The Water Thief

by Claire Hajaj

  ‘Thank god.’ Relief weakened his legs, making them tremble. Dr Ahmed put his hand on Nick’s shoulder. ‘There is other news,’ he said. ‘Go to the well and see.’

  Nick made his way down the steps, followed by Tuesday. Mr Kamil clapped him on the arm, and Imam Abdi bobbed his head. Aisha was there, with a befuddled Akim, her face broad with joy. Miss Amina waddled along next to them, grinning toothlessly, holding her abaya out of the dirt. A stream of people pushed them ahead down the dirt path, like a wedding party.

  Hanan and Adeya were standing on their porch; the girl leaned out towards the lake, her hands resting on an orange robe hung to dry over the porch rail. It streamed in the wind as they flocked by, a brilliant flag of victory.

  The well was silent, the elephant tank squatting meek and grey beside it. A dark bird flapped on the pump; it called out, loud and disconsolate. Tyre tracks headed northwards, vanishing towards the highway.

  Elation swelled inside Nick – a terrifying, ecstatic bubble. Gone. Twelve hours ago the soldiers had been here, as real and immovable as the stones. He dropped to the ground, knees thudding into the dust. It’s over. They’re gone.

  And then the next thought came rushing in, ice-cold and dazzling. J.P.’s money had worked its dark alchemy somewhere and freed them. Mister came through. I saved us.

  Hands snuck under his arms, pulling him up. ‘We beat them,’ he heard Kamil shouting. ‘Al-hamdullilah.’

  Imam Abdi had started to sing, his voice soaring up and down like a kite. Others joined him – some clicking their teeth and blowing air between their lips in exaggerated shivers. Aisha opened her arms, throwing back her head in an ululation that sent the crow screeching into the air.

  Nick turned to Mr Kamil. ‘We have a lot of work to do,’ he said. ‘The pump, the electrics. We need fuel, repairs. I have to call Eric now.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Mr Kamil grasped his hand. ‘May God reward you.’

  The garden path was outlined in brightness. Nick pushed the front door open and saw Margaret there, standing beside the grandfather clock. Her eyes were sleepy, her hair tousled and soft. Her abaya was sky blue, patterned with tiny flowers around her bare feet.

  She held out her hands and he came towards her, leaning forehead to forehead. Her breath was buttermilk, sour from sleep. To Nick it was like drinking joy.

  ‘She will live,’ she whispered. ‘God spared her.’

  Nick touched her face as she spoke, sensing the electric thread of thoughts tracing patterns inside her.

  ‘Where is Dr Ahmed?’ he whispered.

  ‘Out with the sick.’ She drew back, looking through the brightening windowpane. ‘Some may still die.’

  ‘The siege is over. We can get the well working. We’ll have clean water to drink in a day. Eric will bring fuel and medicines.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, a sad smile on her face. Her palm was moist as it touched his cheek. ‘My love.’

  He felt a sudden rush of panic. The warmth reminded him of loss, of her words during Nagode’s sickness. He grabbed her wrist, holding it tight.

  ‘Everything’s OK, Margaret,’ he said. ‘We can start again now.’

  Gently, she detached herself. Light filtered in through the window behind her, like a loving hand.

  ‘Please, Nicholas,’ she said, her voice low with emotion. ‘Do not test me. I made my bargain when Nagode was dying.’

  ‘But now she’s not dying.’ A deep ache was winding through his joy, entangled so tightly he could not tell one from the other. ‘And you’re allowed to be happy.’

  ‘There’s sorrow on every road.’ She twisted her fingers together, like Adeya. ‘I promised God that I would not run from my share. That I would stay and face my penance.’

  God. The word woke a futile jealousy. ‘Margaret, I made this happen, not God.’

  He pointed out of the window, towards the ongoing sounds of jubilation. ‘The governor would have let Nagode die. No one in this whole village could stop him. Some men – they said they could stop him, find a way to help Danjuma take power. They needed money – so I gave it to them.’

  Margaret’s brow creased, sunlight playing on her face. ‘I don’t understand. You gave Danjuma money?’

  A memory forced itself on him: JoJo and his Coca-Cola T-shirt, standing next to him in that acrid backyard. Nick shut his eyes against it.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He took Margaret’s hands in a last appeal. ‘Don’t you know – I would have done anything, paid any price, to protect you? How can you keep every promise except the ones we made?’

