Breaking News: Religious Riots, Khamfi 3 page

“No, Chief.”

“Because I don’t know whether these new democrats would ask the royal fathers to return them. This democracy is now destroying the country. You agree with me, yes?”

“Yes, yes, Chief.”

Jubril was now leaning on him, giving him his full attention. The more the chief spoke, the more the boy came to believe that this man could probably protect him, not just in this bus but when they reached their destination in the delta. Jubril liked the fact that the chief was confiding in him, and he thought the chief was more reliable than the other passengers.

He touched a fringe of the chief ’s dress, the corduroy material soft on his fingers. Back in the north, he could never imagine being this close to an emir. He could not imagine traveling in the same vehicle with an emir or sitting down to talk with him face-to-face, much less such an important personality whispering to him his life’s disappointments. He remembered all the times he had seen an emir. Jubril was always deep in the crowd, quiet and courteous. He could not boast of shaking an emir’s hand or of being close enough to touch his turban as he was touching the chief ’s dress now.

He felt bad about not giving up the seat all this while, about arguing with Chief Ukongo, about inviting the police to harass him. Back in Khamfi, complete obeisance to the emir was the beginning of wisdom, and the emir’s word was law in his domain. Jubril remembered the sirens and motorcades of governors, and even the presidents, paying courtesy visits to the emir of Khamfi, Alhaji Muhammad Kabir Jadodo; he remembered the politicians going to seek the emir’s blessings before declaring their interest in any elected office in Khamfi. Above all, he thought about the beautiful and imposing palace in Khamfi and of all the salaried workers and all the charity Alhaji Jadodo doled out to the endless number of talakawas who flocked there. He remembered how these talakawas rose against some human-rights activists who tried to question the emir about the source of his wealth.

“For example,” the old man whispered, “it wasn’t necessary that you harass me for this seat as you did.”

“Sorry, Chief.”

“All because of tickets.”

“Very sorry, Chief.” Jubril felt so bad that he unearthed his ticket from his bag and offered it to the old man. “Keep. I no want again. . . . Sorry, Chief.”

The old man collected it and stuffed it in his pocket and nodded. “Good boy. You see, we know what’s good for this country. We, the emirs, obas, chiefs, we advised the military governments against Sharia! That’s why we did not have Sharia all these years.” He thumped his chest repeatedly and placed his ID on Jubril’s leg.

Jubril picked it up. “Good photo . . . beautiful, Chief!”

The old man smiled. “That’s right, my son. We kept this country together until this madness of democracy!” Then he became serious and began to admonish the press: “The newspapers say the generals, whether from the north or south, were rats from hell who were waging war on the central bank for decades and that we needed elected people, whom we could hold accountable! The press is to be blamed for this democracy in our country. They say the most decorated soldiers have all their children in universities in Europe and America, while the commoner’s child is stuck in our rotten universities. They say even our Muslim soldiers’ children drink, eat pork, and womanize freely in the white man’s land, while their parents want Sharia back home. They say though the northern generals have stolen all the money in the country and have ruled this country for very long, their north is still full of wretched cowherds. But, Gabriel, the worst is they say that we, we royal fathers, are sitting on our people!” He paused and swallowed hard. “Don’t these new democrats and the newspapers know that the people of England respect their royalty? They blame us . . . in spite of all we have done for the country . . .” His voice broke off, pained at the mere recall of the criticisms. Jubril nodded in sympathy.

“The generals took us very seriously . . . us, us!” the chief said. “Cordial relationship. . . . For example, they told us why we needed to send our troops to Liberia and Sierra Leone, why our sons had to die for democracy there.”

“Our soldier people go Sierra Leone?” Jubril asked.

“Em . . . Gabriel, don’t forget to put ‘Chief ’ before asking your question.”

“Chief, no vex, no vex, Chief.”

“Yes, that’s more like it. . . . And stop covering your mouth with your hand or chewing your finger when you talk! It’s annoying.”

“Sorry, Chief. I no brush my tood for many days. My mout dey smell.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, if not for our soldiers, those countries would be no more! We and the generals gathered other West African countries under ECOMOG—”

“Hey Chief,” interjected Monica in a whisper, pointing an accusing finger at him, “na you dey boast like dis? When did General Babangida share power wid you?”

