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Silent Whispers
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Silent Whispers
Silent Whispers
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Silent Whispers
Silent Whispers First Published 2015 by Lantern Books a division of Literamed Publications (Nig.) Limited Lagos. Ibadan. Owerri. Kaduna. Benin-City. Abuja. © Joe Osi ISBN: 978-978-100-653-1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher and the author. Written by: Joe Osi Printed, designed and bound by Literamed Publications (Nig.) Limited No 1, Plot 45, Morrison Crescent, Alausa Bus-Stop Oregun Road, P. M. B. 21068, Ikeja, Lagos, Nigeria. Tel: +234(0)1-790 1129, +234(0)1-790 1130 Email: [email protected] Website: www.lantern-books.com
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Literamed Publications (Ghana) Limited Plot 2, 7th Street, South Odorkor Estate, Sakaman (Opposite Enso Nyame Ye Spot) P. O. Box DS 583, Dansoman, Accra, Ghana. Tel: +233-302-300412
Silent Whispers
Dedication My children, Ikenna, Ogechi and Chinenye Who said, “Daddy, continue.”
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To my wife, Adaku, for her love;“This year again, the same sickness came and my third daughter has just died. She was only 10 years old. Her brother has also fallen ill and is lying in that place there.” - Hajia Hussaini Sunday Punch, March 8, 2009
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ELFINATU At dawn every day We see the wide bay Emerge from the morning mist Where two great rivers meet From Lokoja to the sea. Half way across the river Upon a sandbar sits Ekitiva An Isle so peaceful, so blissful Where fishermen berth and bathe. When the day is over And fishermen rest their oars Darkness and gloom take over. 6
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In the eerie silence of the dark We hear the dogs bark At tongues of flame Dancing to the refrain: ‘Where are you, Elfinatu? Who are you, will-o’-the-wisp? Your silent whispers over the waters Fill my heart with jitters.’
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- Henry Fletcher
Silent Whispers
Chapter One
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hat Friday afternoon in May, a ten-year old boy was walking down a narrow, crooked road in Lokoja, looking for where two rivers met. The object of his quest was neither the meeting point of Niger and Benue Rivers nor the brown pebbles that adorned the narrow confluence beach. He was going to unravel a mystery, and he was so excited about his mission that he could hardly wait to lay to rest what had haunted the city for so long. The answer to the mystery was in his bag. Before him, the narrow road meandered around mud houses that dotted both sides of it. High up behind him, the late afternoon sun, partially hidden by clouds, cast faint shadows and emitted heat on the sprawling Confluence City.
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By this time of the year not even the gentle breeze from the River Niger and its tributary, the Benue, could lower the temperature. The effect was enervating. Undaunted by the vagaries of nature, the boy strode on down the road. Here and there, he passed by people who sat in small groups under dogonyaro trees, idling away or selling their wares, and praying silently for the rains to come. There were already signs that their prayers would soon be answered. Just the other day, the waters of River Benue came down in a sudden flood, swelling up the banks of the Niger and transporting the first bunches of water hyacinth. This was a good sign for those who were only concerned about the stifling weather, but a bad omen for others who knew that these first floods that came before the rains usually left in their wake some disastrous consequences. Oblivious of the signs and what they portended, the boy walked on, totally absorbed in his own thoughts and the task ahead. From his appearance, it was obvious that he 9
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was not part of the usual traffic on this road. His dressing - a cream-coloured shirt, neatly tucked into a blue-checked short, and a pair of solid black shoes adorning his feet, plus a beautiful school bag slung over his shoulders - told anybody who noticed that this boy came from one of the elite private schools in the city, and that for no reason should he be heading towards the river after school. He should be going up-town, to the G.R.A., where the rich lived. But nobody noticed. How could anyone know that a little school boy had an appointment with Sefinatu, the dreaded child of Annjenu, the goddess of Rivers Niger and Benue? If they knew, many eyebrows would have been raised, and the already existing fear and disquiet over the river goddess would have been heightened. No one looked at him twice. Everybody was busy with their own thoughts and worries, down the road and up the road, wiping sweat off their faces with the back of their hands. On both sides of the road, virtually under every 10
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tree, there was some kind of open shop or local pub. Totally preoccupied with the mission at hand, the boy hardly noticed some men and women who sat on wooden benches eating suya or drinking brukutu; a local beer made from millet, nor was he aware of others who just sat listlessly passing time and grabbing occasional free drinks from those who could afford to be generous that day. All around, the foul odour of sour urine mingled with alcohol and marijuana filled the air. There was never-ending traffic, from sun-up to sundown. Now and then, a policeman or two strolled down and sat on the bench with the people, cap on their knees, to have a swig or a puff. This was the only road to Waterside, a bustling fishing ghetto market on the bank of the River Niger, where fish could be bought at a low price, and where the law let sleeping dogs lie. The boy neither saw nor perceived any of these. He was in a dream, possessed by a singular object, and only determined to get to the end of this road, and then free his mind from that which had kept 11
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him awake many nights. The image of Sefinatu still loomed large in his mind’s eye: a form with a flickering light looking for someone to cast her spells upon. His heartbeat quickened, but he quickly reassured himself that after that day Sefinatu would be no more. She would be sent back to her rightful abode – the world of fairy tales. He tapped the side of his school bag and felt the bulge of a small red book that contained the magic words – his secret weapon. Thus reassured, he broke into a run down the slope.
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Chapter Two
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n his way home after the day’s fishing in the River Niger, Jamiu Garba stood up in his canoe and squinted at the sky. Streaks of orange, yellow and red stared back at him from the western horizon. From the north-east, dark clouds were moving, chasing one another, towards the setting sun. Overhead, a flock of cattle egrets sailed gracefully, also heading west. Soon, he knew, the day would be over and darkness would envelope the land. Right from childhood, he had seen these signs in various forms and hues. This time of the year, the pattern was almost always the same - a brilliant sunset and then a sudden darkness, often followed by rainfall, and many times taking fishermen unawares. His father, Chief Idris Garba, had told
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him that at the close of each day the sun went behind the clouds to meet his mistress, the moon, and other heavenly spirits. “Look up there,” Chief Idris would say, pointing to the sky, “what you see is not just smoke from our wood fire. It is the abode of great spirits where the sun is king. At night, they all gather and decide what the next day will be. These floating grasses,” he often said pointing at the water hyacinth, “are some of the things they have decided to send down this season.” Late Chief Idris never ceased talking about nature. In his naive mind, young Jamiu had thought it was one of those funny fairy tales his old man used to recount. For how could the sun have a mistress? But over the years, he had seen so many signs and wonders in the course of his fishing to believe that there were more to those stories than anyone could completely grasp. For instance, he now knew that the heavens to which the sun was about to recede was not the 14
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only place where spirits resided; the river too was a mighty kingdom ruled by Mammy Water, the great Annjenu and her host of Yaruwa. Not only that, but that these mystery plants floating down the river this season every year must be some kind of message from the goddess. And the flickering lights over Ekitiva, the island in the River Niger? He stopped himself before he could get the creeps. “One should not ask questions about some of these things, for there are mysteries and wonders surrounding the earth,” he counselled himself silently. Behind him, at the tail of the canoe, sat his fourteen-year old son, Abba, who was paddling determinedly to prove his mettle. And in between them were two baskets filled with the day’s catch - fish, crabs, shrimps and assorted shell-creatures. Jamiu enjoyed it this way, to stand against the setting sun and let the evening breeze lap on his face while his son paddled their canoe. It was a nice way to relax after a hectic day. It also assured 15
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him that his son was coming of age and catching up with the trade. He watched with satisfaction his son’s developing muscles ripple, as he worked the paddle. ‘My only son, may the gods favour him,’ he sighed inwardly. However, in spite of his contentment, he could not come to terms with the bone-weary tiredness he felt after work these days. It hadn’t been like this, until lately. He had been a strong and physically active man all his life. But of late, he noticed that he found it difficult to wake up for early morning fishing, and that he could hardly stand up for more than one hour casting the net, without sitting down to take a breath. Recently, he even caught himself dozing while his canoe drifted. ‘Am I getting old?’ he wondered. He raised his arms up to look at his muscles. He would have been an averagely built man, but the physical strain of paddling the canoe over the years had left its marks; what might have been soft and supple skin was now 16
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tough leather stretched taut over the bones. The other day, while indulging in the luxury of shaving, which he rarely had time to do, he had noticed some lines on his face which were not there before, and also strands of grey hair on his temple. ‘No, age has nothing to do with my looks,’ he had shrugged; ‘it is just my nature. Didn’t my father say that early greying is in the family blood?’ His father had told him that he was born the year the sun had a fight with his mistress, the moon, and the latter angrily came out in midday and blocked the sun, throwing the whole land into darkness. That was about fifty-eight years ago. Even at that age, Jamiu did not consider himself an old man. Why, he could still marry a third wife. His mates were still getting more wives, and, in fact he almost did that last harvesting season except that he was cautious, if not afraid. His first wife, Fatima, had six females - two sets of twins and two single births that followed in quick succession. In a land where only men had the 17
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right to inherit the family estate and continue the family lineage, this was a situation to worry about. It was the search for a male child that had led him to marry a second wife. But even after that, it was not until after five years and three daughters from the second wife that, Fatima, his first wife, bore Abba, the only male child so far in his family. Though he had consoled himself with the blessing of, at least, a son, he could not dismiss the feeling that having only one son was like holding a fish by the tail - it could slip through the fingers and be gone. So the urge to marry again had been strongly restrained only by the fear of having more females. Now, this sudden tiredness had added a new dimension to his worries. ‘If I am not old, why am I so tired after work?’ There was a second possibility that had caused him serious disquiet: was Sefinatu after him? Everyone knew that the jealous child of Annjenu, the river goddess could strike without warning, and many times, without any discernible reason. Of late, 18
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he had been feeling restless, keeping awake most of the night and reacting to every little sound. But why would Sefinatu attack him? His father told him that he performed all the necessary rites to the goddess, Annjenu, when he was born, including the covenant with Sefinatu. When he was seven days old, he was told, his father had taken him to the bank of the Niger where a priestess of Annjenu immersed him in the river seven times - a baptism to ensure his safety in the hands of Yaruwa come high tide or low waters. As long as he could remember, he had offered his sacrifices as his father taught him and separated real fish in his catch from Yaruwa, which were at times accidentally caught by the net. He had never fallen into the temptation of taking what belonged to the river goddess. What then was the cause of this lethargy? ‘Is my father beckoning me from the great beyond? Why should he do that now that I still have a lot of family responsibilities to carry on? 19
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Good old Chief Idris, the amiable loving father, who protected his family as a hen protects her brood. No, he wouldn’t do that.’ He remembered his youth, when he was about the same age as Abba. On their way home after work one evening, his father was standing up on the canoe gazing at the setting sun, and suddenly he turned and handed over his big paddle to him. “Jamiu,” he had said, “you’re a man now. You should know how to do these things.” Thinking it was some kind of challenge, the boy had accepted the big paddle with joy. Then he began to struggle with the currents to keep the canoe on course. Several times the canoe rocked dangerously from left to right, but his father just stood there, gazing ahead at the setting sun. When he finally turned to look at Jamiu, he kept on smiling without making any attempt to help him. Jamiu was scared, confused, and was about to cry out for help when he noticed a faraway look in his father’s eyes. He stopped short, and the canoe almost capsized at the 20
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sudden loss of control, before he managed to steady it. It was then that his father sat down, his eyes glistening with a strange light. The boy opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when he noticed that his father was still smiling and mumbling something to someone that was not there. When they got home later that evening, his father complained of fever, headache and a burning sensation along his spine. The following day he said he needed to rest. Three days later he died. When the native doctor who consulted the oracles said that the daughter of the river goddess had cast a spell on him, Jamiu remembered the sudden change in his father’s countenance three days ago. Sefinatu had struck! Now, filled with foreboding, Jamiu sat down and picked up his paddle. “This life,” he muttered to himself. “No, Papa,” Abba protested, “I can paddle the canoe alone. You can just sit down and relax.” “I know you can, my son,” he said without looking at him, “but I want us to move faster. Night 21
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is approaching fast.” “But Papa, we have enough time.” “Don’t look at the bright sunset. It’s deceptive.” “Papa, you need to rest. I can…” “Sssh! Young man, your father is talking,” he interrupted as he dipped his paddle into the water. Surprised, the boy kept quiet. He would not argue or ask any more questions, because that would mean that he was stubborn and disobedient. But he had to admit to himself that he had never seen his father in this kind of mood before. The man used to chat with him merrily after the day’s fishing trip. He would tell him the names and medicinal values of virtually every plant on the river bank. From him, Abba learnt that not every fish was actually fish; some wereYaruwa, children of the river goddess, Annjenu, and they must be returned to the river when accidentally caught in the net or hook. His father taught him how to know one from the other. And today he was not talking. ‘Well, maybe Papa is just tired,’ he shrugged in resignation. 22
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Chapter Three
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he school boy was soon out of breath. Hunger and the rough terrain had combined to take the wind out of him. As he trudged down the rocky slope, he remembered that his mother had warned him never to go near this place. She had told him about children disappearing at Waterside without a trace. Now the absence of other school children seemed to confirm his mother’s fears. So far, all he had seen were men and women carrying empty baskets down the slope or heavy basket-loads of fish up the slope. As he stepped out of their way, he turned to look over his shoulder. None looked like a spirit, though he had not asked himself what a spirit looked like.
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At any other time and for any other reason, he would have turned back, but the fear of not getting to the root of the puzzle was stronger than the puzzle itself. It would haunt him for ever. Once again, he patted his school bag and felt a surge of strength from the magic words inside the bag. Further down the slope, he came upon a spot where the road dropped sharply in a steep incline, giving a commanding view of the Waterside settlement by the river. He stopped and looked from left to right. Rust corrugated metal sheets, the roofs over Waterside shanty town, greeted him with mockery. He had never seen a place like this before, nor had he ever imagined that such a place existed in the city he loved so much; a city, according to his English Literature teacher, so beautiful that two rivers chose to wed on its shores. In every direction, smoke rose from the crevices of tin roofs, carrying with it strong smells of smoking fish. Nothing else was visible or perceptible. It was gloom all around him. So he sat down on a stone, suddenly exhausted and undecided. 24
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For the first time, he asked himself a very important question: ‘Will I know Sefinatu if I see her? And if I did, what would I do?’ Of course no one expects a ten-year old boy to fully understand an entrenched belief that had existed for many generations past. However, curiosity has led man to great discoveries; it has also led to disasters. And when you are young, your mind tends to go like a one-way traffic. You hardly consider options. He had heard so much about Sefinatu to excite his imagination and elicit some fear. The story had been told and retold ever so often that it had become a metaphor among the natives and settlers in Lokoja. If a young girl of marriageable age had not gotten a suitor, it could be interpreted that Sefinatu had cast a spell on her. And if a promising young man met with a misfortune or death, Sefinatu would be blamed. He had believed this and other related stories to be historical truth. He had sat with rapt attention listening whenever they were recounted. Many 25
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times he had jumped up from his bed at night, shouting, after some of the nightmares that followed. He still had those nightmares now and then, but as the years went by, his curiosity began to give way to doubt. From the age of five, he had begun to reason that Sefinatu was a fairy tale, and as such, was a mere fabrication. He had listened to many stories about tortoise, other animals, spirits and boogeymen, but when he saw the animals in the zoo, and called them by their names, none spoke to him. Even his dog at home, which was always in his company, never spoke for once. She only barked or whined. So, what the heck! If the animals he could see and touch could not speak to him, how could spirits, that no one had ever seen? That had been his conclusion until recently when he read a poem titled Elfinatu. Since then the nightmares had come back. There was some kind of vivid reality about the poem that rekindled his curiosity. ‘Elfinatu sounds like another name for 26
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Sefinatu. And the story is the same. A goddess with a flickering light on an island in the Niger, casting spells on children. If Henry Fletcher, the author, could capture the scene so well,’ he reasoned, ‘then, it could mean that he also believed in Sefinatu.’ He was going to see for himself what Fletcher saw, and what others might have seen. The answer lay on a small island halfway off the bank of River Niger within the confluence bay. It was almost four o’clock now. Hunger had begun to gnaw at his stomach. He began to think about delicious noodles garnished with chicken and tomato sauce which Mummy must have kept for him in a food flask on the dining table. And just then, not far from where he stood, something rustled some dried leaves. He turned almost in panic, and there on a boulder, about three metres away, a red-head lizard sat nodding at him, a welcome or an objection. Then, in a blur of motion, a big, long, black snake slithered into view and seized the lizard. There came a hissing and a muffled agonized cry, as both of them twisted and rolled behind the boulder. 27
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He was on his feet and running before he realised that he was still heading down the slope to Waterside. On and on, he bumped along until he came to the waterfront. What he saw made him stop abruptly.
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F
Chapter Four
or the rest of the journey, Jamiu Garba and his son, Abba paddled on in silence. The boy working extra hard to prove to his father that he could do it alone, and his father occupied with his own thoughts. Jamiu was not the first son, but he was his father’s favourite in the line of eighteen children from four wives. While most of his brothers had followed the advice of their mothers, Jamiu had followed the path set by his father. Chief Idris’s eldest son, Omale, left home at an early age when his mother alleged that the other wives were trying to poison him. He never came back. The second son, Simon, left with a white missionary some twentyfive years ago, and now people said he was a school
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teacher and catechist somewhere in Kafanchan. The third son, Abdul, returned home recently in police uniform, flaunting a pistol and swaggering with braggadocio, but with nothing else to show. Jamiu was the fourth in the line of male children. He had been with his father right from the age of eight, assisting him in washing and mending the net, paddling the canoe and baiting the fishing hooks. His father had found a wife for him at the age of twenty-two, after waiting in vain for his older brothers to marry. It was not surprising that it was to Jamiu that Chief Idris Garba conveyed his last wish. “Bury me by the river side,” he had said in a faint voice that night, “so that I can join my ancestors. Never forget to cleanse the land before Ekuechi festival and to offer sacrifices to your dead relatives. Don’t let them starve so that they can intercede for you in the spirit world. This great river is ruled by Annjenu, the great goddess and her Yaruwa. We live from the abundance they produce. We drink from it, we eat from it, and when we die, we live in it. Pass on this message to your children, and tell them to pass it on to their children.” 30
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It seemed like a hundred years ago! Now brooding, Jamiu knew it was his turn to pass on the message. ‘Maybe I’m old after all. How many seasons have I seen and how many annual festivals have I witnessed? No one lives forever except the gods. Yes, Jamiu Garba may be old, but he is not going to die now. No, it is not time.’ “No! No!” he shouted, the word escaping from his mouth before he could stop it. “What, Papa?” Abba queried, startled by his father’s sudden cry. “Nothing, my son, nothing,” Jamiu answered casually, unable to control the quiver in his voice. “But you said something.” “Yes, I was just thinking aloud.” “You scared me.” “Sorry if I did. It’s just that...” he trailed off. “Papa, you want to tell me something?” the boy asked in a quiet serious tone. “Well, yes, my son,” he turned to look at Abba. “There is actually a lot you need to know, but you 31
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cannot know everything in one day. I’m happy that you accompany me everyday, just as I accompanied your grandfather. That was how I got to know all that I know.” He looked at the sky once more. The bright patches of colours on the western horizon had shrunk to tiny streaks. Overhead, late flocks of white cattle egrets were sailing past at great speed, cawing, as though they wanted to make the heaven’s gate before the sun closed its door. And down the river, far out in front of him, he could make out the tiny forms of other fishermen, everyone on their way home. He took in all these in a minute, and suddenly he lost interest in the world around him. He lifted his paddle from the water and placed it across his laps. His head was aching, and the soothing evening breeze had suddenly become cold. Beneath his skin, his blood was on fire and itching. He knew he was sick, and needed to get home, fast. He was sure that Mama Abba, may the gods bless her, would know what to do, if it was ordinary fever. She came from a family of great herbalists, and she never lacked herbal remedies in her hut. Turning to his son, he 32
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managed to smile, a weak smile, without betraying the discomfort he was undergoing. “Maybe you’re right, Abba. I need to rest. It’s been a long day, so it doesn’t matter if we get home a bit late.” “I told you, Papa. Have some rest, I can handle the canoe.” “Yes, I agree. Now as I was saying, we are the people of the river,” he resumed, “the gods gave us this river as our inheritance from creation. It provides all our needs. We drink from it, eat from it, and when we die, we are buried by its banks so that we can join our ancestors and continue as a community in the river.” He paused as the water started swirling in circles before his eyes. He shook his head several times to stop the dizziness. “All those people you see in the market, buying and selling, do you think they are all human beings? No! Make no mistake about it; some are Yaruwa, children of the river goddess. Ancient teachings 33
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have made us know that if you bend down in the market and look backwards in between your legs, you will see that their soles don’t touch the ground. But you must never do that, for those who dared didn’t live to tell what they saw. The strangers in our midst will never understand, but that’s why they are strangers.” He lifted his hand to his face to wipe off cold sweat. By now he had begun to shiver slightly as every breath of the evening breeze added to his discomfort. But he did not want his son to know. “This water we fish in everyday is not just the home of fishes,” he continued. “It is the home of Annjenu, the queen of the river. She gives us these fishes from the abundance of her wealth. That is why we must separate the fish from her Yaruwa. And that is also why we must offer sacrifices to her. We’re going to Waterside now, the place you call home. Well, it is home to all the fishermen and their families. We make up that community. But some of you young ones may not know that 34
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we came from different places. My grandfather told us that his parents came from somewhere up the Mambilla, where this same river is shallow and fishes can be caught with bare hands. Others came from other far-flung places. But we are the same people, connected by smaller rivers that feed these big rivers we call Niger and Benue. When the white men came down the Niger, they built their church and school, and began to preach a strange message. They did not understand us or our tradition, and that was why they thought that everything we did was wrong. Not much would have changed if not that they enticed our chiefs with gifts of cloth, beads, strong drinks and guns. The chiefs then let go of our tradition and gave out our young men to them. Those who resisted were hounded until they surrendered. But they still needed our fish and the herbs that grow by the river. That’s why they came down to the river to buy, and our people also met them there to sell. And the white men called that place Waterside Market. Since then other people from distant lands have come and become part of Waterside.” Abba had virtually stopped paddling, except for occasional thrusts of his paddle to keep the canoe 35
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from drifting off course. His father, who was once in a hurry, did not seem to mind that they were not making much progress in spite of the impending darkness. Both of them were absorbed by the story, as though there might never be another chance. “We are simple people, proud of our culture. We live by what each day provides. We envy no one. But now they have changed most of what we cherish. The weak ones among us have been lured away, my own brothers among them. Ours used to be a large family, but now my brothers are scattered in faraway lands. This great river upon which we sail…” he stopped suddenly, his eyes caught by something ahead of him. He began to scan the expanse of flowing water in front of them. Abba eased his paddling and looked at his father and then in front of them. The sun had finally gone behind the clouds, and about a mile ahead, a dark form loomed, an island silhouetted in the afterglow. Then he saw the object of his father’s attention - lights flickering on the island of Ekitiva. “Ah! Papa,” Abba cried, “I thought we were so 36
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late that we would not meet anybody at Ekitiva.” “Yes, you’re right. We won’t meet anybody there.” “But they’re there. Look at the lights.” “Ssh! There’s no one there,” Jamiu said, placing a finger to his lips. “Later you’ll understand,” he said with finality. People could talk about Sefinatu in hushed tones in the safety of their homes, but no one in his right mind dared discuss the vengeful child of Annjenu in her own domain. So, at the sight of the flickering lights over the island, Jamiu clammed up. Once again, he picked up his paddle and began to work furiously, ignoring with a great effort the splitting headache and the sharp pains in his spinal column. And once again, they reverted to silence; the boy then certain that something was definitely wrong with his father that evening. It was not until the island was some distance behind them that the man turned to his son. “Hold the canoe,” Jamiu said as he dropped his own paddle beside him. He rummaged in his basket of fish and took hold of one. The slippery 37
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creature protested, flapping its tail and trying to wriggle free, but the man held it with a practiced hand. He looked to the right and then left before he began his prayer: “O, great one, queen of the great river, Annjenu of the sea yonder, and Protector of our land. From your son accept This token from the lot you’ve given us today. Protect your children come low or high waters.” He lifted the fish up and circled it seven times above his head and seven times above his son’s head. Then he threw it into the river. Having thus settled the river goddess, he picked up his paddle, and thrust it into the water without another word. It was dark when they pushed their canoe up Waterside narrow beach. The bustling market was now a graveyard, but with the instinct of a man who had experienced things that defied physical explanation, Jamiu could still make out some ghostly shadows hovering around anchored canoes; 38
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their voices were only vibrations that could be felt in the marrows. He knew better than to throw greetings at this hour, for those dark forms were nothing other than Yaruwa. He secured his canoe with a rope tied to a rock and quickly lifted the larger basket onto his head. Abba carried the smaller one. They had missed the evening market, but that was no problem. The fish would be smoked. Some traders came specifically for smoked fish. Just before they left, Jamiu turned and looked far out into the river, and lo! She was still there, as she had been over the ages - a light flickering over the isle, and whispering silently to the ears that listened. He hurried off quickly before Abba could turn and look.
