by Uwem Akpan
The soldier started shouting and threatening again, knowing they would get rid of him. He lobbed imaginary grenades at people.
Jubril was perplexed; he did not know with whom to side. He knew the floor space was not his. And because of the erratic way the chief was acting, he could not bring himself to say the chief had his ticket. Jubril was uncomfortable with the way his fellow passengers were switching sides on every issue. What would happen if the chief denied that Jubril had given him his ticket and he was thrown off the bus? What chance did he have if they forced him to reveal the content of his pocket? He begged Allah to take control of his fate.
SUDDENLY EMEKA BEGAN to tremble like the sick man had, calling on God with all his might. The bus was not afraid but happy, saying he was possessed by the Spirit. They thanked God for revealing himself in the midst of the threat they were facing from the mad soldier. Emeka threw away his monkey coat and took off his shirt. His big eyes were blinking riotously like a broken traffic light, and every inch of his short frame vibrated with fervor. Though his mouth was wide, the torrent of glossolalia flying out seemed bigger. He spoke without catching his breath. To Jubril’s ears, he sounded like Yusuf. Jubril quickly hid his face from Emeka and shut his eyes, trying not to think of his brother. He tried to chant some Islamic incantations in his heart to distract himself from Emeka’s speaking in tongues. But it did not work. In his mind, Emeka became Yusuf. Though he opened his eyes, he could not rid himself of thoughts of Yusuf.
“There’s an enemyyy in this bus!” Emeka said. “We must cleanse this bus spiritually . . . Jesus! Jeeesuzzz! The bloood of Jesus must disgrace you today . . .”
“In Jesus’ name!” the bus resounded.
“I say, the blood, blood, blood of Jeeesuzzz must cover this journey.”
“Amen!”
“Jehooovah, who deigned that Jonah be thrown into the sea . . . reveal him to us now, noww, nowww .”
“Now now, Jesus! Save us, Holy Spirit!”
“Reveeeal to us the evil one on this bus.”
Emeka stamped his feet and ranted on, looking up with eyes glazed, as if he were consulting the heavens, as Yusuf did the afternoon he was stoned. Emeka was out of control. Sometimes, it was as if he would fling himself out the window and disappear into the night. At the other end of the bus, the soldier was exhibiting all the madness of the war front. The two looked like the foci of a twin whirlwind, spinning close to each other but never merging. The bus was totally behind Emeka, cursing the mad colonel and drowning him out with prayers.
Now Emeka began to tremble toward Jubril.
“You’ve betrayed Christ!” he accused Jubril, reaching for his neck. “Who sent you to condemn God’s children to a bad journey?”
The refugees were surprised and disappointed that he was taking on Jubril and not the soldier.
“No vex, abeg o,” Jubril pleaded.
“No say anyting,” Tega advised him. “Just dey quiet . . . na mistake. Na de soldier he want hold.”
Monica said in a loud whisper, “Gabriel, no fight him o . . . de Spirit go correct himself. . . . We go pray for de correction.”
By now Emeka had grabbed Jubril firmly by the neck and was shaking him. Some prayed that the Spirit might be inspired to rid the right person from the bus. But when they saw that Emeka was determined, they went back to advising Jubril not to say anything or to retaliate, as it would be folly engaging the Holy Spirit. Jubril appealed to the chief as Emeka dragged him toward the door, much in the way he had dealt with the soldier when he entered the bus. But the old man said nothing. Jubril, terrified, trembled as much as his possessed captor. For a while the two whirlwinds came very close and shaved into each other, as Emeka bundled Jubril past the madman, heading toward the door.
“Accept Jesus as your personal Savior!” Emeka said in Jubril’s face.
“My broder,” Jubril said, talking to his late brother Yusuf, “I be your blood. I be one of you.”
“No, no, no, no,” Emeka said, pushing him to the floor. “Kneel down. . . . You’re the eneeemy!”
Jubril took the pain as his body slammed into people and then to the floor. His concern now was to make sure his right wrist did not come out of his pocket. He held it down with his left hand. “I no be enemy. . . . I be your blood broder . . . Gabriel!” he pleaded. “I accept Christ.”
