Helon Habila - Oil on Water

— You are talking in riddles, Zaq.

— I have plans. I can get backers. Come with me to Lagos and we’ll start a new paper, a real paper.

— I have to be in the office.

— Well, think about whether to take the ferry back, or to come with me into the forest in search of the woman. Perhaps you’re thinking, Ah, he’s still drunk, tomorrow he’ll have forgotten all about this. But you don’t have to answer immediately. We’ll talk about it some more. But I can tell you have the makings of a real reporter. You ask the right questions, you actually returned to this island, you’re not afraid to take chances.

I listened in silence, though I wanted to say to him, I’m flattered that you think I’m a great reporter, potentially, but right now my sister with her scarred face and even more scarred psyche is in my room, shedding tears. I need to be there to make sure she doesn’t do anything crazy. And, another minor point, if I don’t get back to my office very soon, I’ll lose my job.

But I only nodded.

— Think about it.

In his lecture that day in Lagos, Zaq said that the best stories are the ones we write with tears in our eyes, the ones whose stings we feel personally. After visiting my sister at the hospital, unable to sleep, haunted by the image of burned flesh and the smell of petrol that clung to the hospital walls and corridors, I picked up pen and paper and the words had come effortlessly. I wrote about our childhood, about our days catching crabs to pay our way through secondary school, about Boma’s dreams of becoming a doctor. I had posted the story on the Internet, and it had been quoted and reproduced over and over on websites. And of course I had used it when applying for a job: it was my best writing sample. To be a great reporter required a lot of suffering, a lot of backstory, and I was finding that out for myself.

— One more thing. I do remember now that day at Bar Beach. That day with you and your lecturers at the restaurant.

— Well, good.

— I also remember your call, but I didn’t get you your job.

— What do you mean?

— After your call, I did mean to call your chairman to persuade him to give you a chance, but I was busy that day and—

— And so. . I got the job all by myself. .

— I guess you did.

— I don’t know whether to thank you or to curse you.

— I’m being honest with you. Now come. Let’s go see the priest.

We found him in his hut behind the worship room, changing intoa fresh robe. When he opened the door to our knock, he didn’t look surprised to see us.

— Ah, Mr. Zaq, I see you look better. You must be anxious to return home. We are happy to have you here as long as you like, both of you, of course, but the nurse thinks that you ought to see a doctor soon.

— Where is the British woman. . and the Professor? Zaq stooped and entered through the low door, then he straightened up pugnaciously before the priest.

— The Professor?

— Come on, it’s no secret that these islands and villages are under his protection. We’re not the army, we’re reporters. We want to know what he’s done with the woman. We want to ask him why he has turned from being a freedom fighter to a kidnapper of women and children. We want to know if the white woman is alive.

The priest sat down on a tall stool, a tired droop to his shoulder.

— I think it would be best if you just went back home.

— Not until we see the woman.

— That may not be possible.

— Why not? Do you have a hand in the kidnapping?

— No. We are a holy community, a peaceful people. Our only purpose here is to bring a healing, to restore and conserve. .

— Just tell us what you know.

Naman took a deep breath and stood up.

— Come with me.

His words and movements were decisive. We followed him, his fresh robe dragging in the wet, muddy grass. We passed the worshippers, some coming out of their huts, standing under trees, looking after us curiously. Gloria was in a group with three women, talking and laughing, but she stopped talking and stared at us. Zaq bowed slightly in her direction and she nodded. I slowed down, half turning to face her, but Zaq made an impatient gesture with his head and I quickened my pace. We walked on. The priest took us past the sculptures, away from the water, into the woods. Here the heat was trapped between the trees, and the dead leaves on the ground were putrid. Soon we appeared at a clearing surrounded by chicken wire. It was a cemetery, with headstones looking as lonely and forlorn as only headstones can. He pushed open the flimsy wooden gate and waved us in, like a man inviting us into his living room. He stopped before a fresh, unmarked mound.

— The kidnappers brought her here four days ago, and yes, one of them was the Professor. We try as much as possible to keep out of their way, and they leave us alone. We don’t talk to them, or to the army. But they brought the white woman, here. I objected. But he said they only came because she was seriously ill, and they knew we had a nurse here. They said they’d be on their way in a few days. Well, after two days some of them set out in a boat. They had two boats, and they set out in one, about seven of them, including the Professor. The woman was attended to by our nurse, who diagnosed a fever and diarrhea. We waited for the rest to leave, and when they didn’t I went to their hut and asked what was going on. They said they were still waiting for the Professor to return. They looked uneasy. Well, as we were talking, the Professor came in, with only two men. The rest, he said, had been killed in the fight with the soldiers. He was wounded but he wouldn’t sit. He said they had to leave at once. I left them, then. .

The priest stopped speaking and stared silently at the fresh mound of earth in front of us.

— Then what? Did she die?

— He came to me just before they left. He brought me here and said, They will come looking for her, if they do, show them her grave. This is for the men they killed. Maybe this will teach them not to mess with us in the future.

— I DON’T BELIEVE HIM.

— But he wouldn’t lie to us, surely. .

— That’s what I find confusing. Why would he lie about a thing like this?

I shared Zaq’s feeling. Something didn’t feel right. Not in my wildest dreams did I ever think our quest would end so suddenly, with an unmarked grave in a shrine. Zaq said nothing more all day. He lay on his mat, facing the conical thatched roof, a second bottle in his hand. To my questions he gave only monosyllabic grunts. I slept and woke up around five p.m. I picked up my camera.

— Where are you going?

— Taking a walk.

— I think you should go meet that nurse.

— Gloria.

— Ask her what she knows about the Englishwoman.

— What if she doesn’t want to talk?

— Didn’t I tell you she likes you? Hold her hand. Kiss her. Just get her to talk. It’s very important. Don’t you like her?

— She’s a very pretty woman, Zaq.

I TOOK PICTURES of the cemetery, making sure I had a close-up of the fresh mound of earth, then I turned my lenses to the sculptures. Afterward I walked about aimlessly, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gloria, but I did not see her anywhere. I went and sat on the hill to stare at the water and the faraway gas flares that emerged suddenly from pillarlike pipes, holding up their roof of odious black smoke. I thought of so many things, of the priest’s words, of the white woman, dead and buried all this while, of Zaq’s offer. When I got tired of thinking I descended to join the worshippers for dinner. I found Gloria in the spot where we’d eaten yesterday.

— I was just coming from your hut.