Helon Habila - Oil on Water

— Hey, Rufus, my countryman!

Isaac, my neighbor. He was Ibibio and for some reason he thought I was from his village, and, though I told him I was not, he always laughed and said he recognized my features, and he was sure he knew some of my cousins. And every day he would greet me with his loud, booming call, My countryman! How life? And I had taken to answering back with as much cheer as I could muster after a full day, My countryman! Life de turn man. Family is worth clinging on to wherever one can find it. Which made him feel easier about asking me for a loan when he ran short in the straight and narrow days just before payday. Across the compound Madam Comfort, her husband, Mister John, and their six children were seated on stools in front of their open door, having their evening meal. All along the length of the veranda other families had similarly turned this narrow space into an extension of their living room, eating and calling across to each other or just staring into space.

— I have to go back to Irikefe tomorrow.

— You said it is very dangerous out there.

— I’ll be fine. What of you, what are you going to do?

— I don’t know.

She got up and disappeared into the room and then reappeared with a plate of jollof rice, which she handed to me.

— Thanks.

— More and more I’m thinking of moving to the village to stay with Mother.

We had discussed this many times before. Mother was still unused to Boma’s scarred face — it was as if she expected it to one day disappear, and with it the memory of that tragic day. Whenever they met, Mother always broke down at the sight of her daughter’s once-pretty face, now a total scabrous mess. The last time, she’d run into the room and cried and cried, and eventually Boma had joined her and the two had cried together till their voices went hoarse and they couldn’t cry anymore.

— Is that what you want?

— But what is there to do? I’m beginning to get tired of waiting. Sometimes I’m not sure anymore what I want to do.

I took out some money from the brown envelope and handed it to her.

— Here, use this to pay your landlord. .

— No. I’m not going back there. I’ll look for another place.

— Of course, you can stay here till you find somewhere suitable, I just want you to be sure about what it is you want.

I moved my chair out of the way as my next-door neighbor came out of her room to go to the kitchen.

— Hello, Rufus. Na your sister be dis?

— How now, Grace. Na my sister.

Boma lowered her face instinctively.

The Lucky One, that was Boma’s name for me, Mr. Lucky. Growing up, I always had a knack for coming out unscathed from the most scary accidents. But in this one case I wish I had been unlucky, I wish I had been there when it happened, to share in her pain, my family’s pain. Instead it was John who had been by her side as she was taken to the hospital screaming and shouting that she was blind, she couldn’t see. When I came home, proudly clutching my journalism certificate, he pulled me aside and told me they were getting married as soon as she was out of the hospital. They had had five very good years of marriage, I could vouch for that, being their neighbor, but it would have been better if he had quietly broken up with her after she had left the hospital, as soon as she was able to look in the mirror without crying, left her to create her own thick skin, her own defenses.

I had never seen Boma so broken, so defeated, as on the day she told me he had gone.

— Maybe if we had children? A nice little boy to make him feel proud. It’s my fault, I kept telling him to wait, wait. . I know it is this face. He used to run his hand over my face and say he didn’t really care, that as far as he was concerned, I was still the same beautiful girl he’d met when we were kids, when they moved into the house next to ours.

Now that it was dark and cooler, the neighbors got up one by one and took their chairs inside. In one of the rooms a man and his wife were fighting, their words loud and full of hate. In the background their children were crying, there was the loud sound of a slap, the crying stopped, the shouting stopped. Peace reigned.

Zaq was lying on a mat under an acacia tree, and though the airwas hot and humid, he was covered up to his chin in a brown wool blanket. He attempted a smile when he saw me, but the smile was soon overtaken by a grimace.

— I’m cold. I’m so cold.

His face, gaunt and dejected, turned toward the faraway still figures. In the distance I could see a few worshippers in their long white robes, standing in groups before one of the huts. I was shocked by his appearance.

— Maybe you ought to think of returning to Port Harcourt: you don’t look very good.

— I don’t know what you came back to do, but I’m glad to see you.

His voice was so faint I had to ask him to repeat himself.

— See, I brought you a few things.

At the waterfront in Port Harcourt, while waiting for the boat, I had impulsively stepped into one of the many stores facing the sea and grabbed two bottles of Johnnie Walker. I guess I was still haunted by the image of Zaq begging for a drink that day on the beach. He forced himself up and reached greedily for the bottle, his hands shaking. And suddenly I had misgivings.

— I’m not sure this is a good idea. .

But his hand tightened over the bottle, and I was surprised at how much strength there was in his grip. He leaned his back against the tree trunk and opened the cap; his hands shook and the spirit spilled as the bottle found his mouth. He drank as if he were sucking life and health out of the bottle, but finally he stopped, gasping and coughing, and the spark gradually returned to his eyes. After that greedy, focused exertion, he kicked off the blanket and released a long, blissful sigh.

— Ahhh! You’ve just saved a life, Rufus.

— Has the nurse been to see you?

— Yes. She was quite nice to me.

In the distance I saw a figure in white coming toward us: it was Naman, the officious priest who had welcomed us three days ago. He knelt beside Zaq’s mat and his face momentarily clouded when he saw the open whiskey bottle, but he said nothing.

— Welcome back, Mr. Rufus.

— Thank you.

— I see you’ve returned to see how your colleague is doing? Perhaps take him back with you?

— No, actually, well, yes. If he’s strong enough to go.

— Nurse Gloria said you are making good progress, Mr. Zaq. She said you had a rough time last night, but now that the fever has broken, you will feel better. She will be back this afternoon to take a look at you.

— Where’s the nurse now?

— She has business to attend to in Port Harcourt, but while there she will buy some more medicines for you.

Zaq moaned and held his head. — I think I’m dying. I feel like a ghost already. Do you believe in ghosts, priest?

— Of course we believe in spirits, good and bad. The bad ones are the ones who have sinned against Mother Earth and can’t find rest in her womb. They roam the earth, restless, looking for redemption—

— Okay, okay. I am not interested in your theology.

I put Zaq’s bad temper down to the fever, his truculence to the whiskey. The priest stood up.

— Actually, I came to help you back to your room, but I am sure your friend here will help you. I have to go. It is time now for our evening worship.

He shook my hand.

— Good to see you again. Let me know if you need anything.

— A very busy man, isn’t he?

Zaq stared thoughtfully after the departing priest, belching as he took another sip from the bottle.

— I wonder what he knows about the kidnapping.