Lament for the Fallen

by Gavin Chait

  Joshua thinks on that, of Ewuru, and the slow accretion of the years. ‘What is the meaning for us?’

  Ghanim turns, shaking his head. ‘Not for you. For me.’

  He looks at Samara in admiration. ‘Your father was very wise. We should not take the shape of our old world with us when we step into the new.’

  ‘That is a meaning, yes,’ says Samara. ‘Each person takes their own message from my father’s stories.’

  Joshua thinks, realizing there are depths for him, too.

  ‘Even if we had the strength to fight the warlords,’ continues Ghanim, ‘we should not do so. Not their way. They are dying out. Isolated. There is no wealth left to plunder and such that they have is falling apart.

  ‘If we fight them,’ appraising his brother, ‘if we fight them, we become them. No better.’

  He rests his arm on Faysal’s shoulder, staring out into the garden.

  ‘Would that I had your people’s longevity, Samara, I would suffer the time it will take.’

  ‘They are stories, not instructions,’ says Samara.

  ‘I understand,’ says Ghanim, ‘but a wise man would listen even to stories.’

  35

  It is a night and a day and another night.

  Many families appear to live in the compound, and there are numerous kitchens, libraries and courtyards. Children study amongst the books, tutors at their sides. At times, they play in the gardens. During the day, the only adults about are women, reading or talking amongst themselves. If they are bored with their lot, they hide it well.

  There are guest rooms and the food is tasty although different to what they are used to.

  ‘What do you call this triangular parcel?’ asks Jason, eating while reclining on one of the sofas in the gazebo.

  ‘It is a samosa,’ says Joshua. ‘And these are falafel.’

  Jason holds a samosa up between his thumb and forefinger. ‘It is really extremely good,’ he says, his mouth full.

  ‘Yes, we are well treated,’ says Sarah.

  Even so, the walls are high and armed men patrol them throughout the day and night. Faysal is a quiet presence.

  ‘It feels like a prison,’ says Daniel.

  ‘That is because it is, both for us and for them,’ says Joshua.

  They lapse into silence. Their weapons have been taken from them, and the guards seem to divide their time between staring over the wall and nervously watching Samara.

  ‘You are well trained,’ says Samara.

  Daniel spears an olive with a toothpick and chews it carefully. Satisfied, he assembles a few more. ‘We train every day,’ he says. ‘More than those militia. They think having a gun is all that is required.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ says Samara. He is standing in the shade of an oil palm. He has eaten throughout the day, recovering his strength.

  ‘What for?’ asks Sarah. ‘You almost removed that man’s head. I never even saw you move. They were so surprised, we had plenty of time.’

  She is plaiting Abishai’s hair. A hot iron in her hand as she seals the hair extensions in place.

  ‘If I were well. If Symon and I were in alignment – we would never have walked into that trap. I would have seen where to go. I would have known where they were.’

  ‘Do you blame yourself?’ asks Joshua.

  ‘I do not blame myself for my situation. I am apologizing for the danger I keep bringing upon you.’

  ‘Samara,’ says David. He rises and walks over to where Samara is standing. ‘I have never learned as much as since you came to Ewuru.’ The others are nodding. ‘I am sorry that the circumstances could not have been different, but I am honoured to have met you. I am honoured to experience your being. Your memory will be with us, always.’

  It is a long speech from the quietest of the group. Sarah stands and embraces David from behind, her arms across his stomach.

  ‘For me too,’ she says. The others nod.

  Abishai, with only half her hair in braids, says, ‘Hey, we need to finish here. We leave in the morning.’ She is smiling.

  Samara is silent.

  Daniel turns to Joshua. ‘What will we do after?’ he asks.

  ‘You mean after Samara returns to his people?’

  Daniel nods. ‘You told Ghanim that we are to be a city. He seems to understand more even than the amama.’

  Joshua lies back, staring up at the pale-blue sky.

