Read: Fiction

BETTY
ADEBIYI OLUSOLAPE

The Ijaw Students Association of the Delta State University was having its annual Jaja of Opobo Memorial Lecture. It had been one hundred and seventeen years since Jaja had died on his way home from forced exile in Saint Vincent. He was born in the same year Bonaparte died in exile on Saint Helena. His exile was a price he paid for breaking a personal rule of his: never trust a white man. Perhaps he was tired, a lifetime of being suspicious of one and all, of intrigues, war both at home and abroad, it was enough to wear out even the sturdiest soul.

Jaja had kept a tight hold on trade in those parts, and as with all middlemen, he resisted any direct contact between the Europeans whom he sold to and the hinterland markets where he procured palm oil. He led a punitive expedition to Ibeno in 1881. Against his order, the people of those villages had traded with a European merchant who had circumvented his barricade. He razed the villages, slaughtering men, women and children, giving his paternal approval when his youngest son decapitated an Ibeno boy. An act which earned the prince the right to wear an eagle plume in his cap, a symbol of coming of age in a society that had beat its fishing harpoons into muskets. The Europeans—who were equally violent and unscrupulous in the pursuit of their policy to cut out the middleman—eventually succeeded by trickery in removing Jaja.

A completely different type of commerce in a darker kind of oil was taking place in the Delta these days, but if one judged by the blood, sweat and tears, things were very much the same. In their resistance to exploitation, neglect and degradation, the people of these parts sought vanguards. The apotheosis of the Jaja of Opobo among the intelligentsia was a symptom of the way things were. This year’s lecturer was Dr. Jeremiah Tarila, a brilliant historian who had returned home from a position in Oxford with the aim to, “…participate in the struggle of my people.” He cut a fine figure in his white shirt which contrasted delightfully with his brilliantly coloured wrapper. His panama hat which had an eagle plume in the band was cocked at an angle.

Looking at him, one would find it difficult to believe that this was the same man who threw the whole university community into turmoil earlier in the semester. It came out that all the non-Ijaw students who had taken his course failed. Only after it was announced that he had been suspended did the riots, which broke out on campus and which threatened to engulf the whole state, subside. The authorities also ruled that thenceforth, students were to identify themselves only by their matriculation numbers on examination scripts.

His stroll to the lectern a quarter of an hour ago had been marked by such frenzy, it was in marked contrast with the unruffled young man who stood to face the audience.

 “…prior to the coming of the white man, The Ijaw lived in societies which were grouped in to ‘houses’ based on patrilineage…”

He held the whole hall in rapt attention.

“The trade with the tribes of the hinterland consisted mainly of exchanging sea food and salt for vegetables and tools of iron…” He had begun to warm to his speech and it seemed that a smile played at the corners of his lips.

“…Crowder argues that the Ijaw communities were sparsely populated and so could not find slaves in sufficient quantities to satisfy European demands. I take issue with this theory. I want to seize this medium to reiterate my stand: the Ijaw as a people would not sell their own. We have never done this. We are not about to start now.”

At this, the hall broke in to a protracted round of applause as catcalls and whistles rent the air. Like the skilled demagogue, he homed in for the kill.

“Ladies and gentlemen—”

No one had noticed the two young men who purposefully made their way to the front. Betty spat three times as the doctor went down. As if on a cue, shrieks and screams rent the air even before the echo of the last gunshot died down. Furniture screeched as people strove to dive under the pews of the old church. In the commotion that ensued, Long John Silver ran out through the open doorway to the left of the fallen body which had taken a grotesque posture as blood covered the ground around it in an ever enlarging circle. It had been agreed that they would separate in the aisle that demarcated the first line of pews from the podium, to confuse any pursuers. Da Capo would exit through the door on the right which was closer to the car park and start the engine. As he ran round the old church to join his partner, he frantically tried to return the pistol to its place under his arm in the shoulder holster he was wearing. He was sweating profusely and breathing heavily. He slowed down into a quick walk only to begin running again. He felt clammy. He could actually hear his heart beat, and the weight of the gun seemed like it would slow him down so much that he would be caught. His only thought was getting away.

“Steady now,” Long John Silver whispered to himself, it would be terrible if he dashed all the hopes he had built up over the past fortnight. So far, he had successfully carved the shape he wanted on his left cheek. He had done the left half of his face first, like he always did when trimming his nails, the left hand first and then the right. He had never been quite able to cut the nails on the fingers of his right hand with the same precision that he did those of his left. His left hand just did not have the dexterity of his right, and he could not afford the coiffed stubble on both sides of his face not being alike to the last detail. If he failed, he would look like a fool and no one would tell him. People were disgusting that way; they would never tell you if something was wrong with the way you looked. One would have walked all the way from the lecture halls to the hostel, only to realize that all that while, one’s fly had been open. He followed the motion of the razor in the mirror and marveled. As a child, he had spent so many frustrating moments in front of the mirror, trying to direct his fingers to the place he wanted on his face and the mirror had always deceived him.

