Chigozie Obioma - The Fishermen

“That would mean giving ourselves away,” he replied without raising his head from the book he was reading.

I struggled to give an answer, but couldn’t.

He shook his head. “Listen, Ben, don’t try it; not at all. Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

When Mother returned that evening and told Father of the searching, and of what she’d heard in the streets that the kids killed the madman with fishing hooks, Father wondered why we hadn’t mentioned it.

“I thought the robbery was more important,” I said.

“Did they come here?” he asked, his eyes stern under his eyeglasses.

“No,” my brother replied. “I was mostly awake while Ben slept, and I did not hear anything except for when you came.”

Father nodded.

“Perhaps he’d tried to prophesy to the kids and they’d fought him, fearing it would come to reality,” he said. “It’s a shame that such spirit possessed that man.”

“It might have been so,” Mother agreed.

Our parents spent the rest of the night talking about Canada. Father recounted his errand to Mother with the same measure of joy, while my head ached badly, and by the time I retired to bed — earlier than anyone else — I was feeling so ill I feared I would die. The longing to move to Canada had become, by this time, so strong that I wanted badly to do it, even if without Obembe. This continued long into the night, after Father had dozed off in the lounge, his throat buzzing with loud snorts. Then the calm and assurance took flight and a chilling fear, as strong as a cold, flushed into me. I began to fear that something I could not yet see, but could smell — could tell was coming — would come before next week . I sprang from the bed and tapped my brother who was under a wrappa . I could tell he was not asleep.

“Obe, we should tell them what we have done so Father can take us — run away — to Ibadan to meet Mr Bayo. So we can travel to Canada next week.”

I’d rushed the words as if I’d memorized them. My brother emerged from under the wrappa and sat up.

“Next week,” I muttered to him, my breath catching.

But my brother did not respond. He looked at me in a way that made it seem as though he couldn’t see me. Then he returned under the wrappa and disappeared.

It must have been in the dead of the night when, panting and covered in sweat, and my head still aching, I began hearing “Ben wake up, wake up,” as a hand shook me.

“Obe,” I gasped.

But he was not visible for the first few moments after I opened my eyes. Then, I saw him throwing out clothes from his closet and packing things into a bag, dashing about.

“Come, stand up, we have to leave this night,” he said, gesturing.

“What, leave home?”

“Yes, right now,” he broke off from his packing, and hissed to me. “Listen, I have realized the possibilities — the soldiers can find us. I saw the old priest of that church while I was running away from the soldier, and he recognized me. I almost knocked him down.”

My brother could see the horror that filled my eyes at this revelation. Why, I wondered, didn’t he tell me this before?

“I have been afraid that he would tell them it was us. So, let us leave, now. They could still come this night, and they, too, might identify us. I’ve been awake and I’ve heard noises outside all night. If they don’t, they will surely come in the morning or anytime. We’ll go to prison if they find us.”

“So, what should we do?”

“We must leave, leave: that’s the only way. It is the only way we can protect ourselves and our parents — Mama.”

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere,” he said, starting to cry. “Listen, don’t you know they will find us by morning?”

I wanted to say something, but no words came. He turned back and started unzipping a bag.

“Won’t you move from there now?” he said when he looked up again and saw me still standing there.

“No,” I said. “Where shall we go?”

“They will search here in the morning, once the sky clears.” His voice broke. “And they will find us.” He paused and sat on the edge of the bed for less than a second and stood again. “They’ll find us.” He shook his head gravely.

“But I’m afraid, Obe. We should not have killed him.”

“Don’t say this. He killed our brothers; he deserved to die.”

“Father will get us a lawyer, we shouldn’t leave, Obe,” I said emptily, sobs choking my words. “Don’t let us go.”

“Listen, don’t be stupid. The soldiers will kill us! We wounded their man, they will shoot us, like Gideon Orkar, don’t you know?” He paused to drive his question home. “Imagine what will happen to Mama. This is a military regime, Abacha’s soldiers. Let’s go somewhere, maybe to our village for a while then write to them from there. They can then arrange to meet us, take us to Ibadan, and then Canada.”

The last words temporarily submerged my fears.

“Okay,” I declared.

“Then pack, quick, quick.”

He waited for me to put my things in the bag.

“Quick, quick. I can hear Mother’s voice, she is praying; she might come in here to see us.”

He craned his ear to the door for any sound whatsoever as I pooled all my clothes into my rucksack and packed our shoes into another. Then, before I knew what was happening, he jumped out of the shutters with his bag and the shoes and became a silhouette whose arms I could barely see.

“Throw yours!” he whispered from below the window.

I threw my rucksack and jumped after him, falling. My brother hoisted me up and we started off across the road that led to our church, passing houses that were dead in sleep. The night was dimly lit by the bulbs on the verandas of houses and a few street lamps. My brother would wait for me, run and wait, whispering “come” or “run” every time he paused. As we ran, my fear increased. Strange visions encumbered my movement as memories rose from their tombs; now and again I glanced backwards to the direction of our home, until I could no longer see it. Behind us, the moonlight percolated across the night sky and cast a grey hue around the way we’d come and over the town that lay asleep. Somewhere, the sound of singing voices, supported by drumming and bell-ringing, steadily reached us even louder than the distant noise.

We’d covered a good distance, and although it was difficult to make out in the darkness, I reckon we were about to reach the district centre when Father’s words—“henceforth, before you do anything, think first of her, of what it might do to her, and then make your decision”—pierced me sharply, sending a stray rod into my track. I lost balance like derailing boxcars, my heart tooting, and found myself on the ground.

“What happened?” he asked, turning back.

“I want to go back,” I said.

“What? Benjamin, are you mad?”

“I want to go back.”

When he moved towards me, afraid he’d try to drag me along, I cried: “No, no, don’t come, don’t come. Just let me go back.”

He made forward again, but I started to my feet and staggered off. My knees had been bruised and I could tell they were bleeding.

“Wait! Wait!” he cried.

I stopped.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender.

He unclasped his rucksack, laid it on the ground and walked to me. He made to hug me, but once his hands were around my neck, he tried to pull me forward, but I put my leg between his like Boja was adept at doing and scissored his legs. We both fell sprawling together. While we struggled, he kept insisting we had to go together, while I pleaded with him to let me return to our parents — that I didn’t want them to miss us both. I extricated myself in the end, leaving with my shirt partly ripped.