  ‘It was my great-grandfather’s plan. More a fragment of a dream. To build a chain of free independent cities all along the Akwayafe. We have achieved a small freedom, but we do so slowly. Our towns are too small to offer even such as the opportunities in Calabar. You have seen how it is here. Entertainment, variety. Food we do not get at home. Trade goods from many places. These things also attract those who fear or feed on others.

  ‘With our new sphere we will be able to communicate with the other villages. We will be able to share knowledge. Coordinate our efforts. Our culture will grow.’

  He leans up on one elbow, looking from face to face.

  ‘I have a vision,’ he says, his face rested and his eyes bright.

  ‘I imagine that Ewuru is a great white city. Our lands extend almost to the cliffs at the edge of the forests. I see our people, wealthy, strong. We are the equals of the sky people.

  ‘In the centre of our city, on the edge overlooking the Akwayafe, is our Ekpe House and the amphitheatre before it. There is a square, lined with the statues of our most treasured leaders, scholars and –’ he pauses, grins ‘– storytellers. Our university is the greatest in our nation. Our graduates spread through the land, sharing their knowledge, teaching. There is honest trade and ships visit our city from free peoples across the world.

  ‘Our people are at peace. Have always known peace. There is justice. Equality before the law. Compassion.’

  He is silent.

  Daniel touches his shoulder. ‘My brother, I would be proud to build that dream with you.’

  Joshua furrows his brow, looks humbled. Abishai looks as if she will burst with pride.

  In the evening, Ghanim returns.

  He whispers to Samara. ‘There is no war.’

  ‘You were careful?’

  ‘We have done as you asked. I spoke with my cousin in Creek Town. I asked no more than what is the news from across the waters. We discussed a few matters, but there is no war.’

  ‘Thank you, Ghanim. I am relieved.’

  ‘One other thing,’ he smiles. ‘Your battery is charged,’ and leads Samara into a narrow room where an oblong black block, the size of an ox, rests on wooden posts laid flat on the ground.

  Samara studies it, licking each of his thumbs. He places them across the terminals for a moment. He nods towards Joshua, then moves over to Ghanim. ‘I thank you. You are true to your word.’

  Ghanim raises his right hand and touches it to his heart. ‘I am grateful for your custom. In the morning, Faysal will lead you to Beach Town. And, if your friends will complete our business?’

  Faysal indicates a console fastened to the wall. Joshua places his card in the console tray. He, Abishai and Daniel sign, and the transaction is complete.

  ‘I would be honoured if you would join my family for dinner, as my guests,’ says Ghanim.

  ‘It would be our pleasure,’ says Joshua.

  36

  ‘You were friends, once,’ says d’Este, his voice cold but probing.

  He and Argenti are sitting on the veranda of his house in Harbour Town on the hill overlooking the lights of the marina. Both their guards stand watchfully, observing each other.

  Four sections of a kola nut pod lie on a white ceramic plate on the table between them. The ceremony as between guest and host is complete. After first offering, and then refusing the honour, d’Este split the pod, both immediately remarking on their good fortune.

  ‘Whatever good he is looking for, he will see it.’

  They are not friends.

  ‘Never a friend,’ says Argenti,
his eyes hidden behind his dark glasses.

  He is drinking from a tall glass, ice cubes plinking against the tepid water. Neither will touch anything else in the presence of the other. The obligatory bottle of palm wine, brought as a gift by Argenti, will remain unopened. Later, it will be fed to the pigs.

  Argenti is visiting, but this is not a social call.

  ‘Colleagues, then,’ pushes d’Este.

  ‘Rivals. Guido Guerra was old, losing his Juju,’ says Argenti. His words suggest that d’Este, similarly old, should take heed.

  D’Este laughs, the sound brittle and mocking.

  ‘Yes, Guerra was old. And a fool. He looked to his whores more than to his business. You were both right to murder him. You did us a service,’ d’Este’s voice is a query. ‘You never have told me the story of what happened between the three of you.’

  Argenti is silent. D’Este still controls the most lucrative of the Calabar markets. Argenti, squeezed between Henshaw and Big Qua, must make do with Duke Town. That does not suit the scale of his ambition.