The phone began to ring. That was the ringtone he assigned his mother. He let the tune play all the way to the end. When it started to ring the fourth time, he walked over in annoyance and switched it off. He just did not get this woman. Why couldn’t she just let him be? Where had she been when he needed her? Now that he was grown up and had no need for her, she was trying to establish a relationship with him. She would not stop bugging him with her phone calls. He walked back to the mirror and gave himself a clean shave. What a stupid woman! What a stupid woman! What did she want from him? What did she want? He just could not stand it anymore. He did not want to have anything to do with her. Why couldn’t she just understand that? His father never bothered him, he hated them both. But this woman made his life hell, calling him on the phone to whine, “Eniola, why don’t you call me? I am your mother…” He had better get out of the room if he didn’t want to break something.

The young man was very tall, that combined with his lean frame made him willowy. His easy gait only lent to the impression of a supple sapling that was tossed ever which way. He affected a loud silver chain, which was in stark contrast to his well tailored dark suits. Even on the hottest day, he looked like a banker and he never broke a sweat. The girls loved him silly and he was ever ready with a listening ear and a genial smile.

As he headed for the Faculty of Social Sciences, it occurred to him that he was going to be in class for the lecture a full hour before the scheduled time. However, the thoughts foremost on his mind that afternoon were about his family. He had been born the only child of two bankers. They had had no time for him when he was very young. He lived with his maternal grandmother till she passed away when he was in junior secondary school. After his grandmother’s death, his parents had him transferred to an expensive school, far away in Abuja, with first rate boarding facilities. His holidays were spent in the homes of different friends. He grew up never having a family or a home he could call his own. Instead, his parents gave him more money than he ever actually needed. Perhaps that assuaged their feeling of guilt. By the time Eniola gained admission into the University of Lagos to study Economics, he was completely estranged from them. Now that he was back in the same city with his parents, his mother tried to draw him closer. Her overtures only drove him farther away. Unwittingly, he tried to get back at his parents by leading a lifestyle that would scandalize them if they found out. The money they gave him only lent more momentum to his self-destructive tendencies.

Eniola had joined The Privateers. That had not been his original intention. He met Franklin at a welcome party organized by the students of the Faculty of Social Sciences for freshmen. Franklin had said he was impressed by Eniola’s stature and disposition, and had approached him with a proposal to join a gentlemen’s club on campus. Eniola, who had received similar offers from three different social clubs during the course of that semester, played hard to get. But there was something about Franklin―he had this air of calm reassurance that drew Eniola to him. Franklin came across as intelligent and masterful in a subtle way. Eniola finally accepted the invitation to a party, organized by Franklin’s club, The Brahmins. Unknown to him, The Brahmins was a front for The Privateers. The Society existed to look after the interest of its members. Actually, they were involved in gang style supremacy tussles with similar groups. They also terrorized the general populace of the university. The Privateers were not a local phenomenon; they had branches in tertiary institutions all over the country. The various branches contracted killings of local enemies to members on other campuses. The rationale was that a stranger could easily slip in, get a job done and disappear.

The party was a screening exercise. All the freshmen at the party were being considered for initiation into the fraternity. The Grandmaster, a member of the alumni, and the Capo selected five freshmen to initiate into the cult. Eniola on his own part innocently compared the show put on by The Brahmins at their party with those of the other clubs. Truly, The Brahmins’ party had been the most lavish. And he met some of the most beautiful girls he had ever laid eyes on. Some of their alumni, who were public figures, were at the party. That had communicated permanence, a sense of continuity and the promise of solid connections.

The recruiting committee chose him along with four other freshmen. The invitation to join The Brahmins was renewed. Eniola accepted the invitation and was excited when he received a letter of acceptance. Information as to the time and venue put the induction for a week later. He was so excited, he thought nothing of the line in the letter which read “… you are urged to treat this missive and the information contained therein with the utmost secrecy.” In fact, for the first time in his life, he felt like he was a valuable person. Franklin had become something of a big brother to him and he believed this would serve to strengthen the bond between them. The time of the induction which had been slated for after midnight gave him no qualms at all.