“Woman, you don’t understand,” the chief said.

“Na lie o. . . . I understand dis one,” she insisted. “Dat general like power too much o. If he no change handover date many times, if he no cancel our 1993 elections, Abacha no for become our leader. . . . Na de same people. Locust years. De man dey use you. He no share no power wid you, abeg.”

“OK, woman, it is not exactly like I was saying. All I was trying to say was that the military respected us. May I talk now, Madam Lawyer?”

“Just make you no lie for dis young man, Chief.”

The chief went back to Jubril, who did not like Monica’s intervention at all.

“Gabriel, the point is, we taught those Sierra Leonean and Liberian rebels a lesson. We lost a lot of soldiers . . . for a good cause!”

“Chief, how many die for combat?”

“That’s codified information, not for everybody, you know. A lizard may listen to a conversation, but he may not say something. I mean, who are you to want to know how many soldiers died in combat? Is government business your father’s business that you must know about it? Or are you now the commander in chief?”

“No, Chief.”

“Then stop behaving like a democrat!”

“Yes, Chief.”

“I tell you, if we bring back those ECOMOG soldiers, these Sharia people in the north will think twice! Trust me, ECOMOG can keep this country one! Gabriel, don’t be confused by all this talk about freedom and equality. . . . To let an old man rest on a good seat is a virtue. To let a royal father take the better seat is nothing compared to what we actually deserve—”

“Yes, Chief.”

“It’s rude to interrupt a royal father.”

Jubril opened his mouth and quickly closed it, afraid of making another mistake. He resorted to nodding.

“Gabriel, I know you want to say something, yes?”

“Chief, pardon me. . . . I happy for ECOMOG.”

“Good. If the government were this sensible, appealing to us, we would stop the Sharia war, you understand?”

“Chief, bring ECOMOG to Khamfi.”

“Don’t worry. When we arrive in the delta, I shall call up fellow royal fathers in the north. We’re important. We’re the repository of wisdom and history and tradition.”

This little assurance about the patriotism and effectiveness of ECOMOG soldiers gave Jubril hope that someday he would return to his Khamfi. Already, he was adoring ECOMOG soldiers and fantasizing about their coming to stabilize the country. Even if things worked out with his father, Jubril decided, he must return to Khamfi to find his mother and Mallam Abdullahi, within whose house Allah had planned Jubril’s miraculous escape. Jubril could only think of ECOMOG, the sacrifices they had made abroad, and what they could do for his compatriots. Maybe ECOMOG soldiers are like Mallam Abdullahi, he thought. The more the chief prattled on about ECOMOG, the more the image of Abdullahi burned in Jubril’s mind. He felt better. Imagining what ECOMOG could do felt a bit like the comfort of a return ticket in his back pocket, though he had none.

He remembered the night after the mob threatened to burn down the house. He remembered the harsh wind that bit into his wounds as Mallam Abdullahi drove him and the other escapees in his Peugeot 504 pickup deep into the savannah, where he released them, one by one, like pigeons. Knowing that there were Muslims and Christians in the group, Mallam Abdullahi had told them he was uncomfortable releasing them together. Jubril was the last to be set free, so his fellow Muslim had spoken longer with him, empathizing with him about his hand. He had advised Jubril to hide his wrist in his pocket until he reached his father’s village. Repeatedly, he told Jubril that Islam was a religion of peace. “You and I,” he said as he hugged Jubril, “must show this to the world. Remember, nobody has a monopoly on violence. So don’t go around trying to terrorize the Christians.”

Now, Jubril looked at himself, at his clothes and shoes and the Marian medal Mallam Abdullahi had given him to help him fit in with the southern crowd. The money the mallam had given him was not gone, even after Jubril paid the exorbitant bus fare. That night in the bush, Jubril had knelt down to thank Mallam Abdullahi for the money, but the man said he was only doing zakat, one of the five pillars of his religion, and bade him do the same to the next person.

“Gabriel, don’t cry . . . don’t cry,” Chief Ukongo consoled, as the memories got the better part of Jubril. “Don’t be sad about how the government has treated the royal fathers. They shall remember us soon.”

“Chief . . . I dey tank God for my life. Chief, you be big man like de emir?” he asked suddenly, to make the old man happy.

“Of course, yes. Glad you get the point. Finally!”