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Chapter Five
T
he boy stood at a safe distance looking at the chaos. Waterside market, by the bank of River Niger, was indeed a beehive of sorts. Everywhere was littered with fish of all colours, shapes and sizes - some black, some white, some fat and some long, and everyone panting for breath. None of these, however, met the picture he had in mind – an ageless beautiful woman, partly fish with long tail fins, exuding power and esoteric knowledge of the ages past. And no one among the people appeared to notice the absence of the river goddess. Everyone was busy, talking about fish, haggling about fish and complaining about fish. And since he had no business with fish, he decided to just move on until he could find a place to rest, and then retrace
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his steps home. He was beginning to feel like one of those fishes out of water. Up ahead, a narrow road led up a gentle rising along the water front. As he continued up the hill, again, he thought of turning back. But there seemed to be an inexplicable force pushing him on against his wish. So he kept on moving until he crested the rising. By now the late afternoon sun was low on the western horizon, turning from yellow to amber and casting long shadows over the water below. He did not know that in less than one hour it would be dark. On the tableland overlooking the confluence, a tin roof reflected off the evening sun. He quickened his strides and headed towards it. It was a log cabin, sitting on four bamboo legs erected on the edge of a cliff. It looked like a watchman’s post. He went in and sat down on a wooden log, the only furniture in the shack. He was weak, hungry and thirsty, and if he must make it back home, he needed at least some water to drink. Opening his bag, he brought out his 41
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water bottle and shook it. A gurgling sound assured him that there was some water left. He unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his lips. The water was tepid, but he drank it thirstily all the same. Somewhere above the hut, a black kite gave a forlorn cry followed by another. In the distance, the noise of Waterside Market was now a faint din. Otherwise there was complete silence around him. The sun was dipping faster than he had calculated and the thought of staying here in the dark filled his heart with presentiment. Several questions began to race through his mind. ‘What do I really want to see? A mermaid holding a burning stick over the water and doing spells? Or a worried fisherman’s daughter dumped on the island in the middle of the Niger and crying for someone to help her? Will I be able to look at her? Won’t I be afraid? What am I doing here? I should be home by now.’ With no clear answers to these questions, he felt that this adventure had been prompted by emotion rather than reason. He had been struggling within 42
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himself to dismiss Sefinatu as a fairy tale, until he read Elfinatu which had fuelled his fear and confusion. And until that fear and confusion were cleared, his inquisitive mind might never know peace. But now all he could see and feel were silence and desolation. An early evening breeze from the river caressed the nape of his neck, bringing with it gooseflesh. Then for the first time since he came up the hill, he turned in the direction of the river, and wow! The sight took his breath away, accentuating the gooseflesh. The River Niger, now married to River Benue, stretched far to the horizon, reflecting iridescent lights from the setting sun. Fishermen, coming home after the day’s work, looked like tiny paper boats adrift on the vastness of water. Then he remembered a verse he had read somewhere: ‘Oh! God, your sea is so vast, but my boat so small.’ Right there inside the cabin, he became entranced, captivated by a spectacle so ethereal, and inhaling the glory and majesty of the confluence, he did not know for how long, and he might never 43
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know. In a fleeting moment of illusion, he saw the river stand still while the evening sky floated above it. Then, suddenly, like one awakening from a blissful slumber, he saw it - an island etched against the eastern sky by the setting sun. ‘Can this be Ekitiva? This is Ekitiva, an isle so peaceful, so blissful’, said the poet. He jumped up, clapping in celebration of his discovery, his fear suddenly gone with the evening breeze. Flying low towards where he stood were some white egrets, coming home to roost, cawing and flapping their wings as though they had come to join him in celebration. He had seen where the two rivers met; he had seen the island of Ekitiva, and he had seen fishermen in their canoes. It was all falling into place at last, faster than he had imagined. ‘So it is true,’ he said, ‘but where is Sefinatu?’ His voice sounded hollow in his own ears. The euphoria was short-lived. From behind him, the answer came almost immediately. A rustle of dry twigs, then a thin wobbly female voice. “Kai! Who is that in my house?” the voice queried in Hausa. 44
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The boy was jolted back to his senses. He turned, and one look over his shoulder was enough. “Oh! Yaro bature, kai mai nini? What are you doing here by this hour little master?” the voice demanded as its owner approached. Like one stung by a bee, the boy sprang to his feet and fled down the hill. “Kai! Kai!” the voice called. “Don’t run. Stop, I’m a friend. Come back, little boy, come back…” Those were the last words he heard before he went out of earshot. He had looked back only once and what he saw put a lot of fear in him. The voice was scary enough, but the owner of the voice was horror personified. He had seen many frightening masquerades each time his family travelled to Obollo, his village, for the New Yam Festival. They came in all shapes, sizes and colours, to entertain with breath-taking acrobatic dancing and amazing display of magic arts. But none was so ugly and so horrifying like what he had just seen. Frightened, he kept running. 45
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Along the waterfront, the once bustling market was now deserted, the sun having gone behind the clouds, leaving long eerie shadows over the water. If he had slowed down and looked far out into the river, he would have seen one more piece of the puzzle, the flickering light. But he ran on with only one thought in mind - to get home and away from Sefinatu and her river. He knew he would never get away any longer. He had gotten the spell. The cold sweat and gooseflesh all over his body now confirmed that. He began to cry.
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Chapter Six
A
very old woman, or what looked like one, crept out from tall willows. She had taken one shaky step and was trying to steady herself for another, when the boy bolted down the hill. Leaning on her walking stick, she wondered what the boy could be doing there all by himself at this hour and season. She knew that he was a normal human child; Yaruwa would have simply melted away into nothingness. Nyarinya Mai Karfi was a stranger only to those who had never seen her. Everyone in the Waterside Community knew and revered the priestess that mediated between the people and Annjenu and her Yaruwa. She was dressed in a long flowing fire-red gown
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that covered her feet and an equally red ribbon that held her long grey hair in place. Those who were close to her knew that she wore neither sandals nor jewellery. The only make-up on her face was a ring of white chalk around her left eye. She might have been elegant and beautiful at the prime of her life, but now she was all bones, and her hair which might have been a crown of glory in her youth, was now a long cascade of ash-grey tuft that gave her the look of one from another time. Her cheeks had practically caved in over her jaw bones, indicating that she had no more teeth left. But in spite of the devastation time had done to her physique, her brain was still razor-sharp. When Mai Karfi, as she was popularly known, looked at you with those piercing eyes sunk in the hollows of her bone-dry forehead, you had the creepy feeling that she saw through your very soul. She called once again, but the boy kept on running. So she continued on her way. On the rocky headland where the Niger and Benue Rivers embraced, she stopped and began to scan the river 48
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with that piercing eye ringed with white native chalk, for the signs of the season. This was the fifth month of the year, and the sudden flood and the clusters of the floating grass it carried were clear signs that Yaruwa were on the prowl looking for who to cast their evil spells on. Therefore, it was time to cleanse the land in preparation for Ekuechi Festival, the annual masquerade festival that marks the end of the year. Only a few people, mostly new settlers in Lokoja, didn’t know about Ekuechi Festival and its relevance to the tradition of the fishing community. During this festival, dead relatives are believed to visit the living at night, and the living, in response, prepare and serve food to them. Women are barred from coming out at night throughout the period. It so happened, a very long time ago, that a young beautiful princess, named Sefinatu was betrothed to a young prince. Their wedding was scheduled to take place during the Ekuechi Festival, another annual celebration during which young women are given out in marriage. But the proposed 49
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wedding never took place and the entire community had lived with the consequences ever since. The story is still told of how Sefinatu, out of childish curiosity, looked out of her window one night during Ekuechi Festival. Annjenu, the river goddess, who disguised herself as one of the dead relatives of the family, saw her. Sefinatu’s beauty was more than the jealous goddess could tolerate for children of the living. She bewitched her and took her to her kingdom in the River Niger. That night, the princess simply vanished from the living and was never seen again. Since she did not die a natural death, she was not given a proper burial. And because of that, her family didn’t serve her food like they do to other dead relatives during Ekuechi festival. Sefinatu has been angry and has haunted the community ever since. Between May and June, the time of Ekuechi festival and the first floods, Sefinatu appears on Ekitiva, an island at the confluence of Rivers Niger and Benue, with a burning stick looking for her share of Ekuechi food. Finding no food, she 50
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gets angry and casts her evil spell on anyone she chooses. The land had known no peace until a young fair-complexioned woman, Nyarinya Mai Karfi, with long jet-black hair that covered most of her shoulders, and wearing a long flowing red gown, materialised at the rocky headland where the two rivers met. The very old men and women who have good memory still talk about the ethereal beauty of her youth and her pair of blazing eyes that see what the ordinary eyes cannot see. No one, however, knew how old Nyarinya Mai Karfi was or where she came from. Initially, people believed that she was a goddess incarnate. Now, some say she came from a family of Annjenu worshippers in Koton Karfe, a sprawling town across the Niger. Others say Mai Karfi actually came down from Sokoto, travelling along the Niger, and stopped at various settlements along the river to sell her herbal remedies until she finally settled in Lokoja. However, everybody agreed that she was a reputable intermediary between humans and the river goddess. 51
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She had spent a far greater part of her life there, dispensing her remedies with utmost humility and success. She had no husband, no children and no relations. Her reputation and worth in life were all summed up in her native medical practice which had earned her a lot of respect and reverence among the people. She was not rich and yet she lacked nothing. Every morning before sun-up, and every evening after sundown, she received a long line of clientele - men and women who came with assorted items of sacrifice such as goats, rams, fowls and money. Mai Karfi knew the history of Waterside like the back of her hand, and she could hold her clients spellbound with stories ofYaruwas and mermaids that transmuted to humans and came to buy and sell at Waterside Market. The most dreaded and most talked about amongYaruwa is the one called Sefinatu. This evening she was scanning the river and the setting sun for what the gods and goddesses had to say. The signs were all floating around her: the green grass floating down the river and the egrets 52
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chasing the setting sun. She took a calabash tied around her waist with a white ribbon and emptied its contents on the ground before her. Pieces of chalk of various colours spread out. She looked at them long and hard, studying the pattern they formed. Then she began to mutter incantations, addressing some invisible audience in the river. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to look at the setting sun. The last patch of cloud was just covering the sun, and it appeared to be the sign she had been waiting for. With the aid of her walking stick, she raised her figure upright, braced herself and let out a long-drawn howl that reverberated in the empty space. Her voice was thin, eerie and piercing. She howled again and again at intervals until she got an answer. From the distance, some dogs or hyenas responded with their own barking. She knew the owls would follow. Then she scooped up the pieces of chalk and walked away.
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Chapter Seven
M
ama Abba was sitting on a bench in front of her hut, sorting through a tray of red pepper on her laps. A few metres away from her, a large spherical clay pot was sitting on a stone tripod, boiling over wood fire. Her three daughters, Fatima, Laide and Amina, were sitting around the pot, gossiping. She could guess what they were talking about - potential husbands. Her first three daughters were already married, and these younger ones could hardly wait. Occasionally, she looked up from her tray and shouted instructions to them, to stoke the fire or stir the food. Her attention was divided between her cooking and watching the entrance to the compound. For the past one hour, she had been
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expecting her husband to return from his fishing trip. It was already dark, and she was beginning to worry for reasons she could no longer shrug away. Lately, she had noticed that he woke up late every morning. Many times, she had to go and knock on his door to get him up from bed. And this morning, she did not see the spring in his gait as he headed out of the compound with a basket on his head. Unlike him, he was walking sluggishly, almost reluctantly. Not that she was totally surprised at the apparent drop in her husband’s vitality. Time, she sighed, takes away a little bit of each of us as each day begets another. Though Jamiu Garba was not the type to accept he was getting old, she could see all too well the hand of the clock ticking away the beauty and strength in that dashing young man who stole her heart so many years ago. A smile played on her lips as she remembered one recent incident. He was chopping firewood, and the axe blade got stuck in the wood. He tried to pull it free but could not. He was sitting down and panting when she came and yanked the axe free without exerting much effort. 55
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“Old man,” she had taunted. “Me, old man?”Jamiu replied. “Wait until I marry a sweet sixteen.” They had both laughed. Thinking about it now, she knew she was right. Jamiu Garba was getting old. She had been advising him to slow down with his work; to take more time to rest, and not go fishing everyday. But each time she complained, he would flex his muscles and slap his biceps and challenge her to a duel. Next thing, they would laugh over it. Though she believed that her husband still had many active years to go, she had been having some premonitions about him lately. Last night, she had a dream in which she saw him fighting with a big fish that had a long tail. Other fishermen stood around laughing and cheering the fish. When she woke up, she saw him lying by her side. She did not know when he came in, for he had earlier retired to his own hut. He was breathing heavily and murmuring in his sleep. And when she shook him, he just turned to the other side and continued sleeping, his body warmer than normal. Normally, he would have woken up at the slightest touch. ‘Something is wrong,’ she thought. 56
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Mama Abba had a tiny mark under her left eyelid. It was neither a tribal mark nor a birth mark; it was an incision made when her father initiated her into the cult of herbalists in her village up the river. She was the only daughter in a family of eight children. Four of the boys died at various ages in infancy - taken, they said, by Sefinatu, who inflicted them with the fever that came with the first floods. The other three boys who survived later left the village and the fishing for the city, to the dismay of their father. At the initiation ceremony, her father had told her that it was a great privilege for her to receive the secret knowledge usually reserved for the first son of the family. “Any time this mark itches,” he had said, “it means that somebody related to you, or close to you, is sick. It will open your spiritual eyes to see what remedy to administer to that person.” As far as she could remember, that mark never itched, and she did not think it ever would. She had always felt that there were so many rituals in the native medical practice that made no sense. Many 57
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times, she could not help thinking that all these rituals were nothing but a ploy by the privileged few to mystify what should have been general knowledge. On one occasion, she had tried to argue with her father about the efficacy of rituals, but the old man scolded her so severely that she never attempted to ask any more questions on the matter. Now, she did not need any itching of the eyelid to know that this was the fifth month of the year, when the floods come suddenly without rain and the green grass floats down the river and people catch the strange fever and some die. It is a pattern, designed by the gods, to herald the annual Ekuechi Festival. “Mama!” one of the girls called. Almost startled, she looked up quickly at the entrance once more before getting up to attend to her cooking. The pot was boiling over now, the delicious aroma telling her that the tuwo masara was almost ready. She was stirring the food with a big ladle when, from the direction of the entrance, she heard footfalls followed by a cough, and another cough. 58
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Jamiu Garba came in, closely followed by his son, both of them laden with heavy baskets. The girls ran to meet them while their mother continued stirring the food and smiling. She knew that her husband would soon come over to see what she was cooking. How she liked it whenever he dipped a spoon into her cooking pot and took a morsel of food. Several minutes later, she was done. But her husband had not come to the kitchen yet. ‘Perhaps he is too tired,’ she thought, ‘or he has decided to sort out the fishes first.’ In her hurry and eagerness to serve the food hot, she ran to her hut to fetch the utensils, and almost tripped over him. On the bench by the door, he lay, shivering. One look at him confirmed all she had suspected. “Papa Abba! Papa Abba!” she called. The man made a barely audible sound. He was trying to make a sign with his hand but he did not appear to have the strength to lift his hand. “Papa Abba! Papa Abba!” she cried. “What is it? Hey! Hey! Where’s Abba? Fatima, Laide, everybody come! Bring the lamp.” 59
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Her cry attracted the attention of Mama Lasisi, the second wife, whose hut was next to hers. She came out with her own daughters, and soon a little crowd had gathered around the old man. It was immediately obvious that he was in a serious condition. His breathing came in spasms, his voice a whimper as he shivered all over like one in a fit. Everyone started to cry, alarmed by the sudden bout of illness of a man who left his house that morning apparently hale and hearty. “This is the handiwork of the daughter of the river goddess,” Mama Lasisi wailed, “it is Sefinatu! I know the signs. Let’s hurry. We must take him to Nyarinya Mai Karfi now.” Mama Abba stopped crying, having overcome her initial emotion. She did not appear to hear what the other woman was saying as she knelt down beside the bench upon which her husband lay. She touched his chest, his forehead and neck. That confirmed her suspicion; he had gotten the strange fever that comes with the flooding. 60
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“Mama Abba,” the other woman continued, “let’s go now. It is the goddess, I know it.” Mama Abba stood up and looked her husband’s second wife in the eye. “We’re not taking him there. We’re not taking him anywhere.” “Oh, we’re not taking him to Mai Karfi? You want my husband to die, eh? You want him to die because you’ve had all your children, eh? We must take him there, and make the sacrifices. I must have my own children o!” She was shouting at the top of her voice now, stamping her feet and gesticulating wildly. Ignoring her hysteria, Mama Abba addressed her own children instead. “Abba, bring a knife and a basket and follow me. Fatima, fill the earthen bowl with water and put it on the fire. Laide, you sit down here and watch over your father.” She strode off towards the back of the huts. Abba followed with a basket and a cutlass. The other woman took a few steps after her, still shouting more invective, but when Mama Abba did not turn or respond, she threw herself on the ground and continued wailing. 61
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More in control of her emotions, not for one single moment was Mama Abba bothered by the other woman’s vituperation. She had always regarded her husband’s wife as a naive little child who needed a lot of education to understand the vital things of life. When she was married as the second wife, she carried herself as one who had come to rescue the family with the much needed male children. And after three females and no male, she had been beside herself with frustration. When Abba was born, somebody said she heard her say that Mama Abba had stolen a blessing the gods meant for her. Since then, she had been visiting one native doctor after another, and now she practically worshiped Mai Karfi who had promised her a son. Brushing all these aside, she concentrated on the matter at hand. Her father used to say that it was good to make sacrifices to the gods, but that one should know that the gods had already left their messages on the leaves, barks and roots of trees. As a young girl, she had accompanied her father so many times to the forests and river banks to gather herbs, and she knew that these were still within her reach. 62
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The small compound, located outside the main hub of Waterside community, was some sort of a garden. There were only four huts in the compound - one for each of the wives, one for their husband and one for storing dried fish and sundry items. The compound was fenced round with cactus, and some trees planted at intervals along the hedge. Huge dogonyaro trees stood around the huts, their branches and leaves providing cool shades during the day. When she was newly married, they were all little shrubs, planted by a young man who was trying to settle down in life. She tended to them with the gentle care and love of one who knew the importance of vegetation around the home. Now, they were giants, lush with the messages of the gods. She not only knew all the trees and grasses by name, but their medicinal values as well. With a cutlass in one hand and a lamp in the other, she moved swiftly from one plant to another, cutting out a bark here, a root there, and a wide variety of leaves. When her basket was almost full, she hurried back to the house, ignoring the other woman who was still lying on the ground, wailing. 63
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The big earthen bowl of water was just starting to boil. She quickly washed the leaves, scraped the barks and roots, and put them in the boiling water and covered the bowl before rushing inside her hut to look at her husband. Laide was sitting beside her sick father, tears running down her face. Tears welled up in her eyes too, but she got a grip on her emotion when she remembered her father’s lesson: ‘Don’t get emotionally involved with the sick, but do all you can to help them.’ Wiping the tears with the back of her hand, she reached under her bed and fetched two small calabashes. One contained powdered leaves of dogonyaro, and the other, dried pieces of barks she had cut from the forest. She took a small measure of both and poured them into a mortar. “Give me the pestle,” she said to Fatima, who had been standing by and watching, “and bring some water too.” There was so much to do, and she wished she could delegate some of the work, but her children were not initiated into the cult yet. She began to crush the dried herbs. Then, she took a bottle of neem oil, extracted from dogonyaro 64
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seeds, and poured some of it into the mortar and continued to crush and pound with the pestle. When she added water, the content of the mortar turned to a thick, sticky yellowish liquid. From the cover of a large plastic water storage drum, she took an enamel cup, but dropped it quickly as though it contained deadly germs. Instead, she reached for an earthen bowl. Her father had always insisted on administering his remedies in an earthen bowl. ‘That was how my father did it,’ he would say. ‘Another ritual,’ she thought, but this was no time for argument. She sieved the liquid content into the bowl. Jamiu Garba was in a critical condition by the time she stood over him with an earthen ware of foul-smelling concoction. If he had a choice, he would have rejected it, but there he lay, helpless in the grip of deadly fever. She handed the bowl to Fatima, and with Abba’s help, she propped him up on the bench. The man was breathing heavily and moaning like a child. “Papa Abba, Papa Abba,” she called in a gentle voice. “Please, open your mouth. I beg, open your 65
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mouth.” The man groaned in agony, and in the process he opened his mouth. In that instant, she poured the liquid into his mouth. Half choking, he swallowed the stuff, his face contorted in agony and revulsion. Still supporting him by the shoulders, she waited. In about five minutes the retching began, first as minor heaving of the abdominal regions, and then uncontrollable violent spasms that shook every organ in his body. She could not hold back the tears as she watched her husband rolling on the floor. When the children saw their mother crying, they lent their own voices to the rooftops, wailing and yelling at the same time. On hearing this, Mama Lasisi came screaming even before she knew what was happening. “I said it,” she wailed, “I said it. Now you see, she has killed my husband for me. Mama Abba has killed my husband for me o!” She threw herself on the ground, rolling from left to right. Again, Mama Abba’s father’s words came to her: ‘Don’t suffer with the sick. You’re only a messenger from the gods.’ Thus encouraged, she stopped crying, but continued to look at her 66
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husband, dry-eyed, as he retched and moaned and rolled his eyeballs like one in a trance. Not long then, she said to herself, remembering another lesson from her father: ‘the retching comes first to loosen the bowels, and then the vomiting throws out the poison.’ But this was taking eternity. ‘For how long would he go on retching before strength eluded him? Have I made a mistake somewhere along the line?’ Just then, the retching turned to a growl, and the rumbling sound coming from his throat spilled forth its contents - yellow sticky substances with traces of blood. And for the next ten minutes, the retching and vomiting continued, filling the small room with a horrible odour. When it was all over, the man rolled over on his back and laid still, eyes closed. She knelt down, touched his chest, and nodded with satisfaction. He was breathing softly and evenly. Turning to her children, she told them to stop crying and clean up the floor. Then she stepped over the other woman and went outside to inspect the boiling earthen bowl. About an hour later, she woke up from a fitful sleep. She could hardly believe that she had dozed 67
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off on the bench. She thought she heard somebody’s voice, but as she adjusted her ear to the silence of the night, she could hear nothing except the breathing of her children who lay sleeping and the distant barking of dogs and hyenas. She got up slowly and tried to touch her patient who lay on the floor. He was not there. Stifling a cry with both hands, she rushed outside, her heart almost jumping out of her chest. Then she stopped, heart still beating, but now with a faint smile on her lips. Her husband was standing beside a dogonyaro tree, urinating. Even without seeing the urine, she knew the colour was dark-yellow; how often had she seen this from her father’s patients. “Woman, I’m hungry,” he said, trying to force a smile. “Yes, old man, I will give you a delicious dish. But first, I must give you a steam bath,” she said, pointing to the earthen bowl. As she led him back to the hut, the barking continued piercing through the quiet night, with the same message that comes with it this season, never failing. She needed no further telling that Sefinatu 68
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was on the prowl, venting her anger on the children of men. And with the knowledge of one who grew up in the company of a wise father, she knew that the children of the river goddess were calling for the annual sacrifice.
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Chapter Eight “Amaechi! Amaechi!” he heard his name, and recognised the voice as that of Danladi, his friend and classmate, but he did not answer. If he did, he would have to stop, and if he stopped, he would have to talk. Where would he begin, and how would anybody understand? No one had seen Sefinatu or had any close encounter with her. So, he continued running until he disappeared around the street corner. No one was at home when he entered the compound, except the dog, Lugard, who started barking and rejoicing when she saw him. He went to the backdoor, the usual entrance for the children when parents were not at home, fetched a spare key from his school bag and unlocked the door. Lugard was at his feet purring and expecting a rubdown. He 70
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pushed her away to one side with his foot, entered the house and banged the door shut. Behind the door, he could hear the dog whining and scratching in protest. His siblings were out, for evening lessons or to play with friends. It would be another two hours before his mother was due from her hairdressing salon. And his father would still be on his way from Ajaokuta, where he worked at the steel rolling mill. That was just as well. He was in no mood now to talk to anybody. Where would he start in the first place? How would his parents react if they knew that he went to Waterside all by himself? Perhaps the only person who might understand was Mary Bassey, the coordinator of Young Readers Book Club; although she would still tell him that he had undertaken a dangerous adventure. However, he did not feel that he had done anything wrong. Curiosity had got the better part of him, and having experienced so much, he just needed some time alone to come to terms with his discovery, and then he might be able to tell his story, first to the Young Readers’ Book Club. He 71
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would never tell his parents because they would not understand. His father would flog him and his mother would scold him. Exhausted and hungry, he was vaguely aware of kicking off his shoes and flopping himself on his bed. And almost immediately he fell into a deep sleep.... * * * ...His father came in and sat on his favourite chair at the dining table. He had grown a long white beard overnight. His younger brother, Chidi, sat opposite him. His sisters, Joyce and Ebere, sat together on a chair, laughing or crying, he was not sure. Their mother was standing beside the dining table, holding a ladle over a pot of stew. She was dressed in a flaming red apron. “This is my magic wand,” she said, waving the ladle over the food. “No one eats until I count seven.” Amaechi was so hungry he could hardly wait for the last count. “Ehe, just before we start eating,” his father said, “I want to announce that we’re travelling to our village after the meal.” 72
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“Where’s our village, Daddy?” Ebere, the threeyear old and youngest, asked. “Our village is called Obollo, in Nsukka area of Enugu State,” Daddy answered. “Oh! Daddy, how can we travel after the meal? It’s dark now. How can we travel by night?” Chidi asked. “Simple,” Daddy said. “We’ll travel by canoe through the River Niger.” “Ah! Daddy, we don’t have a canoe,” Ebere said. “We do. Our car will float like a canoe when we get to the river,” Daddy answered. “And who will drive it?” Ebere asked again. “Me! Straight to Obollo, the home of masquerades,” he answered. “But Daddy,” Joyce said, “I’ve never travelled by canoe before. I’ll be scared. My friend who went to the island by canoe during Easter holidays saw Sefinatu, and when she came back she had fever and red spots on her face.” “It’s not true. And that’s not possible. Sefinatu is just a fable, a fairy tale like The Ginger Bread Man, 73
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fabricated by the natives to scare young people like you.” “Daddy, who is Sefinatu? Is she going to cast a spell on me if I play in the canoe?” Ebere asked. “Now everybody,” Mummy cut in, “no more questions. Go and dress up. We’ll eat our meal in the canoe.” Amaechi could hardly take this anymore. He lay on the floor, hungry and neglected, as though he was not part of the family. He heard their voices faintly and saw their faces through some kind of haze. He didn’t understand why nobody, including his mother, noticed that he was starving. What surprised him the most was that each time he opened his mouth to speak he had no voice. In frustration, he resigned to fate. Then, they were in a canoe, going down river, his father paddling. It was dark over the water. Ahead of them, there was another canoe but he could not see the occupants because of the darkness. And all of a sudden the canoe u-turned and beamed its lights directly on his face. He blinked and wanted to cry out in pain, but once again, his voice died in his throat. 74
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“What light is that Daddy?” Joyce asked. “Oh! I forgot,” he said, “it’s Elfinatu’s flickering light.” “Daddy, do you mean Sefinatu, the dreaded mermaid?” Joyce asked again. “I don’t know who Sefinatu is, but I know Elfinatu. She is my friend and not a mermaid.” “Oh! Daddy, she is going to cast a spell on us. Let’s turn back and run. See, she’s coming. She has seen us.” “You don’t have to be afraid of her. She wants to show us the way with her light, and when we get to Obollo, she will cast a spell on the masquerades.” As the other canoe got closer, the light became brighter and brighter on Amaechi’s face until it stung. He gathered up all the strength he could muster, and with great effort, he screamed… Then he woke up with a start, panting like a fish out of water and perspiring all over. He felt some pain on his forehead and was feverish all over. For a moment he was disoriented, but as the haze slowly 75
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lifted, he felt that he had either been in a nightmare or under a spell -Sefinatu’s spell. At the thought of Sefinatu, he developed gooseflesh immediately and then began to shiver uncontrollably. Gradually, his father’s form appeared from the mist that had blurred his vision. His father was holding a flashlight in one hand and feeling his forehead with the other. His mother was standing beside him, holding a wet towel with which she proceeded to dab his forehead. He whimpered as a cold sensation ran through his body, but he resolved not to cry. Behind his mother stood his siblings who kept saying ‘sorry, sorry.’ “It’s alright,” his father said. “Can you see me?” He nodded, his eyes having regained their focus. “Good. You have a fever, boy. Just a fever, okay? After you’ve eaten, Mummy will give you some medication, and you’ll be alright.” “Daddy, what happened to me?” Amaechi asked in a feeble voice. “Nothing to worry about, boy. You just have a fever,” he reassured him. “Maybe it’s a symptom of 76
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malaria, but not to worry. Tomorrow I’ll take you to the lab for a medical test.” Amaechi was not convinced by his father’s explanation. As he looked intently on his father’s face, his lips quivered as though he was struggling to say something unbecoming of a child. His father, equally battling with his own fears, prompted him. “Yes, what is it? You don’t want to take medicine?” Amaechi did not seem to have heard him. “Daddy, did you see her?” he asked, wide-eyed. “See who? I say, relax boy. You’re not feeling too fine. But, don’t you worry. Mummy will give you some sweet medicine, and you’ll be alright, okay?” There was a rise in the tone of his voice that betrayed worry and fear over his son’s condition. “But Daddy, I saw her. I saw her. She was…” “Hey, young man, you saw nothing, okay? You saw nothing, understand?” “Yes, Daddy.” “Good, Now, be a good boy, get up and eat your food.” “Yes, Daddy.” 77
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Everyone had heard about Sefinatu, even though some might not believe it. And this babbling by his son was getting on his nerves. From somewhere in the neighbourhood, a dog started barking. And almost on cue, another dog joined, then another and another. Lugard, who had been sitting quietly at one corner wagging her tail and watching the events in the children’s room, suddenly pricked her ears and rushed out through the door that had been left ajar. Her voice was unmistakable in the cacophony that had just ensued over the night. And then, like a bolt from the blue, the magical realism of the fourth stanza of the poem, Elfinatu, came flooding back to Amaechi. ‘Tell me, O Lugard, what you are barking at.’ Amaechi prayed silently as the fever took hold of him. Known to none, the boy had seen more than he could understand. His father, who had been watching him closely, needed no further prompting to take him to the hospital without further delay. 78
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Chapter Nine
T
he following morning, two women stood in the car park in front of William’s Specialist Hospital, arguing in agitated voices. The taller of the two spoke pontifically with the fervour of a religious fanatic. Her dowdy dressing, a worn-out grey skirt-suit and a black head gear tied several times round her head like a turban, left little doubt that she was one. “You don’t have to be a Christian to receive a miracle,” she said. “Christ came for sinners and not for the righteous. He came for all of us, and whosoever believeth in him shall be saved. Just believe, and your daughter shall be saved.” The other woman was less assertive. She spoke in between sobs, trying to make her companion appreciate her distress.
