Helon Habila - Oil on Water

— I used to know your editor, Dan. We were reporters together in Lagos, a long time ago.

— You may not remember me, but we have met before. Five years ago, in Lagos. I was a student at the School of Journalism, and you came to give a lecture.

— I’ve given many lectures in my life. At one time I was giving almost two every week.

— And you helped me get my present job. You gave me your number and I called you. I still have the number. .

He looked a bit uncomfortable, turning away partially from me, but I went on, hoping he might remember if I jogged his memory hard enough.

— In that lecture you talked about journalists as conservationists. . that we scribble for posterity. . and you said most of what we write may be ephemeral, a note here about a car accident, a column there about a market fire, a suicide, a divorce, yet once in a while, maybe once in a lifetime, comes a transcendental moment, a great story only the true journalist can do justice to—

— I see. Well, your memory is better than mine. It was a long time ago. I was giving a lot of lectures at that time.

I saw no point in going on, though I wanted desperately to ask him if he thought we were pursuing just such a great story, and what it would take to do justice to it. In his lecture he said that the mark of a great journalist is the ability to know a great story when it comes, and to be ready for it, with the words and the talent and the daring to go after it. Nothing must be allowed to stand in the way. Now he looked as if the only thing he wanted to do was go back home. I wasn’t sure he still believed in what he taught.

— SO, WHERE DO YOU think she might be?

He was staring at the scum on the surface of the water as it washed against the boat, leaving a bubbly film of oil on the wood. He shrugged.

— She wasn’t here, that’s for sure. My guess is that the bodies out there were going to be our escorts to wherever she’s being held. It can’t be far from here.

— What of the soldiers?

— Somewhere in these waters, still patrolling, trying to find the hideout. And I think we should be heading away from here as soon as we can. We don’t want to be caught in a crossfire between the soldiers and the kidnappers—

Zaq suddenly stopped speaking and stared past me at the path leading to the island; the men’s voices, I realized, had gone quiet. Then, just before I turned to see what he found so arresting, I heard the command:

— Oya, move faster!

The reporters were walking in a single file, their hands raised above their heads, and flanking them were figures in black wearing masks, their guns pointed at the men. There were about five of them, and one saw us and quickly came to the boat. He waved one hand at us impatiently.

— You two, come down. Now!

We raised our hands and joined the others by the water. We watched the incoming tide deposit bits of wood and grass and bird feathers at our feet. Still holding the gun on us, the men climbed into our boat one by one and moved off. Not until the boat had long disappeared into the distance did we slowly lower our hands.

— Where did they come from?

Zaq’s question met with a confused babble as everyone regained speech at the same time.

— They won’t send it back.

— They will, they promised.

— They will.

— How can you trust them?

— Well, they didn’t shoot us.

— I knew I shouldn’t have come on this assignment.

— Remember what happened to Tekena and the other one, what’s his name. .

— Olisah. They were shot, in the back.

— We’re all lucky to be alive.

— They will send back the boat.

Zaq’s confident comment amid the growing hysteria made us all look to him to see if he knew something we didn’t, but he had already turned away and was facing the water. We turned back and continued arguing.

The militants must have been hiding in the bushes after escaping the unexpected attack by the soldiers, and all the while they had observed us, waiting for the right moment to come out. They had held us hostage for not more than ten minutes, appearing more interested in getting off the island than in doing us harm. Only one of them had spoken to us. He was the shortest and thickest, with what looked like a gunshot wound on his arm.

— Journalists, we go send your boat back. Just wait here small.

When Nkem stepped forward to ask him a question, he made a dissuasive gesture with his gun, making Nkem jump back immediately.

— We’re journalists, and we’re on your side. We want to report the truth, how your men were brutally slaughtered today for no reason. We just want to ask you a few questions.

— No questions. Just wait for your boat.

— But—

— You, which paper you work for?

— I work for the Globe —

— You too talk.

— We just want to find out about the hostage. .

The men in the boat conferred briefly, and then the short man, who seemed to be their spokesman, turned to us.

— The woman dey fine.

And then they left with our boat.

Zaq unscrewed the cap on his hip flask, raised it to his mouth and drained it. He turned to the guide. — Use the radio. Call for another boat.

The man looked sheepish. He wiped the sweat from his face.

— I. . I can’t. They took away my radio, and my gun.

He looked diminished, jumpy and ready to go with the first suggestion from the reporters. We sat on wet mossy logs and watched the waves rise and fall. It was almost five p.m. and darkness was rapidly setting in, and as we waited we argued in our minds whether or not the boat would return.

WHEN I GOT TIRED of watching the Lagos journalists try over and over again to make calls on their unresponsive mobile phones, I decided to take a walk on the beach. It was almost seven p.m., and already some of the men, resigned to the fact that we might be spending the night here, had moved inland to look for some kind of shelter. I remained by the water, not because I was convinced the boat would return for us, but because I knew the midges and mosquitoes were fewer here with the sea breeze to chase them away, but even then one needed more than two hands to fight them. They found every exposed spot on the arms, the neck and especially the face.

— Are there bigger islands nearby?

Zaq was leaning against a palm tree, his empty whiskey flask in his hand. His voice was slow, tired. He belched.

— Yes. Lots of them. There are fishing communities all over the islands, and by morning these waters will be busy with boat traffic.

— So all we have to do is survive the night.

— Right.

I left him leaning on the tree, staring into the water after he had thrown the empty flask into it. I walked with the frogs and crickets and crabs. Over the sound of the water the night birds took turns singing the world a lullaby. I walked, feeling the water wash up my trousers and the crabs scurrying out of my way with their surprisingly fast sideways pace, always keeping me in view. I walked to suppress my hunger and the pain in my legs and the rising cold biting at my skin, and when I got tired of walking I turned back. The men, back from their futile search for shelter, had started a fire; its flame glowed weakly, wavering in the humid wind coming off the water, briefly illuminating their anxious faces. I joined them and we stood there, solemn, not talking, staring into the halfhearted fire, listening to the waves and noting how the sound they made oddly resembled the rumblings in our stomachs, waiting and hoping, but not expecting, that the boat would return.

But toward midnight it came, silently gliding over the dark water, its presence betrayed only by the soft slicing of the boatman’s oar.

— It’s here!