“Liar! Who are you?”
“Ah . . . I first Catolic! Remember Mama say dem baptize us as baby, Joseph?”
“I’m a member of the Pentecostal Explosion Ministries. We don’t believe in child baptism!”
“We be one fader, one moder. Joseph, I dey accept you now.”
To prove his identity to his brother, Jubril showed him his Marian medal. But Emeka tore the medal and flung it out a window as if he had mistakenly picked up a red-hot coal. “Mary is an idol in Catholic worship,” he said. “And child baptism prepaaares a child for hell. . . . I knooow you! You cannot hiiide from the Father of Jesus Christ.”
“Beg our fader to forgive,” Jubril said. “You alone fit beg for me.”
“You must come with me then, if you want to meet our Father!”
“Our fader go forgive me . . . your killer?”
“Yes, yezzz! The Father is forgiveness!”
The refugees were astonished. They now thought the chief could have been right when he accused Jubril of carrying a talisman in his pocket. They looked at each other and increased their prayers and thanked the Lord for the miraculous powers of Emeka. Jubril lay there on the floor of the bus as the sick man had done, but on his side. His two wrists were latched together at the pocket in case Emeka, who was hovering over him, attempted to pull him up by his right arm.
“Emeka, ask him what wishcraft he use kill him broder,” Tega said.
“No tell de Spilit wetin he go ask,” Ijeoma whispered to her. “De Spilit no need your advice.”
“Me, I want know wetin dey him pocket,” Tega said.
Others asked them to be quiet and complained that it was already bad enough that the soldier was distracting the Spirit with his madness. They warned the two women that they were not in a position to judge Jubril or to intervene, and that since the omnipotent Spirit did not attack his pocket, they would not attempt it either. As far as they were concerned, the Spirit had already taken over the journey. The bus rained with thanksgiving prayers for Jubril’s conversion as Madam Aniema sat there quietly reading a torn copy of The Imitation of Christ. She behaved as if Emeka was the one to be saved from Lucifer. Occasionally, when he trembled in her direction, she sprinkled her holy water on him, without lifting her eyes. A few other Catholics who did not join Emeka’s prayer session sat grim-faced, grumbling about the denigration of their baptism and the disposal of the Marian medal. They nodded in approval whenever Madam Aniema sprinkled water on Emeka. Others looked at her as if she were a miniature Satan who badly needed Emeka’s cleansing.
Emeka pointed at Colonel Usenetok. “May your juju be destroyed by the bloood of Jesus!”
“Amen!” the bus agreed, more enthusiastic than they were about Jubril. The ring of people around Emeka loosened, and their attention turned to the mad soldier. Most people were standing now, ready to give the Spirit a hand if need be.
“Jesus, your blood has already covered us against the Muslims,” Emeka said, coming to stand face-to-face with the soldier. The chief cleared his throat at the word Muslim and opened his mouth to say something, but Monica nudged him to keep quiet and told him the Spirit could do no wrong.
“Jou again?” the soldier laughed. “What have I done to jou?”
“Chut up!” Tega said to the soldier, looming behind Emeka, wielding her clog.
“Lady, why are jou against me?” the soldier said.
“No worry,” she said. “De Spirit go chow you pepper.”
“If this man touches me this time, I will yust kill him.”
“You can’t do de Spirit anyting. Who born you?”
The soldier stood there, unpertu
rbed. He seemed more interested in the people behind Emeka than in his ranting.
“May the Muslims drown in Khamfi, like Pharaoh and his army in the Red Sea,” Emeka said, as if the soldier were a Muslim fanatic. “In Jesus’ name!”
“Ameeen!”
“I commaaand you, I commaaand you, Jesus, to come down, here here here, and battle this juju!”
With that, Emeka tackled the ECOMOG man, and they went down like two gladiators. Jubril wanted to join the fight on the side of Emeka, but they restrained him. Everyone backed away, saying it was a spiritual fight, and anybody who was not called by the Spirit, like Emeka, was risking his life. The fighters writhed on the floor and tore at each other’s clothes and skin, bloodying the aisle. There were loud prayers that Emeka might conquer the juju soldier. The commotion was so loud that the refugees outside gathered around the bus and hopped up and down to get a glimpse of the action.
