by Uwem Akpan
The old man dropped some biscuits into Jubril’s lap. Jubril thanked him. The refugees who supported him a few moments ago did not even look at Jubril. His loneliness and fear came back, rising like yeast. He pushed his body against the seat of the chief to keep from trembling. The more he pressed against his sore muscles, the more he aggravated the wounds under his clothes. He came back to his senses when the chief asked him why he was not eating. Chief Ukongo sounded to Jubril as if he would not only deprive him of the food but might use his magical powers to turn him into a grain of sand. He ate quickly.
SOMEWHERE IN THE CROWD outside, above the din of the bus stop, a dog barked breathlessly several times. With each effort the barks got weaker, as if the dog, like a whooping-cough patient, could not save itself from that sickening, involuntary urge.
The local TV station continued to broadcast its ugly pictures of the conflict, taking with it most of the passengers’ attention as they waited for the driver and fuel. Now, without passion, they watched the pictures of the barracks, shown over and over again, listening to the same TV anchor telling them everything was OK. But Jubril was watching the chief the whole time. The old man, in spite of finally being recognized by his people, was restless. It seemed to Jubril that the momentary peace that had pervaded the bus had evaded this man. Every now and then, some indiscernible angst brought tears into the gullies of the chief ’s eyes. He took out his identity card, looked at it, and asked Jubril how the refugees could have refused to acknowledge his ID. “How could they refuse to see it, when I voluntarily showed it to them?” he asked.
“Sorry, Chief,” said Jubril. “Sorry.”
“It’s OK,” he said.
The chief peered at the happy, confident face he once had and wrinkled his brow as if he was trying to remember something. Another wave of tears came close to spilling onto his cheeks, but then lost steam, as if the chief lacked the energy to remember and to cry simultaneously.
“My son, Gabriel,” he said, glancing sorrowfully out the window, into the dark of Lupa, “I once enjoyed this country. You know I once did?”
“No, Chief.”
“I’m telling you I once did.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“I don’t know why the god of my ancestors allowed the military to hand over power to civilians. . . . With the military in power, this Sharia war would never have taken place. We royal fathers used to go to the seat of government as the sole representatives of our people, guardians of the people’s mandate. Now everybody treats us as if we are no longer important.” For the first time, the chief ’s tears fell. “I remember how General Sani Abacha granted us royal fathers five percent of the taxes collected in our domain for saying a resounding yes to his plan to rule our country forever. He even promised us each a house in the capital city. He gave us cars, good cars . . . but I’m in this Luxurious Bus because I have hidden my cars for now. You know why?”
“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 ou
r 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 a
sked.
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!”