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“My daughter is dying,” she sobbed. “I don’t know what you and my husband have decided, but I know that Mai Karfi is the one who can cure this type of sickness.” Mr Ezra Pam hardly noticed their disagreement, when he came out of the hospital carrying his sick daughter in both arms. The women were still arguing when he opened the back door of his car and helped the girl into the back seat. It was not until he had walked round the car and taken his place at the driver’s seat that the two women entered the car. He barely heard the doors bang and was vaguely aware of their presence when he inserted the key into the ignition, and then he stopped. For a long moment, Ezra just sat there at the wheel, looking vacantly through the windscreen. Deep down, he felt that he had made a mistake; and now he was almost sure that he was heading in the wrong direction. Nobody in this city had ever doubted the expertise of Dr Momodu Williams. Why couldn’t he just turn round and take the girl back to the hospital? “Oga, please, let’s go now,” the taller woman said. 80
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Ezra was startled by the voice that came from the passenger’s seat on his right. His wife was supposed to be sitting there; she usually did whenever they were together, but now his secretary, Marian Oche, had taken that position. He felt uncomfortable about the sitting arrangement, because he had heard rumours at his place of work that he and his secretary were getting too close, and he didn’t want to give the rumour mongers any chance to continue with their unholy trade. Under the present circumstance, however, his wife just had to sit at the back seat with their sick daughter. “Em, awh, Marian, where are we going?” Ezra stammered in confusion while trying to recollect the last argument he had with his wife. “To People’s Miracle Church,” Marian answered. “No,” his wife said from the back seat. “We have agreed that we are taking Talatu to Mai Karfi. The Priestess understands this kind of sickness better than anybody.” “Oga, I’m sorry to interfere in this matter, but I know that the God I worship is greater than any 81
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man, woman or spirit. I trust him to deliver your daughter from the bondage of sickness. You will see the miracle of healing when The Man of God lays his hands on her.” “But Daddy Talatu,” Mrs Pam began, “we have not been to this church before, and we don’t know…” “You don’t have to be a member of the church to qualify for a miracle,” Marian asserted. “Jesus came for both the Jews and the Gentiles. PMC is God’s contact house irrespective of who you are. It is the hope for the hopeless.” Mrs Elizabeth Pam saw herself losing the argument with her husband. He had earlier agreed with her that they should take their daughter to Nyarinya Mai Karfi. She had never liked her husband’s secretary. The lady was too assertive, and her husband valued her opinion a lot. Not once had she wondered if it was just because of her superior education or whether there was something secretly going on between the two. Otherwise, why would her husband just sit down there and allow the secretary to change their agreed course of action all of a sudden? 82
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With the long-suffering of an obedient and submissive African housewife, she said no more but allowed her husband to decide. He was the head of the family, after all, and he should know the importance of any decision he took on this matter. Ezra started the car and headed out to the street. “Let’s start from the nearest place,” he said as he turned right and headed towards Okene highway. His wife shuddered in resignation and cradled her daughter’s head on her laps. In his heart, Ezra was having some difficulty trying to convince himself that he had taken the right decision. He had been caught in the crossfire between two women, none of whose opinion he could hardly disregard. He had a lot of respect for his wife, though most of the time she acted on sentiments rather than reason; and this had always been the cause of arguments between them. Admitted that she had only primary school education, but she had native intelligence, which made her an ideal wife for an 83
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African man. In their arguments, which weren’t often, he had always won or deliberately refused to concede any point. But this morning, he had allowed her to have her way. He returned from work yesterday evening and saw his daughter, Talatu, shivering with a fever. Within a few minutes she had rashes all over her body, and he had to do what a father should do under the circumstance. He took her to the hospital. But since then he had not known peace from his wife. She was sure of the cause of the illness; it was an affliction from the daughter of the river goddess, Sefinatu, and no hospital could cure such illness except Mai Karfi. She cried, and wailed and nagged until the man gave in. He had heard of Mai Karfi, the priestess, and had reasoned that if she really had the solution to his daughter’s sickness, then let Mama Talatu have the credit. This morning, he totally submitted to her wish when he entered the children’s ward and saw his daughter with more rashes than he had seen the previous day. That was it. But had he waited for a 84
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few more minutes, he would have seen the results of the series of tests conducted on her overnight, and he would have been better informed. On the other hand, Marian was somebody he could not do without. As a secretary, she was thorough, efficient and dependable. In his office at the Ministry, of Lands and Survey, she had straightened out his mistakes and protected him from embarrassments many times. He trusted her judgment so much that he would not take any decision without seeking her opinion first. The only area he had not agreed with her was on the choice of a church. She was a staunch member of People’s Miracle Church. She had done everything possible to convince him to attend just one service. “You will receive your miracle,” she always said. But she was thirty-seven, and still single. In this region where wedlock is the first step towards a woman’s virtue, Ezra had always thought that the miracle should start with her getting a husband. An African woman at that age and still single, needs a lot of miracles. However, this morning, he had decided to concede a point to her. Who knows, the miracle she 85
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had been promising might just come to pass today. They drove on in silence, each person occupied with his or her own thoughts. Occasionally, Elizabeth mumbled something into her daughter’s ear and bent her head over her mouth to hear her response. About one and a half kilometres brought them to the Lokoja-Okene highway. They made a left turn and continued down the highway until Marian pointed to an unpaved narrow road that led off to the right. A large billboard announced ‘Peoples Miracle Church.’ Ezra manoeuvred the car into the narrow road, the entrance to which gave a commanding view of a stretch of low-lying land situated almost parallel to the highway. It was an old shallow borrow pit, almost flat like a football field, which was last used about twelve years ago when the highway was constructed. Over the years, some plants had managed to take root on the bare barren earth, now forming sparse vegetation. Somewhere in the middle of this man-made scrub land, stood a long unfinished building, a huge wooden cross adorning its gable roof. They were still about half a kilometre from this building, when they heard the noise coming 86
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from it. It was loud singing accompanied by heavy instrumentation that reverberated over the distance. The only words that could be discerned from the noise were repeated shouts of “amen” and “alleluia.” As they drove nearer to the building, Marian who had been quiet and calm after winning the argument at the hospital car park, suddenly threw both hands into the air and began to shout, ‘Alleluia! alleluia!’ Her mien dramatically changed and she appeared to have been possessed by some kind of fever. She closed her eyes, trembled and swayed to and fro on her seat like one in an epileptic fit. And before her company could compose themselves to understand what was happening, Marian had gone into glossolalia. “Rapa cha shi maka shukaka,” she said. “Shu mama riki sha ka…” Elizabeth, mouth agape, held her daughter tightly to her bosom, afraid that Sefinatu had struck her husband’s secretary. Ezra did not recover quick enough to steer the car away from a deep pothole in front of them. The car bumped in and out of the 87
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pothole, jolting its occupants up and down, then he managed to bring it to a stop a few steps to the church entrance. The impact of the accident seemed to have shaken everybody back to their senses. Marian stopped speaking in tongues and reverted to normal language. “Thank you, Lord, thank you, Lord,” she said as they came out of the car. A thin middle-aged man, clad in black trousers and pin-striped white long-sleeved shirt, his tie askew, walked up to them, beaming with a welcome smile. A large rosette on his left breast pocket proclaimed him to be some sort of official - a church warden or a security man or somebody posted to look out for new comers. And on his right breast hung a large bill that said ‘Miracle Day.’ “God bless you, sir, God bless you, ma,” he greeted Ezra and his wife with a bow. “Ah, sister, it’s you,” he addressed Marian. “Our God is good.” “All the time,” Marian responded. “You’re welcome, sir. You’re welcome, ma,” he greeted again. Ezra went straight to business. 88
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“Brother, look, my daughter here is very sick, and we need to see the pastor,” he said. “No problem, sir. Our Lord is good.” “I mean, this is an emergency,” Ezra said with emphasis. “Sir, he will see us after the service,” Marian said. “Yes sir. Sister is right. The Man of God already knows that you’re here. We’re serving a God of miracles, signs and wonders and whosoever believeth in him shall have his prayers answered,” he sermonized with a confident sparkle in his eyes. Ezra had seen his type before, and he knew it was no use arguing with this man, unless he wanted to risk being branded an unbeliever. With the help of Marian, he carried his daughter into the church, as the man guided them to vacant seats. He sat on a white plastic chair, his daughter beside him, with her head resting on his laps. His wife sat on the other side, sobbing. Marian automatically blended into the congregation, singing and dancing and speaking in tongues. If her boss and his family were having any difficulty adjusting to the new environment, she didn’t seem 89
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to care any longer; she had been completely taken over by a new wave of Holy Ghost fever. Ezra looked around him, and on the faces of the people, for that solemnity that usually surrounded a place of worship as he knew it. He was a Catholic and a nominal churchgoer. Once in a while he had attended other churches on invitation, but none so strange like this. Everyone here was trembling, jerking, snapping their fingers or tapping their feet as a form of prayer. The atmosphere was charged and boisterous and Ezra was completely lost. From a raised platform, the voice of the choir combined with heavy instrumentation, blared down from giant loudspeakers. The people responded with rhythmic body movements, their faces wild with excitement. From the pulpit, the pastor, Emmanuel Adams, led his congregation with the wisdom of one who understands what motivates human beings. His gestures, choice of words and tone of voice showed that he was the master of the pulpit, totally in control of the tempo and flow of emotions within his congregation. 90
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Emmanuel Adams had a first degree in marketing and a Masters in behavioural sciences. He was a marketing manager at Rock Breweries in Jos, for six years. When the company was going down due to bad management, God called him. Since then, he had recounted it time and time again to his congregation, how God arrested him one afternoon on his way to deliver a trailer-load of beer to a customer in Shendam. “And so, I have to tell you that it is by the grace of God that I am here today,” he would declare. “My conversion was like that of Paul on his way to Damascus. The Lord rescued me and sent me to his vineyard, even against my wishes at that time. Since then, my life has never been the same again. I don’t know about you, but the era of drunkenness, fornication and idolatry is gone from my life forever. The Lord will rescue you too through his anointed one, and your life will never be the same again. He will lift you up and empower you with Holy Ghost anointing, and you will possess your possessions. The miracles of God are available to everyone who believeth. Let somebody shout alleluia!” 91
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“Alleluia!” The pulpit was a drama stage with Emmanuel Adams as the lead actor. One language was not enough to deliver his sermon. He combined glossolalia with English and Hausa languages, gyrating from one end of the pulpit to the other. “Shout alleluia! Shout alleluia! Shout alleluia!” he kept on repeating. The response from the congregation was deafening. The service took quite some time, and the tempo did not ebb until the last amen was said. The pastor kept wiping sweat off his face with a white handkerchief, and each time he did so, he seemed to draw some energy from the action. Except Ezra and his wife, nobody in the congregation seemed to mind. The unvoiced unanimous agreement here seemed to be that in the presence of the Holy Spirit, time was immaterial. It was four and half hours later when the service finally ended. As soon as the pastor declared the service over, Ezra felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. 92
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The same church official who received them had materialised beside him. “Sir, you people should follow me to the healing school,” he said, pointing to a narrow door at the far right corner of the church hall. Ezra lifted Talatu to his shoulder. She was still burning with fever, and her breathing was spasmodic. He followed the man, doubt and fear still gnawing at his heart. Behind him, his wife continued sobbing. The healing school was just an inner room within the church building. There were two benches placed against the back wall. The pulpit was raised a little bit higher than the rest of the floor, and covered with a square piece of red rug. Otherwise, the room was bare. “Please, sit down,” the official said. “The Man of God is preparing his prayer warriors for the healing.” Ezra was hardly listening; the protocol was taking too long, and each minute that ticked away took with it a bit of his faith. He could not help thinking that if faith was all it took for a healing or a miracle to take place, then Talatu had a very 93
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slim chance of survival. For how could a twelveyear old child in the throes of death exercise such faith? And as for him, he knew that there was little he could do. He was a Christian, alright, but only a nominal churchgoer. He believed in the efficacy of herbs or conventional drugs and the God-given knowledge to understand how to use them. He felt that faith should be applied after all practical measures had been taken. And as such, he felt that he should have stuck to his guns at the hospital, or heeded his wife’s advice. However, he did the only thing he considered meaningful at the moment; he closed his eyes in silent intercessory prayer. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you, blessed are...” He stopped abruptly and opened his eyes as somebody nudged him. His wife was on her feet about to leave, her face a rivulet of tears. He stretched out a restraining hand. “Please, sit down,” he pleaded, “we’ve come this far, let us see the end of this service.” She obeyed reluctantly. He knew that she did not believe much in Christian faith healing. Her mind 94
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was far from here, and as far as she was concerned, they were wasting precious time in this church. After what seemed like an eternity, Pastor Emmanuel Adams eventually came in, flanked on both sides by his prayer warriors - two men and two women, one of whom was Marian Oche. In his well-tailored brown suit and fire-red tie, he walked with exaggerated confidence and the air of a man who had a sixth sense. This notwithstanding, the shadows under his eyes showed that this man was tired. And who wouldn’t be, after expending so much energy on the pulpit? “Praise the Lord!” he greeted. “Alleluia!” his audience answered. “I say praise the living Jesus!” “Alleluia!” “Alleluia!” “Amen!” “You’re blessed.” “Amen!” they echoed. The healing session began. Pastor Adams took one look at the girl and pronounced her possessed 95
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by marine spirits. For once, since she came into this church, Mummy Talatu nodded in agreement. She had no doubt that Sefinatu had cast a spell on her daughter. Then the pastor laid his hand on her forehead and began to pray in English and then in tongues. His prayer warriors took a cue from him and started muttering their own individual gibberish. “In Jesus name we pray,” the pastor said. “Amen,” the warriors chorused after the first round of prayers. He wiped his face with a white hanky and cleared his throat. “The bible says in First Peter, chapter two, verse twenty-four, that by his stripes we are healed. My daughter, by his stripes you are healed, in Jesus name.” “Amen!” He took some steps to the left, and then to the right, and lifted his face to the ceiling. “The bible says in Philippians, chapter two, verse ten that in the name of Jesus every knee shall bow. In the name of Jesus, I command you, marine 96
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spirit of the Niger, to come out of her. Come out! Come out! Come out! And go back to the river where you belong. I command you to flee. Flee! Flee! Flee! in the name of Jesus!” “Amen!” the prayer warriors thundered in unison. The drama and acrobatics of healing was just beginning. From his seat, Ezra watched in stupefied silence, the unfolding ritual of spiritual healing. In all his life, he had never experienced such a scene and he wouldn’t wish to experience it again. His secretary, a woman he had known for so many years, and with whom he had shared so many office secrets, had dramatically transformed into a spiritual warrior. “The bible says in Psalm ninety-one, verse thirteen,” Pastor Emmanuel continued, “that we shall trample upon lions, serpents and scorpions without being harmed. As an anointed servant of God, I take authority from the bible to cast out and bind and declare war against satan and his agents. Prayer! Prayer!” The whole place erupted. Some prayer warriors started punching the invisible spirit, some pulling, 97
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some barking orders and some went totally cataleptic as one uncanny scene gave way to another. “Receive your healing! Receive your healing! Receive your healing!” the Pastor shouted continuously as the prayer warriors, now electrified with fervent prayer, responded in unison. “Receive your healing!” “Amen!” “Receive your healing!” “Amen!” “You’re healed, sister! You’re healed! You’re healed! Somebody shout alleluia!” “Alleluia!” “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus.” Ezra did not see the reason for the wild jubilation. If Talatu had as much as uttered a word or opened her eyes as a sign of recovery, he would have believed in this ritual. Call him a doubting Thomas, but there on the floor, Talatu still lay, her ebony-black skin ashen with a fever and the pupils of her eyes completely gone. He believed in faith healing, but in the inner recess of his mind, he 98
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still felt that exercise of faith should come after medication. The question on his mind now was: what next after this exercise? Take my daughter home and watch her recover or die? In a situation where death stares at a man point blank, faith is weakened, and what father would not yield to a mother’s hysteria to try another remedy?
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Chapter Ten
W
aterside Market was a ghost town lit by a pale moon, when Ezra drove through it that night. The only sound he could hear at this hour from the ever bustling market, was the continuous murmur of the river and the barking of wild dogs that roamed around for leftovers. But what really touched him were the cold hands of the night breeze that wafted in through his car window. The breeze was unnaturally cold, and strangely, he didn’t feel it until he was driving through the lonely market. “This is a time to be brave,” he hissed through clenched teeth. The narrow dirt road leading up the hill was marked by two tyre tracks by the sides and a ribbon of grass in the middle. He had to drive slowly and
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carefully to keep to the track. On the grassy plain on the tableland beyond the market, his headlamps picked up some lights reflecting off something. The cold sensation he felt a while ago now made his heart skip. He was slowing down to know what he was heading into, when something hit his fender and jumped into the bush. In that split second, he saw a pair of eyes, brown hairy body and a long tail. It was a dog or hyena blinded by the car headlamp and running for dear life. His heart beating, he made a sign of the cross quickly and continued. The lone hut, partially surrounded by willows, would have been hidden in darkness but for the stars and the pale moon from the cloudless sky. The road stopped in front of it. Beyond it was a deep canyon that yawned for about half a mile across. It was only a recluse that could live in a place like that. Ezra Pam stopped in front of the willow gate and cut his engine. His Peugeot 504 almost blocked the narrow gate, as though he deliberately didn’t want any other visitor to interrupt his meeting with the 101
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priestess. He lifted his half-conscious daughter from the back seat and put her on his left shoulder. His wife was whimpering behind. He entered the hut without knocking. They had been told by Mama Lasisi, his wife’s friend, that it was the custom not to knock at the priestess’s door, for that might disturb the spirits. A lone tongue of flame, fuelled by animal butter, was burning inside an earthen bowl at one corner of the room. Beside this bowl was another one containing some coins and paper currencies, obviously an offering vessel. On the walls, hung various artefacts: sea shells, bones and skulls belonging to all sorts of animals, amulets, and a bewildering assortment of ancient coins. Save for a mat on the centre of the floor, and an animal skin at the opposite end behind which was a dark recess, there was no furniture in this room. Ezra deposited his burden on the mat and knelt down and waited, again according to Mama Lasisi’s advice. It was hot and humid outside, but inside this hut it was simply steaming. The cold breeze he had felt around the market seemed to belong there for its own purpose. The atmosphere in here was totally 102
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different, and it subtly told visitors to be quiet no matter the magnitude of their problems. Even his wife who had been sobbing all day had suddenly kept quiet. He remembered one more piece of instruction from Mama Lasisi, so he crawled on all fours to the earthen bowl and dropped a fifty naira offering. Then, as if on cue, there came a thin old female voice from the inner recess almost immediately. Mrs Ezra Pam had never heard the voice of a spirit before, but she was almost certain that this was one. Didn’t Mama Lasisi say that Mai Karfi had spirits as neighbours? She knelt, frozen in fear, beside her husband, who himself had resolved to face whatever it was that might come out of that inner room. He had been through so much lately that there was no more room for fear in his heart. His experience at Peoples Miracle Church, still fresh in his mind, was something he would wish to forget. He still remembered the pastor’s last words when he lifted his daughter onto his shoulder and made for the door. 103
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“My people perish for lack of faith. God bless you,” he had said. ‘Was that a curse or a blessing?’ He was still pondering over the pastor’s parting shot when he felt his wife’s grip tighten around his waist. He looked up and what he saw reminded him of a scene in Dracula, a film he watched at Danjuma Cinema in Jos, way back in his college days. The creature had come out noiselessly like a crab from a dark hole and stood looking at his visitors with a pair of piercing eyes. Was this the priestess he had come to consult or one of the spirits she worshiped? * * * Nyarinya Mai Karfi stood with her walking stick, looking at the girl on the floor with those piercing eyes and mumbling some unintelligible words. Her mien spoke loud and clear that there was no time for preambles. She took one unsteady step after another to the door and stood there for some moments, like one waiting for a signal. Then she went outside, virtually abandoning her visitors without even a greeting. 104
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For how long she was outside, Ezra could not tell; he was only sure that he was losing his patience, and his daughter in the process. Then he heard his host howling. He would never have imagined that such a skeletal old woman still had the strength to produce a sound so loud and chilling. Mai Karfi’s shrill voice, tremulous with its own power, carried far into the night and reverberated in the emptiness. She continued howling intermittently, until from somewhere in the distance some dogs or hyenas responded with more howling and barking. Then she stopped and started addressing some invisible audience. “She is not ready to come,” Mai Karfi said in Hausa. “Go, go, you children of the river. I beseech you, go. I will give you your dues. Seven rams. Yes, seven rams and seven cowries.” She howled twice more and chanted some incantations before returning to her visitors. Ezra had earlier resolved to be brave, but the presence of this wiry old woman, looking at him with those piercing eyes, was unnerving. He waited for what she had to say, aware that he had come to a dead end. 105
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“My son,” she addressed Ezra, “you come from the foot of the hill yonder.” She pointed to the distant hill in the direction from where the Pams had come. “Your daughter here is one of the seven little spirits of the river. Six have died and joined their mother, the great Annjenu, of the great river. Now her mother wants her to come because the prince of the water wants her hand in marriage.” She paused, looking intently at Talatu’s half conscious face. “Oh! Great One, what shall we do to…” Mrs Pam began, but the old woman seemed not to have heard her, as she continued with her monologue. “Grant me this request, O Queen of the river,” she prayed. “Your servant speaks. Yes, she will. She will give you your dues. I know what you want. Seven rams, seven cowries, seven wraps of sweet and seven bottles of orange drink.” She faced Pam with those piercing eyes and said: “My son, make haste, go and bring seven rams, seven cowries, seven wraps of sweet and seven bottles of orange drink for sacrifice to appease the queen of the river. We must offer the sacrifice before 106
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I give her the herbs. Then your daughter shall live. So says the queen.” And with that command, the meeting ended as dramatically as it had started. The old woman turned and went into the inner room. Ezra needed no telling that in matters of the spirit there is no argument. For the third time in one day he lifted the almost lifeless body of his daughter to his shoulder and went to his car. He could not imagine leaving the girl here with the old woman, while he went searching for rams and cowries by eight-thirty at night. When he was driving down the cliff towards Waterside Market, he had a commanding view of the river still bathed in pale moonlight. A dark shadowy spot marked the island in the middle of it. Somewhere on the island, he saw some flickering lights. ‘Fishermen?’ He wondered what they could be doing out there in the river at this time of the night. Again, he felt the unexpected chill, and this time, with numbed fingers. The whole market was ghostly quiet, but from somewhere, dogs or hyenas continued to bark and howl. 107
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He gripped his steering wheel with some effort, and turned into the crooked narrow road that led up to the city, his mind in turmoil. He was still driving and thinking of where to get the items for the sacrifice, when Talatu made a deep noise in her throat, and instinctively he knew that it was all over.
