— Na my friend Karibi shop be dis.
The old man went inside. Four men stood in a semicircle in a corner of the shed, talking in low voices. In the center, squatting before a blazing hearth stocked with metal, was a young man who looked up at us briefly before returning to his chore. The men stopped talking and one of them shook hands with the old man; the others nodded at him, then turned to look at us, their faces solemn. The old man talked for a while with the man while the others listened and interjected once in a while, their faces and gestures expressing deep perplexity, then he rejoined us, looking troubled.
— Is that your friend?
— Yes. Him say we must go. We no fit stay.
— But we just got here. Is something wrong?
— Yes. Dem hear say soja de come here today. Dem de come find am.
— Find him for what?
The old man shrugged and turned to look at the men in the shed. — Dem say he de help de militants.
— So why isn’t he hiding?
— He say he de innocent so he no go run anywhere. Karibi na important man for dis village. Very proud man.
We stood there, unsure what to do. I looked at Zaq. Clearly a newsworthy event was about to unfold and, rather than leaving, shouldn’t I be getting my camera ready, and perhaps interviewing the man for some background? But before that thought could transform into action things began to happen. There was a loud noise as of stampeding feet, dust rose and covered the tight passages and the stalls and sheds, people rushed down the passages, knocking down tables and entire sheds as they went. Then a single gunshot rang out. For a moment everyone froze. As I turned to ask the old man what was going on, a terrified market woman suddenly appeared in front of me, her eyes blinded by fear. The next minute I was flat on my back and her considerable mass was pinning me to the dusty ground, then she was up on her feet and away, agile, almost airborne. Long afterward I remembered her marketplace smell and her unseeing eyes above mine, and the moaning, terrified sound coming continuously from her mouth, a sound she was unaware she was making.
— THEY ARE HERE! The soldiers are here!
They came out of the sheds and houses and passages, wielding whips and guns, occasionally firing into the air to create more chaos. A man ran out of a hut and came face-to-face with a soldier; he raised his hands high in surrender as, in a single motion, the soldier reversed his rifle and swung the butt at the man’s head. The man fell back into the doorway and the soldier moved on to another target. I was saved from a broken jaw or a cracked skull because I was still on the ground trying to regain my wind. Karibi and his friends, now joined by his son, stood motionless, shoulder to shoulder, watching the pandemonium unfolding toward them — like a wave that had started from far away in the sea and was now unstoppably headed at them on the shore, gaining strength and fury as it came. Over ten soldiers surrounded the smithy, facing the silent, defiant men. One of the soldiers, a sergeant, stepped into the shed and pointed his rifle at Karibi.
— You, come with us.
His men rushed forward and grabbed Karibi, who didn’t struggle or say a word. The other men watched, glaring at the soldiers but saying nothing. They pinned his hands behind him and dragged him away through the wide village street. In the distance a woman wailed at the top of her voice, calling to God over and over: Tamuno! Tamuno!
2
We left before the dust had finally settled. We went to the riverbank with the villagers to watch the two speedboats that had brought the soldiers fly away over the water and out of sight. Karibi sat straight between two soldiers, his hands tied behind him, his face staring into the distant horizon. His son said he’d be taken to Port Harcourt, where he’d be tried and found guilty of fraternizing with the militants.
— But he’s innocent. Isn’t he innocent?
My question to Zaq, even I knew, was futile: how was he to know who was innocent and who wasn’t, after all; hadn’t we both just met the man for the first time today? But I couldn’t get rid of the image of Karibi, stoic and defiant in the face of the threat from the soldiers — surely only an innocent man would be so unruffled, so confident?
Zaq looked at me and shrugged. — Guilty of what, and innocent of what? Some of the militants actually come from villages like this, so how can you stop these people from fraternizing with them?
The old man decided to take us to his own village. It was a bit out of our way, he said, but it was the only place we could be sure of food and lodging for the night. And Zaq definitely needed some sort of medical attention, or at least a long rest.
Night had fallen by the time we finally got there. It was an entire village on stilts, situated by the river on a vast mud flat, which at that moment was underwater, so the village appeared to float; narrow passages of water divided one row of huts from the next, like streets. The houses were made from weeping-willow bamboos and raffia palms and bits of zinc and plywood and cloth and it seemed anything else the builders were able to lay their hands on. The whole scarecrow settlement looked as if the next strong wind or wave would blow it away. Dugout canoes rested beneath the house floors; secured by jute ropes to the stilts, they tugged at the restraints like horses. We floated silently between the houses, as figures in doorways and windows waved down to us; occasionally we caught the sound of laughter over the silence, and sometimes the sound of a radio, its static strange and elemental in the desolate village. Finally, we came to a stop before one of the houses, which was larger than the others. A wooden ladder dangling over the water led up to its front door.
— Wait here small. I dey come.
The old man left us and climbed up the ladder to the door. The boy remained with us in the boat, wordless, looking tired and sleepy. We didn’t wait long before the old man reappeared. With him was a big man who waved down to us and called out in a loud, friendly voice:
— Come, in, come in.
We climbed the shaky ladder, placing each foot carefully, ready to grab at whatever was nearby to save ourselves if the rungs gave out from under us. I went first and then dragged Zaq after me, his weight like a sack of sand. The living room was surprisingly spacious, made more so by the absence of furniture and one large open window. The floor was covered with old straw mats on which we sank as if they were cushions of the softest down. The big man sat in the only chair in the room, an armchair by the window facing the veranda and the river outside.