made him into a good man. I did not understand why I had done that. But he was not the father I had thought he was. And Dan was more than I had thought.

  Of course, Dan was very frightened. He kept looking at the gate to check it was free of kidnappers. He sat down on the veranda one day and started talking; the words fell from his mouth like the rains. Some of what he said did not make sense, but it was honest. He spoke honestly about everything. We did not question him; we listened. It was painful. The words cut my ears. Every time we heard another part of the story, I cried a little more. Dan cried.

  “It was the happiest day of my life,” Dan said. “My own family. When I asked Timi if she’d rather write her own vows, less traditional than the obey me sort, she was, well, sort of perplexed. ‘Why would I?’ she asked. Oh, the joy I felt. A simple thing, a marriage between a man and a woman. So simple really. So beautiful.” His words stopped suddenly, and I thought of a wife who was cold and unloving. “And then they took me. A hand pushed me into the trunk of a car, and I couldn’t breathe. And I remember thinking, I will die today. Of that, I’m sure. Honestly, I could think of nothing else but myself. And all the time Ezikiel had been hurt …” Dan cried again. He looked at the gap where Ezikiel should have been sitting. We waited for his crying to lessen before he continued. Dan was not afraid to cry fiercely. Loud. Sobs, like a woman. It was as if he’d never cried before. He kept wiping the tears with the back of his hand and then looking at the wetness. He cried much louder than Mama. It made Mama cry a little louder than before. She kept looking at Dan as if she was checking that he did not mind her crying so loudly. Mama was not strong like I had thought. I had been wrong about so many things.

  “I counted eight minutes,” Dan continued, “as they told us to. I remembered the hostage advice the oil company had given us during a ‘hostage training day.’ I mean that says it all, doesn’t it?

  “Do whatever they ask.

  “Eat and drink whatever they give you.

  “Don’t panic.

  “That’s easy for them to write down, but in that situation, if it’s really happening, God, it’s, um, I’m sorry. They also said to:

  “Try and make friends.

  “Avoid conversation about political beliefs.

  “Avoid giving information about family members, and particularly coworkers.

  “Discuss football.

  “When I thought of that I wished for Ezikiel. I thought …” Dan stopped talking. My stomach twisted and turned until Boneboy picked up my hand. His hand was hot.

  Dan sobbed and blew his nose into a handkerchief. He pulled Mama toward him.

  “I told the men it was my wedding day, and they laughed. They laughed and said things to me, terrible things, dragging me into that boat. I needed to use the bathroom. To relieve myself. I’m very ashamed to say that I couldn’t control myself …”

  Alhaji crossed his legs, looked away, and made a small sucking sound at the back of his throat.

  “The mangroves were so thick they had to push the boat through them. I saw a kingfisher. It became dark then. They smacked my jaw with their rifles; I was in and out of consciousness. I remember closing my eyes and finding a picture of your face.” Dan pulled Mama even closer toward him. “She is my life, your mother.” Dan looked at me, and Ezikiel’s gap.

  I thought of love. The love that had happened between Dan and Mama, I had not seen before. It did not happen in every lifetime. I felt glad for Mama, that she had a love strong enough to survive this. Strong enough, I hoped, to make her survive. I wanted that kind of love one day.

  Boneboy held my hand.

  “They pretended they were going to shoot me,” Dan continued. He held Mama’s hand so tight I heard it click. She did not move. “They told me I was being executed.” He did not need to say any more. His voice became a voice in my head, among the other voices. I knew exactly what he was thinking, his insides. I imagined the rest of what had happened to him.

  “And as suddenly as it all began, it ended,” Dan went on. “The gunmen were quiet that day. So quiet, I felt sure they would execute me. The boy who seemed to be in charge took off his mask. His face was younger than I expected. Probably no more than fifteen, sixteen at the most. He untied me and gave me some water. And then they put me on a boat, which was met in the creeks by another boat, full of security men, police. Well, they just handed me over. The Western Oil Company must have paid the full ransom, otherwise I would never have got out alive.”

