Oil on Water (10 page)

—The fool was in love. I watched Anita wrinkle her pretty nose and shake her head. No. I enjoy being with you. And she stayed with us till we left. I told Zaq, Be careful. I think she likes you. But of course I meant he should be careful not to like her too much. He laughed, confident, arrogant as usual. They’re just subjects for me. That’s all. I’m going to write the most in-depth, interesting feature on prostitutes in Lagos. But who wants to read about prostitutes in Lagos? I asked. That was when he told me Anita’s story. He said Anita had been thrown out of her parents’ house when she became pregnant at sixteen. Her boyfriend couldn’t marry her because he was too young and still in school. Zaq said that in the traditional system her boyfriend would have had no option but to marry her. But now her Christian parents threw her out because she had brought shame upon them. He said that by writing about the girls he would be showing what was happening to all of us, how we were gradually changing as a people. Our values, our culture, our way of life. All changing irrevocably. Think about it.

—That shows you how ahead of his time he was. Well, he wrote his story. And he got his job back, plus a promotion. You’ve read the piece, I’m sure, perhaps studied it in that school of journalism you went to. “Five Women,” he titled the story. Not “Five Prostitutes,” “Five Women,” you get that? Every weekend he told the story of one of the five. They were all below twenty. And you know what he said? People cried as they read the intimate stories of these girls. The politicians were compelled to act. Governors’ wives started a scholarship scheme to send the girls back to school, they called it “A Better Life for Fallen Women.” Speeches were given on TV, international organizations invited Zaq to talk about his experience of living with the prostitutes in order to write about them. All over the country, charities working with the police raided brothels to save innocent girls from their terrible life, but hey, not all of them wanted to be saved or rehabilitated, they just wanted to be prostitutes! Ha ha.

—Well, our weekend paper became the biggest-selling in the country. Zaq’s byline became a magic formula. People read whatever he wrote, and he did write great stuff. Crusading kind of stuff, but always from the inside, intimate. But you know what, he told me that with all that success he missed his days at Bar Beach. He missed Anita. She went back to school and actually graduated. And I think it was to forget her that Zaq threw himself into the pro-democracy movement when the military dictators returned in the late eighties. He wrote fiery, fearless anti-military pieces that even our editor was hesitant to publish. Zaq left us and was immediately wooed by all the prominent papers. In the end he became editor of
Action!
magazine in Ikeja. He did some of his best work then. This was the late eighties, remember, most of us had to maintain two or three addresses just to stay a step ahead of the military goons. But you’ve heard all this before at that school you went to, haven’t you? You have. Well, just humor me, unless you have a wife to go back home to—let me conclude my story, there may be a lesson in this for you. And what is that lesson? Don’t fall in love with a prostitute, my friend—

—I really have to . . . it’s getting late—

—Just listen, I’m almost finished.

I listened, even though I knew the rest of the story. A major part of Zaq’s life, because of the sheer brilliance of it, had been lived in full public view. At a certain point he stopped being the man behind the news and became the news. He reached the height of his fame during the worst years of the dictatorship—the Abacha years, from 1993 to 1998.

—After the dictatorship most people, including myself, expected him to join the new government, but he kept his distance. He went back to his former paper,
Action!
, and continued his in-depth, weekend-style features. But not with the same conviction. By then he had started drinking heavily. His editorials became increasingly critical of the new government that he and his pro-democracy pals had worked so hard to bring to power, but then in 2003 he joined the government. He became an adviser to the information minister, a tough guy with many enemies in the cabinet.

—Well, it was at this point that Anita miraculously reentered his life. Only this was not the same awkward young girl he had written about in his famous “Five Women” article. This was a grown woman. Poised. She had been to university, she had a good job with a bank in Lagos, but of course her veneer of respectability didn’t stop the gutter press from tagging them “the Prostitute and the Radical.” There were pictures of them together at fancy parties, book launches, media events.

I remembered, this was in 2004, the year I first met Zaq, the year he gave the lecture at my school, the year his heavy drinking began to finally take its toll on him.