“STOP OR WE GO shoot!” The police barged into the spiritual combat, cocking their rifles.
“No way, officers!” someone said.
“Dis one no be police fight o!” another said.
“Officers, guns no go fit win dis kind war,” Monica said. “Dis fight na for God, no be for Caesar.”
“Remember, police, you too go all die,” Tega said, “if you allow dis ECOMOG soldierman follow us home!”
Colonel Usenetok broke free and scrambled toward the police for protection, with Emeka in pursuit. The officers lowered their guns and tossed Emeka out of the bus, reprimanding him for fighting with a soldier. They said they would never allow a civilian to disgrace a man in uniform, no matter how tattered.
Outside, the refugees who had followed what was going on restrained Emeka, who was bent on running into the savannah to engage whatever evil spirits lurked there. He was like a man on drugs, his muscles still bulging with unexhausted power. This incident brought some consolation to the park refugees. With Emeka in their midst, some of them started thanking God for the Spirit who would protect them, even if the government failed to do so. Emeka had become the center of attention, and they milled around him in the dark, some reaching out to touch him. Then a few people switched on their flashlights; those with candles lit them. The light surrounded him like a halo that was too big for a saint and had to be shared by all who were near.
In the ghostly silence that sealed the bus, Jubril stood up and approached the door like a zombie. He said he wanted to be outside with his brother. He said he had stood by while people killed Joseph the first time and was not going to make that mistake again. When people asked him who Joseph was, he pointed at Emeka and said that he would rather return to Khamfi and die than travel without him. There were tears in his eyes. The refugees were edified by how deep his conversion had been. Though threatened by what the ECOMOG man would do now, they were consoled that the Spirit had converted at least one person to Christianity.
Tega appealed to Jubril, whispering to avoid the attention of the victorious ECOMOG man. “Gabriel, no cry. Leave everyting for de Spirit.”
“De next ting for you is proper baptism!” Monica said. “When we reach delta, we go baptize you for river like Jesus for River Jordan . . .”
“Ha-ha, where would you get a river that is not clogged by oil in the delta?” the chief said.
“Dat’s why we Christians must fight de oil companies for our rivers!” Monica said. “Dis oil drilling dey affect our prayer life o.”
“Don’t wolly,” Ijeoma said. “When we reach home, we know wetin we go do to oil companies. For now, according to de Retter to de Lomans, even when we no fit play, de Spilit dey play for us! Dat’s why de Spilit descend on Emeka.” She turned to Jubril: “Gabliel, dis Emeka is flom my virrage. You want mourn pass me? Stop clying.”
Tega invited Gabriel to take her seat, to console him. He could have sat anywhere. He was enjoying the hospitality afforded a new convert. But Chief Ukongo was not happy and said it was not a good idea to separate Jubril from him. He signaled to Tega, who was standing by Jubril, to return him to his former place. Tega said no and gave the chief a bad look. He tried to get Jubril’s attention, but Monica prevailed on the chief to forget that idea.
The soldier found Nduese under one of the seats and broke into a celebratory dance, a wild gyration of worship. People backed away to give him a bit of space, still afraid of him since he had defeated the Spirit.
From his bag, the soldier pulled out an egg-shaped stone in a little container of water. He set it down, a temporary altar, and circled the spot in a seat-obstructed, jagged symmetry, calling out to Mami Wata, the goddess of the sea, in a litany of names. The soldier thanked her for leading him to war and back and for defeating Emeka. He promised her he would clean and restore her rivers in the delta to what they were before the Christians and Muslims dirtied them with sacrilege and greed for oil.
He squatted before the mobile shrine. “Mother, don’t abandon me now,” he said. “Remember, I performed this ritual every morning to jou in Liberia and then in Sierra Leone.” He looked into the bowl of water, bringing his face closer until his reflection filled its surface, then touched it, causing it to ripple. “Mother, thank jou. . . . Jou fill the earth with jour children!” he whispered. “We all belong to jou!”
Everyone’s attention was trained on the soldier, though in the background Chief Ukongo could be heard talking to his dog. He held it in his lap, stroking its bony body and whispering sweet things into its torn ears. Nduese looked at him attentively.
“Do you know that without the royal fathers our country is finished?” he asked the dog, which had begun to whine agreeably. He stuffed Nduese’s mouth with biscuits. “Nobody likes the royal fathers anymore. When my great-grandfather was the chief, people listened to him. He organized the people to fight off the wicked white men, who came to enslave us. Many died fighting against white people’s guns and swords because once he spoke people obeyed.” Nduese began to lick the chief ’s hands.
“When my grandfather came to power, they listened to him too . . . even missionaries. He gave them land to build churches and hospitals and schools, which is how the south became more educated than the north. In my father’s time, it was the same thing. I mean, these big oil companies consulted him regularly, which is why the oil tribes weren’t killing each other, as they do today in the delta. Even the military government worked hand in hand with him. . . . But now, nobody wants to hear anything from me . . . not my people, not the oil companies. What kind of democracy is that, my friend?
“Do you know that two years ago, my people, I mean my people, burned the cars the oil companies gave me? The youths complained about the polluted land and dead rivers. I tried to talk to the oil companies, but they kept postponing my appointments to represent the people to them. The youths burned down my palace, accusing me of supporting the oil companies and military government! I tell you, if the military government had not rebuilt my palace and given me new cars, I would be homeless today. . . . How can they burn my palace, the very symbol of their existence? If this were my great-grandfather’s days, he would have given all these hopeless delta youth to the white people, free. . . . The military had promised me a house in Lupa when the soldiers vacated power. . . . One day God must bring the soldiers back. I will always miss General Abacha!” He pointed at Jubril. “Then, imagine that young man . . .”
“Be quiet!” someone warned, because the chief ’s voice was rising.
“Let de soldier worchip,” Tega said, “so we can have our peace.”
“Leave dat dog to sleep o,” Monica said.
Now realizing that the dog was fast asleep, the chief shook it and turned its head toward Jubril. “Look at that Gabriel,” he said to the dog. “He’s refused to remove his hand from the pocket . . . in spite of our pleas. He and his parents are the type of useless people we would have given to the white man in those days. And we would see how he would have plowed the sugar plantations in America with one hand in his pocket. . . . Or maybe they should have
sold him to the Arabs, who would have castrated him immediately.”
THE SOLDIER GLANCED AROUND the bus and said he wanted something to sacrifice to his goddess, some food or drink to manifest their union. There was nothing, and the people were afraid of what he meant by sacrifice. Was he talking about human sacrifice? Was he going to kill someone?
But the soldier opened his mouth very wide and with it covered one of the wounds he had sustained while fighting Emeka. He sucked the blood reverently, as if it was an extension of his sacrifice at the war front. Whatever became of his life, he prayed out loud, he had done his part, and he begged Mami Wata to lead him home. In one final stamp of his foot, he praised her for defeating Jesus Christ and Muhammad in the land. He flashed a crazed smile at everyone.
“Now, who is occupying my seat?” he asked, as he began to pack up his altar. “Yust stand up before I flush jou.”
“If you know you dey his seat,” Tega quickly warned the bus, “abeg, stand up o.”
“But wait a minute,” the soldier said, his eyes scanning the bus. “Where is Nduese? Someone has stolen my dog. My dog or else . . .”
The refugees quickly pointed to the chief.
“Honorable soldier,” Chief Ukongo said, smiling, “the beautiful dog is asleep.”
“Yust give me my dog,” the soldier said. “I am warning jou for the last time.”
“Brave soldier, my apologies. . . . While you were saying your prayers, I took care of it for you.” He stood up, carrying the dog like a bouquet of flowers to the soldier, and bowed curtly before him.
The soldier snatched Nduese from him. “Don’t bow before me, jou old rogue!”
“Please, Colonel, on behalf of everyone on this bus,” the chief said, “I invite you to rest your tired bones on the seat left behind by the misguided spirit-man who fought you.”
“Abeg, our broder, make you sit dere!”
“It is a nice seat!”