trying hard not to snigger.
—Well, sir, there is also the effect on the international price of oil.
—Aren’t you afraid of the danger? You could get killed.
—I see it as a great opportunity to show what I can do, sir.
I didn’t tell them that, though I wasn’t sure exactly what to look for, I was confident that with Zaq there everything would work out fine. He’d be my guide, my teacher. Once, when he was drunk and helpless, I had looked after him; now it was his turn to look after me. Fate, it seemed, had brought us together.
5
T he Major sat on a field stool, the type made by unfolding the top of a swagger stick, his rifle on the muddy ground by his foot, talking into a radio. Seven men knelt facing him under the trees in the central clearing, their hands tied behind them, all wearing the same abject expression on their faces. They looked dirty, their skin was flaky and reptilian, chalk-white, as if they had been dragged through an acreage of ash. Behind the seven, but not very far away from them, were Tamuno and Michael, squatting on their haunches, looking perplexed and anxious.
The Major stood up and pointed at the kneeling men with his swagger stick, shaking his head to show his disappointment in them. He hadn’t looked in my direction yet. The boy started crying and held his father tight when the Major went over to them and stared down at them for a long time without saying a word. Then he came over to me.
—So, you are the journalist. Where’s the other one?
He turned to his men when he asked the question, not waiting for my answer. Two of them stood behind me, their guns vaguely pointed at me. A soldier had found me in the Doctor’s shed in a chair next to Zaq’s narrow cot, my eyes closed, my ears waiting for the slightest sound from Zaq. He had kicked me in the shin to wake me up, and even in the gloom of the shed I could see his glare.
—You, come! Both of you. Now. The Major wan see you. Now. Oya.
I stood up and almost fell down again. I wasn’t aware of how tired and disoriented I was. I swayed like a height-drunk alpinist, halfway through his climb, unsure if he was ever going to get to the top, and not really sure if he cared anymore.
—He can’t come. He’s sick.
—Well, you come.
The Doctor was seated behind his desk, writing on a piece of paper. He didn’t look up as the man led me out into the dying day. Now I watched the Major walk up and down in front of us, his tall legs stretching out fully beneath his oddly foreshortened torso, as if measuring the ground, and finally he stopped in front of me and looked me full in the face.
—Do you know what danger you run, two journalists, an old fisherman and his son, running about in these waters? How old is the boy?
The boy, seeing the Major staring at him and now walking toward him, took his father’s arm again, burying his face in the old man’s shoulder. The old man looked up at the Major, a rictuslike smile on his face.
—Sorry, sir, no be him fault. Na small pikin, sir.
The old man bowed down his head when he had finished speaking, ready to take on himself whatever blow was meant for his son. For a moment the soldier looked as if he would reach out and drag the boy out of his father’s arms and force him to answer the question, but then he turned away from the two and faced his men.
—Put them with the others!
The soldiers grabbed the old man and his son and led them to the seven kneeling men. I noticed how puffy and sleep-deprived the eyes of the seven men looked. I stepped forward to protest to the Major but a hand on my wrist pulled me back. I shook off the hand, thinking it was one of the soldiers, but it wasn’t. It was the Doctor.
—Wait. This is not a good time to talk to him.
The Doctor looked tired. We watched as the Major berated the men in a loud, but surprisingly passionless, voice.
—You call yourselves freedom fighters? To me you are just crooks and I will keep hunting you down and shooting
—Well, sir, there is also the effect on the international price of oil.
—Aren’t you afraid of the danger? You could get killed.
—I see it as a great opportunity to show what I can do, sir.
I didn’t tell them that, though I wasn’t sure exactly what to look for, I was confident that with Zaq there everything would work out fine. He’d be my guide, my teacher. Once, when he was drunk and helpless, I had looked after him; now it was his turn to look after me. Fate, it seemed, had brought us together.
5
T he Major sat on a field stool, the type made by unfolding the top of a swagger stick, his rifle on the muddy ground by his foot, talking into a radio. Seven men knelt facing him under the trees in the central clearing, their hands tied behind them, all wearing the same abject expression on their faces. They looked dirty, their skin was flaky and reptilian, chalk-white, as if they had been dragged through an acreage of ash. Behind the seven, but not very far away from them, were Tamuno and Michael, squatting on their haunches, looking perplexed and anxious.
The Major stood up and pointed at the kneeling men with his swagger stick, shaking his head to show his disappointment in them. He hadn’t looked in my direction yet. The boy started crying and held his father tight when the Major went over to them and stared down at them for a long time without saying a word. Then he came over to me.
—So, you are the journalist. Where’s the other one?
He turned to his men when he asked the question, not waiting for my answer. Two of them stood behind me, their guns vaguely pointed at me. A soldier had found me in the Doctor’s shed in a chair next to Zaq’s narrow cot, my eyes closed, my ears waiting for the slightest sound from Zaq. He had kicked me in the shin to wake me up, and even in the gloom of the shed I could see his glare.
—You, come! Both of you. Now. The Major wan see you. Now. Oya.
I stood up and almost fell down again. I wasn’t aware of how tired and disoriented I was. I swayed like a height-drunk alpinist, halfway through his climb, unsure if he was ever going to get to the top, and not really sure if he cared anymore.
—He can’t come. He’s sick.
—Well, you come.
The Doctor was seated behind his desk, writing on a piece of paper. He didn’t look up as the man led me out into the dying day. Now I watched the Major walk up and down in front of us, his tall legs stretching out fully beneath his oddly foreshortened torso, as if measuring the ground, and finally he stopped in front of me and looked me full in the face.
—Do you know what danger you run, two journalists, an old fisherman and his son, running about in these waters? How old is the boy?
The boy, seeing the Major staring at him and now walking toward him, took his father’s arm again, burying his face in the old man’s shoulder. The old man looked up at the Major, a rictuslike smile on his face.
—Sorry, sir, no be him fault. Na small pikin, sir.
The old man bowed down his head when he had finished speaking, ready to take on himself whatever blow was meant for his son. For a moment the soldier looked as if he would reach out and drag the boy out of his father’s arms and force him to answer the question, but then he turned away from the two and faced his men.
—Put them with the others!
The soldiers grabbed the old man and his son and led them to the seven kneeling men. I noticed how puffy and sleep-deprived the eyes of the seven men looked. I stepped forward to protest to the Major but a hand on my wrist pulled me back. I shook off the hand, thinking it was one of the soldiers, but it wasn’t. It was the Doctor.
—Wait. This is not a good time to talk to him.
The Doctor looked tired. We watched as the Major berated the men in a loud, but surprisingly passionless, voice.
—You call yourselves freedom fighters? To me you are just crooks and I will keep hunting you down and shooting
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