—A wedding date was announced. Later, the papers said that he went to London against his better judgment. Anita wanted her trousseau from only the best stores on Oxford Street, and the minister was kind enough to offer to foot the bill as his wedding present. He took the couple along with him when he went to a Commonwealth ministers’ conference in London. Only they never got past customs. Cocaine was discovered in Zaq’s toilet bag, among his shaving things. At the trial he said he had no idea how it got there. The papers back home suddenly turned vicious on him, some implying that he’d been carrying the drugs for the minister. Others, who took the time to investigate Anita’s background, discovered that while at university she’d had a series of liaisons with very rich men, some of them associated with the drug world. At the trial, he said not a single word against her, his only plea being that the minister shouldn’t be associated with the story. But of course the minister was sacked, and Zaq’s Lagos career came to an end. After a year in a UK prison he was deported back to Nigeria, where he was set free after serving only a month in jail. And after his jail term, he disappeared from Lagos.

I stood up.

—Thanks, Mr. Johnson, but now I—

—Okay, okay. You really have to go. But tell Zaq to get back here as soon as possible. Tell him not to try me, tell him not to force my hand, or else . . . from tomorrow no pay. Tell him that.

—But what if—

—Just tell him.

11

Z
aq had fallen asleep while I was talking, his whiskey bottle, now
three-quarters empty, clutched tightly in his hand. I went out and walked up the hillock, and suddenly I was facing the water over the top of the scanty trees. The wind from the sea blew into my face, fresh, moist, and I was instantly filled with an unaccountable exhilaration. I felt free. With my back against a tree, I faced the water, and when I got tired of staring at the water I opened my book. But as I bent my head to read I noticed a white shape in the distance, many white shapes, a procession coming out of the line of trees on the path that circled the hillock, leading to the sea. They were each holding a staff, and toward the middle two men were bearing what looked like a body covered in a white sheet on a stretcher. I thought I was about to witness some kind of sea burial, and I debated whether to dash back to the hut to get my camera. But I decided against it; I didn’t want to miss anything. A low chanting reached me faintly where I sat. When they got to the edge of the water, they put down the stretcher and then the corpse threw aside the white sheet, miraculously sat up and started to crawl on all fours, its robe dragging in the wet sand, till its knees and arms were in the waves, and then it sat in the water. The others gave out a loud sigh and joined the sitting figure, forming a semicircle behind it, their backs to me, facing the huge dying sun, their arms outstretched, supplicatory, and their sighs suddenly turned into loud wails. They went on like this for a long time, swaying rhythmically, imitating the movement of the waves, and then one by one they came out of the water and headed back to the huts.

—They believe in the healing powers of the sea.

I turned, startled by the voice above me. A woman, her face unclear because my eyes were still blinded by the sun, was facing me, her back to the sun. She was tall and slim, wearing a long black skirt and a green blouse.

—Hello.

I stood up.

—You were watching the worshippers.

—The worshippers.

—Yes. You must be the other reporter. I’m the nurse. I’ve been attending to your friend. I saw you come up this way.

I pointed at her clothes. —You’re not worshipping with them today?

—I’m not a worshipper. I’m just the nurse.

—Well, I see . . .

Now that I could see her properly, I put her age at about thirty, but she had intimations of lines on her face, signs of habitual worry, or grief, and there were a few white streaks in her hair, but instead of making her appear aged, the lines and gray hair made her look interesting, beautiful in an unconventional way.

—I’m Rufus.

—I’m Gloria.

We stood side by side and watched the procession disappear into the trees.

—Who’s on the stretcher?

—You don’t know?

—No.

—That’s the head priestess. They’ve started the ceremonies for her death.

—Death?

—She announced this week that she is dying. The procession you saw is part of the ceremony.

—And you, how are you involved in all this?

Before I could ask another question she looked away, and for a moment I thought she found my direct questions rather rude, but she didn’t look annoyed: she was staring up at a cloud of bats that had suddenly appeared out of the trees, cackling as they swarmed into the darkening sky, frolicking in the last light. She turned and beckoned to me. —Come, we will be late for dinner.

