4
The old man Tamuno saw the helicopter first. I couldn’t see anything from where I stood, but I could hear the roar. The fog rose off the water and the mangrove leaves like smoke from wet kindling, blanketing the air and the sky for miles around. Then suddenly the helicopter appeared overhead, shrouded in its engine’s riotous noise, the air pressure from its rotor parting the fog. It banked and cycled and hovered, its weight seemingly borne by the white fog, and I saw the huge oil-company logo on its side. From an open window a guard leaned down, his eyes covered in huge goggles, his machine gun poking through the open window.
— We go. Quick, we go now, please, please.
Tamuno didn’t wait for us; he turned and ran for the boat, his knobby knees knocking against each other. We followed him, awkwardly diving into the boat. I knocked my knee against wood and for a few minutes my left leg was totally paralyzed. I held my knee with one hand and with the other I clung to the side of the boat as the boy tried to bring the engine alive. When it didn’t work, he took the oar and pushed frantically, launching us into the shallow, choppy water. The helicopter followed us, a disinterested bee, watching from a distance. I expected the gunman to start shooting, but nothing happened. The helicopter stayed with us for a few minutes as we progressed slowly toward the distant mangrove cluster on the horizon, then it left. But before our sigh of relief had properly escaped our lips, two speedboats appeared from behind the very mangrove cluster we were making for, their massive bows bearing down on us. In one of the boats a man in a green oilskin jacket raised a loud hailer to his mouth:
— Stop and throw away your oars and weapons. Do it now!
Tamuno quickly and tremulously raised his hands to show he had no weapons. We did the same. The boy threw the oar into the water and crouched on the wet floor between me and Zaq, making himself invisible, peering over the side at the fast-approaching boats. They circled us, guns trained on us. Now we could see the men clearly: they were soldiers, three in each boat, all armed. The names of the boats were printed on their sides in blue cursive characters over a dull white background: one was Mami Wata 1, the other Mami Wata 2. They kept circling slowly, coming close enough to peer into our boat. The man with the loud hailer spoke again, his metallic voice sounding so impersonal, so threatening, in the suddenly cold air:
— You will do as I tell you. If you attempt to escape, or disobey in any way, you will be shot. Leave your boat and swim over to our boats. If you can’t swim, take the rope being lowered and we’ll pull you over. Don’t take anything from your boat.
I went first, plunging into the cold water and grasping blindly for the rope; then the old man, then the boy, and then it was Zaq’s turn. Instead of jumping in the water, he leaned heavily on the side of the heaving boat, trying to reach the rope, and with nothing to counterbalance Zaq’s weight our boat simply keeled over. Zaq went under. I watched helplessly as my tote bag containing my camera and my notebook and all my personal belongings floated briefly on the water before sinking out of sight. I stood up, reaching out, but a gun in my side forced me to sit down again. No one went in to save Zaq. After an eternity he surfaced, spitting out water, holding on to the overturned boat, and somehow he found the rope and was dragged aboard by two soldiers. One of them leaned over and casually shot a round at the overturned boat. We watched as it slowly sank out of sight. I turned away from the horror on the old man’s face as he watched his boat sink beneath a sea of bubbles, and though he opened his mouth to speak, raising his hand like a boy in a classroom, nothing came out of his mouth. He slumped back when the boat finally disappeared. I was in the same boat as Tamuno, while Zaq and Michael were in the other boat. We were seated on a bench side by side, facing the soldiers, who stared back at us through their dark glasses, all except the man with the loud hailer. He had a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves and he was standing a bit in front of the others, looking calmly at us, his eyes waiting for an explanation.
— We’re reporters.
I was sure Zaq, if he could speak at all after that fall into the water, was telling them the same thing in the other boat.
— You can explain yourself to the Major.
After about an hour we saw stunted palm trees on the horizon. They seemed to be jetting out of the water, and behind them the land appeared a few seconds later. A sudden and unexpected place, with the water circling it like a moat, and you didn’t see it till you were practically on top of it. A thin trail of mangroves and palm trees on marshy ground led away from the water to more solid ground and a footpath inland. More soldiers appeared behind trees and out of dugouts and behind sandbags, guns raised, eyes fixed on us as our escorts bound our hands behind our backs before leading us off the boats. We were taken down a path that meandered between the trees, often disappearing beneath thick grass; as we walked I often had to lean against Zaq to stop him from falling to the muddy ground. When I tried to explain to a sergeant that Zaq was not feeling well, he raised his gun at me.
— Keep walking.
At last we arrived at a camp: a few sheds and huts arranged in a square formation around a central clearing where three low and leafy trees grew. We sat under the trees and watched the Sergeant make a call on his radio, not saying much, occasionally grunting a yes and a no, then finally, — Over. He put down his gun and waved impatiently to one of the men, who stepped forward and untied us.
— So, you are the journalists. We have been expecting you.
Zaq started to stand up, then sank back to the ground, falling flat on his face. I rushed forward and tried to help him up, but he slumped back again.
— What’s wrong with him?
— He needs to see a doctor.
The soldier looked at Zaq, then at me.
— Well, the Major said to treat you well till he comes. You’re lucky we have a medic here. Just don’t try to escape. If you do, you’ll be shot.
I looked at him, trying to determine if he was joking. Escape how, to where? But his red eyes showed no trace of merriment.
— We can’t escape without our boat.
He motioned to one of the soldiers. — Take them to the doctor. No, just you two.
— The old man and the boy work for us. They’re our guides. .
— They will be fine. Go.
HE WAS WEARING military fatigues, so I asked him if he was also a soldier. He laughed.
— A soldier? No, no, just a doctor. A bloody civilian like you.
His voice was thin and slow and precise.
— Dr. Dagogo-Mark. Call me “Doctor”; everybody does.
His shed was a little removed from the other huts; its large doors and windows made it airy and cool; in a corner was a table carrying a few tins of medicine, carefully labeled. Near the table was an open wooden chest in which I could see a jumble of medicine bottles and syringes and various containers. On another table behind the chest was what looked like a titration stand with tubes hanging from it, while under it was a burner connected to a gas cylinder. An old and dirty white laboratory jacket covered the Doctor’s fatigues; the jacket was a size too small for him and stretched tightly across the shoulders. Occasionally a foul stench from the faraway swamps blew in through the open window on the back of a sporadic and wispy wind. Zaq lay on his back on a cot on the floor, knocked out by the injection the Doctor had given him. Beside him were two other cots with soldiers sprawled out on them, still dressed in their camouflage uniforms and boots, their eyes dulled by fever. The Doctor had looked at Zaq and asked me how long he had been ill.