And again the two men jumped into the water and came to our boat.
— Nooo! Abeg. Please! Noo!
The cry came from the old man as the men approached our boat; he threw himself at them as they began to drag Michael out of the boat, his puny arms rising and falling ineffectually against the men’s burly frames, but still he fought them, his rage churning up the water. The boy grabbed tightly on to my arm, screaming for his father. I saw a gun rise and then descend on the old man’s head and he slumped against the boat and then into the water. Slowly I stood up, my arms raised. An image of the boy proudly scrawling his name in the sand came to my mind, and it seemed like just yesterday. The old man had served us diligently in the hope that we’d take his son to Port Harcourt and a better future, and instead we had led him to incarceration and being doused in petrol. Now the old man lay faceup in the water, and his son was about to be taken away.
— I will go. Take me. Leave the boy alone.
I got into the water and helped Tamuno back into the boat. Then the two men took my arms and we waded to their boat, where they shoved me in beside Salomon and Isabel.
THEY WERE THE MASTERS of the waterways — they knew every turning, every shallow, every rapid; many times I expected our boat to crash into some shadowy form looming suddenly in front of us — a tree, a rock — but our boat would effortlessly curve away into the darkness and into an open expanse of water and the men would let their guns roar as if in defiance of danger and death. There were five boats with four men in each, all armed, all eager to shoot off a few rounds at the slightest opportunity. Salomon and Isabel and I hung on for dear life as the boats ate up the darkness. I had expected a blindfold, but nobody paid me or my fellow prisoners any attention once we left Chief Ibiram and his people.
Our destination turned out to be closer than I had anticipated — we got there in under thirty minutes, and even in the dark I could appreciate how impregnable the approach to land was. It was one solid slab of granite rising sheer from the water, and not till we left the boats did I see the tiny steps cut into the rock face; they looked no more than hand- and toeholds, but they were cut in a curving zigzag, making the climb easier than one would have expected, yet still daunting to someone not fully recovered from a fever, and hungry, and prodded by guns in the back, and unsure of whatever lay in store. Our arrival was announced by more gunshots and whoops and calls, but the camp was clearly asleep. A few fires burned to illuminate makeshift sheds and tents, and two sentries appeared suddenly from behind trees, their presence indicated only by the inevitable cigarette between their lips. Salomon and I were dumped under a tree, while Isabel was led away to a group of tents. Although we couldn’t see any guards in our immediate vicinity, I knew they were there, shadowy, watching, waiting. I turned to my companion, but he had dragged himself to the foot of the tree and was seated with his back against it, his head lowered to his knees, and after a while I realized he was sobbing.
— Salomon, are you all right?
He said nothing, and I decided to let him cry in peace. I could imagine how terrified he must be. After all, he had helped the woman escape, and he knew a terrible punishment awaited him in the morning. I hoped he would be composed enough to grant me an interview before they came for him. . for us. I was aware that unless I could prove I was a journalist, and that I could be useful to the militants with my piece, my fate wouldn’t be any better than Salomon’s. I lay on my back and closed my eyes, but that night sleep didn’t come easily.
IN THE MORNING I was awakened by a kick in the ribs. I sat up, holding my aching side, and saw a man with a gun standing over me. He said nothing, only motioned with his gun. He wanted me to stand up. I stood up. Salomon was already on his feet, and from his swollen and bloodshot eyes I could tell he hadn’t slept much last night.
— Let’s go.
Another gunman appeared and led the way through the center of the camp. The militants were already awake and busy. Men and a few women crawled in and out of canvas tents; others sat or stood under trees in groups, talking and smoking and cleaning their guns. All seemed to be dressed in black, some wearing headbands and some wearing masks.
— Keep walking.
We went deeper into the camp, away from the river, and as we went the trees grew denser, our path grew narrower and I kept looking around trying to spot Isabel, or Gloria. We passed a group standing before an open fire, and when the smell of the meat they were roasting reached me my legs almost buckled. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. We passed another group standing in a circle, singing in loud, discordant voices, and when I recognized the song as one from my long-ago Sunday school, I did so with shock. A tall man with gray hair stood in the center of the circle, frenziedly waving a Bible in the air, his eyes closed, leading the song. Our escorts finally led us to another group sitting under a leafless tree standing by itself in a large circular clearing. There were already about half a dozen men sitting under the tree, and they all looked abject and forlorn. At the edge of the clearing I saw two militants sitting on boulders, guns lying in the grass beside them.
— Sit here.
I was glad to sit, for my legs could barely support me. When I regained my breath I turned to the men around me, and they all stared back at me. Prisoners, like me. I wondered if they were being held for ransom, or if they had simply fallen foul of the Professor and were being kept here in the open as punishment. As I turned away from their faces I noticed a footpath leading away into a densely wooded area, and now I could hear voices coming from that direction. I wondered if it was an extension of the camp, and if there were more prisoners being held there. We sat for hours, we watched the shadows under the trees shift and grow longer and longer and still no one came to talk to us. We watched the camp going about its regular business. Every once in a while a militant would step forward and release a shot into the air, almost casually, and his friends would cheer him briefly before resuming whatever they were doing. Salomon still sat away from me, his head bowed. At last I stood up and faced the guards, and one immediately stepped toward me, his gun raised.
— I need to stretch my legs. I have cramps.
I went over and stood next to him.
— My name is Rufus. I’m a reporter. It’s very important that I speak to the Professor — I have an urgent message for him.
He looked at me, and I could see he was trying to decide whether I was joking or not. He was young, about twenty, he had cross-eyes and I couldn’t tell if he was staring unblinkingly at me or at something else, but his gun was without doubt pointed at my gut. He didn’t look threatening, and he even smiled at me when I asked him his name.
— Joseph. People call me Joe. Which paper you work for?
— The Reporter.
— So you be reporter and you work for Reporter.
— Yes, funny.
He nodded, smiling widely.
— I really have to see the Professor.
— No worry, you go see am. He dey busy right now.
Joseph continued to stare over my shoulder and to point the gun at me. When I got tired of standing I sat down again. One of the men dragged himself over, carefully reclining on one elbow, and, as I turned away from him, he tapped me on the shoulder. I was surprised by the sudden show of interest.
— Are you really a journalist?
— Yes.
I raised my head to see a line of about ten men emerging from the path — they were talking excitedly, and all carried sacks over their shoulders.
— They are getting ready for something big.