  Dan cried like I’d never seen a man cry. I wondered how a person’s body could contain so much water. Dan produced enough tears to put out Ezikiel’s fire. The smell of burning was replaced with water. I thought of Dan having a wife who did not love him, and a father who left. I thought of all those hurts coming out in his loud, saved-up tears. I realized that all the time I thought Dan was saving Mama, it was us saving Dan.

  After the crying, it was quiet for a few minutes and I wondered who would be the first to tell Dan. To tell him that those boys who kidnapped him were local, that Alhaji knew them, that the Western Oil Company had not paid a single kobo toward Dan’s release.

  It was Grandma who had shamed those boys into releasing Dan. They had heard about the women’s protest outside the Western Oil Company. They had felt the shame and anger of their sisters, wives, mothers at their violence. Grandma had been right. There is nothing in the world more powerful than a naked woman.

  “I need, I mean, we need … we need to leave. We’re leaving,” said Mama. She was leaning against the side of the house. We were all sitting on the veranda eating dinner. Since Ezikiel had died, Mama had found it difficult to sit still or stay upright. She touched the wall as if it were a person. As if it were Ezikiel. “We’re leaving for London. The Western Oil Company has issued a visa for me and Blessing. We can’t stay here.” Mama leaned forward and nearly fell. She sobbed and her breath broke into tiny pieces. “My heart is broken,” she said. “I can’t risk losing Dan again.” Mama looked across the compound to where Ezikiel was buried. She touched the wall again.

  We all stopped eating. It was the first thing we had eaten all day and we were on second bowls. All except Mama, who had not eaten for many weeks. Her skin looked as if it belonged to someone else. Not eating was making her look ugly. And she did not seem to care. Grandma made a choking sound as if some of the fish was stuck in her throat. Alhaji sat upright in his chair. I felt my brain swell up and press against my skull. I was spinning again. I knew that news would one day arrive, but still, I thought I might fall and let the ground hold me. I could not look at Boneboy, at Ezikiel’s grave. It was quiet except for the hum of Dan’s generator. I wondered where the money for fuel would come from if Dan left. Where any money would come from when Dan was gone. Then I looked at Mama and felt my brain move again inside my head. She might die, I thought. If she carries on staying here, not eating and touching walls, she might die.

  “Eh! You can send European Fashions!” Celestine jumped up and started dancing. The twins looked at her with their mouths open, as if even they could not believe how silly she was.

  “Blessing,” said Mama. “Blessing.” Her voice sounded far away already.

  I looked at Grandma. I looked at Alhaji, and Celestine, and the twins. I turned my head to where Ezikiel was buried. I looked at the house, the gate, the perimeter fence, the outhouse, the generator. I looked at the palm tree, the herb garden, the walnut trees. I looked at the rosette flowers, the snail farm, the makeshift mosque. I imagined the sound of the call to prayer through the loudspeaker, the river birds, the sound of the river water during the heavy rains, the harmattan wind. I smelled the roasting corn, the suya, Mama’s perfume, Celestine’s sweat. I remembered the feeling of the softness on top of a baby’s head when it was entering the world. I closed my fingers around the memories.

  Finally, I looked at Boneboy. “I cannot leave,” I said. I had never sounded more certain.


  It was late afternoon the next day, the stickiness of midday was relaxing, the heat was no longer visible, and the ground was hardening again. Grandma found me behind the outhouse where I was sitting with my head in my hands.

  Grandma removed my hands from where they covered my face.

  “I do not want to go,” I said. “Dan should stay here. He is Nigerian now. When you marry one you become one. He is our brother. Our uncle. He is our father!”