“Chief, you go help me when we reach home?”

“That’s how it should be. As our elders say, the ant’s hope of reaching the sacrificial food lies in the folds of the wrapping leaf. You can’t hope to reach my place, but you’re harassing me . . . the folly of youth!” The chief managed a deep hearty laugh, shifting and stirring in his seat as if on a throne. “Of course we chiefs are like emirs, but our people are a bit heady and don’t give us the respect we deserve—but will in the end. You have just seen the typical behavior toward a southern chief in this bus and from this woman.” He pointed at Monica, who smiled.

“For me, all you royal faders dey exaggerate your powers!” she said, and shrugged.

“Don’t mind her,” the chief told Jubril.

“Yes, Chief,” he said.

“You see, the emirs never suffer this type of humiliation from their subjects,” the chief continued. “I knew this when we used to visit General Abacha to plan his life presidency. God bless his soul. He understood the importance of royal fathers. After him, soldiers chickened out and handed power over to civilians, and look at our country now . . .”

Jubril felt so comfortable with the chief that he fell asleep in spite of the commotion and his aching body. He had not slept for two days, but now, with the chief keeping guard over him, as it were, he drifted off.

* * *

BY THE TIME THE driver finally came back with a drum of fuel, it was completely dark outside. With the help of the police officers and bus conductors, he refueled the bus. There was no moon, no stars. The light from the bus, framed by large windows and blinds, poured out into the darkness like long stakes. An eerie silence had descended on the land, and it seemed that the will of those outside the bus to murmur was swallowed by it. They moved about quietly, not knowing what their fate would be once the bus left. Occasionally, a gunshot rang out and drew a collective gasp from the crowd, and occasionally, the pained dog barked weakly.

When the door opened the passengers thought the driver was ready to begin the journey, but the darkness spat a lanky newcomer onto the bus. He began to pick his way forward, staggering over people sitting on the floor, searching for a space. His hair was rotten, dreadlocks, and an army beret sat like a crown of disgrace over it. A rope gathered his ragged camouflage garb at his tiny waist. He was carrying a dog. He held it gently, as if it were a two-day-old baby.

“Are you the driver?” Emeka asked.

“No.”

“Then get out immediately.”

“By the way,” the newcomer said, “the police say the driver is too tired to begin the yourney now. He needs to eat and sleep for a while.”

The passengers became uneasy and rose as one to eject him, Emeka leading the charge. They dragged him toward the door. Monica had given her child to somebody again so she could give Emeka the backing he needed. Tega and Ijeoma joined her, cussing the man in Urobho and Ibo.

But, flailing in Emeka’s grip, the man managed to produce a ticket.

“The police gave me this ticket and opened the door for me. How do jou think I got onto the bus?” the man said, when Emeka dropped him. He moved on, as if the people had just finished singing a welcome song for him, searching for his place. “So why are jou harassing me?”

“Because you dey craze!” Tega said.

“Me?”

“Of course,” Tega said.

“My name is Colonel Silas Usenetok.”

“Colonel? You?” Madam Aniema said.

“Who admitted you into the army?” Emeka asked.

Colonel Usenetok halted in front of Jubril. “Get up!” he said, poking the sleeping Jubril with his dirty boot. “I say, get up!”

Jubril turned and said sleepily, “I dey my place.”

People warned the colonel against hitting Jubril. The sympathy of the whole bus was with him. Besides, nobody wanted to travel with the colonel, for he looked like a madman. They berated the police for letting him in, and some suggested he should sit at the space allotted to the two policemen for the journey.

“Jou better wake up before I flush jou from this bus,” the soldier warned Jubril again.

“Nosa.”

Everyone looked at Chief Ukongo, but the old man did not say anything or even look in the direction of Jubril. His attention was fixed on his beads, which he was stroking. He clacked them against each other with measured alacrity.

“With immediate effect . . . jour ticket?” the soldier commanded Jubril. “Who are jou? We must see jour ticket now. I need to sit down because the driver is so tired. It will take a long time before we move from here.”

“My newly arrived son,” the chief intervened, still playing with his beads, “we shall not look at any tickets!”

“What?” the soldier exclaimed. The whole bus became quiet when the chief spoke. The soldier looked around, as if trying to understand the silence.

