Chigozie Obioma - The Fishermen

“This is not the time for this, Ben,” he whispered once we got there. “There isn’t—”

“I know, Daddy, I’m only sad for Mama,” I replied. “Please tell her we’re sorry.”

“No, Azikiwe, listen,” he said. “You will go there like the man I’ve trained you to be. You will go like the man you were when you took up arms to avenge your brothers.” A tear dropped down his nose as he carved the invisible torso of a huge man with his hands. “You will tell them how it all happened, you will say it all like the man I brought you up to be — menacing, juggernauts. Like — remember, like—”

He paused, his stray fingers on his shaven head, searching his mind for a word that appeared to have fallen to the back of his mind.

“Like the Fisherman you once were,” his quivering lips uttered finally. “Do you hear me?” He shook me. “I said do you hear me?”

I did not answer. I could not, even though I noticed that the commotion outside had increased and the wardens, who held me before, were now approaching. More people were trooping into the court, some of them newsmen with cameras. Father saw them and his voice soared with urgency. “Benjamin, you will not fail me.”

I was crying freely now, my heart pounding.

“Do you hear me?”

I nodded.

Later, after the court had been seated and my accuser — a hyena — had described details of Abulu’s wounds (“… multiple holes from a fish hook found on the body of the victim, a bust in the head, a punctured vascular tube on the chest…”), the judge asked to hear my defence.

As I made to speak, Father’s words—“menacing, juggernauts”—began to repeat themselves in my head. I turned and looked at my parents, who were seated together, and David beside them. Father caught my eyes and nodded. Then he moved his mouth in a way that made me reply with a nod. And once he saw me nod, he smiled. It was then that I let the words pour out, my voice soaring over the arctic silence of the courthouse as I began the way I had always wanted to begin.

“We were fishermen. My brothers and I became—”

Mother let out a loud piercing cry that startled the court, throwing the session into a tumult. Father struggled to cover her mouth with his hand, his whispered entreaties that she be mum, breaking out aloud. All attention went to them as Father’s voice leapt from communal apology: “I’m deeply sorry, your Lordship,” to “ Nne, biko, ebezina, eme na’ife a —Do not cry, don’t do this.” But I did not look at them. I kept my eyes on the green curtains that covered the heavily panelled and dust-covered louvres high above the level of the seats. A strong push of wind flayed them gently so that they looked for a moment like green waving flags. I closed my eyes while the commotion lasted and reclined into an encompassing darkness. In the darkness I saw the silhouette of a man with a rucksack walking back home the same way he’d left. He was almost home, almost within reach when the judge knocked his staff on the table three times and bellowed: “You may now proceed.”

I opened my eyes, cleared my throat, and started all over again.

Although it carries only my name, The Fishermen was produced through the efforts of many:

Unsal Ozunlu, great teacher and early reader — my Turkish father; Behbud Mohammadzadeh, my best friend, inestimable brother; Stavroula, who saw me through most parts of this; Nicholas Delbanco, helper, the shepherd, teacher of good habits; Eileen Pollack, eagle-eyed reader, who scraped the edges of the pages with a red pen; Christina, whose feedback turned the tide; Andrea Beauchamp, the kind helper; Lorna Goodison, the supplier of peace and love…

Jessica Craig, first-rate agent, tour guide, and friend in whose hands I feel at ease; Elena Lappin, the acquirer and editor, the invisible hand behind every page, the great believer; Judy Clain, bringer of joy, editor; Adam Freudenheim, publisher extraordinaire, who, even when bowled over, would not let go; Helen Zell, supplier of abundance and gift to writers…

Bill Clegg, early cheerer, a harbinger of good things; Peter Steinberg, who first sent word out; Amanda Brower, the swift one; Linda Shaughnessy, agent who flung the book far and wide; Peter Ho Davies, the deft trumpeter; Emeka Okafor; Berna Sari; Agnes Krup, DW Gibson and the wonderful people of Ledig House (Amanda Curtin, Francisco Haghenbeck, Marc Pastor, Saskya Jain, Eva Bonne and all); my wonderful fiction cohort and the great writers and faculty of the Helen Zell Writers’ program at the University of Michigan who go blue with their pens…

Daddy, the father of many; Nnem, the mother of a crowd; Aunty, the historian; Sisters — Maria, Joy, Kelechi, Peace; my brothers — Mike, Chinaza, Chuwkwuma, Charles, Psalm, Lucky, Chidiebere, this one is for you, a tribute…

To all whom I couldn’t, due to space constraints, mention, you know your hands were here, and I thank you as much as those listed here. And to my readers, a hundred times more.

Chigozie Obioma was born in 1986 in Akure, Nigeria. His short stories have appeared in the Virginia Quarterly Review and New Madrid. He was a fall 2012 OMI Fellow at Ledig House, New York. Obioma has lived in Nigeria, Cyprus, and Turkey, and currently resides in the United States, where he has completed an MFA in creative writing at the University of Michigan. The Fishermen is his first novel.