Helon Habila - Oil on Water

— I see.

— I’m glad you see. I know these people. I’m the one who can handle them, the only one. They understand only one language: force. That’s all.

The Major brought down his fist on the flimsy table, making the cups and pens jump.

— And what of your prisoners here? Are you going to try them?

— You journalists, with your fancy ideas about human rights and justice. . all nonsense. There are no human rights for people like him. You jail them and in a year they’ll be out on the streets. The best thing is to line them up and shoot them. But you people. .

The Major made a dismissive gesture with his hand and stood up. He went to the window and looked out toward the river.

— We want to interview them, your prisoners. We want to hear their side of the story.

The Major turned to Zaq, his head tilted, considering the unexpected request.

— You, I thought you were sick and wanted a doctor immediately, even though the Doctor here is the best in the whole world. It is true. He saved my life.

The Doctor sipped his tea and continued to look out through the window.

— I’m feeling better, thank you. Let us interview them.

— Well, why not? I’ll bring them over here right away and you will listen to them and afterwards you tell me what you think.

— No. Don’t bring them here. If they think you ordered the interview, they’ll be guarded, they won’t open up. Tonight, lock us up with them, let them think we’re also under suspicion.

— Are you sure you want to be locked up with them?

The Major looked from Zaq to the Doctor to me. Zaq nodded. I nodded, even though this was not something Zaq had informed me about earlier.

— Well, then, you’d better do it as soon as you can, tonight. Tomorrow we leave for Irikefe — that is actually the main reason I called you. We just heard the island has been attacked by your friends the rebels. There is serious fighting going on at the moment and our men need reenforcement. We leave early tomorrow. You can come with me, or you can stay with the rebels till I come back. You decide.

— We’ll come.

— Good. That’s settled. Now, I want to know more about you two. I’m curious about people and their motives. Why did you come here, to a war zone? You could get killed. Are you looking for fame? Is that it? Tell me how you came here.

It was a long time before nightfall, when we’d interview the militants. There was a lot of time to kill. So I told him how I received the assignment to interview the Englishwoman, and about the burning island, and how we all ended up on Irikefe. I told him almost everything. But I did not tell him about Boma, and how I found her waiting for me that day when I returned to Port Harcourt.

The soldiers led us to the lockup when the sun was setting overthe land. They walked behind us, their guns raised and aimed at a point between my shoulder blades; Zaq was walking slightly ahead of me on the narrow path leading to the little hut. The lockup was at the farthest end of the square, next to the water, and as we approached we could see the mosquitoes rising in a thick cloud over the water. I was worried about Zaq. His early morning alertness had gradually given way to bad-tempered enervation as the sun went down, and now his legs dragged, his shoulders slumped as he walked, and even from here I could hear his breath wheezing out of his nose. I had tried to convince him to let me go alone to the lockup, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

— This is what I came for. Besides, how would you explain my absence to them?

— I’d tell them you are not feeling well.

— No, that won’t work. We mustn’t leave anything to chance. Besides, I feel strong.

And I couldn’t argue any further without telling him bluntly that he was dying, and even if I did, it was no guarantee he’d budge. The soldiers opened the door and threw us in, then they closed it. We felt our way to the wall and we sat against it. Immediately Zaq slumped against me, his head sliding down my shoulder and lolling helplessly. And for a moment I asked myself, What if he died, right here, right now? Best to pretend things were the same as before, that Zaq was all right, and we would interview these people, and we’d go back to write the story. I even tried to fashion a headline that would be worthy of such a great story, the perfect, inevitable headline, the one that gets your story on the front cover, an inch high, the one that compels the most indifferent reader to stop and pick up the paper.

When my eyes got used to the gloom in the shed, and when I had controlled the dizzying, nauseating effect of the petrol smell that rose off the men’s bodies and clothes to cast a miasmatic shadow over the tiny room, I saw Tamuno and Michael huddled together in a corner. The boy was asleep, his head resting on his father’s scrawny shoulder, his feet stretched out straight before him. I realized the old man was staring at me, and in his posture I saw an embarrassed apology, as if he were trying to say sorry that things had ended up like this, and I wanted to tell him that it was I who should be apologizing for leading him into this.

Most of the men were lying on the floor, some with faces turned toward the wall. I didn’t know how long they had been the Major’s prisoners, or what other punishment they had endured in addition to the petrol-drenching, but they all looked exhausted and dispirited. In a uniform, spastic choreography they scratched and twitched and rubbed their dry skin where the petrol had scalded them, where it still burned. Only one of them sat without the mad twitching; his head was bowed, but he did not seem defeated or fatigued, like the others; he looked like a man lost in thought, a man seated against a wall in his own compound. I crawled toward him, and as I neared him a huge paw from behind grabbed me by the neck and pulled, and suddenly I was staring at two red eyes that bore into me, unblinking, expressionless. The thinking man raised his head and motioned to my captor.

— Let him go, Taiga.

I couldn’t breathe until the fist released me, then I was gasping, sucking in the fumy air, rubbing my neck, which felt broken. I sat next to the man.

— Thanks.

— Did you think he was going to kill you? We’re not murderers, my friend, regardless of what you guys write about us.

— My name is Rufus, and that’s my colleague Zaq.

— So, what are you doing here?

— We’re prisoners, like you. The Major doesn’t believe we’re innocent journalists.

— Well, are you?

— What?

— Innocent journalists?

— Of course we are. I work for the Reporter , and Zaq works for the Star .

— Is he the Zaq who used to be with the Daily Times ?

— Yes, he is—

— Let him speak for himself!

Zaq coughed and sat up straight.

— Yes, my friend. It’s me. What’s your name?

— Henshaw.

— Glad to meet you, Henshaw.

— We came to find out about the British woman. Is she still alive?

— Is that all you want from me, to tell you whether some foreign hostage is alive or not? Who is she in the context of the war that’s going on out there, the hopes and ambitions being created and destroyed? Can’t you see the larger picture?

Henshaw sounded educated and very confident, so perhaps the best way to make progress was to appeal to his reason. Zaq must have sensed that as well. I waited for Henshaw to speak some more, but he didn’t. He kept his head inclined, as if slumbering, already bored by that little exchange. After a while I cleared my throat. I could feel Zaq in the dark, waiting, willing me to go on.

— Does your group have a name?