I followed her down the slope and into the sculpture garden.

—These islands used to be a big habitat for bats; now only a few dozen remain here and there.

—Why?

She wordlessly turned and pointed at the faraway sky, toward the oil fields. —Gas flares. They kill them. Not only the bats, other flying creatures as well.

DINNER WAS AN OPEN-AIR AFFAIR
, with the worshippers in white sitting in little groups under the trees on benches and logs and in the grass, eating with their fingers, laughing and calling out to one another. I felt a bit out of place in my jeans and short sleeves, but having Gloria with me saved me from being the only one not wearing a white robe.

—This is Rufus.

I shook hands all around and nodded politely as introductions were made. We had joined a group of four sitting in the grass not too far from the kitchen. Gloria told me to sit while she went to get the food, and as she turned to go I saw Naman coming over to join us. Soon an intricate discussion around theology had started. He gave, I realized for my benefit, a brief history of the shrine. I ate and listened.

The shrine was started a long time ago after a terrible war—no one remembers what caused the war—when the blood of the dead ran in the rivers, and the water was so saturated with blood that the fishes died, and the dead bodies of warriors floated for miles on the river, until they were snagged on mangrove roots on the banks, or got stuck in the muddy swamps, half in and half out of the water. It was a terrible time. The land was so polluted that even the water in the wells turned red. That was when priests from different shrines got together and decided to build this shrine by the river. The land needed to be cleansed of blood, and pollution.

—And what of the sculptures?

—The sculptures came later. As the priesthood grew, some became specialists in mud and wooden figures. These figures represent the ancestors watching over us. They face the east, to acknowledge the beauty of the sun rising, for without the sun there would be no life. And some face the west, to show the dying sun the way home, and to welcome the moon. And each day the worshippers go in a procession to the river, to bathe in it, to cry to it, and to promise never to abominate it ever again.

—And did that help? Did the rivers return to normal?

—Yes, and ever since we have managed to keep this island free from oil prospecting and other activities that contaminate the water and lead to greed and violence.

I looked at Gloria and wondered what she thought of the story, and of the worshippers in general, but she was focused on her food. She looked like a child sitting there in the grass with her long skirt around her shapely legs, a child lost, or merely playing with its toys.

—So, why aren’t you a worshipper?

My voice was low so that only she could hear me. But I was not sure she had heard me, because her head was still bent over her plate. I cleared my voice to repeat myself, but she looked up and smiled.

—Well, I’m quite new here. The shrine hired me to work as a nurse. I really haven’t thought much about the religious aspect of things.

I pushed my plate aside. The yam with fish stew was surprisingly tasty. The others had finished eating too and were still talking to Naman.

—How long have you been here?

—Two months this trip, but I come and go.

—And you stay here at the shrine?

—I have a place in the village. I use it whenever I’m here.

I wanted to bring the conversation around to the kidnapping and the militants, but I didn’t want to sound rude or pushy.

—Are you happy here? Do you feel safe?

She looked at me, her expression solemn, thoughtful. —Everything makes sense here.

—I see. Will you come to see Zaq? He was in pain when I left him.

I was reluctant to leave her. So far she had been willing to answer my questions, and perhaps if I could take her to the hut she’d be willing to answer even more direct ones. She was not a worshipper, and she had been on the island long enough to know what was going on, which made her an ideal source. And I found her very attractive.

—Yes, of course. I’ll see how he’s doing before he turns in.

We found Zaq seated on his mat, facing a fire in a brazier that had been placed near his feet. His back was propped against the wall and his face didn’t change expression when he saw me enter with Gloria. He appeared lost in thought.

—The nurse is here to see you.

It took him a few minutes to look up, sighing heavily as he did so. The flames danced in the light and shadows on his face, merging with and accentuating the hollows and lines on it. His eyes were shiny, and I knew that he had been at what was left of the bottle. When the nurse knelt before him and took his wrist in her hand, she noticed it too. She also saw the bottle of whiskey near his pillow. She reached forward and took it.