  ‘Uberti tricked you, yes?’ hunting for a crack in the composure carefully hidden behind dark lenses. ‘Henshaw was the prize. It must hurt to sit there in its shadow?’

  Argenti’s jaw is a tight bunch of grinding muscle. He breathes sharply out through his nose, startling the guards.

  ‘Yes. But he is losing his grip. I want the right to take it from him.’

  D’Este grins quietly. He has won. He has made Argenti ask.

  ‘What is it worth to you?’

  ‘Uberti sold his sons into slavery for Henshaw,’ says Argenti, his voice bitter.

  D’Este nods. ‘And I sold my second wife and her children for Harbour Town. It was a good deal. Egbo is fair. If you want it, you buy the right to seize it from the other Awbong. Have you spoken to Corneto?’

  Rinier Corneto controls Big Qua Town and is the other crucial Awbong in Argenti’s plan. The warlords across the river in Creek Town, Alligator Town and the other districts are minnows.

  ‘Yes, I met him yesterday. I promised him my two youngest wives and five per cent of Henshaw Market’s comey for five years.’

  D’Este smiles, he knows Argenti paid more, but he will not start negotiating just yet.

  ‘Tell me about Guerra,’ he says.

  ‘It doesn’t matter any more,’ says Argenti.

  Argenti and Uberti joined the militia as children. In those days they could still live off the people in the lands outside Calabar. He remembers when he was twelve, the first time he raped a village girl. His excitement and terror at the blood and heat. The girl had lain there, silent, staring at him in the darkness. Her eyes unblinking and dead. Uberti took his turn straight after him.

  That was how they were. Uberti followed him. Even then, Argenti was calculating, silent. Uberti coarse and loud. He had assumed that Uberti was content to let him lead. He had underestimated the savagery of the man.

  They joined Guerra when he was still working his way through the rabble of warlords raiding villages around Calabar. Two teenage boys indistinguishable from the other militia, living from day to day on scraps left over by the stronger men as they went from village to village. Gradually, though, the villages emptied, their people taking refuge in the slums around Calabar. The warlords in the city were too powerful and would attack them if they came near. Argenti thinks that the scar on his belly was caused by one of d’Este’s men. After he was shot, he almost died from the infection until an Idiong man poured some foul potion on his stomach and cauterized the wound. They lost many fighters that day and were forced out into the wilderness.

  Once they travelled far, almost to Cameroon. He does not remember where they ended up. The village they stumbled on was much larger than they had seen even during his childhood around Calabar. There was a high wall, meticulously laid out farmland and a crowded market visible through the gates as they stared out through the trees. They had ignored the white sentry posts along the edge of the forest. Peasants use them to keep animals out of the fields. They were not animals and the sensors ignored them. They should have thought longer about that.

  The village was a little higher than the level of the river, with their lands sloping up and towards the jungle. Like half of a wide, gently sloping bowl.

  The militia had been so excited that they had simply charged straight at it, Guerra leading and roaring at the front.

  Argenti realized their mistake when they were still midway across the cassava fields.

  A group of people, women amongst them, appeared across the top of the wall. They were armed and started shooting immediately. He noticed that they did not fire randomly as the raiders did. Their shots struck home with terrifying accuracy.

  They were running back into the jungle before they had even begun.

  Uberti and Argenti swore a blood oath that day that Guerra would have to be punished for almost getting them killed.

  There were only eight of them who returned to Calabar. No longer a force, they sold themselves to Nimrod, then the Awbong of Big Qua Town. They were starving, sick and their clothing in scraps.

  Uberti and Argenti stayed close to Guerra as he murdered and bought his way up through Nimrod’s organization. In the war between the Awbong that followed Nimrod’s death, Guerra won control of Henshaw Town. He beheaded fifty slaves in Henshaw Market as an offering to his ndem for his good fortune.

  Uberti and Argenti waited.

  ‘You, I understand,’ says d’Este. ‘You are that patient. But Uberti? He doesn’t seem a patient man?’

  ‘It was my mistake. He is a messy thug. I thought of him as stupid, not calculating,’ says Argenti.