  I couldn’t believe it. The words had left my mouth and with them a rush of thoughts entered my brain. I remembered again Father drinking palm wine and shouting at Mama, slapping her hard across one cheek. Father drinking Star beer and throwing a plate across the room, Mama picking up pieces of china from the floor. Mama’s scream as she found him on top of another woman. His cool-skin hand around my neck. Thoughts of Dan, watching his birds, choking on fishbones, being bitten by Snap, and being jumped on by Celestine. Being kidnapped. And loving Mama like I had never seen love.

  I started crying. Grandma nodded. “I know,” she said. “You do not have to go.” She put her arms around me, swallowing me up with a cuddle, and kissed my head. “But it is the best thing,” she said over the top of my head, “if you go.”

  I moved away from Grandma and looked at her face. I could not believe what I was hearing. Did she not love me as I loved her? “Eh!” I said. “You think I should go?”

  I wanted to explain, I wanted to be an Ijaw girl and stay forever near Warri. I needed Mama to understand I was as much a part of the Delta as the mango and almond trees, the mangrove swamps, the river, and the red earth.

  “I cannot leave you,” I shouted. “I cannot leave here, my home. This is my home! I do not understand.”

  “I do,” said Grandma.

  “Why?” My mouth was wide open. I was shocked. I could not believe that Grandma felt any different from me. After all that time she was my world. I thought I was hers. I felt so much shock my skin became cold.

  Grandma thought for many seconds. Her face ruffled up into a thousand wrinkles. Finally, she smiled. “Some people carry the world inside them,” she said. “You are one of those people. I am old and Alhaji is old and Ezikiel is gone. We will not be here forever. A fish that can see its water is getting shallower cannot be stranded. You need to be with your mama. She has suffered enough. And your mama needs to be with Dan. He is a foolish man, but a good man, and all men are foolish anyway. He is a good man.”

  “I do not understand. Nothing makes sense. I will never leave here! This is my home. I just do not understand …”

  “Yes, you do,” said Grandma, and then she stood up, pulling me up with her, as if that was enough. Then she pointed to the area where Ezikiel was buried. Mama was lying on top of the ground with her face pressed down in the dirt. She was so thin that she looked like a pile of clothes. I watched her back rise slowly upward and flatten back down into the ground. I looked at Grandma.

  I spent the rest of the day walking around the compound looking for answers. Alhaji told me I should go to London to make a better life, study, make money, explore the world. But I could not leave my life near Warri. I was home. I was never alone. Even when I was alone. Ezikiel was still with me. And Grandma. I could not leave Grandma. I would rather die. Mama did not say anything; she just lay down on top of the ground where Ezikiel lay underneath her.

  Dan called me over in the evening. “I hope you’ll come with us,” he said. “I know how difficult this must be for you. It won’t be easy, things will take time, but I think we have a real chance to build a life together. As a family. And we don’t have that chance here. Not at the moment, anyway, not here. Your mother needs professional help, at least counseling. I think she needs proper help, what she’s been through …” Dan closed his eyes but I could still see behind his eyelids. Mama was there, Father’s hand wrapped around her throat.

  “I hope you’ll come. But I understand if you don’t.” And then he held my hand. I looked closely into his eyes for the first time. I smiled and held Dan’s hand back. “I love your mama, and I want to take care of her,” he said. “Help her to get well again. And I love you too.”

  “I know,” I said. It was enough to make him smile the biggest smile I had ever seen. I played it again and again in my head. I love you too. I love you too. I love you too.

  It was the first time I had heard the words. I stretched my brain into my memories as far as they would reach, but I could not hear Father saying those words to me. Just to the other woman.

  Celestine followed me around the garden, singing.

