Chris Abani - Song for Night

I search through the cabs and backs of the trucks for any kind of bag. It seems like a good idea to pack some food for the road — and maybe some loot that I can trade for favors. There is nothing. I leave the armored vehicles for last, afraid to jump into their dark bellies. I feel like the pygmy on the elephant hunt who has to cut into the beast and push past organs to cut out its heart, thereby declaring it an open feast.

Not that I have ever seen a pygmy or even an elephant, except at the zoo before the war. I must have heard it somewhere, maybe I saw it in a documentary in school. Absently I wonder whether the animals in the zoo have been eaten in the food shortages. The thought of lions and giraffes clubbed to death for meat upsets me. If Ijeoma were here, she would say my feelings are irrational. She would say I am just homesick.

“It’s not the animals you mourn,” she would say. “It is your home.”

The voice in my head is loud enough to make me look around, half expecting to see her. Apart from the toads I can hear in the muddy bottom of the near empty pond, I am alone.

Plucking up courage, I jump inside the first armored car and root around. Nothing. Gaining the light again, I sit on top and smoke a cigarette. There on the barrel of the gun is a bright red knit bag. How could I have missed it? I smoke and watch it for a while, almost as if it is a mirage.

When I was a boy, my mother taught me how to crochet. I loved it. The way one knot would slip into another and another until the thread spread into a wide but strong web, while the steel crocked needle, like a shepherd’s stave, flashed. I used to imagine I was God, and the doily or cap I was knitting was a world, and the flash of the needle was lightning doing my bidding, spreading life like a primal shiver of fire.

My father was alive then and he didn’t mind. He saw it as a harmless distraction, one that in fact presented the opportunity of a metaphor for him teaching me the Koran, the suras learned stitch by stitch— there is no God but Allah ; hook and stitch; and Mohammed is his true prophet ; circle with the wool; blessings be upon his name; pull needle through and loop. He was a gentle man, my father the imam. But my uncle, the distant relative who arrived when my father died and claimed my mother as his wife in the name of some old custom, hated me and he hated that I didn’t play the rough games like other boys. He beat me so bad; and my mother watched, afraid or unable to help, I wasn’t sure why, but I hated her for it. Why would she let this goat possess her? One day she showed me the crawl space in the ceiling, and I would hide up there for hours crocheting, wrapped around the wooden beams, building one huge web that became a hammock, became a shelter.

Tossing the cigarette, I jump down, grab the bag, and stuff it full of tins of food, all well past their sell-by dates. I also stuff in cartons of cigarettes, some cheap plastic lighters, some watches, and a few notes of nearly worthless local money — they will make good bribes. I pick up the bag, my gun, and stuff my feet into a pair of old boots, before heading off in the direction of the road.

I crouch in the grass by the roadside for a long time watching a roadblock up ahead. Hidden in a curve of the road, it is hard to see what is beyond and in fact who is manning it, and how many. It is clearly unwise to proceed so I decide to use the river. Darting across the road, I drop noiselessly into the water. I need to head upriver, in the direction of the roadblock, because I know beyond it is a town and I might find shelter, but there is no way of getting past the roadblock unseen. Or even of getting across the river to flank it along the other bank. There is also the matter of the boat I saw the other night. If it comes back while I am still visible, it will be the end of me and I can kiss any chance of reuniting with my platoon goodbye. The safest thing to do is to grab hold of one of the corpses, get under it, and float downstream for a while. If I can circle back to the mangroves, I might be able to find an adjacent tributary and use it to make my way back up, closer to the other bank.

The smell is beyond anything I even have words for. I close my eyes and throw up soundlessly into the water as I float along. Time, in the water, loses all weight and the day passes slowly. Finally, when I think I can no longer ride the cadaver, when I think the smell of death will overwhelm me, when I think it might be better to die than to carry these new memories into life, I feel land under my feet and realize that my macabre craft is being washed ashore onto a sandbank. Still cautious, I push my head up, hand cupped around my ear as though to catch more sound, and listen: for the boat; for people; for danger. Satisfied, I stumble onto the island. In the dim light I can make out the shapes of some huts. This was obviously one of those temporary shelters that fishermen used, like hunters used hunting lodges, to fish out of, smoke their catch, and then head home in the rainy season when the sandbanks were swallowed by the quick-rising water.

I make my way into one and crawl up into the rafters to keep safe from crocodiles and fall asleep. I dream the moon is the child’s head smiling at me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been stranded on the sandbank, having lost track of time. Night blends into day blends into night, seamlessly. The sound of distant gunfire reaches me though I feel no need to return to the war. I have lost my taste for death. But I do want to find my platoon. I am a little concerned that it is taking this long to catch up with them. I calculate that I was probably unconscious for a few hours, so they can’t be that far ahead. Of course I have been traveling alone which has meant doubling back and now spending time on this isle. I have probably lost days now, but I am a skilled tracker and should be able to catch them still. I have to get off this shifting island first; but something is keeping me here.

Life on the sandbank isn’t bad. I have repaired one of the huts reasonably, and my diet of fish is supplemented by a small garden left by one of the fishermen. It has some yams, tomatoes, peppers, and even vegetables. It won’t last much longer though, but for now, like Robinson Crusoe, I am content not to make any plans. Luckily there are several earthenware pots full of rainwater which tastes cool and refreshing, if mildly of earth. Yet even if it tasted brackish, I am glad for it. Drinking the river water, with all the rotting corpses it holds, will surely kill me.

I sleep in some planks I have rigged up in the rafters. On the ground I would be too vulnerable to the crocodiles that now come boldly onto the sandbank believing it deserted. A few well-placed shots might scare them off, but I am loathe to waste ammo.

Though I still don’t rest, I sleep a lot now. There isn’t much else to do. Long deep nights where my dreams are treks across star-spangled deserts with my dead comrades and relatives calling in the distance just out of reach. Always out of reach. Lazy siestas, the sun tickling me through the holes in the thatch, weevils causing dust to fall, waking me up sneezing. But even in daylight, even in these siestas, I am plagued by vivid nightmares. I always wake up sweating, the dreams leaving a tangy bitter aftertaste for hours.

I stretch and head for the water, distracting myself by trying to fish without a line, dribbling a string of saliva into the water like Grandfather taught me. I have been trying it for days without much luck, but today feels different. The string of saliva sets up gentle ripples and bubbles in the water not unlike those caused by a fish. Soon the catfish beneath me slows to a halt, whiskers reading the water for the intruder. Half hypnotized, it just floats there, senses deflected from the shadows above. My hand snakes out with the speed of a cobra and catches the fat catfish behind its head. I pull it out and slam it on the bank once.