Chigozie Obioma - The Fishermen

Boja was a fungus:

His body was filled with fungi. His heart pumped blood filled with fungi. His tongue was infected with fungi, and, perhaps, so were most organs of his body. It was because his kidneys were filled with fungi that he could not stop bed-wetting till he was twelve. Mother became worried he was under a bed-wetting spell. After taking him for sessions of prayers, she began marking the edges of his bed with anointed oil — small-bottled olive oil on which prayers had been made — every night before he slept. Yet, Boja could not stop, even when he had to endure the shame of taking out his mattress — often spotted with urine patches of different shapes and sizes — every morning to dry in the sun, risking being seen by kids in the neighbourhood, especially Igbafe and his cousin Tobi, who could see into our compound from their storeyed building. It was because Father had mocked him for bed-wetting that he caused a stir in our school in the eventful morning of that day in 1993, in which we met M.K.O.

Just as a fungus hides in the body of an ignorant host, Boja lived on unseen in our compound for four days after Ikenna’s death, without us knowing it. He was there — silent, hidden away, refusing to speak, while the entire district and even the town desperately searched for him. He did not suggest a clue to the Nigerian police that he was within reach. He did not even try to restrain mourners who swooped on our house like bees around a keg of honey. He did not mind that his photo — printed on a poster with fading ink — was floating like an outbreak of influenza around the town — spotting bus stops, motor parks, motels and driveways, and that his name was on the lips of the people of the town.

Bojanonimeokpu “Boja” Agwu, 14, was last seen at his house at No. 21 Akure High School Road, Araromi Street on August 4, 1996. He wore a faded blue T-shirt with a portrait of Bahamas beach. The shirt was blood-stained and torn the last time he was seen. Please, if seen, kindly report to your nearest police station or call 04-8904872.

He did not cry out when his photo streamed non-stop across the screens of televisions in Akure, taking up considerable airtime on OSRC and NTA channels. Instead of making himself known, or even just his whereabouts, he decided to appear in our dreams at night-time and in figments of Mother’s troubled visions. So he sat in the big lounge in our sitting room in Obembe’s dream — the night before Ikenna was buried — laughing at Mr Bean’s tricks on television. Mother often reported sighting him in the sitting room, aproned in the dark, vanishing whenever she raised an alarm and turned on the bulb or lantern. Yet, Boja was not just a mere fungus; he embodied a wide variety of his species. He was a destructive fungus: a man of force, who forced himself into the world, and forced himself out of it. He forced himself out of Mother’s womb while she was in bed about to have a nap in 1982. A sudden labour took her unawares like a strong enema-induced bowel passage. The first nudge was a bullet of pain that overwhelmed her. The pain pulled her down and she, unable to move her body, crawled atop her bed, screaming. The landlady of the house where our parents lived at the time heard her cry and came to her aid. Seeing that there was no time to take Mother to a hospital, the woman shut the door, took a piece of cloth and wrapped it around Mother’s legs. Then, with the woman blowing on and fanning Mother’s private place with all the energy she could muster, Mother gave birth on the bed she shared with Father. She often recalled, years later, how so much blood had leaked through the mattress that it formed a huge permanent stain on the floor beneath the bed.

He destroyed our peace and set us all on edge. Father hardly sat for a minute during those days. Less than two hours after we returned from Ikenna’s burial, he announced that he was going to the police station to find out what progress had been made in the search for Boja. He said this while we were seated in the sitting room, all of us. I could not tell what it was that sent me out running after him calling “Daddy, Daddy!”

“What, Ben?” he asked, turning, his bunch of keys hanging from his index finger. I noticed that the zipper of his trousers was open, I pointed at it before replying. “What is it?” he asked again after looking at his zipper.

“I want to come with you.”

He zipped his trousers, gazing at me as if I were a suspicious object lying in his path. Perhaps he noticed that I had not shed a single tear since he’d returned. The police station was built along the old rail track that encircled a bend and veered left into a heavily pockmarked road that was filled with muddy water. The station was a large compound with a few wagons painted black — the colour of the Nigerian police — parked under a fabric awning whose pillars were cast in irons ballasted into the paved floors. A few young men, all of them naked to the waist, were arguing loudly somewhere under a torn fabric awning, while police officers listened. We walked straight to the reception: a huge wooden barricade. An officer was seated behind it on what must have been an elevated stool. Father asked him if he could see the Deputy Police Officer.

“Can you identify yourself, sir?” the constable at the desk replied with an unsmiling face, yawning as he spoke, dragging the last word, “sir,” so that it sounded like the final word of a dirge.

“I’m Mr James Agwu, a staff member of the Central Bank of Nigeria,” Father said.

Father reached into his breast pocket and showed the man a red ID card. The constable examined it. His face contorted, and then brightened. The man handed back the card with a full-faced smile, rubbing his hand around his temple.

“Oga, will you do us well?” the man said. “You know say na you be, oga.”

The man’s subtle request for a bribe irked Father, who was an ardent hater of all forms of corruption plaguing the Nigerian nation; he would often rail against it.

“I don’t have time for this,” Father said. “My child is missing.”

“Ah!” the officer cried, as though suddenly faced with a grim epiphany. “So you are the father of those boys?” he asked reflexively. Then, as if suddenly realizing what he’d said, “Sorry for that, sir. Please wait, sir.”

The officer called at someone and another officer emerged from the passageway, stamping his feet in an awkward way. He stamped to a halt, raised his hand to the side of his lean, swarthy face, held his fingers straight above his ear and dropped the hand against the side of his leg.

“Take him to Oga DPO’s office,” the first officer ordered in English.

“Yes, sir!” the junior officer cried and stamped his feet on the floor again.

The officer, who seemed oddly familiar, came forward towards us, his countenance fallen.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we will be conducting a brief search on you before you go in,” he said.

He passed his hand over Father’s body, up to his trouser pockets, frisking. He stared at me, seeming to scan me with his eyes for a while and then he asked if I had anything in my pocket. I shook my head. Convinced, he turned away from me and repeated the salute with his hand cupped above his ear again and cried “All correct, sir!” to the other officer.

The latter gave a curt nod and, gesturing that we follow him, ushered us into the hall.

The Deputy was a slender and very tall man with a striking facial structure. He had a broad forehead that seemed to spread wide like a slate over his face. His eyes were deep-set and his brows bulged as if swollen. He swiftly rose to his feet when we entered.

“Mr Agwu, right?” he said, stretching his hand to shake Father’s.

“Yes and my son, Benjamin,” Father muttered.