Helon Habila - Oil on Water

— What about the woman?

— The woman is safe, as you will see for yourself.

There was a movement behind the trees and two men appeared, leading Isabel. She looked as I had last seen her, still wearing the same clothes, her hair shockingly cropped short, but in her posture and in her gaze I detected a subtle change, a sort of resignation, a surrender to the strange and obscure forces that sometimes take over our lives, and which it is futile to resist. I made to go toward her but one of the men raised his gun and shook his head at me. My eyes met hers and I nodded, and she nodded, then she turned and was led away by the men.

— Take this envelope to her husband: it contains more of her hair. Tell him his wife is safe, but after two days, if we don’t hear from him, we can’t guarantee her safety anymore. We are getting impatient. Two days, final.

— There is another woman, from Irikefe. Her name is Gloria. Your men took her a few days ago. .

— Ah, the nurse. She is gone. We set her free two days ago. Did you think we’d keep her here against her wish, rape her, maybe? We are not the barbarians the government propagandists say we are. We are for the people. Everything we do is for the people, what will we gain if we terrorize them? I am speaking for myself and my group, of course. I am aware that, out there, there are criminal elements looting and killing under the guise of freedom fighting, but we are different. Those kind of rebels, they are our enemies. That is why I am letting you go, so you can write the truth. And be careful, whatever you write, be careful. I am watching you. I have people everywhere.

— I will write only the truth.

He jumped down and came forward till his chin was almost touching my chest. This time he reached out a finger and poked me, his eyes locked with mine.

— Write only the truth. Tell them about the flares you see at night, and the oil on the water. And the soldiers forcing us to escalate the violence every day. Tell them how we are hounded daily in our own land. Where do they want us to go, tell me, where? Tell them we are going nowhere. This land belongs to us. That is the truth, remember that. You can go.

I SAT UNDER a tree and watched the men come and go, some of them busy comparing guns, rolls of bullets draped around their shoulders like scarves. Some carried metal boxes that they passed down to the boats waiting in the river. They were on the warpath, and I was free. Soon I would have to set out on my own path, yet a heaviness lay on my heart, and I felt no exhilaration or joy or relief. I just felt tired, and hungry. I kept looking in the direction in which I had seen Isabel disappear, and I was tempted to go after her and assure her I would deliver the silent message she had passed to me with her eyes, and I would waste no time doing it. But she knew that already, I was sure.

OUR BOAT’S PROW broke into the dense, inscrutable mist, making for open water. It was an old wooden boat with an outboard motor that looked just about capable enough to take us to the next settlement. I looked back to the shore we had just left. A few militants stood in the mist, guns dangling by their sides, staring after our slowly disappearing boat. My escort left me on the other riverbank with a plastic bottle full of water. Behind me was a dense forest and my heart quivered just to think that I’d soon be traversing its depth on my way to where, he told me, I’d find a village and a boat to take me to Irikefe. The river curved in a big U, and the ground I’d be covering was the middle of the U; on the other side I’d meet the river again where it joined the sea and where the village was.

When I came out of the forest, I had no problem getting a boat, and after a ride of over two hours on the sea we arrived at Irikefe. I got down and thanked the villagers who had transported me. I joined a group standing by the water watching three fishermen in a boat slowly pulling up a big net full of wriggling fish. We cheered as the net came up, and then I left the group and headed for Gloria’s house.

I found her at the standpipe, bent over an iron bucket filled with soapy water and dirty clothes. I stood over her, unable to speak, and when she looked up and saw me, she straightened up slowly. Then she smiled and I thought it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. She took my hand and led me inside, making me sit on the bed. She knelt down and took off my shoes, and then she went out and returned after a few minutes.

— I have taken a bucket to the bathroom for you.

She gave me a towel and I went out. After the bath she gave me a bowl of hot pepper soup and I drank. Then I slept. She was lying beside me when I woke up, her eyes closed. The window was open and the wind was shaking the curtain and it was as though it were riffling through a field in my mind. I sat up and gently shook her arm till she opened her eyes. She smiled.

— I was watching you sleep, and then I fell asleep. You slept for five hours.

She told me Zaq was dead. He’d died before the militants brought Gloria back to Irikefe, setting her free on the shore. I let her words sink in, not interrupting. When she came back she found the military pulling out, and the villagers, led by Naman, who was now the head priest, engaged in rebuilding the shrine and the huts and salvaging anything that they could. First she joined her cotenants to make their house habitable, scrubbing the floor till her hands ached, repainting the walls and finding a strange pleasure in watching the grime disappear forever beneath the cover of fresh new paint, then nailing back the windows onto their hinges and finally throwing away whatever was beyond repair. Afterward she felt like Christians must after being baptized: born again. Then she joined the worshippers who were putting together the statues piece by piece; when they were through, an uninformed observer would never be able to guess that only a week ago the figures had been knocked down and broken by the soldiers. Even the chips and holes in them only added to their dignity.

Boma was still on the island. She had joined the worshippers, walking with them in a procession every morning and every evening to immerse herself in the sea and sing a hymn to the rising and the setting of the sun. And since Gloria had returned, the two had been inseparable. Every morning they would stand at the waterfront, looking hopefully at each incoming boat, waiting for me to return. When she told me Zaq had been buried on the island, at the little cemetery near the sculpture garden, I stood up and put on my shirt.

— I have to go and say goodbye.

Although the Doctor had prepared me for this, and although I had been with Zaq most of last week and seen him ailing and declining daily, I still felt totally disoriented by the news of his death. I didn’t know there were tears on my face till I felt them fall on my arm. Gloria held my hand and pulled me back into bed.

— Rest. You have a slight fever. You’ll be stronger tomorrow. We will go together tomorrow.

— Tomorrow I have to be in Port Harcourt; a woman’s fate rests in my hands.

— You can do both tomorrow. I’ll come to Port Harcourt with you. . if you want. I could ask the Doctor for a few days off.

— What doctor?

— Dr. Dagogo-Mark.

She said he had arrived on the island the day I left, and he had opted to remain after the soldiers had pulled out. Already he had set up a dispensary, and he was now talking about starting a proper hospital with wards and an operating theater.

— He is a good man.

— I know.

We sat down side by side on the bed and watched the darkness grow, not bothering to turn on the light.

— What about your fiancé?

— I haven’t thought about him in a long time.

WE SET OUT FOR THE SHRINE with the first light. Gloria left me at the sculpture garden and went to look for Boma. She was right — though the number of statues had greatly diminished, those that now stood looked as if they had always been like this. Their scars and punctures seemed to have been put there by time and weather, and not by random weaponry. There were two men walking among the statues, picking up loose stones, wiping off the final traces of the violence from the figures. They nodded at me and I nodded back. Zaq had been buried in the empty grave he and I had once dug up in the dead of the night, intoxicated by whiskey and feverish with the prospects of uncovering a major scoop. A wooden cross stood at the head of the grave, and attached to the cross was a square of wood bearing the simple inscription: