Helon Habila - Oil on Water

— Let’s go.

Another gunman appeared and led the way through the center of the camp. The militants were already awake and busy. Men and a few women crawled in and out of canvas tents; others sat or stood under trees in groups, talking and smoking and cleaning their guns. All seemed to be dressed in black, some wearing headbands and some wearing masks.

— Keep walking.

We went deeper into the camp, away from the river, and as we went the trees grew denser, our path grew narrower and I kept looking around trying to spot Isabel, or Gloria. We passed a group standing before an open fire, and when the smell of the meat they were roasting reached me my legs almost buckled. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. We passed another group standing in a circle, singing in loud, discordant voices, and when I recognized the song as one from my long-ago Sunday school, I did so with shock. A tall man with gray hair stood in the center of the circle, frenziedly waving a Bible in the air, his eyes closed, leading the song. Our escorts finally led us to another group sitting under a leafless tree standing by itself in a large circular clearing. There were already about half a dozen men sitting under the tree, and they all looked abject and forlorn. At the edge of the clearing I saw two militants sitting on boulders, guns lying in the grass beside them.

— Sit here.

I was glad to sit, for my legs could barely support me. When I regained my breath I turned to the men around me, and they all stared back at me. Prisoners, like me. I wondered if they were being held for ransom, or if they had simply fallen foul of the Professor and were being kept here in the open as punishment. As I turned away from their faces I noticed a footpath leading away into a densely wooded area, and now I could hear voices coming from that direction. I wondered if it was an extension of the camp, and if there were more prisoners being held there. We sat for hours, we watched the shadows under the trees shift and grow longer and longer and still no one came to talk to us. We watched the camp going about its regular business. Every once in a while a militant would step forward and release a shot into the air, almost casually, and his friends would cheer him briefly before resuming whatever they were doing. Salomon still sat away from me, his head bowed. At last I stood up and faced the guards, and one immediately stepped toward me, his gun raised.

— I need to stretch my legs. I have cramps.

I went over and stood next to him.

— My name is Rufus. I’m a reporter. It’s very important that I speak to the Professor — I have an urgent message for him.

He looked at me, and I could see he was trying to decide whether I was joking or not. He was young, about twenty, he had cross-eyes and I couldn’t tell if he was staring unblinkingly at me or at something else, but his gun was without doubt pointed at my gut. He didn’t look threatening, and he even smiled at me when I asked him his name.

— Joseph. People call me Joe. Which paper you work for?

— The Reporter .

— So you be reporter and you work for Reporter .

— Yes, funny.

He nodded, smiling widely.

— I really have to see the Professor.

— No worry, you go see am. He dey busy right now.

Joseph continued to stare over my shoulder and to point the gun at me. When I got tired of standing I sat down again. One of the men dragged himself over, carefully reclining on one elbow, and, as I turned away from him, he tapped me on the shoulder. I was surprised by the sudden show of interest.

— Are you really a journalist?

— Yes.

I raised my head to see a line of about ten men emerging from the path — they were talking excitedly, and all carried sacks over their shoulders.

— They are getting ready for something big.

— What?

Now I turned to the man and looked at him closely for the first time. His hollow eyes were like those of a holy anchorite who has fasted for days and reached that stage of numbness from which there is no return, unless perhaps by electric shock. Without thinking I stood up and made for the narrow path. The guards, surprised, didn’t react till I had gone a few meters, then Joseph ran to me and held me by the hand, the wide smile still on his face.

— I have to see the Professor.

Joseph was roughly pushed aside by the other guard, a short, stout fellow with red, merciless eyes, who stood firmly in my path. He threw away his cigarette into the bush and moved closer to me till his gun made contact with my chest.

— Where you tink say you dey go?

— I have to see the Professor. I’m a reporter—

— Go back before I blast you to hell!

I went back. The reclining man tapped me again on the shoulder.

— Well, you are a very brave man.

He stared directly at me, as the light fell on his face through the few tree branches, leaving blotches of light and shade where the shadow mixed with light.

— What do you mean?

— You don’t seem to be afraid of their guns.

— Who are you? Why are you here? Are you prisoners, hostages?

— We are militants, just like them.

— Then why are they guarding you?

— We have a slight problem, that’s all. Each of us is here for a different reason. Those two sitting right under the tree, they are from a different gang and they want to join this gang, so they are being watched for a day or two to make sure they are who they claim to be. That one next to them, in the blue shirt, he is being punished. He used to be one of the Professor’s top men, he was sent to buy boats from a foreign dealer and somehow he lost a lot of money in the transaction, I don’t know how much, but the Professor is very angry with him, very angry. See that one over there, near the path, sitting by himself? Well, he made a mistake. He brought back the wrong hostage.

The man he pointed to was seated on the very edge of the patchy shade cast by the tree’s few leaves. He was a fair-skinned, balding man, dressed in green military fatigues, mostly now torn and dirty, his head bowed between his knees, exposing the round bald spot at the back of his head.

— The Professor needed to raise money quick quick to pay for a consignment of guns he was expecting from overseas, so he sent that guy over there, his name is Monday. His assignment was simple: take some of the boys, and enough guns and boats and everything you need, go to one of the oil companies in Port Harcourt and kidnap one foreign oil worker and bring him back. Well, he went, and he returns with this cheerful-looking man who keeps saying they are making a terrible mistake in kidnapping him. Well, they didn’t listen to him. They lock him up in one of the tents over there reserved for such purposes. They send their ransom demand, and they wait for the company to get in touch so they can begin negotiations, but surprisingly, the company shows no interest. Meanwhile, the hostage is treated like all other hostages, very good food, everything he needs, they even bring a doctor to see him when he has a problem. Well, eventually they discovered what was wrong. The hostage was not a white man at all, despite his very fair skin. You know what he was? An albino! And here he was eating the best food and sleeping all day, as if he was on vacation. Very funny, isn’t it?

— What do they call this place?

— Forest. And you, what is a reporter doing here?

— I was taken by force, together with that man over there. If I can talk to the Professor, I can prove who I am.

— Don’t worry, the Professor will see you eventually. His men will tell him what you said and he will want to verify if it is true. I just hope you can prove you are who you claim to be.

And, having said that, the man suddenly lost interest in me. He went back to his spot and to his ruminations.