Say You’re One Of Them (31 page)

“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.