by Uwem Akpan
“You dey speak grammar!” someone shouted. “Wetin concern us wid America and Europe? Abeg, give us cable TV.”
“Remove dis toilet pictures!” said another.
“So our barracks be toilet now?” the police answered. “What an insult!”
“You na mad mad police,” Monica said.
“OK, cable TV no be for free anymore!” the police said.
“But, it’s our pictures we are watching on cable TV,” Madam Aniema said. “Why should we pay you to see ourselves and our people?”
The police answered, “Because government dey complain say cable TV dey misrepresent dis religious crisis.”
“Officer,” said Ijeoma, pointing to Emeka, “you no hear dis man talk say he done see his cousin for inside cable TV? We no go pay notting. We done pay for Ruxulious Bus arleady!”
“Government order!” the police said.
“Which order?” said Ijeoma, grabbing her Afro in frustration. “How you take hear dat order? No be you and we dey dis bus togeder?”
“Amebo woman, you understand police work? Stop interrogating us!”
“Please, show me my cousin!” Emeka said, tears running down his face. Please, return to that channel. . . . I want to see my cousin again! Is he alive?” The police did not even look at him. “Officer, I’ll give you whatever you want later . . .”
“Later? We no dey do later for cable TV,” the police said, watching Emeka’s hands like a dog expecting its owner to offer something. “Give us de money now now. . . . Cable TV, life action . . . e-commerce!”
“E-commerce?” Emeka said, looking around.
“Oh yes, e-commerce no reach your side? You tink we police no dey current?”
“My brothers, whatever it is, I’ll pay you later . . . I swear!”
“Show us de money, we show you your cousin . . . quick quick. White people call am e-commerce.”
“Which white people?” said Monica. “Abeg, leave white people out of dis cable talk.”
“Please, don’t shout at them,” Emeka begged Monica.
She laughed at him. “I no tell you before? Now you go beg me tire o.”
As Emeka searched in his pockets for money to give the police, many refugees intervened and begged Monica not to exact her revenge on Emeka by insulting the police.
“Please, show my cousin,” Emeka said. “I know he’ll never let Jesus Christ down in this battle. . . . I pleaded with him to run south with me, but he said Khamfi was the only home he knew. He was born in Khamfi . . .”
Seeing the ten-naira note he was offering them, the police laughed and asked him the last time he saw a N10 movie. He told the police he had lost everything in Khamfi. They told him to also consider his cousin and friend lost.
Emeka looked as if he had been thrown out of a film premiere and sat down. His disappointment infected the whole bus. Some cried, though nobody wanted to give the police more money. Jubril felt like giving Emeka a N50 note but did not, fearing such charity might draw attention to him.
Others prayed aloud for the day when they—the talakawas, the wretched people of this world, who were the subjects of such black comedy on TV—would be rich enough to watch the irresistible pictures of their pain and shame. The murmuring in the bus gathered momentum; people pounded their seats. Everybody was talking except the chief and Jubril. The chief sat tight, like most postcolonial African heads of state. Jubril realized he was the only other person who did not condemn the police publicly, so he joined the protest to be in step with the majority.
“You toilet people dey cause trouble for dis bus!” one policeman shouted at the line of TV-watching, backward-moving refugees.
“We no be troublemakers o . . . biko!” a man pleaded, turning to face the toilet.
“Shut up . . . na you!” the police said.
“I am sorry,” the man begged. “OK, give us police state. We no want democracy again.”
“Even, you too many for dat toilet line . . . it no be pit latrine. Bring two hundred naira each if you want shit now now!”
The bus became quiet. The line began to fall apart.
“Please, make we pay fifty,” someone said.
“Greedy man,” the police said. “How you take go from two hundred to fifty?”
“Small, small . . . I be businessman,” the man said.
“OK, if you get one-fifty, enter toilet wid immediate effect,” the police said. “First-class toilet. . . . Dey flush after four buttocks only. . . . And no wash your hand. . . . Serious water shortage dey Lupa!” Three refugees paid and moved ahead of those who could not pay.