  ‘Those were dreams.’ She returned his grip, a furious pressure. ‘This is real life. Are you ready to be a father to my children? To JoJo and Nagode? Can you know what would it be like, to take them from their home and make them grow up as strangers?’

  ‘I’m ready,’ he said, with desperate conviction. ‘I will be there for them, no matter what it takes. Isn’t that why I did all of this?’

  The smile she gave him in reply was so sad his heart quailed within him. Dropping his hands, she reached up towards his face.

  ‘No, Nicholas,’ she said, cupping his cheek with the lightest consoling touch. ‘We wanted to be the only people in the world. But we are not.’

  He shook his head, a protest too deep for words. The trill of the telephone broke through; Dr Ahmed’s unreliable landline was ringing. Margaret crossed to pick it up. ‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded raw, trembling – she lifted one hand to wipe the damp hollows under her eyes.

  A man’s voice answered through the receiver. ‘Please wait,’ she said.

  Nick took the receiver from her hands. ‘Eric?’ His voice seemed not to belong to him; it rang out, calm and even.

  ‘Nicholas, fucking hell! What’s happening there?’

  ‘The siege ended.’ He licked dryness from his lips. ‘The soldiers left this morning. What’s happening in the Town?’

  ‘All types of fucking madness. The governor’s dead.’

  Nick opened his mouth, his mind blank. Dead? He sensed Margaret, listening near him.

  ‘They say one of his whores killed him. Then Danjuma turned up at the residence, with half the governor’s men.’

  ‘Danjuma lifted the siege?’

  ‘There’s been no time for him to do anything. No one knows where the rest of the governor’s men are. This isn’t over, Nick.’

  A chill began to creep down his spine.

  ‘Listen, keep your radio on today. Use up all the rest of your juice. In case anything happens. And tell Dr Ahmed – you understand?’

  ‘I understand. Thank you.’

  Eric snorted. ‘Swim together, sink together. I’ll be in touch.’

  The line went dead. Nick replaced the receiver, his arm heavy. He turned to Margaret, saw her stiffen at the expression on his face.

  ‘The governor is dead,’ he told her.

  She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Dead – how?’

  ‘Killed.’ Something had lodged in his throat, hard and foul. ‘They don’t know who did it.’

  ‘God help us,’ she said, wrapping her arms tight around herself. ‘What will they do now?’

  What will they do now? Dark possibilities churned through Nick like a storm of wings: he felt the stain of J.P.’s cash in his hand, the strange, burning stench in the yard behind Tuesday’s shop, Mister, tall and white as an avenging angel. ‘The governor was a murderer,’ he said at last, tasting the true horror of that word for the first time. ‘An evil man. He got what he deserved.’

  From the window he could see Dr Ahmed walking back up the garden path, a black form against the daylight. An inner voice screamed against the old man’s approach, coming like Death himself to put an end to all arguments and choices. ‘May God spare us from the same,’ Margaret whispered, as he turned the handle of the front door.

  It is not yet daylight when we reach the lake. Mister, he stops the motorbike. He says: ‘You can walk from here, JoJo.’

  ‘Here?’ I loo
k around. There is no sound. No wind. No voices of the spirits. I can see the red curtain on Binza’s place. Maybe the governor’s spirit is here already. Maybe he waits, somewhere by the water.

  I tell him: ‘I do not want to walk.’

  Mister has his back to me. He looks towards Binza’s place. Maybe he wants her to hold him and sing to him, like my mama does. Maybe he wants to wake up later and tell her, ‘Mama, I had a bad dream.’

  ‘Go home, boss.’ Mister turns away from Binza’s place. His voice is quiet. ‘Take rest,’ he says. ‘Even knights must rest.’

  I watch him go – out, towards the lake. The sky has no colour, and the moon is small and white.

  I start to walk. My hands are sticky. I cover them with mud, so I cannot see the dark stains.

  The sun brings a new wind. It’s a devil wind. It speaks in the branches and the reeds. The spirits are talking.

  I hold up my hands and show them. ‘See,’ I shout. ‘I am thirsty too! I will come to you soon. We will drink together.’

  The spirits are sad. They cry, like wild dogs. That dog is still here somewhere. This makes me sad, too. I remember how we chased her. She did not know. She did no wrong.