Something was off. He arrived at the venue, an uncompleted lecture hall, and found that except for two of the freshmen he had met at the party, everyone else was clad in black. That was the first time it struck him how late the hour was. His first instinct had been to run, run as fast as he could, but he doubted that he would get far. Eniola looked around for Franklin, knowing his friend would have an explanation for this. He walked briskly towards his friend, furtively glancing at the fellows who stood in the middle of the hall in some kind of loose formation. He recognized some of these fellows, he had met them at the party, but they all looked ominous. Franklin was standing slightly apart in the middle of the half moon. Eniola didn’t see it coming; he was caught full in the jaw by Franklin’s fist. And that was how it started; he was beaten till he hurt all over. He screamed himself hoarse but they gave him no respite. His left eye was swollen shut. His mouth was raw. He had dared not stand up; the pain in his groin was unbearable. He was then inducted into the secret society, having been made to swear an oath of silence. Rechristened Long John Silver, it was thenceforth forbidden to refer to Franklin in any way except as Da Capo. They threatened to kill him if he gave away their true nature or even entertained any thoughts of going to the authorities.

THE LIGHT cast by the glowing dials of the watch was enough to illume the window cut into the face of the watch. It read: 11 Oct 2004. It was 4:23 a.m. The green light was especially bright in the darkness of the room. As he let down his hand, the watch, an 18 karat gold Rolex, slid towards his wrist, clumsily, scratching his skin. That used to annoy him to no end, it didn’t anymore. It had been a perfect fit on that fat bastard. The stupid man had not been able to make up his mind how he wanted his arm amputated. The idiot wet himself. His whimpering, so pathetic. Pah! He severed the hand behind the watch, just below the wrist, to make it easy to retrieve the watch. He dropped his machete, pulled the watch off and flung the hand away in fury; the fool screamed, his eyes following his member, he involuntarily made as if to follow it. That was just before the pain forcefully kicked in. He then fell to the floor, rolling and screaming. The boys just burst out laughing. The whole sequence riled him up so much he kicked the man in the mouth, letting the watch drop in the process. That was how the glass got cracked, but the gold of the chain was so exquisitely beautiful; the crack was a blemish he couldn’t bear, and for a time he only carried it in his pocket. It was all he had left now, it and Betty. They had taken everything.

What was there to gain in trying to sleep anymore? All night, he kept waking up to catch himself sleeping, like he was on guard duty. He couldn’t sleep; the fits were even more enervating than staying awake. It made no sense. His mind wouldn’t stop wandering back. It just would not accept that it was over. The more he struggled, the deeper he fell in the abyss.

He had thought about it so much, he wanted to hold his head in his hands. All that held him back was the thought that he was overreacting, like a character in a book. That was alright in fiction, not in real life. Those gestures were so melodramatic. He had nothing to deal with this. Maybe the gestures were all he had. Sitting up, he fumbled for the pack. In exasperation he turned on his side, using the dials on his other wrist to cast a light on the floor around him. It was nearly not enough; he had to strain his eyes. There it was! He lit the reefer, stood up and walked outside.

Taking a long, slow drag, pausing with one leg over the barrier, he stepped over the broken fence. The raw aroma stood out against the cold morning air. He hardly was ever aware of the pungent smell anymore, only occasional wafts registered.

Shrubs murmured indistinctly as he headed for the stream. The first time he came here, he knew nothing about the stream. That was a very long time ago. It was a miracle, really, that he could find his way here at all. How old had he been then? Six? Seven? And they made that journey in a car, his father’s. He had sat on his mother’s lap all the way, next to his father who concentrated on the road like there was no one else in the car. His two aunties sat in the back with Uncle Freddie, Aunty Margaret’s husband. The trees seemed to run past. How could they do that? They didn’t have legs, or did they? His mother, tired of his trying to lean out of the window, had only said softly, “Abioseh.” But she let him be. They finally made it to the house he had just left behind. It was much smaller than their house in Zwedru. The next day, they laid out Granpa and many people came in to the sitting room to see him. He lay there, sleeping. Even when he had gone up to the huge box with his mother, Granpa just lay there sleeping, and he didn’t snore. He used to snore loudly whenever he came to Zwedru, when he slept in the rocking chair on the balcony.

Walking to Zwedru from Monrovia had taken all of twelve days! Everywhere, the jungle had reclaimed the roads. On more than one occasion, the thought of an old drawing depicting Livingstone and his porters hacking their way through the Congo flashed through his mind. On those occasions, he hacked at the undergrowth with more vigour. But those bursts of energy never lasted. He had trudged on, more out of desperation than out of any faith in his plan. What was the point in sleeping night after night in the club? He probably would have frittered away all of the $300 he got for the AK47. There had been no point to staying on in the capital.

He was familiar with most of the country outside the capital, at least as far as Meyonga. That part of his journey posed no problems. They had spent most of 2002 in those parts, until they had successfully forced that Taylor and his hateful NPFL stooges out office. It was these same parts that he knew from when he had been taken from his home in October 1992 when he was eight. The second band of rebels found him where the first left him. By that time, he had at least stopped trying to put his mother’s head back on her body. He had stopped crying. He had stopped calling out, “mummy,” intermittently; he was just starring, seeing nothing really. They dragged him on to the balcony by his left arm, the blood that soaked his trousers leaving a trail as he had refused to get up. There, they beat him till he passed out. When he came to, he was in a large compound. He later found out that the compound used to be the First Baptist Church Elementary School, Gbanka. The NPFL made it a different kind of school for children like him. They taught them to use an AK47, to crawl stealthily through the brush. In short, they prepared them for the assaults on Monrovia and the fighting that continued until 1996.

