— Listen, you must take me to Chief Ibiram now. He is a friend. I have to meet the white woman.
They looked at each other and shook their heads.
— Chief Ibiram don go. E no dey here anymore. E say e no wan stay here anymore, because of so so fighting and because of bad fishing.
— So where is he going to?
They all pointed in the same direction: northward. That meant Port Harcourt, and that explained why they had sent the woman to him: to hitch a ride on one of his boats — it was her best chance of getting there. With the whole clan on the move, she could travel with them undetected.
18
It was not easy: First I had to convince them I was strong enough to leave, then I had to convince them we could catch up with Chief Ibiram if we left immediately. When words failed I waved my big wet wad of James Floode’s money before the hirsute old man, and he nodded. Two young men, Charles and Peter, eager and full of questions, set out with me in one of the village’s few riverworthy boats, and we headed north, hoping Chief Ibiram and his clan hadn’t already put too much distance between themselves and us. Charles, it turned out, was the one who had taken Salomon and Isabel to Chief Ibiram. He said Chief Ibiram and his people had left their settlement late the previous night, preferring to travel under cover of darkness, and by his estimate that put them at least ten hours ahead of us, but because they had children and women they’d be forced to stop often. If we went hard without a pause — we carried two extra gallons of petrol to avoid stopping for refills — we should be able to catch up with them before sunset.
As we passed the flood plain where Chief Ibiram’s village had once stood, I told the two men to slow down for a minute. The place looked desolate: the only signs that a community had once thrived here were a few sticks jutting out of the water, pieces of straw from roof thatches scattered in the mud and a pile of garbage under a tree, that was all.
WE CAUGHT UP with them very late in the afternoon — and by now I was almost fainting from fatigue and weakness. My guides had offered many times to stop and rest but I had insisted we keep going, and now they had to hold me under the arms as I got off the boat.
The group was camped in a forest not far from the river, where their boats, laden with their meager belongings, waited near the trees and rocks on the banks. They had set up tents and sheds, and curious faces peered out of the doorway slits as we passed, some nodding in recognition. Young men and women and children sat under trees, eating, or playing, or just idly waiting for nightfall, when they’d be on the move again. Chief Ibiram’s tent lay a few meters from the others.
— Good to see your face again, reporter.
— You too, Chief Ibiram.
He was seated on his reclining chair, his radio on a side table; I sat on a mat, facing him, and for a second it seemed time had not moved an inch since that day when the old man and his son had first brought Zaq and me to this community. The same cloth chair, the same radio by his side, and somewhere in an imaginary back room I could hear women and children talking and laughing. Only this time there was no Zaq, and this time it was I who was slumped and bowed like Zaq had been that day, and all alone. And the old man, Tamuno and his son Michael, where were they?
— They returned safely. They are fine. They are out there, somewhere.
— Good to hear that.
— And where is your friend, Zaq?
— I left him at Irikefe. He’s not well.
— You also don’t look well, reporter.
— I’ll be fine. I’m on my way to Port Harcourt, where I’ll see a doctor. And you, I see you are on the move again.
— Yes, we couldn’t remain there anymore. My people, they are frightened, the violence gets closer every day. We’ve heard of a place not too far from Port Harcourt, the people there are friendly, most of them are refugees like us. My people could get some sort of work in Port Harcourt.
His voice was hopeful, but his eyes were pessimistic, cloudy. Gradually the community was drifting toward the big city, and sooner or later it would be swallowed up, its people dispersed, like people getting off a bus and joining the traffic on the city streets. He sighed.
— You came for the white woman, didn’t you? Do you want to see her now?
— Can I?
At last I was going to see Isabel Floode, and I didn’t even have a pen or a notepad or my camera. I tried to control my nervousness as I followed Chief Ibiram out of his tent into the heat. She was in a tent by herself, seated on what looked like a folded trampoline; beside her was a half-covered bowl with a half-eaten meal in it. She was staring out to the trees through the door slit, and she didn’t seem at all surprised to see us; perhaps her recent experiences had exhausted her capacity for surprise — which I could understand. Now she looked up with a dull, locked-in expression, waiting for us to speak.
— This is Rufus, a journalist. He’s come to see you.
At the mention of “journalist” a spark of interest entered her eyes. His job done, Chief Ibiram nodded at me, turned and left us. Now I saw how thin she looked. Her hair had been chopped off and the jagged edges hung unevenly over her ears. An old red blouse that didn’t seem to belong to her hung from her shoulders, and her collarbones jutted out, stretching the skin. Her face was covered in rashes; the skin was still slightly discolored from whatever dye she had used to disguise her skin while making her escape from her kidnappers. But it was her eyes that expressed her situation best: they looked hollow, lusterless, and even when they rested directly on you, they did so bluntly, never cutting below the surface. She was about forty years old, but right now she looked ten years older.
— My name is Rufus. I’m from the Reporter.
— Hello. I’m Isabel Floode.
— Yes. Mrs. Floode, your husband sent me. . us. Me and a friend, though I’m alone here at the moment. We’ve been searching for you for more than two weeks now.
— James sent you?
— Yes. He sent us to see if you were alive and well, and
if possible to negotiate your ransom. . but now that you are free. .
— Yes, yes. I’m free.
I noticed that her attention kept wavering. Her eyes were still fixed at the little slit through which a line of light came into the tent, and I wondered what she was staring at outside, or if she was expecting something to come charging in. I felt awkward, unsure how to behave with her, what to say or ask. I had always imagined she’d be surrounded by gun-toting militants when I met her, and I had always assumed Zaq would be there with me and he’d do all the talking; not in my wildest imaginings did I ever see myself sitting less than a meter from her, alone in a tent by the river, carrying the burden of the conversation. But I was a reporter, and this was what reporters do — improvise, look confident and poised.