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Chapter Eleven
T
his hot May morning, Dr Momodu Williams sat behind his big desk, reading a lab report. The air conditioner above his window lintel hummed, oozing out cool air that made the room conducive for serious work. He had gone through the report three times and found nothing out of place. Malaria parasite was present, as usual in all blood samples in this clime, but it was within tolerable level. No threat. No typhoid parasite was detected. And unlike the first report he read this morning, which indicated strange strains of virus, this one was totally negative. The percentages of the patient’s blood components were as correct as nature made them. Not given to hasty conclusions, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and silently recited his
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popular dictum: “when everything seems alright all of a sudden without any discernable reason, there’s likely something wrong somewhere.” Over the years he had found this to be true, as he rose through the ranks in government hospitals and now as a specialist in paediatrics and neurology. “So, what’s wrong with the boy?” For the past nine years, he had been the family doctor of Engineer James Ugwu. Apart from Amaechi who was born in Enugu, the other three children of the family were born at Williams Specialist Hospital. He knew the family medical history, and one fact that stood the Ugwus out from his other patients was that this was a family of very healthy people, with no single record of a complicated or protracted medical case. When Amaechi was admitted last night, he was running a temperature; his pulse rate was a bit too high and he was slightly delirious. Dr Williams thought he noticed a faraway look in his eyes, all of which could be symptoms of malaria. After the medical staff had collected his samples and given him first aid treatment, the boy had gone to sleep almost immediately, and he had slept soundly all 110
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through the night. Now the symptoms had vanished like vapour and the lab result had proven all the things he had suspected non-existent. Could that be taken as the same healthy family trait? Dr Williams did not work on assumptions. The first case of high fever and skin rashes on a young girl was last night and the strange strains of virus in her lab test had not been resolved. From experience, he knew that fevers don’t just come and go without a cause; give it a little time and the causative agents will show up. Still deep in thought, he swivelled round on his chair, scanning the bookshelf by the wall to his left. He took a medical journal from the shelf and began to page through it, conscious that Amaechi’s father, James Ugwu, was waiting to see him. He did not like keeping his visitors waiting, let alone this man who was also a friend and confidant with whom he shared a lot of common interests. However, he wanted to have an answer for him. He adjusted his glasses and began to scan the pages. It was not until twenty-five minutes later that he let his friend in. Ugwu had gone to the children’s ward to see his son, and to his relief, the boy was 111
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okay. He just wanted to hear a word of confirmation from the doctor. Very much unlike him, Williams waved his friend to a seat without the usual handshake and pleasantries. He did not even look up from the book he had been reading. Ugwu’s heart skipped a couple of times. All might not be well after all, he concluded, and then braced up for the bad news. The next few seconds seemed like eternity, until finally Williams looked up, removed his glasses and took his time rubbing his eyes. By now, Ugwu was sitting at the edge of his chair, his forehead furrowed with anxiety. “Please, don’t mind me, James,” he said with a broad and genuine smile that lit up his face. “We’re dealing with almost invisible but dangerous animals called germs,bacteria and viruses. They’re stubborn and treacherous creatures, and everyday they develop thicker skins to protect themselves from the efficacy of conventional medication.” “Its okay, Momodu,” Ugwu said calmly but with deliberate effort not to show his anxiety. “That makes medical science interesting and challenging.” 112
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“Interesting and challenging, indeed, but many of my colleagues, particularly the junior ones, would rather say frustrating.” They both laughed. “That’s the new generation,” Ugwu said. “The advancement in science and technology has made their job easier, and so they want everything easy and straight, forgetting that without challenges and the so-called problems, there would be no innovations, no progress. It’s the same story everywhere.” “That’s the problem, James. Calling a challenge a problem is a big problem. We’re facing one right now in our field. I’ve just discovered one challenging fact about malaria and typhoid parasites. They exhibit similar symptoms in a patient but, in fact, they’re two different enemies against whom two different drugs are required to combat. As they mutate, they become more resistant to conventional drugs. The result of this situation is that when you treat a patient for malaria using conventional drugs, he may relapse into a complicated case, which at the end, may prove to be typhoid. It is usually at this juncture that a naive practitioner may conclude that the patient is not responding to treatment, or 113
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he may resort to trial and error. So the challenge before us today is not only to develop a means by which to isolate each case, but also how to know the particular strain of the bacteria from day one before commencing treatment. So, testing positive to the ailment is no longer the challenge, but isolating the particular strain of the causative agent.” Ugwu wished that Williams should stop this mumbo-jumbo and tell him about his son, but he could not interrupt him without betraying his emotions. So he asked, “And who’s working on this challenge?” “Overseas, yes,” Williams answered. “I’ve just read in a medical journal of a recent breakthrough in Singapore College of Tropical Medicine. The Indians have made significant progress, too. But in Nigeria, if that’s what you want to hear, nobody, except if my little experiments with local rats at my backyard yield any positive results.” “And what about the medical research institutes? What efforts are they making to advance tropical medicine?” 114
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“You can ask that question again, James. They’re there, you know, complaining about shortage of equipment and lack of research grants with which to travel abroad.” “And what has government been doing about such complaints? I know you’re going to tell me to ask that question again,” Ugwu said laughing. “Well, James, on a very serious note, I don’t know who is fooling who. These guys receive their research grants and then travel to America, Britain or Germany. They spend one, two or more years there at the tax-payers’ expense. They come back driving exotic cars that are longer than the longest canoe in the River Niger. Families and colleagues gather to celebrate their return. But nobody hears about their research findings. And when their purses begin to dry up, they start complaining again about shortage of this and lack of that.” “We have a long way to go in this country,” Ugwu said, and clasped his hands as an indication that they should get down to the business that brought him there. But Williams was not done yet. He believed that what was worth doing, was worth doing well. 115
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He had quit the comfort of public service before retirement age, just to prove that point. Williams Specialist Hospital, one of the best in the country, was the result. “Yes, James, we have a long way to go,” he said, gesticulating with both hands, “but that’s not the problem. The problem, my dear brother, is that we’ve not started. Instead, we’re going backward, reverting to tradition and superstition.” He picked up a sheet of tissue paper and wiped invisible sweat from his face. “That’s a hard fact we must face, Momodu. We’re Africans, and our traditions and the socalled superstition are what make us who we are. Even the Europeans have their own traditions and superstitious beliefs.” “Yes, that’s true, but they separate wheat from the chaff. When superstition takes pre-eminence over science and technology, it becomes a problem. And that’s what we’re facing today in this part of the world.” “You’re quite right, Momodu, but then you must remember that you and I are still living among the natives who do not have the benefit of Western education and who never travelled out of their homeland.” 116
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“Fine, fine, James, but if superstitious beliefs were limited only to the illiterate natives among us, it would be understandable. But when a senior civil servant with a university degree attached to his appellation ascribes his child’s illness to a spell cast by a river goddess, then there’s a big problem.” “Hey, Momodu, there you go again. Is that supposed to be a parable or a hypothesis?” “None of the above, James, but it’s a hard fact. Medical ethics forbid me to reveal the identity and records of my patients, but I’ll tell you what happened. This young girl was admitted two days ago with a high fever and symptoms of viral infection. She was in delirium. We placed her under intensive care and all night observation. The following morning, before the result of her cultured lab test was out, her father came here and demanded that she be discharged; with the excuse that her problem was not medical but spiritual. I protested, of course, but you see, I have no right to stop his demand. Later, one of my nurses told me she heard that a certain priestess at Waterside convinced this man that the daughter of a goddess from River Niger, had cast a spell on the girl and that what she 117
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needed to get well was spiritual cleansing.” “What?” Ugwu half jumped from his seat. “A river goddess’ daughter that casts spells? Who believes that kind of trash these days if not the native fishermen?” “This man is not a native fisherman. He is a settler, a university graduate like you and I,” Williams sighed. “They call the river goddess’ daughter, eh-eh, ehm, Sefinatu, yes, Sefinatu or something like that.” “Sefinatu! But that’s just a local fairy tale among the natives. And there’s no community without such tales,” Ugwu said. “Yes, but this people believe that it is true. They believe that dead people can visit the living and bring about good or bad fortune on them.” Ugwu was momentarily quiet, as a man would, when you touched a raw nerve in his subconscious mind. He was not too sure if he had completely disabused his mind of superstition. ‘These beliefs are everywhere, including my village,’ he reflected. ‘You might have a chain of degrees in Western education, but the African still runs in your vein.’ 118
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Again, with an effort, he steered himself back to the discussion. “And where, if I may ask, was this girl when Sefinatu or whatever you call it, cast a spell on her?” “They said that it happened when her class went on an excursion somewhere around Waterside.” “Did anybody see it happen?” “My dear James, Sefinatu is supposed to be a spirit.” “And the girl’s father, a university graduate and a senior civil servant, swallowed that crap, hook, line and sinker? That’s incredible,” Ugwu said in a voice laden with sadness. “And a pity,” Williams added, “because she died yesterday night. And now the public may not believe the cause of her death. Her lab test result indicated the presence of a new strain of virus, and we would have used her case to know how resistant the virus is to conventional drugs. The absence of further diagnosis and treatment in that case, has taken us some steps back in understanding the nature of the enemy that’s confronting us.” 119
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He sighed as he took a sheet of tissue paper from a red box and wiped his glasses. “Forgive me, James, for keeping you waiting. Now, let’s talk about your son.” “No need to apologise, Momodu,” Ugwu said, trying to control his own emotion. “We’re all human beings, and we feel these things.” He knew that the doctor might have been under serious pressure, trying to figure out certain things that had no immediate answers. “Thank you, James. Now, to business. We’ve conducted all the necessary tests on your son. All the results are negative. And after observing him overnight, we did not notice anything unusual. But before I discharge him, I would like to have a word with him.” “Very well, Momodu. And that means there may still be something you wish to cross-check?” Ugwu asked. “Nothing really. Ah! Relax, man. There’s nothing to worry about, absolutely nothing at all. The boy is as fit as a fiddle. It’s just that in my profession 120
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I do like to fraternise with my patients. That way, I get to understand them better. It helps most of the time. So, if you could just give us a few minutes. I want him to feel free when we talk.” “Yes of course.”Ugwu stood up and left, still a wee bit disturbed. He knew Williams very well, and he had absolute confidence in him. The man was always very thorough; never in a hurry and never overlooked any little detail. As he closed the door noiselessly behind him, he was more than convinced that there was something his friend had not said about his son’s health. What that could be and why he chose to keep it from him, he could not fathom. He made his way to the reception, sat down at one corner, crossed one leg over the other and waited, his mind crowded with ugly images. ‘Sefinatu? The river goddess’ daughter who casts spells on children?’ He had heard about it, but could it be true? Did Dr Williams suspect that such a thing might have happened to Amaechi? The 121
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boy’s behaviour last night was sort of strange; like that of one in a state of mental instability. ‘And talking about natives and their beliefs in the supernatural, who is not a native in the first place? You are a native of a village or a city, and then you travel to another place and become a settler. I, James Ugwu, am a native of Obollo, the home of Ulaga, the dreaded masquerades. My people believe that masquerades are spirits of their ancestors. Could that be true? Should I, a university graduate, an engineer who has travelled across the Atlantic, believe that crap? And would it change anything if I did not? Why, O God, is there no proven formula to verify supernatural beliefs?’ So bemused, the hands of sleep came over him subtly like a spell, and in that moment of oblivion, he saw his son, Amaechi, running towards him and screaming, ‘Daddy, I saw her, Daddy I saw her, Daddy I saw her…’ Then he woke up with a start. 122
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Chapter Twelve
A
s soon as the door closed behind James Ugwu, Dr Williams put on his glasses and relapsed into a pensive mood. He still could not understand why he was reluctant to discharge Amaechi. What else did he need to cross-check? Absolutely nothing. Why then this uneasy feeling? He got up and went to the children’s ward upstairs. When he opened the door, the first thing he saw made him happy and then curious. Amaechi was reading, but as soon as he saw the doctor, he quickly hid the book behind his back. “Good morning, doctor,” he greeted quickly. “Good morning, boy,” Williams replied with a broad smile. And much to the boy’s relief, the doctor continued with more pleasantries.
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“Did you sleep well?” “Yes sir, very well.” “Very good. Have you eaten this morning?” “Yes sir. Mummy brought breakfast for me.” “Oh! What exactly did she give you?” “Tea, bread and omelette.” “That’s good. And how are you feeling now?” “Sir, I’m fine. I’m not sick anymore. I want to go home, doctor. Please, tell Daddy to come and take me home.” “ Your daddy is here and you will soon go home.” Amaechi was very happy that he was going home. He was even happier that the doctor did not see the book he was reading. He was not sure that he would approve of the book; and he was absolutely sure that his parents would forbid any book which talks about a spirit that casts spells. After reading Elfinatu at school the other day, all he wanted was to go and see for himself. Looking back now, he wondered what actually must have come over him. The scary picture of the weird old woman had kept coming back to him, making him 124
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more and more curious about Sefinatu. When he saw the book among his personal belongings, which were hurriedly packed in his school bag last night, he could not resist the temptation to read it again. How he wished his parents would never find out that he went to Waterside all by himself. “Yes, you’ll go home,” Williams said trying to read his face. “I don’t have any reason to keep you here any longer.” He looked around the room, and decided that he had to finish with Amaechi before embarking on a ward round. “Give me that book,” he said calmly. Amaechi hesitated, pretending not to understand what he said. “Yes, yes, the book behind your back,” Williams insisted. His heart pounding, Amaechi reached behind his back and produced the book. “Now, let’s go to my office for a little chat before you go with your daddy.” Williams had been suspicious that the boy might be indulging in some obscene literature, but when 125
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he saw the title of the book, Anthology of African Poems by Henry Fletcher, he became interested. The author’s name rang a bell but he could not put a face to it immediately. But why was the boy trying to hide the book? Most children would like their elders to see them reading, unless they were reading something that was forbidden. “What were you reading?” Williams asked when they were seated in his office. “This book,” Amaechi answered, afraid that the doctor might scold him. “I know,” Williams said, still smiling. “I mean, which poem were you reading?” “Elfinatu, on page forty-five.” “Let’s see.” Williams opened page forty-five and began to read. He did not look up until he had read the poem four times, and when he finally did, his face was deadpan. He looked straight at the boy for a second, and then turned away, not wanting to scare him. He was touched by the magic realism in those verses. 126
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He knew deep down that he was not done with the poem yet, so he called his secretary and asked her to make a photocopy of it. Then turning to the boy, he tried to smile but the effort was too obvious, even to the lad in front of him. “That’s a very interesting poem, boy,” he said. “Do you like it?” “Yes, sir.” “Do you understand it?” “I think I do, but it scares me.” “Why does it scare you, boy?” Amaechi twisted in his chair and wrung his hands. “Everything in this poem seems so real and so near,” he said. “How? Come on, tell me. I like poems and I would like to share your feelings with you,” Williams prompted. “Sir, you see, this poem is about our city, Lokoja, and the River Niger and the River Benue. And the title Elfinatu sounds like Sefinatu.” Dr Williams narrowed his eyes in a frown but quickly checked his countenance. “That’s very 127
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correct, boy,” he said, “but what about Sefinatu? I mean who is Sefinatu?” he added casually. “Sir, they say she is the daughter of a goddess that lives in the River Niger.” Williams shifted in his chair like one stung by an ant. “Sefinatu, the daughter of a goddess? Says who?” “Everybody, even my classmates.” Williams was taken aback. What do they teach these children these days, he wondered. “Who is your English Literature teacher?” “Mrs Rebecca Adams.” “The wife of Emmanuel Adams of Peoples Miracle Church?” “Yes sir.” “Does she talk about Sefinatu or Elfinatu in the class?” “She talks only about Sefinatu. She says we should not be afraid of Sefinatu. And she prays for us every day so that Sefinatu would never see us.” “What does she say about Sefinatu?” “She says that Sefinatu is a mermaid of the Niger. That she is an evil spirit.” 128
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“Now tell me, boy, do you believe that there is something called Sefinatu?” “I don’t know, sir, but I wouldn’t want to see her because they say she can cast a spell on school children.” “That’s very interesting, boy, but I think it’s all bullshit, understand? It’s all bullshit,” Williams emphasised. But deep down he was not so sure if he believed what he had just said. “Have you read that poem in your Literature class?” “No, sir, it’s not among our text books.” “How did you come by that book?” “I took it from my daddy’s bookshelf, and I want to recite it at the Young Readers Book Club. Maybe our auntie can explain it to us.” “Yes, I’m sure she will. Now, are you still scared?” “No, sir, but I still don’t know if Sefinatu is the same as Elfinatu.” Williams sat still for a moment. Not so sure himself, he said: “Never mind, boy. I’m sure your auntie will explain everything to you. Now let’s go, daddy is waiting.” 129
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He led the way out to the reception. At sixty-four, Dr Momodu Williams had come a long way in life to know that there are certain things that have no rhyme or reason. Superstition is one, he admitted. You can neither prove nor disprove it. It gnaws at your mind and challenges your intellect. And no matter whom you are, sometimes you are forced to think about it, at other times, you might even be persuaded to believe it. At his ancestral home in Idanre, Ondo State, there was an old mud house in the centre of the compound. It contained artefacts dating as far back as the last five centuries. Women were forbidden to go in there, but only men who had been initiated into Oro cult could. It was believed that the family god resided there. Young Momodu had seen elders go in there, they said, to communicate with their ancestors. He could not make anything out of this tradition, and later in life he doubted if there was any truth in it. He had gone in there several times out of curiosity, but he did not see even the only ancestor he could remember, his grandfather. All he saw 130
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were carved images, animal bones and skulls and assorted artefacts. And much later he dismissed all that as unfounded esoteric belief. Four years after he returned from England, he wanted to demolish that house and build a modern bungalow in its place, but to his surprise, the elders of the family rose up in arms. He might never be able to explain what happened, but he still remembered clearly that after a heated argument with the elders that night, he had developed a very painful stiff neck. It persisted for four days in spite of all medication. He could not turn his head this way or that. On the fifth day, he had to return to Ibadan by public transport, where he worked at Government General Hospital. And no sooner had he stepped down from the bus than the pain dramatically vanished. A week later, a man drove his car down to Ibadan with a letter from his mother. ‘Forget about building at home,’ she wrote, ‘but invest your money in the city.’ It didn’t make sense to him at the time, but he thought it wise to obey his mother. Many a time he had wondered, just as he was doing now, whether there was anything else behind 131
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that stiff neck apart from stress, physical injury or infection. His father used to tell him: ‘son, if you want to learn, you must bend down.’ He had bent down to study medicine in the white man’s land, and he was one of the best among his contemporaries. So what then had he overlooked? After dismissing the boy and his father at the reception, giving the boy a clean bill of health, he returned to the solitude of his office to mull over this matter. He pressed a button on his table and almost immediately, a nurse came in. He looked up from a sheet he had been reading. “Are there still some patients waiting to see me?” he asked. “Yes, sir, but it’s not something other doctors can’t handle. And most of them are out-patients who have come to receive their treatments.” “Thanks for your understanding. Please, refer them to other doctors. I have to attend to some very important matters.” “Yes, sir,” she said. 132
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“And please, I don’t want to be disturbed, understand?” “Yes, sir.” She genuflected and left, closing the door quietly behind her. For a man who believed that life was a continous learning process, Dr Williams was curious. There was something in the offing that needed some time and patience to understand. Even the boy appeared to be struggling with some inner turmoil. At this juncture, it was too risky to jump to any conclusion. He simply knew that Amaechi’s young and inquisitive mind had stumbled upon something he could not understand, and that until that riddle was solved, the boy might continue to suffer emotional stress. If his hunch was anything to go by, this boy might be suffering from post traumatic experience. It would be difficult to explain that to his parents without pointing at any specific incident. Again, he adjusted his glasses and began to pan slowly on his swivel chair, scanning the books that lined the walls until his eyes rested on a row of encyclopaedia. Wonderful treasure, he mused with a smile, as he looked at the brown-leather-covered volumes. 133
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They looked so clean and new, you would think they were offloaded just the other day. But these books had been here for about ten years. He cleaned and dusted them by himself with utmost care. He treasured them far and above all his possessions. As he looked at them now, he remembered a dictum his teacher used to quote ever so often: ‘knowledge is of two kinds; you either know something or you know where to find it.’ Here was where to find the answers he sought - in this cherished encyclopaedia. He selected a volume marked ‘F’ and began to peruse, until he saw a name that sent his heart palpitating. ‘FLETCHER, Henry (1885 -1961)…born in Sussex, England…educated in Sussex and later Oxford…engineer and soldier who later became a literary genius. He fought in North Africa as a cadet, and later commanded a regiment in the West African Constabulary that patrolled the creeks of the Niger Delta between 1915 and 1925. He was believed to have located the headquarters of his force in Lokoja, from where he led expeditions to upper Niger and Benue rivers. At the end of the 134
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Second World War in 1945, he was drafted by the East African Colonial Government, and moved to Tanganyika. There, he was put in charge of Rangers for the protection of wild life in East Africa…he wrote many poems and short stories about Africa; the most popular of which is titled Elfinatu, which won a Golden Pen Award of the London Literary Society in 1935…’ He closed the book quietly and put it back gently in its slot, as though he did not want to disturb the words he had just read. Then he went back to his seat, sat down gently, crossed one leg over the other, and closed his eyes in meditation. But his eyes could not remain closed for long. They had seen something that was going to keep them awake many a night to come. He stared at the ceiling. A wall gecko was inching very slowly towards its prey, the tiny ant only a tongue-shot away from its predator. How close was he to unraveling the mystery of Elfinatu? Was there any substance in it in the first place? “Where will all these lead to?” he muttered to himself. What began like a child’s play with a ten-year old boy had snowballed into a scientific 135
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enquiry; a fairy tale was about to metamorphose into a true life story. “Henry Fletcher is real, as real as the River Niger,” he soliloquised. “He was here, and had seen and heard what he wrote about.” He laced both hands behind his head as several questions raced through his head. ‘Who is Sefinatu? Is it the same person or spirit as Elfinatu? The story is the same, the daughter of a goddess or a mermaid in the River Niger that casts spells on children. Fletcher says it is a flickering light in the river that fills his heart with jitters. Is there any substance in all these? Or was Fletcher simply trying to capture the imagination of the people?’ There came a gentle knock on the door. He was too deep in thought to be angry with the intruder. He just sat there behind his desk, looking utterly vacant. Mary Bassey, his personal assistant, came in. He opened his mouth to speak but the words eluded him. Mary would later play a part in his quest to unravel the mystery of Elfinatu. 136
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I
Chapter Thirteen
t was 4.30 p.m., and a young woman, about twentyfour years of age, was passing through Waterside Market. She was dressed in National Youth Corp Service uniform - light green khaki trousers, a white collared T-shirt and brown canvas boots. A khaki jacket, part of the uniform, was wrapped around her waist in a manner that had become fashionable among female N.Y.S.C. members. Tall, elegant and walking with the grace of a gazelle, she was one of those women who would never pass unnoticed. Her hair, done in brown braids, cascaded down her shoulders, accentuating her light complexion and framing a face that belonged in model magazines. At the crowded market, men stopped in mid sentences to ogle at her, and the womenfolk stared
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with envy - and fear too - for there was something about this stranger that appeared not to belong to ordinary mortals. If she were human, she might have had one easily noticeable physical fault. But this one was dazzling and beautiful beyond description. And in this community, where the apparition of marine spirits was a commonly held belief, not a few people were convinced that this woman surely was one of the children of Annjenu. As they stared at her in silence, they were careful not to look at her feet, for those fine boots bearing the feet surely might not be in contact with the ground. As every one believed, spirits levitate, and whoever tries to see how, dies. One young man, seeing her approach, lost concentration and unconsciously dropped a large fish he was holding before a customer. He stood back, transfixed. A wheel barrow pusher, eyes red with ogogoro and weed, whistled loudly in the brash manner characteristic of his trade. “This market, na wao!” he said. “There is 138
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nothing we no go see. Even mammy water don de wear youth corper uniform de come market.” His colleagues laughed, but when they saw the object of his remark, they held their breath. Ancient African proverb tells you not to laugh at or make uncomplimentary remarks on strangers, for they might be spirits. An elderly man, who was selling fishing hooks and baits, took in all these with the wisdom of the elderly. This was the fifth month of the year, the season of Ekuechi Festival ,when the spirits go down the river, to pay tribute to the Great Queen. Of late, people had been falling ill and dying of strange attacks, and here was this strange beautiful woman walking through the market stalls in broad day light, buying nothing and talking to no one. These were clear signs of the season. He had been trading in this market long enough to know that it was not only human beings that came to buy and sell, but spirits from the river also. Certainly the annual sacrifice had to be made to the goddess of the river so that she and herYaruwa would leave the children of men alone. “These young men might not understand,” he murmured 139
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to himself, as he started packing his wares. He had to go home now and consult with the elders of his community. Conscious of the stares, but oblivious of the disquiet her presence had caused in the marketplace, Mary Bassey continued on her way, a goddess amongst the children of men. Catcalls and embarrassing stares were not new to her, and this afternoon in particular, the object of her mission was all that mattered. Since yesterday, after her brief meeting with her boss, Dr Williams, her heart had been heavy with foreboding. “Yes, Mary?” Williams had queried when she came into his office and interrupted his solitude. She had been with him long enough to know that when Williams talked to you like that, he meant to tell you to go straight to the point and leave him alone. “Sir, I just want to remind you that I won’t be at work tomorrow. We’re going for Community Development Service.” “Oh! Tomorrow is for CDS! I forgot,” he had 140
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said, scratching his head. “No problem, see you on Wednesday then.” “Thank you, sir.” She had wanted to say, ‘sir, you look worried,’ but reading her boss’s face again, she changed her mind and turned to go. “Em, Mary, perhaps you can help me with one little assignment after your CDS tomorrow. Look at this.” He handed her a sheet of photocopied paper. “A poem, for my Young Readers Book Club!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, sir.” “Well, Mary, you better not thank me until you know what it is all about. You’re a literary person. I would like you to go to the locale captured in this poem. Go there just before sunset, look around and when you come back, tell me what you feel.” His face was expressionless as he reclined on his chair and tapped the table with the tip of his finger. Mary opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. She knew her boss. When he was not lecturing you on recent developments in medical science, he would give you a riddle. “But Sir, I don’t understand.” 141
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“Neither do I, but I do believe that when you’re through with this small adventure, both of us may. Just go down to Waterside market, the only road that goes in the opposite direction dead-ends at a cliff head. From there you have a good view of the confluence.” At home that evening, she read the poem twice. She read it again this morning before leaving for CDS. And she read it yet again about thirty minutes ago just before she set out. Now on her way to the cliff head, she was trying to understand what message Fletcher was trying to convey with those verses. ‘Elf, a small imaginary creature, in folklore, believed to have magic powers and causing mischief,’ she mused. ‘The poet also calls it will-o’-the-wisp, also a mystical light seen over marshy lands at night or a mirage, depending on how one interprets it. This might interest children. But besides this, every other element in that poem seems so real. In fact, one might even be tempted to expect to see Elfinatu, whatever it is, standing on some island waving a fiery magic wand. Well, maybe an excursion to the location will provide 142
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answers and then educate these innocent children before they, like their parents, begin to think that bacteria are spirits.’ She chuckled to herself after this analysis. As she crested the cliff head, she saw a desolate hut with a thatched roof standing behind willow fencing. No one seemed to be around, and except for the distant din of Waterside Market, everywhere was completely quiet. She began to walk around the little compound until she came to a narrow gate. Several footmarks, leading into the compound, and tyre marks by the gate, spoke out loud and clear that this little house was frequently visited by many people. She was tempted to go in, but on second thought, she decided against it. ‘One can never tell with these people,’ she reasoned. Although she did not believe in their spirits, she would not want to unnecessarily dare them, particularly at such a lonely place. Turning around, she retraced her footsteps until she saw another structure, a log cabin, perching almost on the edge of the cliff, four bamboo pillars supporting a rust corrugated tin roof. A few steps brought her to this shack. She looked around 143
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cautiously, but there was nobody in it. A smooth well-worn log of wood inside the hut told her that someone used to sit out there. Out of fear or caution or a combination of both, she gave the shack a wide berth and went on to the very edge of the cliff. Dr Williams had said casually: “Look, Mary, these children are afraid that there are spirits chasing after them, and they’re developing dangerous mind sets in the process; just like their parents. I want you to correct that, and this poem is the key. I believe you can get to the root of this poem and then demystify Sefinatu or Elfinatu, whatever you call it. You can catch them young at the Young Readers Book Club, with a new way of thinking and reasoning.” She had agreed totally with her boss, but now, out here in this enchanted wilderness, she did not know where to begin. What exactly did she expect to see? A mermaid holding her magic wand? An elf wearing a mask and playing peek-a-boo? Or Henry Fletcher materialising from the river to tell her that poems are mere expressions of imaginary 144
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pictures in the poet’s mind and that’s all there is about Elfinatu. No, she said aloud, for even the tall willows around her, bowing to the gentle evening breeze, seemed to be reaching out to her with messages that could not be spoken. She was conscious that she was in a dreamland, a poet’s paradise that had opened her senses to feel and see the way she had never experienced before. Then the pieces of the jigsaw began to fall in place. ‘In the local folklore, Sefinatu is the daughter of a river goddess that casts spells on people. She is believed to be formerly mortal. Now Fletcher calls her Elfinatu. Elf is a spirit. Elfinatu could be the poet’s English interpretation of the spirit of Sefinatu.’ For a long moment, Mary stood pondering over this. From where she stood, the expanse of water stretched far and wide. She could see where the two rivers merged into one. The merging line was visible. On one side, the Niger was almost transparent, flowing in gentle rhythm, but on the 145
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other, the Benue was murky-brown, rippling with youthful energy and transporting water weeds. As the two bodies of water collided, forming white foaming waves, she followed the movement with her eyes. Some distance downstream, the waves finally crashed on a small island, whose sandy beach was still visible in the late afternoon sun. It was possible, she reflected, that the deposits from both rivers, over the years, built this island. ‘Why, this must be Ekitiva,’ she almost shouted! Basking in the euphoria of her discovery, time lost its meaning as she stood at the cliff head, trying to absorb what Henry Fletcher saw that inspired him to write Elfinatu. The fishermen on the island were tiny forms of life, busy doing this or that, and from this distance, she could not tell exactly what. On the water, the rest drifted, like any other debris the water transported. And in little waves and foams, the movement of the rejuvenated Niger was a continuous rhythm, the setting sun a kaleidoscope over it. “Poetry is not an abstract subject after all,” she soliloquised. “There is always a real life behind every verse, expressed with images and figures of 146
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speech that give form to emotions and perceptions. And Elfinatu is it,” she concluded. She was still carried away by her discovery, when she heard a cough and a grunt, followed by a feeble cry. Jerked back to reality, she turned, half expecting to see a spirit for the first time in her life. But there were two men instead, supporting a young woman with their shoulders, and moving towards the hut behind willow fencing. The woman was coughing and making choking sounds in her throat. Obviously she was sick. Oh, Mary thought, this must be a native doctor’s abode, for only such could live alone in this wilderness. Feeling that her adventure had paid off great dividends, she felt it was time to go back, joyful that she was now fully prepared to discuss Elfinatu at the next meeting of the Young Readers Book Club. It was dark when she got to the Waterside market. The crowd she saw on her way out had dispersed. During Ekuechi season, the market usually closed before sundown to give Yaruwas a chance to do their own business at night. If she had known this, she would have run. But the loneliness, all the same, made her quicken her steps. Afraid 147
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that someone might spring from the shadows and assault her, she looked over her shoulder. The river was still visible in the afterglow, but Ekitiva Island was already a silhouette. Then she froze. Somewhere on the island, a tongue of light was flickering. It appeared to move whenever she took a step and to stop whenever she stopped. And there was no form of life around it. ‘Whose light is that? Tongues of flame,’ says the poet. The recollection came home to her with a deep sinking feeling. Just at the time she thought she had unravelled the mystery of Elfinatu, and was already contemplating taking her club for an excursion to the cliff head, the flickering light showed up. “This is not true! This cannot be true,” she said repeatedly. But deep down, she thought: ‘this is Africa, religious and mysterious. You can’t just explain certain things unless you want to explain everything away.’ She recalled that in her village at Ikot Abasi in Akwa Ibom State, people also believed in mermaids. She had four tiny razor marks above her breasts. Her mother told her that when she was 148
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born she was so fair and beautiful that the family believed she was not a normal child, but a spirit being. So, they had taken her to a priestess of a river goddess who confirmed that she was, indeed, a mammy water child, and that she would soon die and return to the river. To avert that, the priestess had to make those incisions on her breasts so that when her sister spirits came to take her, they would not recognise her. True or false, she might never know. She would only continue to wonder. ‘Science has proven that illnesses are caused by invisible organisms called bacteria or viruses,’ she reasoned; ‘and psychologists can also prove that certain ill health could be triggered off by fear, anxiety or stress. In all these, where is the place of spirits? But in the villages, elders still discuss matters of the spirit in hushed tones, keeping their knowledge esoteric. If it is true, why keep it secret?’ She looked over her shoulder again to re-assure herself that what she saw before was mere illusion, but lo and behold, the light was still flickering, silent whispers beckoning to mere mortals. 149
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‘Certainly, there is no shadow without an object, and no smoke without fire,’ she reflected sadly, as she hurried up the narrow crooked road, conscious that she had started something she might not be able to finish.