  There was stability in Calabar, for a time. The warlords were at a stalemate. Each watching the other from within his domain. Their raiding parties would return with less and less from the rural areas around the city. Every so often, debris would fall, but it was rarely worth the effort of going out to seek it. Only Uberti seemed stupid enough to waste his time.

  ‘That was how he bought his way,’ says d’Este.

  ‘Titles were cheaper then, and debris fall was more predictable. That trick will not work again,’ says Argenti.

  Ten years ago, the fabricators revolted. They had been printing weapons for themselves for months. A few extra at a time whenever the Awbong demanded new rifles, smuggled out of the market. They were also deliberately sabotaging replacement parts for the various militia. Subtle weaknesses in the firing mechanisms. The printers in Henshaw started first, refusing to pay comey. The other markets followed.

  Guerra sent men to persuade the printers. That was when the Awbong discovered the fabricators now had their own protection. Guerra’s men were butchered in Henshaw Market.

  Many of the Awbong blamed Guerra for the chaos.

  Uberti and Argenti struck, using their shift on guard in Guerra’s house to dismember their leader. Argenti assumed he would simply claim Henshaw Town.

  He misunderstood Uberti’s preparations.

  ‘He had already spoken to the other Awbong. He sold his sons, one to each of the leading Awbong. Promised ten per cent of his market take. He laughed at me when I realized I would have nothing,’ says Argenti.

  He took the men loyal to himself and fought hard. The Awbong were in crisis, still agreeing terms with the fabricators. Argenti took a risk and bought new weapons from the printers. He still remembers his fear following the purchase lasting until he gunned down a few peasants along the shore of Beach Town. The guns worked. His attack was successful, and he gained a foothold beneath Henshaw Town.

  The years that followed were lean. The fabricators were content to leave the warlords alone, so long as they were paid for their services and were not subject to the comey of the smaller traders.

  The Awbong watch, spy in the markets, make sure that no one else organizes themselves.

  The markets in Harbour and Big Qua, however, remain profitable. As d’Este knows, sacrifices to the ndem are essential to cont
inued success. His Images dismember a living girl in his market every year. Corneto prefers machine-gunning his staked offering, but the result is the same. Uberti has not gone against the will of the fabricators in Henshaw Market, taking his sacrifices instead to the trees out in the swamps.

  ‘And now you feel that Uberti is vulnerable?’

  ‘Yes, and I am no longer patient,’ says Argenti.

  ‘All you are buying is Egbo leaving you to fight. No one will move to support either of you.’ D’Este is laughing softly.

  ‘I am ready. Uberti will fall,’ says Argenti.

  It is time, thinks d’Este. ‘And what will you pay for Henshaw Town?’

  Argenti does not hesitate. ‘Will you take my second wife, all her children and my three youngest sons? I also offer five per cent of Henshaw Market for five years.’

  D’Este smiles, his face cruel. ‘Ten per cent for five years, your family as before, and forty slaves,’ he says.

  Resigned, Argenti nods his acceptance.

  37

  Beach Town is quiet as Faysal leads Joshua and the others down to the shore.

  The stalls are wrapped in tarpaulins, the homes dark and closed. The skyline is vaguely outlined by dim electric arcs from within the poorly maintained solar resin smothering every roof. Prefabricated cellulosic walls clipped together like a child’s game of cards. Chickens cluck and cocks cry. Otherwise, all is in stillness, fog-drenched before dawn.

  A smelly stream of effluent winds its way through the shacks and down to the beach. There are no street lights. Sodden wrappers, empty cigarette cartridges, used sanitary napkins and other flotsam line the upper tidal range along the shore.

  Four guards carry the battery, fastened to two poles thrust beneath it. Joshua runs ahead, indicating their boats. They are careful carrying it down the beach, their feet sinking deeply into the slimy, muddy banks.

  Many boats are tied up here, most empty. A network of ropes runs from the bows across to posts hammered deep into the ground. It is low tide, and the boats are leaning to their sides in the dark mud. Their boats are half-filled with water from the rains over the past few nights.