Helon Habila - Oil on Water

— The statuary is all gone.

— It is the nature of existence. A thing is created, it blooms for a while if it is capable of blooming, then it ceases to be.

He said that two days ago the militants had arrived. The worshippers were as usual having their morning dip, chanting their hymn to the sun, and the next thing they knew they were surrounded by gunmen. Of course, they had been visited by the militants before, but nothing like this — usually they came for food, or for medical supplies, or for clothes; once they attempted to abduct a woman worshipper, but Naman had stood in front of the woman and said they had to shoot him first, and of course when their leader, the real Professor, who was a gentleman, found out, he had publicly punished the militants and personally apologized to the community. A good man, the real Professor. But this time it was another leader, a younger one, and he gathered everyone into the worship hut and said he wanted all the worshippers to swear allegiance to him — imagine that. When Naman said that wasn’t really necessary, the man placed a gun on his chest and told him to shut up. Then he said he had discovered that traitors, informers, had been giving information to the soldiers. Someone here at the shrine, on the island, must have given them away to the soldiers just before they arranged to meet with the reporters on Agbuki. He said he and his men would spend the night here and tomorrow they’d be on their way, but before they left they’d take a hostage, just to make sure of the worshippers’ cooperation. And then he pointed at Gloria, and said, You will come with us tomorrow.

But the soldiers came early the next morning. First they came in a boat, and there were only five of them. They were on routine patrol; they hadn’t known the militants were there, and they ran into an ambush — it was a massacre. They were all killed instantly. The militants had machine guns and grenades. But the soldiers must have called for backup because this morning the helicopter came and started shooting at everything beneath it, indiscriminately.

— People running and jumping into the water. It was awful. Awful. The water turned red. Blood, it was blood. In the confusion the rebels slipped away and left the villagers to face the soldiers. Now, see, everything is in ruins. Nothing left, it is a miracle so many are still alive. A miracle.

He kept repeating it: a miracle.

— And Gloria, where is she?

— They took her away like they promised. She was crying and screaming, but they dragged her away.

I WENT OVER TO ZAQ.

— A lady was here just now, looking for you. She said she was your sister. Do you have a sister?

— Boma. Here?

Zaq looked about, raising his head from the grass. He was exactly where I’d left him over two hours ago, in the grass under a tree, but now he was fully stretched on his back, his head propped up on the tree’s protruding root.

— I told her to walk about, that you were somewhere out there. Maybe she’s with the women over there.

I wasn’t sure what to make of that news. What would Boma be doing here? How did she get here? I left Zaq and headed for the group of women. The camp had segregated itself, with the men on one side, closer to the water, and the women camped where the tree line began. The women were seated in groups, the fit ones tending to the wounded, while the children crawled between their legs and rolled about in the grass, oblivious of the moment’s gravity. And on the outskirts of the two groups were the soldiers, their guns raised, their eyes alert to any movement over the water. I found her sitting by herself on a log, looking absently at two urchins wrestling in the grass. She had a smile on her face, and she looked pretty. I was looking at the good side of her face, and suddenly I was back many years to the last time I’d seen her like this, without the scar. I had returned from Port Harcourt after my apprenticeship with Udoh Fotos; Boma and John had started going out then and were already talking of getting married someday. John had pointed at the entire town of Junction with his hand.

— But we have to get out of here first.

On the day I left, John and Boma had walked me to the bus station, and as the bus pulled away Boma waved and waved and the sun fell on her smooth face, just as it fell now. Smooth and unmarred.

— What are you doing here? I know, don’t tell me. You’re hoping to find John in the forest, waiting for you.

My voice rose as I spoke, and I felt it rising even higher. I pointed around.

— Look, they’re fighting a war here. You could get killed, Boma. And all for what, for a man who walked out on you because he couldn’t bear to look at your face anymore? It’s time to move on. He’s never coming back. He’s gone. Accept it.

She was staring at me, her head inclined, as if she were watching a stranger. But I was remorseless. I was tired, and all I wanted was to be as far away from here as possible, but her presence only added to the weight on my shoulders.

— I came to look for you, not for John.

I sat down beside her.

— You were supposed to be gone for only a day. I went to your office to see if they had any news and they said no. Nothing. And then your editor said to tell you not to bother to show up at the office.

— He said that?

— Yes.

How quickly things change. It seemed like only yesterday I was seated at the Chairman’s right hand, being toasted by the staff, and now I had no job.

— How long have you been here?

— I got here yesterday; the fighting began just after I arrived.

The kids wrestling in the grass were now eating out of the same bowl, placed before them by their mother, who stood watching over them as they ate. She was a tired-looking woman with her hair in knots; she held her grimy white robe bunched up at the hip, lifting it clear of the muddy grass. Her exposed calves were thick and chunky, merging into her ankles without definition.

— I was worried about you.

I felt tired. I felt ashamed at my outburst.

I tried a joke when I saw how crestfallen she looked.

— I’m the Lucky One, remember? Nothing will happen to me.

— Have you found the woman?

— What woman?

— The white woman you were looking for.

— No.

— I met your friend, Zaq, over there. What’s wrong with him?

— He’s not well. He’s dying.

— He’s dying?

— That’s what the doctor said.

— So, what are you going to do?

— Find a boat and take him to Port Harcourt. They have to evacuate these wounded people soon anyway.

I SAT UP ALL NIGHT beside Zaq. Boma was curled up on her spread-out wrapper close to us, fast asleep, her head resting on her arm, her face beautiful in the glow of the fire someone had started not too far away. I listened to the anxious murmurs of the men around the fire as they sat hunched forward, still in their white frocks. Some of them would look up and stare at me and I’d look back at them, my face full of questions, but I got only silent head shakes. Some shrank from me, as though I were an interrogator brandishing tools of torture. From the women’s section came the cries and whimpers of children, from the waterfront came the crunch of soldiers’ boots on the hard pebbles of the beach. I watched the fire burn bright and die. I was exhausted but I did not sleep. Instead I let my mind remember the many conversations we had had, right here on this island.

Once Zaq had asked me:

— Rufus, what books have you read?

I mentioned a few journalism books, but he shook his head impatiently.

— You must take a year off, one of these days, before you’re old and tired and weighed down by responsibility. Go away somewhere, and read. Read all the important books. Educate yourself, then you’ll see the world in a different way.