Chigozie Obioma - The Fishermen

David agreed. Placing his hands on our heads, the Pastor began praying, occasionally splashing spittle on our heads. I felt it on my scalp as he prayed from deep down in his soul, that God should protect us from the evil one. Midway through the prayers, he began talking about the promises of God concerning His children as if delivering a homily. When he’d finished this, he asked that these things might be “our portion” in Jesus’s name. He then begged for God’s mercy on our family—“I ask, oh heavenly Father that you help these kids move on after the tragic events of last year. Help them to succeed in their quest to travel overseas and bless them both. Make the officials at the Canadian embassy grant them the visas, oh God, for thou art able to make all things right; Thou art able.” Mother had been interjecting a loud “amen” all along — followed closely by Nkem and David, and the muffled ones from my brother and me. She joined the Pastor, who suddenly broke into singing, interspersing the song with hisses and clicks.

He is able/ abundantly able/ to deliver/ and to save/

He is able/ abundantly able/ to deliver/ those who trust in Him.

After the third round of the same tune, the Pastor returned to the prayers, this time more spiritedly. He delved into the issue of the papers needed for the visas, the funds, and then for our father. Then he prayed for Mother—“you know oh God, how this woman has suffered, so much; so much for the kids. You know all things, oh Lord.”

He raised his voice louder as the sound of Mother’s stifling sobs made its way into the prayers. “Wipe her tears, Lord,” and then, he continued in Igbo, “Wipe her tears, Jesus. Heal her mind forever. Let her not have any cause to ever cry over her children again.” After the entreaties, he thanked God, many times, for having answered the prayers, and then, requesting that we shout a “thunderous amen,” he ended the prayers.

We all thanked him and shook his hands again. Mother left with him and Nkem to walk him to the gate.

I had lightened up after the prayers and the burden I’d brought home had felt slightly lifted. It was perhaps the assurance Obembe had given me, or the prayers; I did not know. I knew, though, that something had lifted my spirit from the pit. David informed us “our beans” were in the kitchen. So, my brother and I were eating when Mother returned from walking the Pastor, singing and dancing.

“My God has finally vanquished my enemies,” she sang, lifting her hands. “ Chineke na’ eme nma, ime la eke le diri gi… ”

“Mama, what is it, what?” my brother said, but she ignored him and trailed into another round of singing while we waited impatiently to know what had happened. She sang one more song, her eyes on the ceiling, before turning to us and with tear-filled eyes, said: “Abulu, Onye Ojo a wungo —Abulu, the evil one is dead.”

My spoon, as if pushed out of my hand, fell to the floor, throwing mashed beans about. But Mother did not seem to notice. She told us what she’d heard: that “some boys” had murdered Abulu, the madman. She’d met the neighbour who found Boja’s body in the well on her way from walking the Pastor. The woman was exultant and was coming to our house to break the news to her.

“They said he was killed near Omi-Ala,” Mother said, tightening her wrappa around her waist after it came slightly undone when Nkem tugged at her legs. “You see, it was my God that kept you safe when you were going to that place every evening to fish. Although it still caused a major damage in the end, but at least none of you was hurt there. That river is such a place of evil and horror. Imagine the body of that evil man lying there?” she said, pointing at the door.

“You see, my Chi is alive and has finally avenged me. Abulu lashed my children with his tongue and now that tongue will rot in his mouth.”

Mother carried on her celebration while Obembe and I tried to understand what we had brought on ourselves. But we could not, for if one attempted to look into the future one would see nothing; it was like peeping into a person’s earhole. It was hard for me to believe that knowledge of a deed carried out in the cover of darkness had spread so widely; Obembe and I had not expected this to happen. We wanted to kill the madman and let him die off by the river shore with his body only discovered after it had begun to decompose — just like Boja.

My brother and I retired into our room after dinner to sleep in silence, with my head filled with images of the last minutes of Abulu’s life. I was thinking about the strange force that’d possessed me in that moment, for my hands had moved with such precision, such pressure that every blow had cut deep into Abulu’s flesh. I was thinking of his body on the river, of the fish crowding it when my brother, who, like me, was unable to sleep and was oblivious that I too was awake, suddenly rose from the bed and burst into tears.

“I didn’t know… I did it for you, we, Ben and I, we did it for you; both of you,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry for this Mama and Daddy. I’m sorry, we did it so you may not suffer anymore, but—” The words went inaudible, drowned in a storm of jerking sobs.

I watched him discreetly, my mind tormented by the fear of a future I thought was nearer than we could imagine — a future that was the next day. I prayed then, quietly, in the faintest whispers possible, that the day might not come, that the bones of its legs be broken.

I did not know when I’d slept, but I was awoken by the voice of a distant muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. It was at the neck of the morning, and early sunlight had percolated into the room through the window my brother had left open. I could not tell if he’d slept at all, but he was seated at his study table, reading a dog-eared book with yellowed pages. I knew it was the book about the German man who walked from Siberia to Germany, the title of which I’d forgotten. He was nude to the waist, his collarbones prominent. He’d lost a considerable amount of weight over the weeks of deliberation and planning of our now accomplished mission.

“Obe,” I called out at him. He was startled. He rose briskly to his feet and came to the bed.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

“No,” I said at first, but then said, “But I still fear those soldiers might find us.”

“No, no, they won’t,” he said, shaking his head. “We have to stay inside, though, till Father comes, and Mr Bayo takes us to Canada. Don’t worry, we will leave this country and all of it behind.”

“When are they coming?”

“Today,” he said. “Father is coming today, and we might leave for Canada next week. Possible.”

I nodded.

“Listen, I don’t want you to be afraid,” he said again.

My brother stared blankly on, lost in thoughts. Then, collecting himself and thinking it might have worried me, said, “Should I tell you a story?”

I said yes. Again he was lost for a moment; his lips seemed to move but articulated no words. Then, again calling himself to order, he began the story of Clemens Forell who escaped from Russian imprisonment in Siberia and journeyed to Germany. He was still telling the story when we began to hear loud voices in the neighbourhood. We knew it must be from a mob gathering somewhere. My brother stopped telling the story and fixed his eyes on mine. Together, we went out to the sitting room where Mother was preparing to leave for her shop, dressing up Nkem. It was long into the morning, about nine and the room smelt of fried food. There was a plate of leftover fried eggs between the prongs of a dinner fork, and a piece of fried yam on the table beside the plate.

We sat in the lounges with her and Obembe asked her what the noise was about.