— But where, how? I live in a single room. At the end of the month I’m hardly able to pay my rent. Of course, he could stay with Beke, my editor. But the man is a mean bastard and will only treat him as a servant. Don’t you have any family?
— I have a sister, but she—
— Can’t she take him?
— Well. . it’s complicated. No. . she can’t. .
— Well, then, clearly we can’t take the boy.
I looked over at father and son. They were staring intently at us, but both immediately dropped their gazes as I turned to them. The father held the boy’s hand in his, patting him gently on the shoulder with the other hand.
— We’ve heard your request. And you’re right, your boy is a clever boy with a bright future. However, we’ll discuss it some more and let you know what we decide before all this is over.
The disappointment on the man’s face was unsightly. Zaq put a hand on his shoulder.
— We’re not saying no, you understand.
— What Zaq is saying is that this is so sudden. .
The boy began to cry. Zaq looked from the boy to me to the old man.
— Look. Okay. We’ll take him. I will take him. I’ll find a way.
— But. . are you sure. .?
— No, I’m not. But I will take him. I’ll find a place for him somehow. And he could be an office boy at the Star. Now, you, stop crying. Let’s go.
At the father’s urging the boy ran to Zaq and wrapped his arms around the veteran journalist’s thick midsection.
— Thank you, sah.
Zaq, embarrassed, pushed him away gently.
I OFTEN THINK BACK to our first night in Chief Ibiram’s front room. It was too early to sleep, and the Chief and his brother had withdrawn to one side, speaking softly, listening to the radio. And the Chief had hesitated a long time when Zaq asked him, Are you happy here? But finally he lowered the radio volume and cleared his voice. He whispered briefly to his brother and then he turned to us.
Once upon a time they lived in paradise. It was a small village close to Yellow Island. They lacked for nothing, fishing and hunting and farming and watching their children growing up before them, happy. The village was close-knit, made up of cousins and uncles and aunts and brothers and sisters, and, though they were happily insulated from the rest of the world by their creeks and rivers and forests, they were not totally unaware of the changes going on all around them: the gas flares that lit up neighboring villages all day and all night, and the cars and TVs and video players in the front rooms of their neighbors who had allowed the flares to be set up. Some of the neighbors were even bragging that the oil companies had offered to send their kids to Europe and America to become engineers, so that one day they could return and work as oil executives in Port Harcourt. For the first time the close, unified community was divided — for how could they not be tempted, with the flare in the next village burning over them every night, its flame long and coiled like a snake, whispering, winking, hissing? Already the oil-company men had started visiting, accompanied by important politicians from Port Harcourt, holding long conferences with Chief Malabo, the head chief, who was also Chief Ibiram’s uncle.
One day, early in the morning, Chief Malabo called the whole village to a meeting. Of course, he had heard the murmurs from the young people, and the suspicious whispers from the old people, all wondering what it was he had been discussing with the oilmen and the politicians. Well, they had made an offer, they had offered to buy the whole village, and with the money — and yes, there was a lot of money, more money than any of them had ever imagined — and with the money they could relocate elsewhere and live a rich life. But Chief Malabo had said no, on behalf of the whole village he had said no. This was their ancestral land, this was where their fathers and their fathers’ fathers were buried. They’d been born here, they’d grown up here, they were happy here, and though they may not be rich, the land had been good to them, they never lacked for anything. What kind of custodians of the land would they be if they sold it off? And just look at the other villages that had taken the oil money: already the cars had broken down, and the cheap televisions and DVD players were all gone, and where was the rest of the money? Thrown away in Port Harcourt barrooms, or on second wives and funeral parties, and now they were worse off than before. Their rivers were already polluted and useless for fishing, and the land grew only gas flares and pipelines. But the snake, the snake in the garden wouldn’t rest, it kept on hissing and the apple only grew larger and more alluring each day. And already far off in the surrounding waters the oil-company boats were patrolling, sometimes openly sending their men to the village to take samples of soil and water. The village decided to keep them away by sending out their own patrols over the surrounding rivers, in canoes, all armed with bows and arrows and clubs and a few guns. But daily Chief Malabo was feeling the pressure. As a chief he had no control over the families’ decision about what to do with their land, but as a chief his word carried weight, especially among the elders. But what of the young men who were still grumbling, and looking enviously across the water at the other villages? The canoe patrol was something of a desperate measure, and this soon became very clear. It turned out to be the excuse the oil companies and the politicians who worked for them needed to make their next move. One day the patrol came upon two oil workers piling soil samples into a speedboat. There was a brief skirmish, nothing too serious — one of the oil workers escaped with a swollen jaw, the other with a broken arm — but the next day the soldiers came. Chief Malabo was arrested, his hands tied behind his back as if he were a petty criminal, on charges of supporting the militants and plotting against the federal government and threatening to kidnap foreign oil workers. The list was long — but, the lawyer said, if the elders would consent to the oil company’s demands, sell the land. . A politician, who introduced himself as their senator, came all the way from Abuja and assured them that their situation was receiving national attention, it was in the papers, and he was going to fight for them to see that their chief was returned safe and sound. With him were two white men, oil executives. The villagers chased them away. Others came, but they were all liars, all working for the oil companies, trying one way or another to break the villagers’ resolve. But the villagers remained firm. Chief Malabo, whenever they went to see him, told them not to give in, not to worry about him — but they could see how he was deteriorating every day. And then they went to see him one day and were told he was dead.
Here Chief Ibiram paused in his story, his voice breaking. They were given his body, which was wrapped in a raffia mat and a white cloth, and told to take him away. Just like that. The following week, even before Chief Malabo had been buried, the oil companies moved in. They came with a whole army, waving guns and looking like they meant business. They had a contract, they said, Chief Malabo had signed it in prison before he died, selling them all of his family land, and that was where they’d start drilling, and whoever wanted to join him and sell his land would be paid handsomely, but the longer the people held out, the more the value of their land would fall.
Zaq shifted. — So what happened?
— They sold. One by one. The rigs went up, and the gas flares, and the workers came and set up camp in our midst, we saw our village change, right before our eyes. And that was why we decided to leave, ten families. We didn’t take their money. The money would be our curse on them, for taking our land, and for killing our chief. We left, we headed northwards, we’ve lived in five different places now, but always we’ve had to move. We are looking for a place where we can live in peace. But it is hard. So your question, are we happy here? I say how can we be happy when we are mere wanderers without a home?