After a while the police said, “Okay, if you get eighty, stand after first class. . . . If you get less than eighty, shut your buttocks and sit down!”
A refugee begged, “Officer, you fit collect twenty for fifth class?”
“Your head correct at all? OK fifty!”
With the reduced fee, some people returned to the line, including Jubril. Emeka sat there with his head in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks. Tega stood up and made a sad speech to the police officers. She complimented them for their sense of compromise and for not shooting or beating anybody. She told the police that in spite of what was happening in the land, she was hopeful that democracy and compromise would prevail.
When the police finally left, the bus refugees were as beaten down as the hordes of grim-faced Christian and Muslim and northern and southern refugees they watched on TV. In the barracks, or sitting in the fields, in groups, they shared their tears. Some read the Koran for consolation, some the Bible. One woman brought out a little black calabash and placed it momentarily on the foreheads of each remaining member of her household. Others just sat there, too shocked to talk to any god.
Occasionally, their common grief was interrupted as the heavily guarded gates of the barracks opened to admit truckloads of more refugees. Whenever the soldiers and the police came near the refugees, the refugees cringed. Were they going to be betrayed and given out to be slaughtered? If the civilians were not safe when the soldiers ruled the land, how safe were they coming into the barracks? Some of the refugees were so afraid that without being asked, they paid the guards to ensure their protection.
JUBRIL HAD NOT EATEN since Mallam Abdullahi had given him a piece of bread. Now, his eyes began to lust for the chief ’s snacks, and the old man, who was watching him, offered him two Cabin Biscuits. Jubril refused at first, distrustful of his intentions.
“Take it, don’t pretend!” the chief said. But when Jubril mimed his thank you to him and extended his left hand, the chief withdrew the gift. “I cannot allow you to insult my chieftaincy with your left hand!”
“I no want eat. . . . I want sit,” Jubril said, lying.
“Son, I’m not bribing you. Just trying to be nice to you.”
“Tanks.”
In spite of the chief ’s taunts, Jubril could see that the man was not at peace and ate his snacks without pleasure. The wrinkled, feeding movements on his face, like a faulty light switch, happened many a fraction faster than his tottering Adam’s apple moved as his jaws slowly pounded the food. The TV glare splashed on the chief ’s face, like a searchlight on the dark, troubled waters of his soul.
“Make sure you dey de right seat o!” the police shouted from the door.
“Yes, officers,” everybody chorused.
“If you no get your ticket, we go trow you out quick quick. If you dey wrong place, we go charge una extra for loitering o, you hear?”
“Yes, officers.”
“De bus driver dey come now now.”
The news that the driver would soon arrive brought some relief to the bus. People whispered to their neighbors and adjusted themselves in their seats for the long-awaited trip home. Jubril fished out the Madu Motors ticket from his bag. He studied it carefully and was satisfied. Gabriel O: #52 was scrawled on it. He tucked the ticket back into his pocket carefully, like a prized possession, and smiled to no one in particular in anticipation of t
he trip.
Outside, the crowd was in an uproar. They gathered around the bus as if to storm it.
“No worry, dis no be last bus,” the police addressed them. “Many bus dey come from nord. Dem go stop to carry una. Dem fit arrive before we leave sef. . . . Last night many of dem carry people from here too.”
“Lies, lies!” people shouted. “Dis bus no go leave here tonight o!”
The police stepped forward and fired into the air to ward off an assault. The crowd backed away.
“Why don’t you sit down here?” the chief told Jubril, whom he had been studying. He pointed to a place on the floor that was already occupied by a man. The chief let out a sinister laugh, as if he were above the law in asking the owner to give up his space.
“Old man, na de boy’s seat dey under your buttocks,” the man quickly protested. “Your ears correct so—”
“Excuse me?” The chief cut him short. “I refuse to be addressed improperly!”
“Look, old man, stand up. . . . Tief!” a second person challenged him, and the number of people supporting Jubril grew.
“For koro-koro daylight, you want steal someone seat?” the first man said. “You dey behave like police!”