Then there had been the Save the Children transit centre, there, he tried to unlearn all the violence. The wounds were too deep to heal; the demons, too powerful to be exorcised. But at least, they taught him to read better and rekindled his love for books. The remedial training had given him hope for a time that he would go to Cuttington University, like his parents. Even if he had been strong enough to forgive the NPFL for what they did to him, the greed and tyranny of Taylor and his National Patriotic Party government had offered no prospects for the future. Perhaps that was why the rhetoric of the LURD got his ear and he had taken up arms again. However, lurking at the back of his mind was a sinister thought, that violence and war were the only trades he knew. He wouldn’t accept that, he would try to start afresh.

In Tapeta, he had met a band which was heading for Zwedru. There was nothing left of the house. Indeed, had it not been for some buildings which were inexplicably left untouched and some partly burnt sign posts and, most especially, the baobab tree that had dominated their street and which stood out in his memory, the Government Reservation Area would have been more difficult to find. He spent three days at the UNHCR camp, most of it at the family tracing board, searching for word of his aunties. He went over the boards again and again, searching for something, anything he could call his, anyone whom he knew or who would know him. Nothing, no one, it was as if he was an alien. He felt like he was in a far country, vast plains of emptiness. There were so many people on the roads, in the camps, haggard, hungry, much like him but he felt so alone. He had made his way to Baubli, his grandfather’s village. The old house still stood although it was falling to the ground. It was in this village that he learnt that the Ivoirians were being offered $900 to turn in weapons.

The water was icy cold as it dripped down his face and fell in between his laps. The air moved over his face, stinging his nose. He threw more water as fast as he could. Now his ears were feeling strangely dry, so he swung forward, touching the moist earth with his knees, and placed his ear on the stream and rotated his head so that his face, then his other ear entered the water. Having filled his mouth with water as he returned to an upright position, he began to make brushing motions inside his mouth with his index finger. The drops of water creeping down his spine made him shiver involuntarily. The time was now 5 a.m. One day, he should drop this watch in to a bucket of water and leave it for a while to see if it really was waterproof like the etching on the back claimed. Right now, he had to hurry if he wanted to catch up with Aboubakar. By now, the man would have collected the palm wine he was taking to the city of Guiglo.

Guiglo was closer to Baubli than any of the cities in Liberia. The thought made him think about his Granpa. The old man used to regale him with stories of how farmers from Baubli, since ancient times, carried on trade with regions that were now inside Cote d’Ivoire. Granpa told stories that Granpa’s grandfather told Granpa. His favourite ones were about how they avoided being killed by wild animals. Sometimes they fled for dear life, leaving produce behind and leaving friends to their own devices. They were funny, some of those stories. But some were very scary. Like when great-great grandfather, as a child, had accompanied his own father to the market for the first time and had actually walked on a fallen trunk that turned out to be a python! There were also tales about evil spirits of the forest, battles with head-hunters and slavers.

Granpa had had a pick-up van with which he took his and some of the other farmers’ produce across the border. There were no yams, manioc or maize these days, just vegetables and palm wine.

Aboubakar had traded a rifle for a motorcycle, and he hoped he would get a similar deal. There were middlemen, civilians with no military experience, who, nevertheless, went through the disarmament process in Yamoussoukro to exchange guns for the $900 the authorities were offering. They bartered for guns with youths from Liberia. If he got a motorcycle, he would take it back to Monrovia and try to start a business.

Aboubakar was waiting, he had the engine running. Abioseh suspected that if he hadn’t agreed to buy the petrol for their journey, he would have been left behind.
“Come make we go.” He said with unconcealed irritation.
“I don wait for you.”
Abioseh was uncomfortably sandwiched between the kegs and the man as they rode into the east.

EPILOGUE

Betty had made her way into Burkina Faso, concealed with other light arms in a train compartment ostensibly containing a merchandise of skin lightening soap. From there, she travelled to Benin, this time in a truck carrying bales of cotton to the coast to be exported. She was then sold to a Nigerian car smuggler who doubled as an armed robber. The said smuggler had on winning the American visa lottery disposed of his assets to raise his ticket fare. He sold her to a certain Franklin, whom he had met a few years before at a pub and whom he knew was a student of the University of Lagos.

ADEBIYI OLUSOLAPE is a journeyman collagist engaged in the search for mastery. He is very experimental in his plumbing of the depths of our shared experience. He lives in Ibadan.