  I wish I could find her. I want to tell her what Baba told me. We are all travellers on the same road, and every test is a gate we must pass. If we are wise and do good then Allah gives us the key. But if we fail the test, Allah makes us wait on the road, until we learn better.

  So, maybe there is a JoJo still here. He is waiting to pass through the gate. If I could find him, I would tell him to stop and turn back. I would tell him to leave Mister and Akim. I would tell him to take the dog and go with her. Back to Baba and Mama and Nagode.

  Then I hear a sound across the lake. Adeya has come to wash her clothes in the water.

  I call to her. ‘Adeya! Adeya!’ She looks up. I see her stand. She does not move. She fears me.

  ‘Adeya!’ I wave. ‘Please Adeya. Please come.’

  She comes, very slowly.

  ‘JoJo,’ she calls. ‘What do you want now?’

  I say nothing. I cannot say: help me find where I am waiting.

  ‘Eh, JoJo,’ she says, coming closer, looking at my face. ‘What happened to you?’

  I whisper: ‘We went to the Town. Mister and me. We went together – a secret way.’

  She looks at my hands and then my face. She covers her mouth. I think she will cry again. But she does not. She looks at me. She is looking for the old JoJo – but he is lost somewhere.

  I say: ‘I am sorry I pushed you.’

  Adeya keeps her hand on her mouth. But then she looks at my eyes. And I know she sees me there. If she sees me, I am not lost. I must be here, with her.

  She puts her hand down. ‘I forgive you,’ she tells me.

  I whisper: ‘Adeya, I am afraid. I am afraid of the spirits.’

  And she says,‘There are no spirits here.’

  Adeya, she listens when I tell her about the dog. She tells me what I must do. Together we look for the bones. The birds have picked them clean. The head is so small it fits in my hand. The other bones are curved and thin, like yellow writing. She was so fierce before, when she fought me. But her spirit is gone, and these pieces are just lines and numbers, like the drawings that I made with Nicholas.

  I want to dig her a hole in the ground, like Bako had. But the ground is too hard. Adeya, she says: ‘We can build her resting place with stones.’ I use one stone to make a bed in the ground. Then we bring other stones to put around her. The mud and the blood, they come off my hands as we build. The stones and the ground take it all.

  At last, Adeya, she takes off her headscarf. Her hair is short, like mine. She ties her scarf to a stick and puts it between the stones.

  ‘There,’ she says. ‘Now she is not forgotten.’

  I say: ‘Hanan will beat you about your scarf.’

  Adeya, she laughs. When she laughs her whole body moves. And her nose, it turns up like a cat’s.

  She says: ‘I will tell her the wind took it. Allah sends the wind, so it must be Allah’s will.’

  I pretend to speak with a girl’s voice: ‘Allah likes my hair, Mama! I cannot go against Allah!’

  She punches my arm and I pretend she hurts me. I say: ‘Hey, watch out, boss!’

  Then Adeya, she bites her lip. She says: ‘I must go now, JoJo. But you – you must promise something.’

  I tell her: ‘I will promise whatever you want.’

  Adeya, she looks to the north. The soldiers are gone. But the devil wind is still there, making circles in the dust.

  She says: ‘If those men come back, do not fight them. Come to me instead. Come to find me, JoJo. And together we will run.’

  Late afternoon, the sun started its earthwards fall. Nick slumped on his desk, head on his arms, light reddening the window.

  The telephone rang, chiming through the walls of Dr Ahmed’s house. Footsteps hurried down the porch soon after, followed by a knock at the door. Dr Ahmed politely put his head around it. ‘Nicholas, your colleague asks if you will please turn on the radio.’

  Nick looked at the box beside him, the receiver limp on its top. ‘OK. Thank you.’

  Dr Ahmed nodded, turning to leave. He wants me gone, the ugly voice whispered. Now that he’s won. But then Nick felt ashamed, remembering the outstretched hand across the garden gate on his first day, the scent of flowers. There were no roses, he thought. But somehow I remember roses.

  ‘Dr Ahmed!’

  The old man stopped, eyes turned to the floor.

  ‘How is Nagode?’

  He saw a smile steal across the weary face.

  ‘She strengthens. Not all have been so lucky.’ Dr Ahmed looked up at Nick, straightening his back. ‘But maybe better times are coming.’