“I sure say you want all of us to call you shief,” Tega said. “Shief dis, shief dat. . . . Too many shiefs for dis country. I go buy my resource-control hat too!”
“Be very, very careful how you talk to me!” The chief turned sharply to the man whose space he had wanted to give to Jubril. “Are you addressing me as old man? Me? Do you know who I am?”
“Christ de Son of God no like as you dey cheat dis small boy since.”
“Are you preaching to me?”
“By the grace of God,” the man said.
“Look, I’m not even supposed be in this bus with you,” the chief said. “Look, I’m not one of you!”
“Den leave de Luxurious Bus,” Tega said from her seat. “Who you be? Abasha man? Babangida boy!”
“As our people say, before the discovery of peanuts, people were not eating pebbles. . . . Keep your Christianity to yourself!”
“No confuse us wid proverb,” Tega continued. “Maybe you be pagan . . . wizard!” A few people laughed at her comments.
“Pagan, eh?” the chief said. “How dare you call my traditional religion paganism!”
“But, Chief, you dey pray poritics wid dis ting,” Ijeoma said. “Just reave de seat.”
“If you no be Christian, wetin else remain?” Tega said.
“He is suffering from political correctness,” Emeka said, speaking for the first time since the police changed the TV channel.
“Let me tell you,” the chief said, “before the harvest of alligator pepper, the medicine man was already carrying his bag, not the other way round. . . . The religion of my ancestors is far older than yours in this country. This land belongs to us.”
“Yeye gods!” Tega said.
“If you pagans stop sacrificing human body parts to the devil,” Emeka said, “this country will be more peaceful than Switzerland.”
The chief laughed a sardonic laugh, casting a telling glance at the faces of the TV refugees, in whom nobody was interested any longer. “And your imported religions are blessing this country, yes? Or, please, tell me: are we, the so-called pagans, the ones chasing these people to the barracks? Are we the ones chasing you from the north?”
“We no dey shed brood!” Ijeoma eagerly argued for the Christians.
“Which blood?” the chief asked. “Is the blood of goat and sheep that we use for our sacrifice to be compared to the human blood you are spilling in Khamfi?”
“You dey rie,” Ijeoma said. “You dey do human saclifice and litual too.”
“Be careful, my daughter!” the chief said. “A royal father does not lie. Be very careful.”
“Chief, you dey lie, period,” Monica said, and people started laughing. The chief himself could not keep a straight face and joined in. He put his stick down, rattled his necklace, and proudly ran his fingers all over the many lion prints on his dress.
“But why are you attacking my religion?” he said, finally regaining his composure.
“See now,” Monica continued, “anybody who fit laugh like you fit lie.” This brought more laughter. Even a few people outside hopped by the window to see what was happening.
“It’s the Muslims who kill in Allah’s name,” Emeka said in a serious voice. “It’s not a laughing matter.”
“Haba, calm down, Cousin of Dubem, Friend of Tom,” Monica argued. “We no want too much stress for dis bus. . . . You get too much tension for body.”
“No, we must correct the chief ’s erroneous theology. By the grace of God, Christianity is pure forgiveness. Otherwise, this country would have gone up in flames by now. You pagans are like the Muslims . . .”
“It’s an insult to compare my religion to that barbaric religion!” the chief said, still laughing. “I had warned you not to mention Islam or Muslim in this bus, remember?”
“Yes, we made dat rule,” Tega said, and the bus was quiet for a moment, as if silence was needed to purify the air of that violation.
“Abeg o, we must settle my seat wahala o,” said the man whose space the chief wanted to give to Jubril.
“Yes, let’s see the tickets,” Emeka said. “Too much talk.”
Everyone turned in the direction of Jubril and the chief.
Jubril immediately showed them his ticket. He brandished it as if he had a winning lottery number. At least there will be a third party to settle this case, he thought.
“So, Chief, where your ticket?” Monica asked, the question that was on everyone’s mind.
“Me?” the chief said, clearing his throat.
“Of course,” Ijeoma said.
“Do you think I could be sitting here without a ticket?”
