Helon Habila - Oil on Water

— Hmm, well, I’ve read about it before. A tragedy. But it does illustrate my point—

— No, actually, it illustrates my point.

— Ha ha! You argue rather well, I must give you that. . Now, where’s that. .

He picked up the bell and rang it again, impatiently. After a while the door to the patio opened and a maid entered. She was dressed in a blue uniform that reached just below her knees, with a white apron around her waist. She stood next to the TV and stared at Floode, her head inclined, not saying a word.

— Get my guest here a drink, Koko. What can she get you?

— A beer will do. . Star.

— And a refill for me.

She turned and disappeared into the kitchen. I watched the movement of her full waist beneath the close-fitting uniform. She returned a moment later with a tray bearing my bottle of Star and a glass of whatever Floode was drinking. She set the bottle on the side table next to me. She was young and plump, not fat, but very heavy around the hips. She looked more like a student than a maid, and though she was not conventionally pretty there was a compelling sexuality about her. I was sitting across from Floode, watching her as she bent forward to place his drink next to him, and I saw his left hand almost absently but gently brush against her thigh, and if she hadn’t turned and flashed him a quick smile I would have dismissed the gesture as an innocent accident.

— Thanks, Koko. That will be all.

He saw me staring at him and he shifted his gaze to his drink. I cleared my throat.

— Mr. Floode, Zaq said I should ask if everything was okay between you and Mrs. Floode. Was there a fight, or. .?

He looked long at me, sipping his drink. I stared back at him. I loved the way his face turned meat-red, and the way he used his glass to cover his mouth, which had suddenly tightened, I loved the debate in his eyes: to kick out this nosy African or to tolerate him. He smiled.

— I should tell you to go tell him it’s none of his business.

— He just wants to know as much as possible about the circumstances of the kidnapping. .

— She shouldn’t have come to Nigeria.

— Why?

— She came hoping to save our marriage, but we had drifted apart long ago. We met at university, you know. But then, after we married, I got this job. I was posted to all sorts of places and I guess she must have got tired of the constant change. Some people like it, some don’t. We agreed that she should wait in England. And I. . I was just beginning to discover how good I am at my job. I’m a petroleum engineer, and I’m one of the best. Then the transfer to Nigeria came, I left and she remained in Newcastle, and all the time we were drifting apart. Then six months ago she arrived here, but by then it was too late. There’s another woman, you see. .

— Does Mrs. Floode know about this woman?

— Yes.

— This woman, is she local?

— Let’s just say she lives here in Port Harcourt. I want to protect her identity as much as I can. She’s expecting our child.

— I see.

— Do you, young man? The irony is that Isabel thought we could save our marriage by having a child. That was her plan. The first day she arrived she said let’s make a baby, and what was I to say?

I opened my mouth to ask another question but I closed it again when I saw what looked like a tear leaving the corner of his eye. Too much emotion, or too much whiskey. He wiped his eyes and looked up.

— So, will Zaq be all right?

— Yes, he’ll be attended to by a nurse at the shrine.

— I wonder if I can prevail upon him to seek a little further, not to hurry back. He’s an excellent reporter, and I’m sure that if anyone can get to the kidnappers, he can. Might he be persuaded, do you think?

— You’ll have to ask him, I guess, and his editor.

— As you can see, my mobility is a bit restricted. May I ask you to find out for me?

— How?

— Go back to this Irikefe place, talk to Zaq, see what he says. I’m willing to pay him, and you, of course, for your trouble. Go tomorrow: you can return that same day, so you’ll lose hardly any time at all from work. I’ll have a boat ready to take you there.

— I can’t. .

— Why? You’re a reporter: I should think you’d jump at such an opportunity.

— I. . have a few personal issues to take care of.

I was thinking of Boma in my room, her eyes still red from yesterday’s tears, waiting for me to return with some sort of solution to her housing problem.

He misread my reluctance for bargaining. — Look, dear chap, I’ll pay for your time. I know you’ll need to prepare, buy equipment and so on. How about a hundred thousand naira? All you have to do is go back to the island, give Zaq my message, and come back.

He was offering a lot of money, more money than I had ever seen. My mind flew in many different directions: I thought of the dead bodies covered by bamboo leaves, and I knew anything could happen to me on such a trip. I had been lucky once: I had gone and returned safely, I had published my story, I had been praised by my editor and the Chairman, why push my luck? But, on the other hand, there was the money. I needed it to pay Boma’s rent, and my own rent, for that matter. .

Of course, I could take the money and not go back to the island. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think of that possibility. After all, he couldn’t sue me, could he? I could tell him something came up and that was it. A hundred thousand was nothing to a man like him. Besides, I didn’t really think much of Mr. Floode. If he really cared for his wife, shouldn’t he be out there in the jungle with Zaq, instead of here, drinking cocktails, watching TV, sleeping with the maid — if he was sleeping with the maid, that is? I could take his money and walk out and nothing would happen. Wasn’t he in my country, polluting my environment, making millions in the process? Surely I was entitled to some reparation, some rent money from him? But even as I took the money, and an extra hundred thousand that he said was for Zaq, I still wasn’t sure what I’d do when I walked out of his gate.

— Tell Zaq he has my permission to negotiate with the kidnappers. My embassy has warned me against paying ransom just yet, but there’s no reason why we can’t start negotiating. I just want to end this whole thing as quickly as possible. Do you understand?

I took two plain brown envelopes from him and put them in my jacket pocket, feeling the weight in my chest and shoulders.

— I will send you a receipt.

He shook his head and took my hands and looked into my eyes earnestly. — No need for that, Rufus. I have to trust you. You’re my only hope, you and Zaq. My wife’s life is in your hands. I know things aren’t that good between us, but she’s a good person and she doesn’t deserve this.

I avoided his eyes as I left him to his cocktail, his split-unit air-conditioning, his alluring maid, his BBC news, his stubble, his double-gated seafront house, and made my way back to the city.

I FOUND BOMA seated on a chair in front of the open door. She was staring ahead at nothing, her head bowed. She looked up and smiled when I touched her on the shoulder. I sat beside her and we watched my cotenants come in one by one, back from work, their eyes tired and vacuous, their shoulders bent. They waved or grunted briefly at us as they went into their rooms to take off their shirts and hang them on the nail behind the door, to be picked up again tomorrow morning on the way to work. Today we had electricity, so those with TV would flop into a chair before it and stare into the flickering surface as they ate soaked garri or whatever food there was to be had. Eating and watching mindlessly till they fell asleep. Those without TV, or those who simply couldn’t bear the steaming heat in their rooms, would come out and sit on the veranda to catch whatever breeze was passing by.