“Obey the wishes of the people,” the chief said, still looking down. “They don’t want you on this bus. . . . This is a democratic country.”

“Democracy my foot,” Colonel Usenetok said. “Show me the asshole’s ticket . . . period!”

The chief rose up, took off his Resource Control hat to reveal a head of white hair, then put it back on. He cleared his throat and looked around. “Soldier, do you know I’m not even supposed to be on this bus? Do you know I’m supposed to be helping the government solve this national crisis . . . not being insulted by a madman!”

“Excuse me. Jou’re insulting me? After all I’ve done for this country?” The soldier started searching in his rags for his ID. Finding the ID appeared to be so important to him that he dropped the dog and his fingers trembled. His camouflage had so many holes and slits that even he was confused about where to find things. Then he flashed his ID and announced, “Colonel Silas Usenetok . . . ECOMOG Special Forces!”

Jubril looked at the chief, then returned his gaze to the soldier. Admiration for the soldier spread on his face immediately, on the strength of what Chief Ukongo had told him about ECOMOG soldiers’ self-sacrifice. Jubril stood and offered up his place, though many in the bus said he should not.

Colonel Usenetok picked up his dog.

“Gabriel, you are not giving him your place,” the chief said calmly, and the other passengers concurred. Monica held Jubril down with both hands, as if she were planting a tree.

“He has insulted my chieftaincy,” the chief declared, and then, turning to the soldier, said: “We don’t accept IDs on this bus . . . ask anybody.”

“Yeah . . . ole . . . no ID!” someone said.

“No mad soldierman ID!”

“Your generals done steal our money finish in de name of ECOMOG!”

“Kai, kai, kai, my people, forget about what the generals did!” the chief said, calling them to order, and turned to the soldier. “Let me tell you something, because you’re too young to understand the history of this conflict in our country . . .”

“Which conflict, which history?” the soldier said. “Jou’re talking as if jou were a living witness when God created the world.”

“Very good then. Even if you were there when Britain arbitrarily joined the north and south together to found this country, you couldn’t travel with us! Even if you were there when the British forged the Muslim-majority north and the Christian-majority south into a country, we couldn’t allow you. Whether you have a ticket or not is beside the point now. . . . As a royal father, the safety of my people is paramount. Too many of them are already dead, and now I don’t want them to be bitten by this mad dog!”

“We no want dis dog for dis bus o!”

“Human right before animal right!”

“Police is public enemy number one!”

Colonel Usenetok laughed at them. He held the dog closer to his heart and pecked it on the nose. Without warning, the dog jolted and convulsed in that deathly bark that the refugees had heard periodically outside. Its body was cramped, and its jaws wide open, with nothing more to vomit except a few drops of blood. While those around him squirmed and tried to push away, the colonel used his clothes to collect the blood. A foul smell filled the bus, and people tongue-lashed the ECOMOG man. Having this dog in their midst did not sit well with the bus refugees.

“The gods of our ancestors will not allow jou, Nduese, to die!” the soldier prayed for his dog. “They must protect jou till we reach home and jou get the right herbs! The gods who guarded me in the war fields of Liberia and Sierra Leone, who never allowed the RUF rebels to cut my hands or legs, won’t disappoint me.” With this, the ECOMOG man brought out from under his rags a wreath of assorted talismans. The refugees gasped. It was bigger and more intimidating than the collection the chief had. He plucked one talisman that looked like a necklace of cowry shells and hung it around Nduese and poured some herbal liquid down the dog’s throat. A few drops trickled on Jubril. Nduese’s coughing began to mellow.

On hearing the soldier’s testimony of rebels cutting people’s limbs, Jubril nodded, following every movement of the soldier with rapt attention and a bizarre smile, as if the ECOMOG man had hypnotized him. But while his sight was locked on the soldier, his pocketed wrist was vibrating, seemingly on its own. Unknown to all on the bus, Jubril’s mind was neither on the soldier nor on whatever they thought was in his pocket, but on the day his right hand was cut. He remembered the night before that day, how he tried to sleep but could not.

