Read Online Oil on Water by Helon Habila - Free Book Online Page A

you like mad dogs. This country is tired of people like you. Sergeant, bring the watering can!
    The Sergeant was standing with five other soldiers under a tree, close to the kneeling men, and at the Major’s order he picked up a rusty iron watering can from the ground and took it to the Major. I sensed a hush descend on the men. The soldiers seemed to have forgotten to raise their guns and point them threateningly at the kneeling men. The Doctor shifted on his foot and I heard his sharp intake of breath as the Major raised the can and started to pour the water on the head of the man on the outer right. Then the unmistakable acrid smell reached me.
    —Is he pouring petrol on them?
    The Doctor nodded. I pulled away from him and in a few steps I was standing beside the Major, and when he turned and glared at me my courage faltered and for a moment all I could do was shake my head and point at the boy and the old man.
    —Major. We are really sorry if we broke the law by coming into these waters. But we were invited by the kidnappers . . . and this man and this boy, they work for us. They’re innocent. Let them go. Please. We just want to find the kidnapped woman and to interview the militants, that’s all.
    The Major turned and stared at me for a while before speaking, and then with each word he poked a finger into my chest.
    —Listen, here I decide who is a criminal and who is not. I say who is a good egg and who is bad. Don’t dare to tell me what my job is. Remember, you could easily be there on your knees with them. You are still not free of suspicion. Don’t forget that.
    He turned away, stretched out his hand and commenced dripping oil on the bowed heads. I returned to the Doctor, shaken. I turned away so as not to watch the shock and pain and frustration on the bowed faces as the precious, corrosive liquid touched their skins. The Doctor also looked away toward the water, lost in some detail of the ruined, decomposing landscape. But I couldn’t turn my face away for long. I was a journalist: my job was to observe, and to write about it later. To be a witness for posterity. I witnessed the stoic and anticipatory posture of the kneeling men. I witnessed the brutal anointing in silence, smelled the reek of petrol hanging in the air, pungent, and I wondered how the men could stand it. Already I felt sick and dizzy from the fumes. I had never liked the smell—it brought up memories in me, memories I would rather have kept down.
    —This isn’t the first time this has happened, is it?
    —No. It’s not.
    The Doctor sounded agitated, but his eyes remained fixed on the Major, who was moving up the line, systematically dousing the bowed, cringing heads.
    —Look at the soldiers, look at their eyes, all feverish with excitement and expectation.
    —Expectation of what?
    —Of the day when the Major will strike a match and throw it at the bowed, petrol-soaked heads. One day it will happen—see how the Major’s hands shake with the temptation.
    The Major’s loud mocking voice cut the air.
    —What, you can’t stand the smell of oil? Isn’t it what you fight for, kill for? Go on, enjoy. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll hate the smell of it, you won’t take money that comes from oil, you won’t get in a car because it runs on petrol. You’ll hate the very name petrol.
    —They say he became like this after his daughter was raped. She was only eighteen. A student at the university. She was the brightest in her class, she was studying to become a doctor . . .
    —You want resource control? Well, control this. How does it feel? This will teach you to kidnap innocent children. This will teach you to terrorize innocent villages.
    —One day she’s walking to the hostel from the library, it’s late at night, she has an exam the next day and she’s been reading and doesn’t know it’s so late. Then a car pulls up beside her and she’s offered a lift. She recognizes one of the faces, a classmate. She gets