Ijeoma and Emeka exchanged glances, and for some reason nobody wanted to push Chief Ukongo to produce his ticket. Instead, the passengers were cheering for Jubril, encouraging him to claim the seat from the chief. Jubril felt relieved. Though he knew their cheers would die instantly if they discovered that he was a Muslim, the mere fact that they supported him, a sixteen-year-old boy, against a chief made him feel good. He knew that in Khamfi nobody would ever support him over and against a royal father or an emir, even if he were 200 percent right. It was like a foretaste of the freedom he hoped to enjoy in the south, and all the beatific visions of the place now flooded him. It was as if he had finally gotten the support of his people, the southerners. Jubril was not bothered by the religious difference between the chief and his Christian supporters, or even by that between his supporters and himself anymore. He felt like singing and dancing. He had learned in the last few days that one needed to tolerate certain things for the sake of other things. Because of this singular gesture of support, for the first time in that bus, he could see himself letting go and daring to look at the TV—just to show his appreciation. This was not the time to think about Islam or Christianity or God too much, he thought. It was a time just to be a human being and to celebrate that. What mattered now was how to get people to lay down their weapons and biases, how to live together.
THOUGH THE CHIEF HAD not ceded the seat to him or shown his ticket, Jubril was still lost in happiness. In this unguarded moment, the memories of his flight again forced themselves into his mind. And because he felt more accepted on the bus, he let them flow. For the first time during his wait at the motor park, he believed he could manage his inner turmoil without giving himself away.
He remembered falling and losing consciousness in the savannah as the mob, led by Musa and Lukman, pursued him, but he did not account for what happened while he was blacked out. The next thing he remembered was waking up, weak and sore, covered by mats in a dark room.
The tart smell of the mats had hung heavily in the room. He was lying on his back on the floor; the place was dead quiet. Jubril pinched himself to be sure he was alive. He was so tired that the mats
felt like lead. For a moment he thought he was a body being prepared for burial. He breathed cautiously, not daring to move. He cursed the day he had met Musa and Lukman and wondered whether they had captured him. Why would they keep him alive? He could still see their triumphant faces as they beat him, and their gnarled expressions as they pursued him up the valley. He tried to accustom his eyes to the darkness. He could hear the wind ripping through the savannah as well as the faint chirping of birds. He knew he was in the country, but he could not tell how far he was from where he had fallen.
Suddenly, he heard the unimaginable: the explosive sound of Pentecostal Christians speaking in tongues. It poured out all around him, in unrelenting torrents. Jubril’s heart beat faster; he had fallen into the hands of Christian fundamentalists. Some of them were praying in tongues, which reminded him of his brother Yusuf on the day of his death. The Christians were very near and seemed to fill the room. He thanked Allah that he did not move or attempt to stand up, knowing how dangerous that could have been, even if he had the energy. They prayed as if the place belonged to them, their trembling bodies ruffling the mats. He was scared and would have blocked his ears if he had not been so afraid to move.
The rapid-fire prayer flooded him with memories of Yusuf. Were they going to spare his life? Why had they brought him into their midst? How did they find him? How could Allah allow Jubril’s friends to condemn him for supposedly belonging to a faith he never assented to or practiced, and hated with a passion? Disowned by Muslims and now captured by Christians, he held on to his conscience and prayed.
As the prayers filled Jubril’s ears in the dark, he tried to forget the stones falling on Yusuf. He tried to forget how Yusuf screamed the names of his uncles and neighbors and pleaded with them to spare him, and how, when Yusuf realized it was no use, he resumed, with ebbing strength, praying in tongues and calling on the name of Jesus.
“Allah the Merciful, forgive me!” Jubril repeated silently to drown out the unnerving memories of Yusuf. I should have been nicer to him when he came back from the delta, he thought. I should have listened more to my mother. I should have refused to witness his stoning. “Allah, soften the hearts of these Christians and spare me,” he prayed, begging with every inch of his bruised body. With what had been done to Christians in the north and the vengeance that was sweeping across the land, Jubril knew it was only Allah who could save him. “Allah, you will remember me,” Jubril prayed. “Give me the strength to remember you.”