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Chapter Fourteen
E
ngineer James Ugwu, forty-nine, sat on a leather couch in his sitting room and propped up his
legs on a stool in front of him. On the floor beside him lay an empty mug, a soaked tea bag inside it hinting that he had had his breakfast. A three-day stubble on his jaw was already itching, but he was just reluctant to get up and shave. For the past one hour he had been sitting in this position, bored with the world around him. All he had as company were his dog, Lugard, and the late May weaver birds that were chirping merrily from tree to tree outside. ‘How happy they are without a single care in the world,’ he sighed.
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His residence, located in the highbrow area of Lokoja, was an official staff quarters provided by his employer, Ajaokuta Steel Company. It was a four-bedroom detached bungalow with a courtyard in front and a small garden at the back. Many civil servants of his cadre considered him lucky to have that kind of accommodation. But James saw it differently. He felt that he was living in genteel poverty with a very bleak future in spite of his education and determination to work. Since the past three years, activities in the steel company, where he worked as a supervising engineer, had been dwindling, raising speculations that the company might be shut down. Lately, government had been at loggerheads with its foreign technical partners, over allegations that the latter had been keeping the secrets of steel technology close to their chests. On their part, the foreigners had accused government of not keeping to the terms of agreement. All had not been well with the project ever since. 152
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The other day, the Minister of steel said the mill would soon be commissioned and the nation would take its rightful place in the league of technologically advanced countries of the world. The expectant public had hailed him, and more students had enrolled for science courses in the universities. Little did they know that it was all pep talk. As an insider, James Ugwu knew the truth. Recently, he told his colleagues over bottles of beer that no country could develop and run an indigenous enterprise successfully with foreign dependence. “We have to tell ourselves the blunt truth,” he had said. “Technology cannot be transferred. It must be stolen. Japan did it. China did it. India did it. We have to do it. If the cultural societies in my village cannot reveal the secrets of their masquerades, why should Russian scientists reveal the secrets of their steel technology?” To many ears in the beer parlour, he might have sounded flippant. But within himself, he meant every word of what he had said. He had left school with optimism. All he had wanted was to put in his 153
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best as a mechanical engineer and make a good living. He didn’t make it at the Coal Corporation, his first place of work, before the coal industry went belly-up. Now the steel company, his new hope, was no longer promising any future. ‘Is it in my stars,’ he often wondered, ‘or am I in the wrong place at the wrong time?’ In front of him, his television set sat on its stand like an antique black box. He looked beyond the TV stand to an alcove set into the walls of the dining room. There was his bookshelf, stocked with beautiful hardbound books, most of which he bought in Newcastle, England’s home of coal, when he went there for in-service training. None appealed to him. If he had any hobbies at all, reading was not one of them. So he would never know if any of those books were missing or that each time his son, Amaechi, sat cross-legged by the alcove, he was reading a poem from one of daddy’s books, a poem that would boggle his mind. 154
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Work and money had been his main preoccupation until his son suddenly took ill the other day. Although he trusted Dr Williams, he still felt that there was something about his son which the doctor had kept from him. Last night he heard the boy shout, but when he entered his room he saw him sleeping quietly. His sudden illness and dramatic recovery still gave him some concern. Now, to add to his list of worries, Talatu, the eleven-year old daughter of his close neighbour, Ezra Pam, had just died after a brief illness, and people had been pointing accusing fingers in one direction. In a small town, news spread at supersonic speed. He had hardly reached home after his last visit to the hospital when he got the full gist. Talatu was bewitched, everybody said, by the goddess Sefinatu. Since then the whole city had been aflame with fear. ‘Daddy, I saw her. Daddy I saw her. What did my son see, Oh God?’ From his compound gate, a car horn pierced the silence of the late morning, jarring him back 155
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to his immediate surroundings. His dog, Lugard, responded immediately with barking. Ugwu came out to his front porch. A white Mercedes saloon had just turned into the courtyard, its pointer still blinking. Without looking at the number plate, he recognised the car and its owner. As the big car glided towards him, its engine purring and the solid metallic body reflecting the late morning sun, he blinked with a wistful sigh. His Peugeot 504 was parked under an umbrella tree at one corner of the courtyard. He turned to look at it. The two cars were incomparable. His was a common sight on every street; the Mercedes was the big masquerade that appears on special occasions. Lugard was still barking and stalking her quarry. Ugwu had to restrain his emotions and stop his dog before she could harm the visitor. “Hey! Lugard! Lugard!” he shouted. “Come back, come back here!” The dog looked at her master and then at the car and barked again as the car came to a stop about two metres from where he stood. 156
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“Come here, Lugard, go inside,” Ugwu commanded. The dog growled, and then curling her tail between her legs, she ran inside the house still growling. The driver’s door opened with a muffled metallic click. Dr Williams stepped out, a huge man with a broad smile on his face. “That’s a tiger you have there,” he said. “Would have jumped into the car and chewed me raw if the windows weren’t up.” Ugwu just managed to show his teeth in a mirthless chuckle. He was momentarily intimidated by the presence of this man standing in front of him. There was this aura around Dr Williams that made one feel small and insignificant before him. He was solidly built and of impressive height, not very much unlike Ugwu, but the thing about Williams was that he appeared to be made of all the high quality stuff - brain, money, power and, above all, integrity. Envy is all part of human nature, but with deliberate effort, Ugwu checked his emotions. 157
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He knew that his friend had worked for all that he possessed. “How is your second wife?” Ugwu asked, pointing at the Mercedes. “Oh, she is okay, if that’s what you call her now.” They both laughed. Ugwu led the way into the house. “Madam’s out and I don’t know the way to the kitchen, but we have drinks,” he said jovially, as they sat down in his sitting room. “Thank you. Just give me water,” Williams replied. “Water! When did you become a teetotaller?” “You know that I drink beer, and you even know my brand. I’ve not changed. It’s just that I drink only after work.” “I forgot that I was the only one on holidays, and besides, many of your colleagues are becoming advocates of the non-drinking campaign.” “You see, James, we have to be careful not to mislead others because of our own personal reasons. Alcohol is not poison, and it does no harm to the body if taken moderately but provided your body 158
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accepts it. But if taken in excess or against medical advice, it may be injurious to health. It’s a matter of understanding one’s own peculiar condition.” “And where does that leave those of us who never ask our doctors whether we should drink or not?” Ugwu asked jocularly. “You don’t have to ask your doctor that kind of question. And no doctor will ever encourage drinking anyway. It’s safer not to drink than to drink. But regular check-ups will enable your doctor advice you on the state of your health. Then the question as to drink, reduce or stop drinking will naturally arise.” With Williams, there was no dull moment. Within a few moments of his arrival, Ugwu was already in high spirits. He went to the kitchen still beaming with smiles and opened the refrigerator. A shelf of chilled bottles of beer arrested his eyes, but he resisted the temptation. He fetched one large bottle of water and two glasses instead. 159
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“Where’s my friend?” Williams asked, referring to Amaechi. “Oh! That stubborn boy! He’s gone to school.” “How has he been, I mean his health?” “No problem. He’s been okay.” “Did you notice any change in his behaviour?” “Well, no,” he answered cautiously. “I don’t really know what to look out for, but I think I heard him shout in his sleep last night.” “Well, just as I said the other day, I did not see anything medically wrong with him.” Williams paused. Ugwu knew that his friend measured his words whenever he wanted to say something very important, so he sipped his water and waited. “I had a chat with him, you know,” Williams continued. “Precisely, I wanted to know if he was bullied at school, if he saw anything that scared him such as horror films, accidents and things like that. You see, fear, as a matter of fact, can trigger off hormones that may upset the body system. What I’m saying is that the root causes of illness are not always biological.” 160
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“Or spiritual as most of our people still believe,” Ugwu interjected with a chuckle. “Well, you’re right. I know you must have heard that Ezra Pam was the person whose daughter died the other day. The death of that girl is very unfortunate. Her lab test result, which came out ten minutes after her father took her away, pin-pointed the cause of death; but all I can tell you regarding that is that it had nothing to do with spirits. No one has proofs over spiritual claims but we do know through neurological study that emotional conditions such as fear, anxiety and worry can make the body system go haywire, resulting in certain illnesses associated with the nervous system. And when the patient begins to behave abnormally, most of us, for lack of understanding, may ascribe such conditions to spiritual attack.” “Now that she is dead, is her lab test result useless?” Ugwu asked, for lack of something better to say. 161
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“Not at all,” Williams continued. “We’ll still subject that result to further investigation in the light of a recent development. Yesterday I heard over the BBC about an outbreak of Lassa fever in the upper Benue. It’s funny how these things get across the Atlantic before we hear them here. And our government has neither confirmed nor denied it. If that report is true, then all the communities along this river are in potential danger. Perhaps the first signs of an epidemic are already here without our knowing it.” Ugwu knew that there was no stopping Dr Williams once he started, so he tried to change the course of the conversation. “And what did my son say?” “Nothing really,” Williams said. “But I think or suspect that there’s something he does not know how to say or explain, and that might be bothering him.” Ugwu shifted uncomfortably to the edge of his seat, his heart beginning to beat rapidly. He had all 162
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along suspected that Williams had kept something from him. Now he knew. He asked, “What could be bothering a ten-year old boy?” “A lot,” Williams shrugged. “Curiosity, most of the time. Life’s a learning process. For instance, I’m sure you were curious the first time you saw a masquerade, and you might have believed that it was a spirit, and I can say that you slept badly that night.” “You’re perfectly right, but let me ask, for the sake of repetition: what could Amaechi have seen or experienced that made him develop a fever?” “I cannot say for sure if he had seen anything at all. Rather, I would suggest that you help him understand those little things we adults take for granted, but which actually boggle the mind of children. For instance, they have to know that tortoise never spoke to any human being.” They both laughed, and Williams quickly added with some emphasis: “And also that Sefinatu is only a fairy tale. Look at this.” He took a folded sheet of 163
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paper from his breast pocket and gave it to Ugwu. Ugwu read it quickly, and then read it again slowly, pausing after each stanza. When he finally looked up, his face was a study. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to escape through hot breaths. “What’s this supposed to be?” he asked. Since Talatu died, the name Sefinatu has been cropping up in many conversations. And now, Elfinatu? Who is this one? “I don’t think I understand,” he managed to voice out. “I mean, poetry is not my area, and the subject of this piece, perhaps, has added to the confusion. I mean, what’s all these stuff about Sefinatu and now Elfinatu?” Williams noticed that his friend was no longer at ease, so he quickly added, “You see, we can never tell exactly what these children are exposed to everyday. Parents leave the house in the morning for work and do not come back until late in the evening. A television is in every home. Children visit friends and exchange VCDs. How can parents monitor 164
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these things? The answer is they cannot, and the danger is that there are many harmful programmes on VCDs out there for children to pick up.” “That’s true,” Ugwu said defensively, “but what about this poem? My boy told me that you discussed poems with him. Is this one of them?” “Yes, we discussed a poem, this poem. I saw him trying to hide the book, so I became curious. I thought it was something a child should not read, but I discovered it was a wonderful piece of literature written by a colonial master who once lived here. You must have read Henry Fletcher?” “No,” Ugwu said, still looking bemused. “But it’s your book. I photocopied this page from it. You scribbled your signature on the title page as well as the date you bought it in Newcastle, England.” “I can’t remember. It’s been a long time. And poetry is just something I have always hated, even as a college student.” 165
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“You should be interested in this one,” Williams said, tapping the arm of his chair for emphasis. “Why should I?” Ugwu returned, conscious that his friend was a master of riddles. “Because your son, Amaechi, has read it and he thinks that Sefinatu is the same spirit as Elfinatu. And like every other child, he is afraid of the spirit that casts spells on children. It is this fear, I suspect, that gave him gooseflesh and a fever.” Ugwu sat forward, spilling his water in the process. His eyes popped out of their sockets, as the events of that night began replaying in his mind. ‘Daddy I saw her, Daddy I saw her...’ ‘Who did you see, my son?’
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Chapter Fifteen
S
am Durueke, a cub reporter with Daily Witness, also listened to the BBC 6 a.m. news. The bit about the outbreak of Lassa fever in the Upper Benue caught his interest. For the past two years since he joined the newspaper, he had come to rely on BBC for his leads. Although he shared the general perception that the foreign media give only a bird’s eye view of events in Africa, and most of the time tend towards the negative, he also agreed that there had never been smoke without fire. Last year, BBC reported that a plane on a local flight from Lagos to Calabar was missing two hours after take-off. The news remained hearsay, until forty-eight hours later when the aviation ministry confirmed that the plane had actually crashed
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twenty minutes after take-off. It took twelve days to locate the wreckage in a forest, somewhere in Cross Rivers State. Now, with the BBC report, he believed that major news was about to break, and he wanted to be there when it would happen. He left his house by ten that morning, one hour earlier than usual, for his office at Maryland, Lagos. The Editor of Daily Witness, Tunji Johnson, was at his desk picking his teeth when Sam breezed in. On the editor’s desk, was a plastic plate still sticky with remnants of amala and ewedu soup. Beside the plate were two crumpled water sachets with oily stains. A bunch of newspapers, strung together, took up the other side of the table. This man never missed a meal. And he had made it clear to everyone that he didn’t care about adding one more pound. A pot belly and distended cheeks at thirty-six were there to prove his point. 168
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“Yes, Sam,” Johnson said, ignoring all the mess on his table. His experience on the job over the years had taught him to read faces, and most of the time he was not wrong. “Good morning, sir.” “Morning, Sam. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Sam laughed. “No, sir,” he said, “but BBC reported this morning an outbreak of Lassa fever in the Upper Benue.” Johnson removed the toothpick from his mouth and dropped it into the dirty dish on his table. “Lassa fever, another epidemic?” “Yes sir, in some communities along River Benue.” “Lassa fever?” he repeated. “I didn’t hear it.” “Sir, I heard it clearly and… “I know, I know, Sam. Oh God! What was the last epidemic and where?” “Sir, it was Cerebro-Spinal Meningitis, in Yobe. That was last March.” 169
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“Yeah, I remember. Punch reported that about 300 people died, even though government later denied it. Is there any death in the present case?” “Thirty-five, sir, but BBC said the figure might just be the tip of the iceberg. But you know these foreign media. They tend to exaggerate everything bad about Africa.” Mr Johnson was no longer listening. He had a long nose for news, and he could smell it miles away. He swivelled round in his chair, facing a map of Nigeria on the wall behind his desk. Then he picked up a marker and began to trace the course of River Benue from the upper Mambilla Plateau down to where it joins River Niger at Lokoja. “You know what, Sam? It’s better to go there and confirm that there’s no truth in the BBC report than to sit down here and speculate. That’s your job, and you better get at it before another person does. So, you’re travelling this afternoon to Abuja by air. From there, you will connect Lokoja by road. Take it up from there and go up the river.” 170
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“By boat?” “Of course by boat. That’s the only way to reach the communities and get first hand information. I just hope that others don’t beat us to it like they did on the plane crash.” “I’ll do my best, sir.”
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Chapter Sixteen
T
he afternoon flight from Lagos to Abuja was very smooth. On arrival, Sam pushed his way quickly through the hall to the taxi rank. He knew he still had two hours journey by road to Lokoja. He had one leg inside the taxi when he heard sirens wailing. He stepped out of the cab and saw a convoy of black jeeps and pickups racing towards the presidential wing of the airport. The journalist in him was awakened. He commandeered the driver to follow the convoy. Four official government cars cordoned off the entrance to the presidential wing of the airport, their beacon lights flashing. Beside the cars stood three mobile policemen, armed with side arms, grenades and AK-47 rifles. Two plain clothes
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security personnel were moving hither and thither, talking into their walkie-talkies. A bulky policeman in well-starched uniform stood sentry at the door, his rifle held menacingly. Sam approached him, greeted him and showed him his ID. The policeman took it and studied it for some moments. “Reporter from Daily Witness, eh?” he asked. “Yes,” Sam answered. “How am I sure you are from there?” “I’m assuring you, but you can phone my office.” “Where is your office?” “Lagos, the address and phone number are on the ID.” “All the way from Lagos to write your nonsense.” He threw the card back at Sam and waved him in. Without a word, Sam bent down and picked up his ID from the ground and entered the lounge. ‘Soon,’ Sam swore, ‘all this intimidation and disrespect for journalists will stop.’ The new Minister of Information was a journalist with many years experience and he would ensure just that. 173
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Mr Jombo Morrison, Minister of Information,
had been, until six months ago, the news editor of Daily Witness. Sam met Jombo for the first time during his internship training at the Witness. “Jamboree,” as he was fondly known, was a senior reporter then. When Sam joined the tabloid two years later as a staff, they were all members of the same newsroom crowd, until Jombo was elevated to news editor and given a private office. And even after that, Jombo still interacted and shared everything with other reporters as pals. Jombo’s stay at the news editor’s desk was brief. His brother-in-law was the national chairman of the ruling political party. That gave him access to privileged information and major scoops. And through that connection also, Jombo was appointed special adviser to the president. And not long after, there was a cabinet reshuffle in the presidency, and he was elevated to the post of minister. 174
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Daily Witness had written a glowing editorial, extolling the choice of a journalist for the post of Minister of Information. Who was better qualified, the paper had argued, than a mass communication graduate who had risen through the ranks in journalism? In fact, the entire members of the fourth estate of the realm had every reason to celebrate. For over a decade, the Freedom of Information Bill had been in the chambers of the national legislature, gathering dust. No law maker had had the conviction or political courage to push it. Each administration came, pussyfooted around it, and went without passing it into law. Now, at last, here was a man, a true son of the profession, who was going to ensure a free flow of information, and put an end to the harassment of journalists. Sam quickly scribbled the minister’s name among his itinerary on this trip. The press gallery in the arrival hall was a raised platform, which looked more like a wide balcony. A few reporters sat on plastic chairs, drinking 175
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coke or fiddling with their mobile phones. Sam wondered for how long they might have been waiting for whoever was being expected. He was about to ask one of them when the door leading to the tarmac suddenly flew open and two men in dark suits came in, surveying the whole lounge from behind dark goggles. It was obvious that they were security men attached to the personality that was arriving. Immediately, the bulky policeman guarding the entrance to the hall sprang to attention. There followed a flurry of movements, and in a few minutes the personality being awaited, sandwiched by his entourage, sauntered in. A broad smile lit up Sam’s face when he saw that it was no other person than Jombo Morrison, his pal and former colleague. The minister was attired in an ash-coloured tunic gown, trousers and a black wide-brimmed hat. He had a walking stick, and was walking with an affected swagger and self-assured confidence that was not in his mannerisms at Daily Witness. In the surging crowd, the policemen were busy clearing the way for him with horse whips. 176
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Sam was amused by all this apparent display of power. With all the policemen forming a barricade, it was difficult getting close to him. Sam was not perturbed about that. This was his man, his colleague, his friend and he would beckon him as soon as he made eye contact. Just by the door, one reporter dared the horsewhip and managed to thrust a microphone to the minister’s face.