  “Papa don’t preach,” she sang. “Imagine. London. All that Lycra. Hamburgers.” But later she pulled me close and whispered. “You go and study and never forget where you came from. You could change things for people in the Delta. Make use of your time, study hard. You could change the world. Because you will always be one of us, abi?” I looked closely at Celestine. “Go, but make sure you come back to us. Make sure you return home. Warri no dey carry last!” By then she was winding her way around the garden and talking about fast food, but I could see there was more to her. Much more than Alhaji had bargained for.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  There was another wedding. A small affair, unheard of in Nigeria. The only guests me, Grandma, Celestine, the twins, Boneboy, Alhaji. And of course Ezikiel. He filled the air around us. Flying and dancing and singing. Ezikiel was everywhere, making long, thin shadows. I watched the day turn to night, the sun turn orange filling the sky with jewels. Everything seemed possible. The flowers packing the garden with the smell of happiness. Life and death smelled the same, but happiness and sadness smelled very different. Sadness had numbed my senses until it was impossible to remember what the river sounded like at dawn, or what the early evening sun did to my skin, or how it felt to hear Ezikiel call my name. Happiness lifted the blanket from me and I could feel once more, with my whole self.

  Mama looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her, even though her skin was hanging off. She glittered and shone in the sunlight, and her frown line added spice to her face. She hummed a song I recognized but could not remember. She could not smile, but to hear Mama hum a song was better than holding a new baby.

  Mama and Dan stood at the front of the mosque like two young people—she in her simple wrapper, he in gray trousers and shirt, the imam before them, no loudspeaker. She, leaning against him. Him, holding her up.

  Dan held the Koran softly, as though it was Mama’s hand, stroking the outside with his fingers. He spoke words in Arabic, badly, but Alhaji nodded his head anyway and shook ever so slightly. Dan bowed his head to Allah. I noticed how strong his shoulders looked. How straight his spine was. Mama covered her hair completely with a scarf, pulling it over her forehead. Even so, I could see all of her, inside her body, right to her bones. I could feel Ezikiel right beside me, holding my hand.

  The imam chanted the Koran and spoke in Arabic. Dan did not smile with his mouth. The smile vanished from his lips and traveled to his eyes, where it stayed. Dan’s eyes lit up the garden, moon-blue, icy and sharp.

  There was no music, only the birds singing in the garden trees and the distant laughter from the street outside. Dan did not notice. He did not look up at any bird, even the brilliant yellow bird darting above us and over us, showing off his beautiful feathers. Dan could look only at Mama.

  The smell of kerosene, and roasting corn, and decomposing spinach leaves from the snail farm, and bright bursting flowers changed as the light fell, became stronger, sweeter, honey. The wedding took hours, as though the imam realized it was the only chance to have Dan hold the Koran. And the time seemed to pass slowly, even the sun dropped down centimeter by centimeter, which was unusual. Usually it fell into the ground causing darkness to shock us every evening. But that evening there were no shocks, no surprises. It was perfect, as it should have been.

  After a long time of peaceful chanting and happy air, Alhaji put his hand out, and the imam stopped. “Now,” said Alhaji
stepping forward, “now you are our husband.”

  Dan laughed and pulled Mama toward him to kiss her mouth. Nobody looked away. I felt no hotness creeping over my cheeks.

  They kissed with their eyes wide open.

  Afterward there was wedding cake. It had been baked by Mama Akpan, who by then had an inside kitchen with a range cooker and eight burners. The cake was chocolate inside, covered with white icing. I could not wait to try it. Grandma cut it into pieces and handed a small piece to Mama and nodded. Mama knelt slowly onto the ground, in front of Dan. She reached up to his mouth with her arm and put the cake to his lips. It was the traditional thing to do. I felt amazed that Mama had performed something traditional. Grandma laughed and smiled. She reached for Alhaji’s arm.

  Dan laughed, opened his mouth, and bit. He chewed slowly. Then he pulled Mama up toward him, away from the ground, which did not want to hold her for long. Nobody clapped, but Grandma pushed her hands together in front of her chest and squeezed.

  Dan turned to Alhaji. He reached out and patted his shoulders. Alhaji nodded and smiled. Then Dan dropped to his knees before Alhaji and lowered his head. He looked up at Alhaji. He bent his head again and reached up to take Alhaji’s hands. Alhaji pulled Dan up to standing and put his arms around him. They held each other. Both of them. Oil and water.