Up until that last night he had been brave about it and actually walked around anticipating the event with gay abandon, a boy completely at peace with a just punishment, a sort of hero in his neighborhood. As far as he was concerned, the hand was dead. He absolutely believed that once the hand was cut off, he and others would be discouraged from stealing again. He ignored the hand and tried not to look at it and looked forward to being relieved of this source of self-hate. Jubril started using his left hand only. And just to make sure he did not mistakenly use the fingers or palm of the condemned hand, he tied a red rubber band around his right wrist as a reminder, as if to delineate a clear line between good and evil, love and hate. With this sort of clarity, he felt comfortable using his right elbow, for it was a part of the body he had not forfeited to theft. Two nights before the amputation, he had slept peacefully and even happily dreamed of the hand being cut.

But that last night, alone in the room, he lay awake. While he still accepted that his hand should be cut off and prayed loud and clear that Allah’s will be done, he found himself many times, to his embarrassment, shaking hands with himself in the dark. He performed many types of handshakes and even pretended to shake hands with another person. For the last time, he used his right hand to feel the different parts of his body. He stood up and wandered around the cell, feeling the wall and the floor. He moved the fingers among themselves like a flutist or guitarist. He said good-bye to that part of him he had already sacrificed to theft, knowing that when day broke he would be wafted away by anesthesia.

* * *

THE REFUGEES, SEEING JUBRIL unnerved and uncoordinated, believed that the soldier had charmed him. They appealed to the chief to ask his fellow idol worshipper, Colonel Usenetok, to remove his spell from the boy. Chief Ukongo did not say anything, though he watched the soldier with calculating eyes. The people murmured as Jubril continued to act strangely.

“It’s jou Christians and Muslims who’ve charmed Khamfi with jour evil politics!” Colonel Usenetok said gleefully, putting down Nduese in his excitement. His eyes were like two points of light. “Jour faiths are interlopers on this continent!”

“All soldier people are tieves . . . ole!” Tega said, and others booed him.

“Hey, lady,” the soldier said, “I fought in Sierra Leone without pay. Government still hasn’t paid me for a jear now. . . . I didn’t steal jour oil money!”

“And you dey call yourself army colonel?” Monica said. “You be yeye man o! Why you no steal? You no be good colonel at all, at all.”

“Why are you saying this?” Madam Aniema asked.

“Saying what?” Monica said.

“My sister, what has this got to do with idol worship?” Madam Aniema said. “Stealing cannot be a good thing.”

“But why de soldiers from our place always dey stupid?” Monica said, then turned to the soldier: “You, tell us, soldierman, wetin you dey retire to now?”

“To dignity . . . conscience!” the soldier replied.

Tega was the first to break the silence. She stood up and let out a guffaw. She laughed as if someone were tickling her. Emeka joined in, and then the whole bus sounded like a room full of giggling adolescent girls. Even the police, who peered into the bus after hearing the soldier’s reply, joined in the laughter. The chief sat there, looking at the soldier with an impish grin, shaking his head very slowly. It was as if the soldier were no longer a threat to the bus but a source of comic relief.

“Soldierman, listen,” Monica said, motioning with her hands to the people to stop laughing. “Soldierman, you go eat dignity and drink conscience, abi? Your wife and children go dey happy well well to receive you from Sierra Leone empty-handed.”

“No problem,” the soldier said.

“No wahala, huh?” she taunted him. “We no tell you before? You be madman. . . . Na only crazeman who go reach colonel for army and no steal money for dis country.”

“Jou’re the mad people!” he said, and pulled his dog closer to himself. “I’m going back home to farm as my ancestors did before oil was discovered in my village!”

“Which farm?” Monica said. “Farmland no dey again for delta o! Mobil, Shell, Exxon, Elf. . . . All of dem done pollute every grain of sand.”

“I’ll fish, then.”

“Fish ke? Dem done destroy de rivers . . . no fish.”

At this point, Monica gave up, melting into laughter. She laughed long and hard until she lost her breath. Others started talking about the pollution of the delta, about how they must make sure all the oil companies moved away from there, and how the democratic government must be driven out of the area. They said the delta must secede from the country, so they would have the right to manage their resources. In time, they all stopped talking and were overcome by laughter, like laborers dropping off to sleep at the end of the day. It robbed their plans of the earlier bitterness and was no threat to the police.