“Sir, is it true that there’s an outbreak of Lassa
fever in the Upper Benue?” The self-assured smile left the minister’s face immediately. He turned and faced the speaker. “You guys are at it again. Where did you get that information?” he queried. “From a reliable source, sir,” another reporter answered quickly. “I should have known that your sources are always reliable. But, please, it is too early to 177
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speculate on a matter so sensitive. I suggest that you wait for government to make an official statement.” “Thank you sir, but BBC reported it and government has not confirmed or denied it.” “I thought your almighty BBC was busy reporting wars in Afghanistan,” he said with an angry smile on his face. “But, anyway, wait for government’s official statement.” “Sir, we would like the public to know what government is doing to safeguard lives…” “Government is doing something. We are always doing something to safeguard lives in the event of outbreak of diseases.” “Sir, would you say that the Ministry of Health handled the outbreak of Cerebro-Spinal Meningitis last March, properly?” another reporter threw in. “I would say yes, even though that is outside my portfolio. But I would also say that you press guys should exercise restraint and fairness in your assessment.” 178
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“Sir, what can you say about the allegation of missing one hundred million naira worth of CSM vaccines?” “That’s what I’m saying; it remains a mere hearsay until someone proves it otherwise.” Sam now managed to push his way to a vantage position from where he could make eye contact. He lifted his hand, smiled and winked, but the minister did not show any sign of recognition. Obviously the heat was on him, Sam reflected. He might not have expected the press to be waiting for him, let alone asking him questions that should have been directed at the Minister of Health. And being new on the job, Sam felt that his friend needed to get used to facing the micropone. All the same, Sam said: “Sir, it is said that about thirty-five people have died from the Lassa fever epidemic. Are you aware of that?” The question seemed to have touched a raw nerve. The minister looked at him straight in the eye, angry veins standing out on his neck. 179
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“About thirty-five people? There you go again with your reliable speculation. I still suggest that you wait for government’s official statement. But I can assure you that everything is under control.” With that, he pointed the way with his walking stick, and his policemen picked up their horsewhips once again to clear the way. Sam stepped to one side just in time before the bulky policeman had the excuse to push him. Sam was speechless as he watched the minister go. He stood rooted on the spot, replaying in his mind the drama that had just taken place. Was that Jombo’s script or the script of those that employed him? “That was not Jamboree,” he said, as he headed out to the taxi park.
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Chapter Seventeen
T
he airport taxi pulled up in front of a massive building. “Oga, this is Federal Secretariat,” the driver said. “Oh! Thank you,” Sam replied. “Where’s minister’s office?” “They plenty. Which minister you wan see?” “Minister of Health.” “I don know. Many minister get office here. You can ask that gate man over there,” the driver said, pointing. “Ok, thank you.” Sam paid off the driver and ducked out of the cab. All the way from the airport, Sam was captivated by the beauty and grandeur of the new Federal capital and the massive construction work still going on.
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Now, at the very centre of it all, he stood rooted and overawed by the sights and sounds around him. In front of him, the Federal Secretariat complex stood like a giant model on display, with several wings jotting out in several directions. Sam had been to the former Federal Secretariat in Lagos, and had even considered it one of the largest buildings in the country, but what stood before him now was a masterpiece in design, gargantuan in concept and awe-inspiring in its complexity. He stood there, looking from left to right, up and down, and imagining the architectural intellect that conceptualised this edifice. ‘Federal might,’ he whistled softly. On impulse, he brought out his camera and took a few shots, and then stopped. Something was out of place, he thought; ‘where are the people?’ It was just 3.20 p.m. and he had expected to see many people streaming in and out of the headquarters of the Federal Civil Service. The vast car park to his far left was virtually empty, except for a few cars. There were two women in brown 182
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veils sauntering towards the gate where he stood. A sprinkler was watering the lawn in front of one of the numerous wings of the complex, but he could not see the person tending to it. Behind him, clean beautiful automobiles whizzed past with hardly any noise to disturb the peace. Otherwise, the magnificent edifice just stood there like a mammoth ocean cruiser on display. “Oga, can I help you?” Startled, he turned to see a policeman standing behind him, his right arm dangling close to his side arm. Two chevrons on his arm showed that he was a corporal. “Oh! Officer, good afternoon.” “Afternoon. What’s the problem?” “Ah! No problem. I was just going to see the minister.” “Which minister?” the policeman queried in an authoritative tone. “Minister of Health,” Sam replied calmly. 183
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“Do you have an appointment with him?” “Not really, I...” “Why are you photographing the building?” the policeman interrupted impatiently. “I saw you snap this house many times. Wetin you wan take am do?” Sam’s experience with the policeman at the airport was still fresh in his mind, and he did not want to give this one any chance to mess him up. “Officer, this is a public building and I have a right to photograph it,” he said. “This man, you wan enter trouble? First, you say you wan see minister. And when I ask whether you have appointment, you say you no have appointment. Now you talk say you have right to snap this house.” “You’re right, officer. I have a right to photograph a public building, and I want to see the Minister of Health. Can you direct me to his office?” Sam said boldly. “This man, you still de talk? Let me see your appointment letter or I will take you to the station.” 184
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Sam ignored the threat. “Officer, I know you’re
not the minister’s receptionist or secretary. Please, just direct me to the minister’s office and I will sort out the issue of appointment with his secretary.” “You want to teach me my job, eh? You want to teach me my job?” The policeman was visibly angry now, but Sam knew from experience that he was just trying to intimidate him. “I cannot teach you your job, officer, but you’re not allowing me to do mine either.” “Mister man, who are you? Are you a lawyer?” “I’m Sam Durueke, a journalist from Daily Witness, Lagos.” He brought out his ID and waved it in the policeman’s face. The policeman took a step backwards, obviously convinced that the man standing in front of him had the minister’s consent to see him. “Why you no tell me since say Oga wan see you? Some of you just de look for trouble.” 185
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“Because you didn’t allow me. You’ve been asking me too many questions.” “Anyway, Oga don close and he don go.” “Then I’ll see his secretary.” “Everybody don go. This is after three, and today na Friday. Na only security remain.” Sam did not need any more convincing; he had heard that many civil servants in Abuja absented from work on Fridays, but he never knew that the absenteeism could be so total. Without another word, Sam turned around and hailed the next taxi. “Area One,” he said to the cab driver.
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Chapter Eighteen
A
t Area One garage, the next bus to Lokoja was a Toyota Hiace painted green-white-green. A man and a woman were seated closely to each other on the front passenger seats. Sam took a seat behind them. The woman was sobbing bitterly, while the man tried to console her. Obviously they were husband and wife. Another woman, sitting beside Sam, reached out from time to time to pat her shoulder and mumble some sympathetic words. Sam could not understand what she was saying because she spoke in her native language, but he knew that the woman was grieving over some serious matter. Wearied by disappointment at the airport and the Federal Secretariat, Sam leaned back on his
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seat, minding his own business and trying to take stock of what he had experienced since he arrived in Abuja. He was, in fact, longing for a bed to lie down on and ponder over what might have informed the minister’s disdainful attitude to former colleagues. ‘Was that Jombo’s own cruel idea of showing off his newly acquired power or was it a grand design of those who employed him to keep the public in the dark? Is it true then that a friend in power is a friend lost?’ He was still lost in thought when the bus turned left into Kaduna - Lokoja highway. Just before Gwagwalada, a large herd of cattle was crossing the road. Sam expected the bus driver to slow down and let the animals pass. Instead, the driver put his thumb on the horn button and continued driving at the same speed until the animals scattered on both sides of the road. The bus fender barely missed the last cow by a hair’s breadth. The Fulani herdsman waved his stick threateningly at the speeding vehicle and shouted “shege mutumu.” 188
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“Driver, be careful,” an elderly passenger cried. “Don’t mind him, na him go die,” another shouted angrily. If the driver heard or understood his passengers’ protestation, he did not show any sign of it. The vehicle hurtled on as if it was on autopilot. Sam leaned forward to voice his own complaint, but when he saw what was dangling under the steering wheel, he sighed instead. ‘Nigerian commercial drivers are the same everywhere, he mumbled to himself. They bet their lives on coloured pieces of cloth tied together with copper wire, and still they die or get injured in road accidents every day; their talisman notwithstanding.’ On the map, Lokoja appears to be almost within the Federal Capital Territory, a few minutes shuttle by cab. Sam would soon know that it takes two and a half hours - and nerve - to connect the two places. Gwagwalada…Kwali…Abaji…and so the villages flew by as light gave way to dusk and dusk gave way to darkness, and yet there was no sign of Lokoja. 189
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The single-lane federal highway snaked around hills, down valleys and through many villages with several intersections. The vehicular traffic was heavy and chaotic. And driving in pitch darkness against on-coming headlamps added to the nightmare. Since 1991, when the seat of government officially moved from Lagos to Abuja, there had been media campaigns clamouring for the government to make this road a dual carriageway, some describing it as a death trap, others saying it was all evidence of government’s insensitivity to the plight of the masses. Recently, a minister lost his life along this road when his jeep hit a pothole and went flying over the edge of a precipice. “Perhaps now that an important personality has fallen victim of the death trap,” a newspaper editorial said sarcastically, “the government may begin to appreciate what the masses of this country go through every day.” Sam remembered this editorial and several other reports that appeared to have fallen on deaf ears. Now, he would add his own account to the campaign 190
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“ I’m going to present my own story from a new angle,” he swore silently. “I’m going to scream with pictures and other lurid details until the government in Abuja wakes up from its slumber.” He brought out his camera from his briefcase, poised for snap shots he was going to use some day for travelogue in his newspaper. Behind him, a woman cleared her throat loudly, interrupting his thoughts. “Praise the Lord,” she said. “Praise the Lord everybody,” she repeated. “Alleluia,” almost all passengers answered. It was obvious that nobody was in the mood to listen, but everybody responded all the same because keeping quiet might give a wrong impression. But the woman in the front seat continued crying. The journey was taking much longer than Sam had anticipated, and driving along this everbusy highway in semi-darkness, and then total darkness, was a nerve-wracking experience. Now the voice of the preacher behind him was adding to his discomfort. How could anybody listen to 191
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her preaching when they held their hearts in their hands as the bus driver dared oncoming headlamps without yielding? And what was more irritating; her bad English or the catalogue of woes she reeled out as punishment for those who did not accept her message? “Hell fire is real,” she said again and again. “Repent, for the kingdom of God is near. Harden not your heart...blah, blah, blah.” It was 9.15 pm when Sam was awakened by a sudden jolt that rattled the loose window glasses. He hardly knew he had dozed off. The mini-bus head lamps had picked up the railings of Murtala Mohammed Bridge over the River Niger. This landmark told him he was close to his destination. A little after the bridge, the bus pulled up by the side of the road. The couple in front alighted. The man lifted their luggage on to his shoulder and put a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulder. Sam and other passengers watched them disappear into 192
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a narrow footpath that led into the bush. The woman sitting beside Sam sighed and shook her head. “This life,” she said. “You know them?” Sam asked. “That woman is my sister,” she said. “She just lost her son.” “Oh! What a pity,” Sam said. “What happened to him?” “My brother, they said it was a fever. That’s what they call it,” she sighed and continued to shake her head. On hearing the word, fever, Sam became alert, but he quickly checked his reaction. “Oh! Sorry. How old was the boy?” “He would have been fourteen in July.” “Did he receive proper medical attention?” She turned to look at Sam, and spoke almost in a whisper: “You may not understand. This fever is not an ordinary fever. Strange things happen during this season every year.” 193
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Sam was straining his ear to hear more when the bus stopped inside the Lokoja garage. The woman picked up her hand bag and was gone even before he could say goodbye. He slowly got down from the vehicle, bemused by what he had just heard. It is often said in journalism parlance that reporters have a long nose for news. Sam was already beginning to smell something. The crowd at the garage reminded him of a typical bus stop in Lagos: bus conductors shouting their destinations, vehicles pulling in and out, hawkers crying their wares and music blaring from giant loud speakers. With travellers streaming in from East, West and North twenty-four hours everyday, Lokoja is one city that never sleeps. A brief case in one hand and a jacket over his shoulder, Sam pushed his way into Madam Chichi Food Canteen. A huge fair-complexioned woman, seated by the door, greeted him with a big smile. 194
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“Oga, welcome,” she said. “Come inside. We have akpu, garri, rice, beans, egusi soup, bitter leaf soup, draw soup, hot pepper soup, fish pepper soup and goat head, and our drink cool well- well.” Sam was not in the mood to make a choice. All he needed was some food in his tummy, two tablets of pain reliever to stop the headache and a bottle of beer to relax his nerves. About twenty minutes later, he checked into one of the numerous cheap hotels that lined the highway. He changed into a casual wear and then strolled down to the bar for the last ritual after a hectic day. The bottle of beer on his table was half way down when he caught himself nodding. Not wanting to waste it, he lifted the bottle and guzzled the contents, and then belched. Back in his room, he dropped into a creaking bed with a thud. The noise of heavy trucks on the highway notwithstanding, he drifted off to sleep almost immediately. 195
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Chapter Nineteen
K
ing Tobias Chenge, the Agaba Idu of Zugbo Kingdom, tossed restlessly on his bed that night. The distant wailing and lamentation continued to drift into his bedroom through the small window above his bed. He had tried to shrug it off but when death knocks at the door, no one sleeps. The day before, a palace official had come running to report strange deaths at Adusu, a neighbouring village along the river. A family of four, he said, had fever and rashes, and before anything could be done, they died one after another. Another woman had gone to bed with a headache, joint pains and fever and did not wake up in the morning. Some Fulani herdsmen had abandoned
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their cattle and fled when a boy who had come to fetch water from the river suddenly fell under a seizure. “What happened to them?” King Chenge had asked. “It’s strange, Your Highness. The native doctors are consulting the oracles,” the man answered. “Were they sick?” “They all had rashes on their bodies, and then fever.” The king bent his head in thought. “How is the river?” he asked. “Your Highness, the flood is coming with the strange grass.” The king got up from his bed. “This is the fifth month,” he muttered. “The flood without rain, carrying the floating grass, and now, in the dark silence of the night some people are wailing and the animals are barking. TheYaruwa are asking for the annual sacrifice. Sefinatu is on the prowl. Death is imminent.” 197
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He groped about until he found his flashlight. And from a small shelf above his bed, he took a round, carved wooden vessel containing kola nuts, alligator pepper, dried fish and white earthen chalk. A wrapper around his waist, he went to the door, unbolted it gently and went outside. A full moon, to the western horizon, bathed the whole compound with subdued light. It would have been a peaceful night but for the wailing and barking that kept increasing in intensity with every stir of the night air. His compound was a large circular parcel of land that stood on a high ground well away from the farmlands and flood basins of River Benue. The main palace building stood in the middle of the compound facing the entrance. Each of his seven wives had a hut of her own, all behind the main palace building, and behind them was a large barn. At the centre of the open space between the main building and the entrance was a tree overshadowing a small hut, the palace shrine. He inherited this 198
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from his father and he would pass it on to his eldest son. His chicken had found this tree a comfortable place to roost. The king made his way to the shrine. He squatted in front of it and held out the wooden vessel and began to make supplications. “God of my ancestors,” he prayed, “my father gave me this vessel which his father gave him. I come to you with utmost humility, and reverence. I believe that he who is overseeing my household, and my kingdom, is greater than any being. I offer you this early breakfast as my father instructed me, just as his own father taught him. Accept this little gift from your humble son who is now on the throne to perpetuate this lineage.” He picked the contents of the vessel, item by item, and placed them gently at the feet of carved images in the shrine. “Death stalks the land,” he wailed. “You can hear your children crying. Wake up and eat! Wake up, O’ Agaba Idu, and draw your sword! It’s time to go to battle!” 199
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With agility not common to a man at fifty, he sprang to his feet, leapt up and seized a cockerel from a low branch of the tree above the shrine. Weakened by the heavy night dew, the bird could do no more protest than a chuckle and flapping of his wings before the king severed his neck with a brutal force of his bare hands. “I wring their necks and bring the blood to you,” he continued as he sprinkled the bird’s blood on the images. “In the same manner, you will wring the necks of our enemies and sprinkle their blood on our land. But their blood will not bring a curse to the land; it will fertilise the land. The barren woman who steps on it shall conceive; the pregnant woman who steps on it shall give birth; and the seed planted on it shall grow to feed the land. Agaba Idu! Agaba Idu! Agaba Idu…” Petition done, the king took the carcass and deposited it beside the door post of his eldest wife’s hut. When she woke up later in the morning she would see it, smile and call her children to 200
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make a fire. In this land, polygamy still had some privileges if you were the first wife. * * * In the wee hours of the morning, a canoe left Munai village by the bank of River Benue with three men on board. It negotiated the rocky headland and headed out to the open confluence. Its movement was slow and unsteady because the current was strong and the old man who was paddling it was having difficulty concentrating. At any other time, he would have done it with relative ease. The sudden flood and the water weeds it carried were normal signs of the season to which he was used. Though ominous, he never envisaged that they would bring to his house the prospect of death. He bent down to look at the object of his worry. On a wooden plank in the middle of the canoe, lay his son. Except for occasional moans and heavy breathing, no sound was coming from him. Several people had died since the flooding started, and many 201
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were still sick. The old man was not convinced his son would make the journey to the hospital alive. But for the insistence of the other man, he would have been heading to the cliff head, to consult Mai Karfi over his sick son. Ekuechi Festival was close, everyone knew, and the Yaruwa were yearning for the annual sacrifice. At the nose of the canoe, the second man sat, looking vacantly at the moving water lit by the pale early morning moon. To say that he was worried was an understatement. The events of the past few hours had made him realise that life was but a breath, and that a little pause in rhythm could take it away. He wished he could urge the old man to move faster, but he dared not. It had taken a lot of persuasion and even threat to make him agree to go to hospital in the first place. He believed that if the sick young man could make it to the hospital across the river, he might live. From the confluence, the River Niger, lit by the pale early morning moon, shone like a highway 202
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paved with grey ash. In front of them, Ekitiva Island was a dark shadow some distance downstream. Across the river, the lights of Lokoja city beckoned, lifting the other man’s hope. But from the back of the canoe, the old man was looking at a flickering light on the island, which confirmed his suspicion. Sefinatu had visited his son in spite of his regular sacrifices. ‘Ah! My enemies have invoked the goddess against me.’ Tears welled up in his eyes as they moved on in silence, heading to the western bank of the Niger, each man occupied with his own thoughts. *
*
*
In Lagos, Tunji Johnson woke up that morning with a groan when the alarm clock chimed six. His throat was dry and his head ached badly. Yesterday night, he had taken six bottles of beer and cat fish pepper soup after editorial board meeting. It all felt 203
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so good then, but the hangover and sobriety that followed early this morning had left a sour taste in his mouth. Worse still, there was no time to sleep off the hangover. He would have slept till nine o’clock but for the need to listen to BBC morning news. His bedroom was still dark, but he knew exactly where the small radio was. He reached out and switched it on and began to turn the dial. After some static, a clear English voice came on to announce the time and the morning programme schedule. Tunji was having difficulty listening. His head was aching so badly and he was feeling so dizzy as though his brain had turned into a pool of water and a cat fish was swimming inside it. He almost missed the news as he drifted in and out of sleep. “…The death toll from Lassa fever continues to rise in the villages along River Benue in Nigeria,” the news caster said. “So far, about 150 people have died. Our correspondent in Abuja, Nigeria’s capital city, says the disease is spreading in the communities 204
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along the river and that people downstream are in potential danger. The Minister of Information, Mr Jombo Morrison, when interviewed by our reporter at Abuja airport, neither confirmed nor denied the outbreak of the epidemic. The Minister of Health was said to have travelled to Singapore to attend an international conference on tropical diseases…” “So it is true,” Tunji said. When a drunken newsman gets a lead, he shakes off his drunkenness. To Tunji Johnson, this was more than a lead; it was happening at his backyard. Though BBC news had short-changed his sweet early morning sleep, nothing was going to stop him from getting the news firsthand. He got up from bed with some effort and staggered to the loo. Bent over the toilet basin, he inserted a finger down his throat. He retched and croaked and choked, but nothing came up. Inside his head, the cat fish continued to swim.
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Chapter Twenty
F
rom a nearby mosque, the muezzin’s cry pierced the early morning air, rousing Sam from sleep. He sat up on the bed, rubbing his eyes and wondering how he had managed to fall asleep in the first place. The huge trucks were still roaring and hooting on the highway outside his hotel window, and an early morning preacher was clanging his bell, calling on people to repent of their sins or face hell fire. He groped for the light switch and then clicked, but no light came on. This was not strange to him; power failure had become the norm rather than exception everywhere in the country. What he could not accept, however, was that the hotel had
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no generator or that the generator was not on in a country where it had been accepted as standard. He parted the window blinds and opened the window. The grey light of dawn illuminated the room, and with it came the early morning smoke from wood fire and the smell of cooking. Lokoja was awake. On a small table beside the bed, his trousers and jacket lay in a heap, exactly the way he had left them before dropping off to bed. He stood up, stretched and yawned and then went into the tiny cubicle that was the toilet. A large plastic bowl of water took up most of the floor space and beside it was an empty plastic bucket, a clear message that there was no water from the faucet. Same story, he mused, except that in Lagos most households had private boreholes as main sources of potable water, and that too, had become standard and normal. Dressed, he groped his way to the reception. Sprawled on a long couch was the night duty staff, snoring away like one in a drunken stupor. On a 207
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stool beside the couch were four empty bottles of beer and a newspaper wrapping with remnants of suya. No doubt, the man had taken good care of himself before dropping off to sleep. Sam wanted to wake him up but decided not to, for if he had taken all that was evidenced on that stool, he really needed to sleep off the hangover. He dropped his room key on the reception counter and unbolted the front door. The garage was already busy with human and vehicular traffic. To one side, a group of women were pounding yam in a wooden mortar and singing. As he walked by, someone called from inside the restaurant “Oga, good morning. Food is ready. Fufu, eba, pounded yam, rice, beans and plantain.” Sam never liked heavy food in the morning, so he moved to a mai shayi stand and ordered a cup of tea, bread and omelette. When he tasted it, he found the omelette too dry and the tea too sweet, but he ate it all the same. It was still better than stuffing his tummy with fufu or going out with an empty stomach. 208
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Breakfast over, he went to the next shop and bought two bottles of whiskey. It had occurred to him that he might have an opportunity to interview one chief or another, and he knew that in the village you don’t visit a chief empty-handed. It was still too early at the Waterside Market when he got there. The narrow beach was deserted and the expanse of water was still covered by early morning mist. The okada rider, who brought him there, hardly waited to collect his fare before zooming off. Sam thought he saw a glint in the man’s eyes that was not there before. Maybe the man was afraid or suspicious, Sam thought. He did not know that during Ekuechi season, Waterside Market closes before sundown and opens after sun-up. So, he stood there on the beach, briefcase in hand, and waited for somebody to show up. The raging river currents, rolling over each other and crashing at the river bank, and the whiff of cold, moist air that came with them were 209
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not pleasant to the ear and body at this hour. They carried a chill that could only be felt deep down the spine. Finally, a man came. On seeing Sam, he stopped and looked from left to right, obviously frightened by the presence of a total stranger here at this hour. He was about to turn and flee when Sam threw a greeting. “Good morning, sir,” he greeted. “Morning, sir,” the man replied. “How is work?” Sam asked. “Fine.” “And how is your family?” “They’re fine.” Silence. The man was looking at Sam suspiciously, scrutinizing him from head to toe, as though it was not common to see a well-dressed man clutching a briefcase so early in the morning by the river side. Sam could still recall the glint in the okada rider’s eyes and now this man’s caginess. He knew that something was wrong somewhere. But what he 210
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might never know was that it was believed that when some Yaruwa get lost in the market, they assume the form of human beings until their fellow spirits come and lead them back to the marine kingdom. Sam noticed the fear and suspicion and quickly tried to douse them. “I want to hire your canoe for the whole day.” “Where do you want to go?” he asked, cringing away. “Just up the river. I want to see some villages along the river.” The fear had become pronounced with his jaw muscles twitching. “The current is too strong, and I cannot paddle up river alone,” he said and turned to go. “Hey, wait a minute,” Sam said. “My name is Sam Durueke. I’m a journalist from Daily Witness, Lagos.” He brought out his ID. “Daily Witness?” 211
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“Yes, Daily Witness. Have you read it, I mean have you heard about it?” The man chuckled, and Sam noticed in that instant that he was beginning to thaw. “I’ve seen it and I’ve read it. I went to college, up to class four.” “You did? Why did you stop?” “Because of family matters.” “What kind of family matters?” Sam insisted. The fear and suspicion crept back on the fisherman’s face. He began to retreat into his shell, but Sam did not want to let go. He knew that rustic folks like this could innocently lead a resourceful reporter to a scoop. “Well, eh…what’s your name?” “My name?” he hesitated. “Jacob.” “Jacob! So you’re a Christian.” “Ah-ah! I was baptized by a reverend father.” “Na wao, Jacob. Do you still go to church?” “E don tey. Na since I leave school.” “Is it because of same family matter?” “Yes, it’s because of same family matter.” 212
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“And you still don’t want to talk about this
family matter?” “No be so. It’s just that there’s not much to tell. See, my father had four wives and eighteen children. I’m the first male child. When he died, I inherited his responsibilities, most especially the family shrine. I cannot do these things if I school too much and live in the city. My brothers and sisters who followed the white man’s ways have all left the land.”
“I see, Jacob. We all have traditions and similar
family matters, but time changes everything. I come from a family of chief priests. Have you heard of Igwekala, the famous oracle at Umunoha, in Imo State?” Jacob shook his head.
“That’s where I come from, but I’ve put those
things behind me. I went to school and I’ve known that life’s larger than tradition.” 213
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“Are you the first born?” Jacob asked with emphasis in his tone. “No, I’m the third, but even our first born is a Catholic priest.” “A priest! That one don go far. Who then will take over the priesthood of the oracle?” “I don’t know, and I don’t care, but certainly not me and not my eldest brother who is a catholic priest.” “I come from Munai,” Jacob said, again with emphasis, “and in our land, tradition comes first. Who’s man to trifle with the will of the gods?” There was a new light in Jacob’s eyes, and Sam got the hint. This man was fixated in his belief, and this was neither the time nor the place to try to change a mindset already etched on stone. But having gained his attention, he quickly changed the subject. “I just want to write a story about this river and the people who live along its banks.” “What kind of story?” Jacob asked. 214
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“Good stories, and bad stories as well. For example, how you go about your fishing business every day, the joy you derive and the problems you encounter, and so on.” “And you want to hire my boat for the whole day?” “Yes, for most of the day.” Jacob smiled. This type of proposal certainly would pay better than fishing. Since the flooding started about a week ago, paddling upstream had become difficult and the fishes appeared to be running downstream with the flood without stopping. “How far up the river?” “I don’t know. Just as far as we can get.” “Up to Zugbo?” “I don’t know anywhere by name.” “But we must come back before four. I have to go and see my brother who lost his daughter.”
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“Oh! Very sorry. What happened to her?”
“Fever.”