—You’ve been drinking. Your pulse is very weak, I can’t allow you to drink.

And she flung the bottle at the open doorway, into the dark. To my surprise, Zaq did not protest. He looked at her with a fixed gaze.

—Ah, Nurse. You look great today.

—And you look drunk today, Mr. Zaq.

—Rufus, isn’t she very pretty?

The sternness went out of her face, and for a moment she appeared uncertain—her hand went up to adjust her scarf—and then she became serious again. I went out and sat on a tree trunk by the hut door. From there I could see the sculpture garden: the frozen community watching the night, warding off evil, ears cocked for the night’s watchword, whatever that might be. She came out and stood quietly beside me. I wanted to talk to her, but there was a stillness about her that I didn’t want to shatter. At last she turned and looked at me.

—It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?

She sat down on the log beside me, and I felt the back of her hand brush against mine briefly. We sat in silence for a long time, watching the darkness.

—It is my fault. I brought him the drink. I thought it would cheer him up.

—You didn’t force him to drink it. He’s old enough to know what’s good for him.

—He is a good man. A great reporter.

She didn’t say anything to that. At last she stood up.

—I have to go now. My place in the village is near the jetty. You must come and see the jetty if you’re still here tomorrow. It’s beautiful in the evening when the boats come in.

—I will.

She left, and I watched after her until her shape became one with the night, invisible.

—
I THINK SHE LIKES YOU
, Rufus, my friend.

Zaq had come out onto the grass and felt around on hands and knees till he found his whiskey bottle. Now he kept spitting out bits of grass as he took long sips at the bottle.

—No, she doesn’t.

—She likes you. Trust me. I may not look it, but I do know about women. I saw the way she was looking at you. No doubt about it. She likes you. You’re not married, are you?

—No. Not yet.

—Surely you must have a girlfriend back in Port Harcourt? Look at you, a very fine young man, and being a journalist the girls must be after you all the time.

—Well, not really. I’m always busy with the job.

There was Mary, whom I’d met at journalism school, but I didn’t tell him about that. Mary, who wanted so badly to get married. She had made all the plans, and at night she’d go over them with me in the little room we shared not far from the campus. It was a tenement house, a face-me-I-face-you. I moved in with her a shirt, a brush, a shoe at a time. It was cheaper if we stayed together, she said. Looking back, I guess she must have started planning to marry me from the first day we met. She was that kind of girl. Forward-looking.

She was a TV journalist and her employers had sent her to the journalism school to specialize in news editing. Sometimes she’d go away for the weekend, and I knew she was away with her old boyfriend from her office. She never talked about him, and I never asked her—why would I, since I didn’t really love her? She was pretty and clever and the sex was good, but I didn’t see myself spending the rest of my life with her. Whenever she came back from her little trips she’d hold me all night long, tight, sometimes crying just to show how much she’d missed me.

Once, she went to Ibadan to visit her parents, and when she came back she had changed. She was scared, and for two nights she didn’t sleep. When I asked what was wrong, she told me about the holy man. Her father had died many years back, and her mother wanted to remarry but wasn’t having any luck, and so she asked a holy man to pray for her. He moved into the guest room, and then one day Mary came home to find he’d moved into her mother’s bedroom, and had impregnated not only her mother but also her seventeen-year-old sister. She went to the police, but her mother refused to back her up, and her sister was terrified and confused and didn’t know whom to support, and all the while the holy man was there in the background, not saying a word, clutching his Bible, taking the name of God in vain. And she had left. She gave up. She held me tight, till I couldn’t breathe, sobbing, I don’t have a family anymore, you are all I have. Promise me you’ll be with me always.

But I didn’t tell Zaq any of this.

—My last girlfriend wanted to get married, but I wasn’t ready. We were too young. Twenty-three, both us. She wanted us to run away to Abuja and start a life together. Alone. Away from family and friends.

—No. She was wrong, and selfish. You can’t run from your family. It’s not right.

THE NEXT DAY ZAQ
was a changed man: he woke me up early, in time to see the procession go for its morning dip.