  ‘Insha’Allah.’ The old man’s smile widened at that; he waved his finger in mock triumph. ‘Eh, from the atheist, this is a very good sign!’

  As soon as Dr Ahmed left, Nick flicked on the radio and called Eric, who picked up immediately.

  ‘What’s so urgent?’ Nick asked. ‘Why couldn’t I speak to you from the house?’

  Eric coughed. ‘It’s shitty, but I didn’t want them to hear.’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘They’re coming. Tonight, most likely.’

  Nick went cold. ‘Who? J.P.?’

  ‘Not J fucking P. The governor’s men.’

  The governor’s men. They had been boys, no more than boys, Nick remembered, young bodies in green camouflage, nervous eyes.

  ‘There were riots here today – Danjuma’s men against the old guard. Apparently there’s a hideout or something out in the desert. They’re going to take the fight to Danjuma, like Custer’s Last fucking Stand.

  ‘But why would they come here? What do we have to do with anything?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Nick. Everyone knows where the killers came from. I bet Dr Ahmed could give you their names and addresses. There are no secrets.’

  Terror broke over Nick in a wave of sweat. What had he unleashed?

  ‘We have to tell people,’ he said, the receiver slick under his hand. ‘We have to get people out, right now.’

  ‘Hey!’ Eric’s voice crackled over the line. ‘We’ve no time, so listen. I’m going to come to you now. I can pick you up and take you south. I can even put you on a fucking plane in the capital. Fuck J.P. and fuck all of this.’

  ‘But what about Margaret? And – and Dr Ahmed and the children?’ Nick stood up, watching the sun’s bloody fingers creep under the door. ‘I can’t leave them here.’

  ‘We can fit them in the car. Get them ready if you can. But you’ve got half an hour, tops.’

  ‘OK.’ Nick’s mind raced for options. ‘Danjuma – he’s a friend of theirs. Of Mr Kamil and all the rest. Can’t he do something – send some protection?’

  The line crackled at Eric’s belly laugh. Nick saw him, bent over the receiver in their air-conditioned office, wiping tears from his red e
yelashes. ‘Oh, Nick,’ he gasped at last. ‘You mean well and you’re a smart fellow. But you still don’t fucking know anything.’

  The sun was low in the sky, the evening prayers dissonant with their clash of call and echo. Five o’clock. Maybe a little earlier. Wood smoke curled darkly over homes and gardens, threading the air with ashen sweetness.

  Nick ran across the porch to Dr Ahmed’s front door, bursting into the sitting room. Margaret sat on the low sofa. In her arms, Nagode’s round head was bobbing – a slow, sleepy rhythm. She’d lost her baby fatness, planes emerging from the roundness of her cheeks – a woman’s face on a child’s body. JoJo sat on the floor beside her, stroking her feet with a hesitant forefinger.

  Margaret looked up, her smile radiant. ‘Look at her,’ she said. ‘Look how strong she is.’

  ‘Like her mother,’ Nick said. He stooped to touch the small head, slick with dark curls. She looked up, a soft glance of recognition.

  Dr Ahmed entered with a spoonfull of viscous black liquid. He knelt down by Nick, pushing it into Nagode’s unresisting mouth. ‘There, girl, there. Swallow it down.’ Nagode’s expression turned to outrage; she began to cry. Margaret hugged her. ‘Ahmed, not now, please.’

  Dr Ahmed cleared his throat, casting Nick a stilted smile.

  ‘When I was a boy, my mother gave me justicia mixed with honey for every ailment. It was a very good treatment, or else I was a very good patient. Either way, I am alive and well.’

  ‘You don’t believe in those things,’ Nick said quietly.

  Dr Ahmed shrugged. ‘When my medicine cabinet is empty, I believe in what I must.’ He straightened, and his voice became more jovial. ‘But perhaps tomorrow we can get to the Town, and take Nagode to the hospital there.’

  Nick stood up, too. ‘Dr Ahmed, that was Eric on the telephone. He’s on his way here, right now, to get us all.’

  Four pairs of eyes locked on him, blank in incomprehension.

  ‘He said the governor’s men are coming.’ Nick swallowed. ‘They think his killers are hiding here.’ He could not meet JoJo’s eyes.