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Sam stopped short. “What type of fever?” he managed to ask. The fisherman looked to the left and then to the right, as though to make sure no one was listening. “I’m not supposed to say this. It’s Sefinatu,” he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “Who is Sefinatu?” Sam asked. “The daughter of Annjenu?” “What do you mean?” “Oga, I beg forget that one and let’s go.” The regret in his voice told Sam that what he had just said was a slip of tongue. Sam quickly recalled that this was the second time he had heard about death by a fever in this locality, and that in each case no one wanted to give details of what happened. “Okay, Oga” the fisherman said, changing the subject, “I beg, tell government to remember us. We don’t have hospitals, no schools, no roads, and if not that God gave us this river, we would not have water to drink.” 216
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Sam looked at the murky water with all the debris floating, and imagined the millions of micro organisms that could be found in one cup of it. “I will tell the government,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. Now, let’s go.” “But, Oga, you will pay plenty money.” “How much?” “Four thousand naira.” Sam smiled to himself. That was far below his budget. “I’ll pay you five thousand, plus this.” He unzipped his briefcase and fetched a bottle of whiskey. He was on the trail of breaking news and he needed the full cooperation of this man to get to the source. “All this for me? Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” “You’ll go and return in peace,”he prayed. “You’ll have promotion at your place of work. Your wife will give you twins...” “Amen, okay now, let’s go,” Sam interrupted, laughing. 217
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Jacob threw his things into the canoe and pulled out into the raging waters with Sam. In front of them, the eastern sky was faintly lit by the morning sun that was about to rise. In a few minutes, the sun came up and illuminated a large expanse of water. The dark hedge Sam had earlier seen as the eastern bank of the Niger, turned out to be an island in the middle of it. Beyond that, he saw two bodies of water rushing down and colliding with each other, greeting each other with frothy laughter. “This is the confluence,” Sam whistled softly in amazement. He brought out his camera and began to click away. Something new and fresh was in the making for travelogue.
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Chapter Twenty-One
M
ary Bassey set down a tray containing a bottle of grape wine and two glasses on a coffee table, between Williams and a wiry old man sitting opposite him. She had hardly set eyes on her boss since she came back from her adventure to Waterside, and she would welcome an opportunity to tell him what she experienced out there. “Good evening, sir,” she said to the old man. The visitor mumbled his response through clenched teeth. His narrowed eyes and furrowed forehead betrayed a man in a serious state of anxiety. Otherwise, his almost bald head and white goatee gave him the look of a dignified old man. “Mary, this is Mallam Abdul, the father of the patient in intensive care,” Dr Williams said.
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“You’re welcome, sir,” Mary said. “Your son will be fine soon.” The man bowed and managed to force a smile that showed teeth stained brown by kola nut. Mary returned the smile and then turned to her boss, expecting a prompting to narrate her findings. But Williams appeared to have other ideas. “Ehe, Mary, fetch a glass for yourself,” Williams said instead, a mischievous smile on his face. “Sir?” “Yes, I say fetch a glass.” “But sir, I don’t…” “No excuse, Mary. Get your own glass. We’ve all been in the war front together, and it’s time to unwind.” Knowing her boss and his theatrics, she reached out and took a glass from the shelf. “That’s better,” Williams said, waving her to a chair. He lifted the bottle and peeled off the foil, untangled the wire stopper and let the cork go with a pop. The old man jerked up from his seat and sat 220
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down again. Williams laughed and tried to calm his visitor down. He filled their glasses. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass up. “Cheers,” Mary replied. The old man simply showed his teeth. It was obvious that he was not used to this kind of ritual. Dr Williams had a good reason to celebrate this night. He had good news for his anxious visitor. And his suspicion about the cause of Talatu’s death had been proven beyond doubt. Early that morning, Mallam Abdul had brought in his son who had a high fever, muscle pain and inflammation of the skin. Within a few hours, his lab scientist brought in the lab report which indicated a strange viral infection. Similar result to that of late Talatu. Further research into the medical books established that it was Lassa fever. There and then Dr Williams and his team of medical personnel practically went to war to save the life of the patient. 221
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Two hours later, he had emerged from the private ward where the patient was quarantined. “You brought him at the nick of time. He will live,” he said to Mallam Abdul. “But you cannot see him now. He has Lassa fever, a highly contagious disease, and that is why we put him in a private ward.” The old man was on his knees before Williams could stop him. “Thank you, doctor. Thank you, doctor,” he said in slow and heavily accented English. “Please, get up, sir,” Williams said. “We’re human beings. We only care, but it’s God that heals.” “Thank you, doctor. May Allah bless you, bless your family and bless your work.” “Bless you too, Mallam Abdul,” Williams added. “Sir, your son will be alright,” Mary added. “Thank you, Miss. Allah bless you.” “Ehm, Mallam, where are you from?” Williams asked. “Munai, near the mouth of the River Benue.” 222
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“Can you tell us what actually happened?” “Doctor, Allah bless you. Mustafa is a very energetic and lively young man. He works our millet farms on the low land by the great river. I have already planned to take a wife for him after the harvesting season. Three days ago he returned late from the farm and complained of headache and fever. But nobody took it serious. I even thought that maybe he saw the lights of the river goddess. This is the month of the first flood, and the green grass is already floating down the river. So I had to go to the river bank to offer the necessary sacrifices to the goddess. One can never take these things for granted. When I returned from the village elders’ meeting the following day, I saw his hoe and machete and basket in front of his hut. Since it was too early for him to come home by that time, I went in to find out why. I saw him lying on the floor, groaning in pain. We live in a wicked world. I’ve kept his marriage plans secret so that our enemies will not try to thwart it. But can we hide anything from the gods?” 223
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“What gods are you talking about?” Williams cut in, exchanging knowing glances with Mary Bassey. A muscle twitched on the old man’s face, but he quickly re-composed himself. “Don’t be offended, sir, if I call you a stranger. But that’s how it is. You may not understand our tradition and the wisdom our ancestors passed down to us from generation to generation. We plant our first crops on the low lands by the river. They grow and mature, and just as we begin to harvest, the flood comes and yet there’s no rainfall. Men and women come back from the farms with fever and pains and red spots on their bodies. Some survive but some die before the season is over. We know there’s a pair of eyes watching from Ekitiva, the land in the middle of the Niger. When you work in the farms until darkness falls, you will see the lights flickering like a pair of eyes. And who in our imperfection can tell how or when we incur the wrath of the one who rules the waters?” 224
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Mary Bassey was sitting on the edge of her chair now, an empty glass in her hand. “Whose light?” she asked. Abdul considered this question. Was he talking too much to these strangers? To allow himself time to decide, he took a little sip of his wine, for the first time, and put the glass down on the table. The message was clear: ‘I can’t reject your offer after you’ve given me hope, but sorry, my religion forbids alcohol.’ “What do you want to know, Miss?” he asked after hesitation. “You’re not from Munai. You may not understand the goddess Sefinatu.” Williams and Mary sprang to their feet, almost at the same time. “Who is Sefinatu?” Williams asked before Mary could open her mouth to ask the same question. Abdul lowered his head over his chest and began to shake his head. “I’ve talked too much. I’ll say no more.” There was finality in the tone of his voice. 225
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Williams sat down and refilled his glass. He saw the discomfort on his visitor’s face and tried not to bother him anymore. “Take your drink, Mallam, its pure grape wine and contains no alcohol.” The old man lifted the glass and looked at it as if he could see the molecules of its content. He took a small sip, then a bigger one and nodded with a broad smile. “Mallam Abdul, why did you bring your son here?” Williams changed the subject. “The teacher, Mr John, from a school near my compound. He’s standing outside now, waiting. Allah bless him. We were already in the canoe, taking my son to Mai Karfi when he came. He begged and pleaded with me and cried that Mustafa should be taken to the hospital. When I refused, he jumped into the canoe and said he would die with all of us in the river.” “And you accepted the opinion of a stranger?” Abdul took another sip of his drink and put the glass down on the table. He looked at Mary and then at Williams. 226
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“We’re all strangers on earth. Even at Munai, I’m a stranger. My great grandfathers came from a land far away and settled there and procreated. Now I can say I’m from Munai. This young school teacher has come from a land far away, but as long as I live, he is my son. He is no different from any child of my womb. He is a part of my family. I owe him total acceptance. “He has done all he can to take my children to school, but I have refused. My own parents pulled me out of school in standard two. All because of tradition, all because this one is this and that one is that. But now I’m going to listen to John. I’ll not refuse him anymore, even though it’s almost too late.” “I’m happy you understand we’re one,” Williams said. “Your son will be okay in a few days. Bring him food tomorrow. By the next day you can see him.” “Thank you, doctor,” Abdul said and stood up. “Just before you go, may I know if there was any other similar sickness in your village recently?” 227
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Abdul lowered his head as tears began to drop on the coffee table. “Doctor, my people are dying - men, women, young and old. They’re so many I can’t count them. There’s nothing we’ve not done. Only yesterday there were about nine deaths in my clan alone. The goddess is in a terrible rage. It was never this bad with the first floods. We are preparing for the cleansing sacrifice before Ekuechi Festival. That’s our last hope to save our people.” Williams stood beside him, careful not to touch him, to avoid contamination. “It’s okay, Mallam. Stop crying. We’ll do our best to help stop further death.” “You’ve already done all you can for me. What will you do for my people?” he asked hopelessly. And truly Williams had no answer to that. There was a big problem out there, and if his suspicion was right, an epidemic of devastating proportion had just broken out. 228
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“Now listen, when you get home, bathe and wash your clothes with disinfectant. That mat on which your son lay, please, burn it. Wash up your plates and pots and keep your compound clean.” Williams stood by the window and watched him depart with the teacher. He stood there until the two made their way down the short driveway and disappeared around the corner. Then he let the window blinds fall in place and returned to his seat. “Now, Mary, on a very serious note, what would you say about what’s happening at Munai?” “Sir, I think there’s an epidemic there, but the people seem to be mistaking the enemy.” “You’re quite right. From what we know there’s an outbreak of Lassa fever, but the people believe that a river goddess is at war with them.” There was silence as each battled with his or her own thoughts. “Superstition,” Mary Bassey said, breaking the silence. “This thing is everywhere, it’s all pervasive. 229
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Everything that happens in this part of the world is given a spiritual interpretation. In my place, it’s a way of life. I don’t know about your place.” Williams lifted a hand. “No, no, no, don’t go there,” he said. “Idanre, my native land, is ancient and modern interwoven. I used to think that increase in western education would wipe out superstition. What I’ve discovered instead is that this thing is entrenched in the peoples’ psyche.” “Sir, I think government has a lot of work to do in terms of enlightening the masses that superstition is false.” “Government has already done all it should do by instituting formal education,” Williams said. “And as a matter of fact, it may be wrong to conclude that superstitious beliefs and practices are all false. There’s no smoke without fire, they say, and these things have been there for eons. I always think that what needs to be done is to develop 230
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education curricula on African beliefs, traditions and practices in our schools. When these are thrown open to scientific enquiry, we’ll be able to remove the veil of esotericism and be in a better position to decipher truth from falsehood.” “That may take another millennium, with government dragging its feet about everything,” Mary said. Williams leaned back on his chair. “We don’t have a millennium,” he said. “In fact, we don’t even have the luxury of long contemplation. And if we should wait for government, I’m afraid, we’ll wait forever. However, I always think that there’s something we can do at our own individual levels.”
“Like what, sir?”
“Let’s say we’ve already lost most of our older
generation to superstition because their mindset is already fixated. But what about the young children? If we catch them young, we may be able to liberate 231
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many minds. For instance, with your Young Readers Book Club, you can teach them scientific reasoning.” “Bless you, sir. I’ve been thinking about this since I visited Waterside.” “Waterside? Oh yes, Waterside…about the poem and all that. Please, tell me, what did you see?” he said. “I didn’t know you were sending me to a poet’s dreamland. From the top of the cliff head I saw the confluence and the island, exactly the way Fletcher described it. And I must say that in all my life I’ve never seen Mother Nature so magnificent and overpowering.” Williams said casually: “How would you have felt if you had read that poem and seen that setting ten years ago?” “In all honesty, sir, I would have believed everything. In fact the whole scenario looked so real that it gave me the willies.” “Interesting,” Williams said. “Now I’m beginning to suspect that the boy, Amaechi, happened to have been there!” 232
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They stared at each other for a long moment. “If that place has so much relevance to a poem written over sixty years ago, and so much emotional impact on you, I wonder how a curious ten-year old child would react to it.” Mary was quiet for some moments. “Sir, I would like you to visit that place. Maybe I should organise an excursion with the children’s club. Everything about the poem and its setting is real. You should see it.” “That’s okay with me,” he said. She hesitated a moment. “But there’s something that doesn’t make sense.” “Like what?” he asked. She hesitated again. ‘Am I not also superstitious as others?’ “I don’t know where to place this flickering light.” Williams sprang to his feet. “Flickering light?” he asked. “Yes, Fletcher says it gives him the jitters, and I saw this light right there on the island, flickering. Does anybody live there?” 233
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“No, it’s only a sandbar, over flooded most of the time,” he answered. “Do fishermen fish at night?” “No.” “Then whose light is it?” “Well, I don’t know. Fletcher says it’s Elfinatu’s. And now you’re going to ask me who is Elfinatu, and I’ll tell you it’s another fairy tale.” They relapsed into silence. Williams was nursing a glass of wine and tapping his foot against the table. Mary lifted the bottle and wiped the table with tissue paper. She was taking the bottle to a cupboard at the far corner of the room, when she suddenly turned. “Sir, I agree with you.” “About what in particular?” Williams asked. “That we should catch these children young with scientific reasoning,” Mary said. “Maybe that will help some.” Williams shrugged. “Sir, you don’t sound so convinced.” 234
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What can I say, Miss Bassey? In this life, there are many questions that are still begging for answers, even in the scientific realm.” Mary stopped. She searched Williams’ face for any hint, but the venerable doctor was just calm and beaming with a knowing smile. They both knew that there were no immediate answers.
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Chapter Twenty-Two
E
zra Pam sat on a plastic chair under the cool shade of a dogonyaro tree in front of his apartment.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the tropical sun was at its zenith, raising the temperature to thirty-five degrees Celsius. He couldn’t have chosen a better spot to spend a work-free afternoon, except that this day was far from being free; it was a day of sadness. At any other time he would have relaxed on this chair and looked beyond the trees at the majestic hills in the distance.
By this time of the year, the hunters’ bush fires
usually stripped the contours of the hills naked, exposing the jagged peaks, weathered rocks and 236
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streams of water gushing from several crevices – an amazing sight to behold. He could even have ordered a bottle of cold beer to add some pep to the moment. But none of these was going to be, for tears had continued to flow, blurring his vision, and grief had robbed him of his appetite. A sympathiser had just left, and he was certain that another would soon come. If only they could leave him alone to mourn his dead child, and above all, to gather his thoughts together. Everyone offered one explanation or another about Talatu’s death, each reminding him of the ordeals he had gone through. Where were they when she took ill and needed expert advice? The last visitor was almost sure that it was Sefinatu, the goddess of the Niger, that killed her. Others said he wasted precious time taking the girl to the hospital, when a night vigil at Peoples Miracle Church, with the Man of God and his prayer warriors, would have saved the girl. And yet 237
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some said Mai Karfi would have healed the girl had he taken her to him the first time a sign of illness was noticed. What would the next person say, and how many more could he entertain before he went loco? He felt a sharp itch on his left cheek, and he reacted with a quick slap on the very spot. When he looked at his palm, he saw a little drop of red mess. “These things are everywhere,” he murmured to himself. Still feeling the itch from the mosquito bite, he ran a finger across his cheek to trace the spot. And as he scratched away absent-mindedly, his finger touched two deep scars that ran almost parallel down his cheek. One was longer than the other but both shared a common origin. The longer one was a tribal mark of the Berom, the indigenous people of Jos, Plateau State, his ancestral home; and the shorter one was a childhood incision given to him by a native doctor, to immunise him against childkiller diseases and attacks by evil spirits. How he 238
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hated those marks each time he looked at a mirror!
‘Ancient beliefs have always been strange and,
most of the time, impossible to understand,’ he reflected. But he could hardly dismiss these things of old as mere nonsense without a proof? And who knows, perhaps he might not have survived without those marks, he consoled himself. His great-grand father, he was told, was a renowned native doctor who had the power to heal sickness and to conjure up rain from the heavens. Before he died, he passed on the knowledge to his grandfather who in turn passed it to his father, Chief Pwajok Pam. This thing had been running in the family until about 1935 when locusts invaded Angwa Rogo, his ancestral home, and destroyed the farmlands, leaving hunger and starvation in their wake. Young Pwajok was forced to migrate to Anglo-Jos, where he got a job in the tin mines. If he had stayed back, he sure would have 239
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retained the family art. He might even have healed the land after the locust invasion, and perhaps Talatu might have survived her illness, with only two parallel incisions on her left cheek as a token to pay. Now, all that had gone, and no one was sure of anything anymore. He remembered the day Talatu was born, three years into his marriage with Elizabeth. Even before then, not a few eyebrows had been raised, his mother’s not the least, as to his wife’s capability to conceive. But Ezra was never for once perturbed. He knew he was man enough and his wife, woman enough. His father used to say that procreation was not by might but by the benevolence of the gods. He believed his time would come. When it eventually did, his joy knew no bounds. The cry of a baby in his arms was the most melodious music he had ever heard. It had been eleven years since, and no other baby had followed. Tongues had been wagging 240
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again, family pressure mounting for him to consider taking a second wife, but he had vowed never to succumb to that. ‘Another baby will come,’ he had told himself time and time again, and even if it didn’t, he had never considered polygamy as an option. Talatu had meant the world to him, and now, all of a sudden, the bottom had dropped out of that world. “Good afternoon, sir,” someone greeted. Ezra did not see the visitor come. He heard the greeting from the dark depth of a troubled dream, an indistinct sound from another world. Grief had numbed his senses, taking him on a long journey in the wilderness, about to abandon him in the middle of nowhere. ‘Another sympathiser? Why can’t they just leave me alone?’ Although he had been awakened by the greeting, he did not turn to see the person who had greeted him. He wanted to be left alone to chew the bitter 241
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herb that life had given him to chew, the way a goat chews its cud. His wife had been beside herself and had remained inconsolable. If only all those women would stop coming, she could get a grip on her emotions, and together they could carry their cross without anybody reminding them how heavy it was. He tried to concentrate on his lonely journey, but the tears were streaming now, blurring his vision. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and turned, seeing his visitor for the first time. A strange one. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” the visitor said. “My name is Sam Durueke, from Daily Witness. I just came from the Upper Benue along the river, and…” “And what, young man?” Ezra interrupted, anger and frustration combining to make his voice quake. “My daughter did not commit any crime for which she must die. She fell sick, and the doctors could not save her, and she died. So what else do you want?” 242
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“I’m truly sorry, sir. This is not about crime or innocence. There’s a big problem out there, and we have a duty to inform the public, and to alert the government.” “What problem?” “All along the river, almost from Makurdi to this place, it’s all wailing and lamentation. Many people are dying, and the story is the same. I think there is an outbreak of epidemic, Lassa fever to be precise, and people have to know these things so that they can take precaution.” Ezra saw the empathy on his visitor’s face, and for the first time all morning, he was receiving a visitor who had not come to add to his grief. At least this stranger had given him a tangible reason why his daughter died. She died not because she owed her life to a goddess of the river; she died because she contacted a virus that ate her up before anybody could diagnose it. It didn’t matter if anybody believed it at the moment. Sooner or later, those who would know would know. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to a wooden bench beside him. 243
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They talked until it was almost dark. Then Sam took an okada to the prestigious Confluence Hotel by the river bank and paid for a room with a double bed. Armed with a scoop, which might even give him a promotion, he did not mind the cost. And as soon as he dropped his bag in his room, he rushed out again to a cybercafé by the lounge to send his report.
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Chapter Twenty-Three
D
r Jeremiah Ameh removed his stethoscope from his ear and looked at his patient once more
for a long moment. The man lay still on the narrow hospital bed, the fluids from many rashes on his body already staining the light blue bed sheet. The doctor turned, misty-eyed, and looked at the nurse standing beside him. “He’s dead,” he said. He picked up a note pad clipped at the head of the bed and scribbled: ‘Lukeman Uloko, died 3.45 pm. Cause of death: severe fever, muscle cramps, haemorrhage.’ He pulled a sheet over the body. Head low over his chest, he left Male Ward 2.
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Along the long corridor that led to a block of offices, some hospital staff were standing in small groups gossiping in hushed tones. As Dr Ameh approached, they kept quiet, and as soon as he passed, they resumed their idle talk. Bad news spreads fast. Since the past week, the hospital had recorded higher incidence of deaths than ever before. The morgue was full and the doctors were worried and apprehension pervaded the atmosphere. What most people whispered silently was that the deaths were not natural; the invisible had a hand in it. In a troubled mood, Dr Ameh entered his office and went straight to his private toilet. His bowels could hardly contain the upheaval by the time he had removed his overalls. He retched and retched until the entire contents of his stomach appeared to have erupted through his mouth. Utterly deflated, he sat down on the edge of the bath tub panting and watching the rubbish flush down the toilet bowl. 246
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The mirror on the opposite wall showed a distraught man who had grown very old overnight. He reached out for a packet of cigarettes he kept on the mirror shelf. It was not there - in fact, it had not been there since he quit smoking ten years ago. “Oh God, what’s happening to me?” he cried. “I don’t want to go back to the habit I’ve given up.” He turned on the tap and scooped water with both hands to rinse his mouth and wash his face. When he finally came out to his office, the nurse was standing in front of his desk, looking as if she had seen the ghost of the man who had just died. “Sir, they need your attention in Female Ward 3,” she said. “What’s the matter there?” Dr Ameh asked. “That woman they brought in yesterday…she is…I don’t know…and her relatives want to take her away.” “Go, I’ll be there in a minute.” He did not need further explanation. 247
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After the nurse had closed the door behind her, Dr Ameh sank wearily into his seat and lowered his head on his desk. He knew that it was unprofessional for a doctor to get emotionally involved with his patients, but at trying times such as this, the human nature asserted itself. He had emptied his bowels in the toilet, and now he could not hold back the tears. In abject lamentation, he went down memory lane. Jeremiah Ameh was born into a royal family in the village of Dengeri about forty-seven years ago. His family was called royal, not because of wealth or political power, but because that lineage held the secret of life and death. His father, Ameh Utobo, had been a renowned herbalist and native doctor just like his grandfather. That practice had been in the family from time immemorial. His elder brother, Ochefu, who was supposed to understudy his father and inherit the family tradition, had left midway and enlisted in the army. Young Jeremiah was the next in line. His father was 248
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relieved when he discovered that the boy was even more interested in herbs than his elder brother. At the age of nine, the boy knew the names and uses of virtually every leaf, root or bark in the forest. When his father approved that he should have some formal education, the sole objective was to equip him on all fronts. That was, however, where the seed of Jeremiah’s destiny was sown. As the years went by, and the boy began to read elementary science, and then biology, the family herbal medical practice began to leave more questions than answers. Most disturbing to his young mind was the application of magic and rituals to medicine. For instance, he believed in the efficacy of herbs but he could not rationalise the use of empty tortoise shells, cowries, skulls and old coins in the diagnosis and cure of illness.
“You’ll understand when you’re initiated,” his
father used to tell him. 249
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When Jeremiah came tops in the West African School Certificate Examination, old Ameh was elated and worried at the same time. “You’ve done well, my son,” he had said. “The Amehs excel wherever they go. You’ve shown that you’re one of us.” “Thank you, papa,” the boy had replied. “I’m getting old, you know. Now it’s time for you to settle down and take your proper place in the family. Since your brother has chosen the roving path, you’re going to be the custodian of the family tradition.” “But, papa, my teacher has sent my name to the ministry of education for scholarship.” “No, no, my son. You’ve read enough of the white man’s books. You must take your rightful place in the family. After the harvest, you’ll be initiated into the herbalists’ society. I’m already talking with some reputable families, and after the initiation I shall get you a wife.” 250
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“Thank you, papa,” he said without looking at his father’s face. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself in white overalls, a stethoscope hanging on his neck, looking at a patient on a hospital bed. Before the harvest was over, the principal of Government College, Makurdi, accompanied by two teachers, came down to Dengeri by boat. They received a letter from the Federal Ministry of Education, offering scholarship to Jeremiah, to study medicine in England. Chief Ameh would take none of that. He swore by all the gods of his ancestors and protested with every vein on his neck, until the principal told him that government would arrest and send him to prison should he refuse to let the boy go. “He’s now a government’s child,” the principal said with emphasis. “And anyone who interferes with government’s plan will be arrested and imprisoned.” That was donkey years ago. Dr Jeremiah Ameh had returned to Nigeria with patriotic zeal, to pay his dues to the beloved country 251
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that nurtured him. He had been working diligently in the general hospital since then. At the beginning, it was all ridiculous. “Sir, it rained at our side of town; that’s why I’m late,” a staff would say. “But that shouldn’t be an excuse,” the doctor would reply. “In England, you must be on duty in time come rain or snow. That’s why somebody invented the umbrella.”
“Sorry, sir, I have to cook for my husband; that’s
why I left before closing time,” another would say.
“Your husband should know that you close by
eight,” said the doctor. “It’s the job that provides the food you cook.” “Sir, I’m not a thief; I just took that medicine for my mother who has arthritis,” an attendant said. “A thief is somebody who takes something illegally or without the owner’s permission,” the doctor would point out. 252
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“Sir, I forgot to give the patient only one tablet,” a nurse said. “You fool! That can make a difference between life and death,” the doctor said angrily. ‘Damn! Things are done differently here. Everyone seems to have a good reason why things cannot be done properly.’ Later, it became challenging. “Sir, we can’t admit him because there’s no more space in the male ward.” “Madam, we cannot change your bed sheet now. You have to manage with a naked mattress until they wash this one.” “Oga, there’s no diesel in the generator, so we cannot perform the operation until NEPA brings light.” Dr Ameh had written several complaints and suggestions to the governing board of the hospital, but the board never seemed to hear. When it did, it took weeks and months to get a simple request approved. 253
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“Alas! This is one place where emergency can wait,” he cried every so often. Now, it had become frustrating. “Sir, there’s no peroxide to clean the wounds before stitching,” said the nurse. “Sir, we cannot rely on these results because the reagents are fake,” said the lab scientist. “I don’t know why they keep supplying the lab fake chemicals.” “Auntie, these drugs are not available in the hospital, but you can get them at Nkem’s Pharmacy near the police station,” said the pharmacist. “Sorry, Chief, we can’t treat him here because we don’t have the necessary facilities. I’ll give you a paper to university teaching hospital in Jos or Enugu or Lagos,” said Dr Ameh. And so, they died. ‘This week alone we’ve lost eleven patients,’ he wept. ‘Cause of death, same. Symptoms, same. My colleagues and nurses believe there’s a spirit behind the deaths. But I know it’s all bacteria or virus, flowing with the blood and transmitted from 254
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one person to another by contact. There’re fishes, big and small in the River Niger, but the mermaid that casts spells is in the imagination. They died because I gave them saw dust in a capsule, and injected them with coloured liquid encased in an ampoule. How can I know that the drugs are fake? And who am I to querry the government contractor who supplied the fake drugs? One must be among the gods of the ruling party to have the power to do that.” There came a gentle knock on the door. Dr Ameh looked up with tear-soaked eyes, as the door creaked open. A young man clutching a brief case walked in towards him. “Good afternoon sir,” the visitor greeted.