Only the soldier and Jubril kept straight faces. Jubril was disappointed and sided with the ECOMOG soldier. He thought the soldier deserved the best, having gone out to serve the country gallantly, as the chief had said. The fact that the chief was laughing too only made matters worse for the boy. Jubril began to realize that he did not understand the old man. He wondered when the driver would wake up so they could begin their journey.

* * *

EMEKA SAID FINALLY, “IT’S like you don’t understand us, Colonel. We’re not saying you should’ve stolen . . . as in stealing. Remember, it’s your oil. It comes from your villages, by the grace of God! You should’ve made enough money out there to bid for an exploration license.”

“I’ve no interest or expertise in oil business,” the soldier said.

“You don’t need expertise,” Madam Aniema said. “Just money!”

“Jou civilians can bid for licenses if jou like.”

“Foolich talk!” Tega said. “Nobody back home get dat kind money . . . except your superrish soldiers from oder parts of dis country . . .”

“I served this country within and abroad for thirty-two years. If not for my minority tribe, I would’ve been a yeneral by now!”

“Are you saying since you’re not a general you didn’t get a piece of the billions of dollars the country pumped into ECOMOG?”

“Kai, leave the generals out of this!” the chief said suddenly. “It’s people like this madman we should probe . . . not generals!”

At this, Colonel Usenetok lost it. He untied the rope from his waist and wanted to flog the chief, but the people blocked him. They told him they were free to question him because they were in a democracy. The soldier was so angry he seemed delirious and started to hop and shove people all over the aisle, like a bad spirit. Without the rope, the ragged camouflage garment flared along with his temper. More talismans were exposed. He jumped over the heads of people sitting in the aisle.

“Dis no be de savannah of Sierra Leone o!” a refugee said.

“You think we dey urban warfare for Liberia?”

“We must eject this madman.”

The more they yelled at him, the more erratic his behavior became. He pulled out his hands like two machine guns and fired at people, his mouth producing the rat-a-tat. He shot at the ceiling and announced that he had brought down helicopters. He fired into the window and claimed he was keeping the RUF rebels at bay. The people called the police to come and deliver them, but they were nowhere to be found. When the colonel got to the front of the bus he stopped suddenly and said: “The government hasn’t paid my arrears. I come here and you’re robbing me of my seat—after six years at the war front, in the service of the fatherland? And you’re talking democracy? No stupid chief talks for anyone in a true democracy!”

“No, my people,” the chief said, and stood up. “This madman’s worship is not the true religion of our ancestors! I know the religion of my ancestors. We don’t know what mad juju he brought back from his travels. . . . We must throw the soldier out before it’s too late! I repeat: Gabriel shall not surrender his seat!” Then he turned to the soldier: “As our ancestors say, you can’t quarrel with God and then scale the palm tree with a broken rope. If you insist, I shall leave this bus! And this whole bus must face the consequence once you reach my delta! My people will ask you what you did with me . . .”

“Then jou shall not travel on this bus!” the soldier shouted, punching the air. “I’ve suffered too much for freedom in this country . . . in Africa. And jou want to eyect me from the bus because of my reliyion?”

“You must go,” the chief said.

“Let me tell all of jou in this bus, none of these white countries, which brought us Christianity and democracy, came to die for the Liberians. Did any of these Arab countries peddling militant Islam in Africa send troops to Sierra Leone? I say jou all are mad, to kill each other for two foreign reliyions. We wretched ECOMOG soldiers went out there to die for democracy while the little democracy in this country is being scuttled by yenerals and politicians and chiefs . . . rogues. We saved Liberia . . . Sierra Leone. Hooray to the West African soldier! I shall kill somebody before I leave this bus today. Try me. I have learned so much from where I have been.”

“My people, see what I mean?” the chief laughed. “My son, making sense doesn’t depend on how many places you have visited. As our people say, if winning a race depended on one’s number of legs, the millipede would beat the dog hands down . . .”

“Chief, you dey talk sense!” the refugees said.

“Yet get wisdom well well!”

“May you live forever o!”

Chief Ukongo chuckled and fanned away the sweat that was beginning to collect on his face. He thudded his stick and looked around the bus as if it were his parlor. “As I was saying, my people, we’re not safe with his mad juju. . . . We must vote him out of this bus, since we’re in a democracy. Colonel, you said you have learned democracy abroad, right? OK, let’s practice it. . . . We have come to the end of campaigns and endless talk.”

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 931