“Yes?” Dr Ameh querried. “I’m Sam Durueke, from Daily Witness.” “I cannot tell you anything, young man. In fact
I’m busy.” 255
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“Maybe I can wait, sir? It’s all about this outbreak…” “No, you can’t wait,” Dr Ameh interrupted him. “And if you don’t mind, I was just going out.” Sam managed to drop his business card on the doctor’s table, before the doctor gently hedged him to the door. Female Ward 3 was noisy with angry voices when Dr Ameh came in. The relatives of the sick woman were asking for her immediate discharge. Without much preamble, Dr Ameh asked the husband of the patient to sign the papers. Then two nurses wheeled her to a waiting pickup at the ambulance bay. Dr Ameh stood by the window and parted the blinds and watched them drive away. A short distance from the hospital gate, the pickup turned into a narrow dirt road that was a dead-end at the River Niger bank, where he knew a canoe would be waiting for her final journey on earth. When he returned to his office, he made up his mind. He picked up a business card from his table; 256
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the card he had refused to touch a few minutes ago. He keyed in the telephone number on the card into his cell phone and dialled. “Hello, Sam,” he said in a gentle, friendly voice. “This is Dr Ameh, general hospital, whom you met earlier today. Yes...I think you better come now... yes, to my office.” He hung up. He scrolled up until he came to a contact he had been resisting to call, Mamoud el Shariff, a successful Saudi medical practitioner based in Riyadh. They were classmates at Royal College of Medicine in England. Upon graduation, Ameh had returned to Nigeria and Shariff to Saudi Arabia, but they had been in touch. Shariff had been talking about the good prospects in his country, and several times he had invited his friend to come over and take up a job, but Ameh had felt he owed his country a duty. “Hello, Mamoud,” he shouted. “How are you, man?” 257
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“Ah! Jerry! I’m okay. Please, get to the point or you can call later. I have an emergency.” “I’ve just made up my mind. I accept your invitation,” Ameh said. There was a long pause at the other end. “What happened, Jerry?” “I’ve made up my mind to come. I’ll call you later.” “Okay. I’ll be glad to have you here.” “Thank you.”
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Chapter Twenty-Four
P
resident Maman Nurudeen entered his office at exactly eight o’clock in the morning, through the back door. This was normal because that door led through a long corridor to his living quarters within Aso Rock. Except for his secretary who was always at alert for any sign of movement, most of the other staff would not know exactly when Oga came in. So it was possible for the president to have a few minutes to himself before his staff and visitors would start seeking his attention. He went straight to his desk, sat down and closed his eyes in silent prayers. Then he felt ready for the day. His in-tray was piled high with files. On the top was a file marked ‘Niger Delta’ in red bold hand. He picked it up and looked at it for a long moment. Carefully and gently, he put it aside on
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the far left corner of his wide table. “This might as well wait for the State Executive Council meeting next Tuesday,” he said. He was about to open another file when a headline on top of a pile of newspapers on one side of the table caught his eye: ‘HORROR: 350 DIE OF LASSA FEVER, death toll on the rise.’ “Not again,” he hissed. He put aside the file and lifted the bunch of newspapers. The government was still battling with the public uproar caused by the outbreak of cerebro-spinal meningitis in Yobe and the scandalous way it was handled, and now this. He quickly scanned through the other newspapers. Only Daily Witness reported it. “Maybe it’s not true,” he said wistfully. “It could be one of those sensational reports these press people use to sell their papers.” But no, there were photos of victims and the bereaved. There were also direct quotes of prominent citizens of the area, one of whom was King Tobias Chenge. He remembered Chenge because he was the most vocal the last time the 260
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president received traditional rulers from the Middle Belt in Aso Rock. There must be facts in this story, he nodded gravely. The President hardly ever read beyond the headlines, but this morning he read the Lassa fever story down to the last word. He was a compassionate man and he always felt that the organs of government were not working as they should; there was a lot of official laxity. His health budget this year was enough to procure sufficient drugs to immunise the whole country, but he knew that the ministries and the various organs charged with this responsibility would always have reasons why the target could not be met. “Bureaucracy, moral laxity and corruption are evil triplets,” he sighed. He picked up a red pen and scribbled a note on a self-adhesive notepad: ‘SA Media investigate and advise’, and pasted it on the Daily Witness story. He would have just dropped it in the out-tray and continued with other pending matters, but he carried the whole bunch of newspapers by himself to the outer office. No time for protocols this morning. 261
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“To SA Gidado, now!” he said to his secretary. *
*
*
Tunji Johnson, the editor of Daily Witness, was having a good time in his office this morning. Ever since the day’s edition of his newspaper hit the news-stand with the story of an outbreak of Lassa fever, his phone had not stopped ringing. Some professional colleagues had called to congratulate him on the scoop. Some health-conscious citizens wanted to get more facts about the epidemic, particularly the precautionary measures to be taken to avoid contact. But what really blew his ego was the last caller, the Chairman of Daily Witness Communications Limited, Chief Duro Doherty. DD, as he was known in the media industry, was not given to praising anyone. He was a man stuffed with pride and alter-ego. For DD to call, not to chastise but to congratulate, called for a celebration. Accordingly, Johnson sat back on his swivel chair and propped up one leg on the table, his left hand within reach of a steaming cup of tea and a plate of crisp biscuits. Nothing wrong with 262
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savouring the thrill of the moment while it lasted. The booze with friends would follow later. He was about to buzz Sam when his door flung open and the young man poked in his head. “Come in, come in, Sam,” he said, waving him to a seat. “I was just about to call you. See, this story of yours is hot and steaming. We have to follow it up. I believe the event is just unfolding.” “Yes, sir. I think so too, and that’s why I came,” Sam said. “Good. Like minds, they say, think alike. Now, I want you to do an interpretative report on Lassa fever. If you have to go back to Lokoja today to get the facts, I will approve your expenses. It’s just that the report must be in the paper tomorrow. But I believe that you can source enough information locally, and with some extracts from your previous notes, you will have enough material.” “Yes, sir,” Sam nodded. “Very good, whatever it takes, get the story for tomorrow’s edition.” “Thank you, sir,” Sam said and got up. 263
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Johnson’s cell phone rang again, displaying an Abuja number. “Hello, Daily Witness, good morning,” he answered. “Hello, good morning, sir,” the voice at the other end said. “Can I speak to the editor?” “Editor speaking. May I know who is on the line?” “I’m Jimmi Bhadmus, the Personal Assistant to the Honourable Minister of Health.” “Hi, Jimmi, what can I do for you?” he asked. “It’s about your front page news on the outbreak of Lassa fever.” “Yes, what about it?” Johnson said cautiously. “The minister is not pleased with that report. I think that you press guys should confer with the appropriate government organs before publishing such reports.” “I see. But what is wrong with our report?” “The figures, and don’t tell me you’re sure of those figures. This kind of sensational report is capable of inciting the public. The minister is very upset about it.” “Well, the minister should be upset indeed. I 264
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don’t expect him or anybody to be happy that fellow citizens are dying in their hundreds of preventable disease.” Johnson had lost his cool, and this was beginning to show in his voice. “That’s not what I’m saying. But how can we be sure that the death toll of 350 as you reported is correct?” Bhadmus queried; anger unmistakable in his tone. “Very simple,” Johnson said with deliberate calmness, “take a canoe from Lokoja and paddle up River Benue, stop at every community on both banks of the river. You will see the graves of the victims and hear the lamentations of the bereaved.” From the other end of the telephone, Mr Bhadmus’ anger and frustration were conveyed through heavy breathing. He was angry with his boss for telling him to stop the media from further publication until government made an official statement on the matter. He was frustrated because he knew it would be impossible to stop the press. “Mr Editor,” he continued, “you seem not to understand the point. You should exercise some restraint in this type of situation so as not to create public panic.” 265
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“What can create more public panic, Mr P.A.; is it the death of 350 fellow country men and women or the newspaper report of it? Look, I don’t know what you guys are doing there, and it is not my duty to tell you what you should do, but as I’m speaking to you now, the death toll has risen to 500, and that includes a staff of the ministry of health. It is our duty here to inform the public.” There was silence at the other end, but the heavy breathing coming over the line told Johnson that his caller was still on. “Okay, editor, what is the source of your information? We have to cross check the story before making a public statement.” “You can ask that question again,” Johnson answered, laughing. “I’ve told you, go up Benue River by canoe, and you will have firsthand account of what is happening.” “Anyway, I don’t want to join battle with you, but you will certainly hear from the minister himself over this matter. And if I were you, I would suspend 266
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further publication on this matter until government makes an official statement.” The line went dead. Johnson laughed out loud, slapping his thigh. He was sure he would never hear from the minister or anybody on his behalf over this matter. *
*
*
Dr Momodu Williams did not read the newspaper until late in the afternoon, and when he did, the report of the outbreak only corroborated his earlier findings. What he did not know before now, however, was that the epidemic had reached an alarming proportion. His beloved city was in danger and so were the adjoining communities. He put the newspaper aside and dialled a number with his cell phone. “Hello, Office of the Honourable Minister of Health,” a thin female voice answered. “I’m Dr Momodu Williams, from Williams Specialist Hospital, Lokoja. Can you put me through to the minister?” There was a moment’s delay before she answered. 267
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“Is it on appointment, sir?” “No, this is an emergency.” “Hold on, sir.” Another delay, this time longer than before. “Sorry, sir, the minister is in a meeting,” she said. “I say this is an emergency. Tell him that Dr Williams says there’s an emergency.” “I’ve told you, sir, he is in a meeting.” “Then tell him to call me after the meeting. Dr Williams, from Lokoja. There’s an emergency.” He dropped, his hand shaking with rage. “Who was lying about a meeting - the minister or his aid!” he shouted, banging his table with his fist. “What’s wrong with people in government? They sit on kegs of gunpowder and hold meetings.”
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Chapter Twenty-Five
W
aterside Market was closed to business today. Everyone was heading to the rocky shoulder overlooking the confluence of Niger and Benue Rivers. Not to buy or sell but to do what was required by the gods and goddess. No one was in doubt anymore about the necessity to do so. The signs were all over the place. In the wilds, the cries of the children of the gods had continued all through the night, every night. Lately, egrets had been coming home earlier than usual, cawing cacophonous songs. The brilliant sunsets had been tainted with unusual and strange hues of camwood. And above all, the widespread sickness and deaths in the land had indicated that the jealous goddess was angry. It was time to appease her and solicit
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the intercession of dead relatives.These were more than enough signs to herald Ekuechi Festival. As early as 7 a.m. the people had started gathering at the rocky headland, the site of the annual sacrifice that preceeds Ekuechi Festival. Below this rocky outcrop is a large trough hewn into the rock by the Niger. The flowing water swirls round and round as it hits the walls of the trough, making it look like a large bowl of boiling water. In fact, the natives call this water inlet the ‘Boiling Bowl of the river goddess.’ A sacred place, reserved for the feasting of Annjenu and her Yaruwa. This year, the occasion was much more momentous because of the happenings in the land. Never before in the recent history had the people suffered so much sickness and so many deaths within a few days. There was no doubt in the mind of anybody that Sefinatu was angry, and no one needed any persuasion to come out and appease her. The people came in all shapes and characters. A group from Munai came dancing in their canoes across the river. Another came from Atukpa carrying 270
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large earthen pots boiling over with yellowish froth. Others came from Zugbo and Ogbe, dressed in strange costumes and reciting ancient chants. Goats, sheep, cockerel and cows became uncountable as new groups added to the multitude every minute. Jars of ogogoro, a local brand of gin, distilled from sugar cane that grew on the river bank, were visible at every corner. So were bowls of millet, corn and sticks of smoked fish. Overhead, vultures and black kites circled patiently in anticipation. At the edge of the cliff, a select group of priests and priestesses was gathered around their chief, Mai Karfi. They were all dressed in long flowing fire-red gowns. Mai Karfi was standing on a rock, looking down fixedly at the trough below and muttering some unintelligible words to someone no one else could see. But they all knew that the Boiling Bowl was also the gate to the kingdom of the river goddess. Whenever the water swirled violently in the inlet, as it did now, it meant that the goddess was in a rage. As she stood making her entreaties, in chants and incantations, to calm the goddess, the other 271
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priests and priestesses chorused “ayee” after each stanza. Behind them some young men, clad in white wrappers, were slaughtering the sacrificial animals and collecting their blood in earthen bowls. They passed the bowls from hand to hand to the priest standing beside Mai Karfi. She dipped her stick in each bowl, said her prayer and then lifted the stick over the water. As blood dropped from the stick into the trough below, the priest beside her lifted the bowl of blood and threw it into the water. In the same manner, the entrails of the animals and other items passed from hand to hand and ended up in the Boiling Bowl. As each item dropped into the trough, there followed a rumble from the water as the marine creatures struggled for the food. On land, the people’s voices rose in chants of appreciation. The Yaruwa had accepted their sacrifice. Above their heads, the birds continued to circle. Up on a level ground away from the rock, a large crowd gathered, men and women dancing wildly to the rhythmic beating of drums and gongs and helping themselves to gourds of ogogoro. A huge fire was already burning where the meat would be 272
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roasted and eaten. The tradition was that you eat and drink all you could, but take nothing away. And may the gods help anyone who tried to do so. The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows over the water, when a trumpet sound pierced the festive atmosphere. The trumpeter was standing on a mound, some distance from the crowd, blowing his instrument with religious fervour. Everyone got the message. With a long-drawn forlon cry, even the black kite circling overhead appeared to have understood the message too. It was time to go. Two hefty young men helped Mai Karfi to her feet. She was through with the sacrifice, and she too had to leave immediately. Though strong for her age, it was obvious that the exercise had taken its toll on her. They led her to the safety of the level ground, and watched her stagger away until she disappeared behind the willows. They stood there for another ten minutes to give her enough time to get to her house. Then they came trotting back. When the trumpeter saw them coming, he lifted his instrument to his mouth and changed the tune. 273
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There was urgency in the tune: ‘to your canoes, O, People, the ceremony is over. A curse on your family if you take something away, and death upon you if you stay behind after others have gone.’ The wild ceremony had come to a dramatic end. Everyone dropped what they were doing and headed down the river bank, calling to each other, dancing, chanting and screaming. Tonight the spirits of the dead would appear as masquerades and all women must stay indoors. Overhead, the vultures began to descend slowly, shrewd eyes from long necks scanning the mess on the ground. The black kites had joined them, their forlorn cries drowned by the wild cacophony of the departing multitude. And somewhere in the distance, some hyenas or wild dogs were barking at the smell of blood. There would be plenty of food for the children of the gods after the people had gone.
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Chapter Twenty-Six
S
am Durueke was undaunted. He was still digging for more facts – hard facts. All those jazz about the river and its goddesses belonged to softsell magazines. There was a serious problem that needed a practical solution other than sacrifice to so-called gods. He got a hint that night that the Minister of Health might be visiting Makurdi the following day on account of the epidemic. He had to hear what the government had to say and what they intended to do. Early in the morning, he took off from Lokoja by a speedboat for Makurdi. He waited patiently for about two hours at Makurdi airport before he heard sirens approaching. He was not sure whether a V.I.P. was arriving or leaving as a convoy of gleaming black jeeps sped past to the presidential wing of the airport. Sam
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made his way to a Peugeot station wagon marked ‘Press Corp Government House Makurdi’ parked away from the jeeps. In a minute, he confirmed that the health minister would be arriving any moment. It was 11.15 am when a beautiful private jet conveying government medical fact-finding team from Abuja touched down. The governor of Benue State, Chief Alfred Ojebe, dressed in black-andwhite stripped traditional attire, led his entourage of commissioners and top government officials to receive the special guests. The Minister of Health, Dr Tokunbo Adeyemi, the leader of the Abuja team, stepped down from the aircraft to the waiting embrace of the governor. He had on a smart black suit, on top of a white shirt and flaming red tie that provided a beautiful contrast. After the initial pleasantries, the governor, holding hands with the minister, led the way to the arrival hall. The press corp from government house was waiting to ask some questions. And so was Sam Durueke. But the security men were trying to shield the governor and the minister from the surging 276
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pressmen. Since the outbreak of the epidemic, there had been no official statement from the government. The minister knew that the press had been at his tail ever since to extract a statement. Now, he just had to say something. He halted by the door which was virtually barricaded by pressmen. “Gentlemen of the press,” the minister said. “I know that everyone has been eager to hear what the government has to say about current health challenges in the state. Let me go straight to the business that brought us here. Government has been notified of loss of lives in Benue and Kogi States to illnesses yet to be ascertained. I have with me here a select team of medical experts and scientists from the Federal Ministry of Health, National Hospital and the Federal Medical Research Centre. Our mission is to find out exactly what happened and proffer solutions. I was alerted about this incident, while I was in Singapore attending an international conference on tropical diseases. I had to cut short that trip in order to attend to this issue at home. I know we have 277
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capable hands in the country to handle the matter, and government wants to ensure that all necessary actions are taken to protect the lives of our people. I can assure you that everything is under control. Having said that, I want to say that government is also aware of media reports that have drawn blanket conclusions on the incident. Personally, I know that everyone is anxious to know what’s happening. While we recognise and respect the role of the press, I would like to appeal for restraint and caution in the way information is disseminated to the masses. You’ll agree with me that we can still pass on information without causing panic, no matter the magnitude and gravity of what’s happening. Gentlemen, we’ve come for fact-finding, to assess what has happened or what is happening and to find lasting solutions. Government does not act on hearsay. We need facts, concrete facts, to enable us find permanent solutions. Our itinerary shall cover much of Benue and Kogi States, particularly those areas along River Benue and River Niger. The press will be fully briefed about our findings. I wish to convey the 278
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sincere sympathy of the President and Commanderin-Chief of the Armed Forces, Alhaji Mamman Nurudeen, to the families of the bereaved. Once again, I wish to appeal to you gentlemen of the press to be cautious about what you publish. Responsible journalism is what this country needs now to nurture our nascent democracy. Thank you.” The minister had hardly finished speaking when the governor quickly put his hand on his shoulder and led him through the exit. The security men quickly formed a barricade around them, before the press could get close enough to ask questions. In the ensuing commotion, Sam heard tyres screeching and sirens wailing. The governor and his guests were gone. Sam stood by the driveway and watched the last rear lights disappear and the sirens faint. He shook his head slowly from left to right. ‘Journalism is an interesting profession,’ he mused, ‘if you don’t see it as frustrating. It brings you close to people and you begin to understand the strengths and weaknesses of true human nature. 279
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The public office conveys power, but beneath that facade, there is often a frightened personality. The Minister of Health is no exception.’ There were burning questions that needed immediate answers. But from his behaviour, the minister appeared unprepared to face the press. Like a traveller who has missed the last train, Sam slung his bag over his shoulder and set off for Makurdi Headbridge to take a boat back to Lokoja.
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Chapter Twenty-Seven
S
am stood on a wooden pier waiting for a boat to Lokoja. In motion all around him, was an entirely different world. The Benue River was flowing gently and noiselessly, transporting bunches of lush-green water hyacinth. At the water’s edge, the perennial plant had formed a cluster of green carpet, bopping gently to the rhythm of the river. A woman with a baby strapped on her back was hauling a huge consignment of firewood in a dugout canoe towards the pier. In another canoe, a man was standing and casting a net, while his son or apprentice held the canoe steady with his paddle. In the shallow waters at the bank, some women and children were splashing merrily, some bathing,
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some washing clothes or utensils. And just a few metres away from them, a man’s naked buttocks protruded from the grass verge by the bank as he discharged his solid waste into the river. ‘This is a world the minister will never see from up there,’ Sam sighed inwardly. A beautiful motor boat came slicing through the murky water. It slowed down and came to rest by the pier. A tall white woman stepped out of it unto the pier and beckoned on some girls hawking mangoes. By instinct, Sam started towards her. “Good morning,” Sam greeted, smiling. “Good morning,” she replied, turning from the hawkers who had besieged her. “That’s a fine boat you have there,” Sam said. “Thank you,” she replied. There was a moment of awkward silence as they stood looking at each other. She had expected him to move on but when he didn’t, she asked: “Can I help you?” 282
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“No, please. I just saw this beautiful boat and I thought I should have a closer look. Can you drive her?” “Yes, of course,” she answered, “but I have a driver. I’m not familiar with this river.” “That’s a lovely boat. By the way, my name’s Sam.” “I’m Kay, a student from National Research Institute, Vom.” “Nice to meet you.” “Nice to meet you, Sam. What do you do?” “I work with Daily Witness newspaper,” Sam said. “A reporter?” “Yes, a reporter.” The friendly light on her face darkened instantly. “If you’re looking for what to write, I’m sorry I have nothing to tell you.” She was now holding the railing on her boat and was about to dismiss Sam. “I’m not asking for anything,” Sam said, noticing her nervousness. “I would rather tell you that it’s risky to travel along this river now.” 283
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“Why?” she asked. “There’s an outbreak of Lassa fever in the
villages along the river. I’ve reported it in my newspaper and I’m still on that beat.” Sam’s calm and candid words hit home. Her nervousness began to turn to interest. “I’ve heard about it. Have you seen things, I mean actual incidents, and have you spoken to the people there?” she asked. “I’ve done much more than that,” Sam answered. “Do you speak the native language?” “No, but I speak pidgin, and most of the people understand it.” “If you’re not too busy, maybe you could come with us,” she said with genuine interest. “My friend and I are taking a ride down to Lokoja.” “Well, I’d love to. I’m actually going to Lokoja too, but I wouldn’t want to intrude into your privacy,” he said. 284
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“No, no, no, we are not... I mean he wouldn’t mind. Please, come with us. I’m sure we’ll enjoy your company,” she said. “Thank you,” Sam said and followed her to the boat. Kay and her friend made a very contrasting couple, Sam thought, immediately he saw the man who was seated inside the boat. She was a European; white, tall, blond and beautiful. He was an Indian, dark-skinned, short and smallish in stature. Her long blond hair was bonded to a ponytail that gave her a model’s elegance. His hair was ruffled variegated feathers that needed a comb, and his moustache a thick tuft of ash-coloured brush that covered most of his upper lip. Kay had full red lips that easily parted for a sunny smile. Above the man’s eyes, two patches of eyebrows, made of some coarse material, combined to give him a look of one who is perpetually brooding. “This is Rajiv Singh,” Kay said with a mouth full of mango juice. She could hardly wait to eat one of those yellow juicy fruits. 285
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“Rajiv, meet Sam...eh?” “Durueke, Sam Durueke,” Sam added. “Sam is a reporter. I’ve asked him to come with us. He understands the language. I think we’ll need his company,” she explained. Rajiv’s thick eyebrows rose, revealing two piercing eyes that bore through Sam’s face. Obviously, he did not approve of a third party, but he said nothing. “Nice to meet you,” Sam said extending his hand. “My pleasure,” Rajiv mumbled, barely touching Sam’s palm in response. ‘Lover boy’s jealousy,’ Sam thought. Kay signalled the driver and the boat took off. At first Rajiv was quiet, most of the time shutting himself behind a small glass cubicle in the boat and fiddling with some scientific gadgets in there. He would only speak if spoken to, and most of the time it was Kay that spoke, often in German. As the journey progressed, it was becoming increasingly obvious to Sam that Kay was in charge and more and more doubtful that she was emotionally 286
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involved with Rajiv. But they seemed to have a common interest which Sam was yet to find out. The first thirty minutes of the voyage was uneventful, until they came to a stretch of low lying land partially submerged in shallow water. They had to slow down. Heaps of dried millet husks with some leftover ears of grains at the left bank of the river, were evidence that harvesting was hurriedly done when the flood came. A group of bare-bodied men were ankle-deep in water, combing clusters of grass and heaps of millet husks with machetes, lances and sticks. When Kay saw them, she became afraid.
Sam quickly held up a reassuring hand.
“They’re hunters,” he said. “I saw them on my
way out.” From the railings, Rajiv saw what the hunters were desperately searching for. A big long black snake was running for dear life, swimming fast 287
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through the water weeds towards the boat. Sam saw it almost too late and was thinking of what to do when Rajiv did the unexpected. He held the railing and noiselessly lowered himself into the water and remained still in the marsh of water weed. When the snake was about a metre to his face, he shot out a left hand and grabbed it by the neck. The slithery creature bared its fangs in a fight as Rajiv held it at arm’s length, admiringly. Sam closed his eyes in horror. When he opened them again, Rajiv was clambering back into the boat with a big coil of snake around his arm. Like a frightened child, Sam held on to Kay’s arm, macho pride forgotten. Kay was giggling with excitement. Opposite them, the hunters had stopped in their tracks, amazed at what they had just witnessed. With all their dexterity in hunting, none, except snake charmers, dared catch a black mamba with bare hands. They had seen white men occasionally sailing past in their motor boats, but not one that catches a snake with bare hands. Strange things do come with the first floods, they all knew. 288
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A few minutes later, Rajiv emerged from the cubicle, smiling for the first time since they left the pier at Makurdi. “Where is it?” Sam asked, looking at him in awe. “In a safe place. It’s a beautiful one. I’ll work on him later and then let him go.” Sam was horrified to hear somebody call a snake beautiful. A snake should be killed and burnt and buried! “Rajiv is a serpentologist,” Kay cut in when she saw the expression on Sam’s face. “Serpentologist?” Sam said incredulously. “That sounds odd and preposterous. In my place serpent is synonymous with Satan.” Rajiv chuckled, exposing for the first time a set of white teeth that brightened his dark visage. “In the realm of science,” Rajiv said, “Satan is just a metaphor. But snakes are real beautiful creatures if you understand them.” 289
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“What exactly do you do with them, if I may ask?” Sam asked. “Generally, I study them, to know what species they are, how they live and reproduce, the type of food they eat and what their enemies are and so on. But specifically, I collect their venoms, analyse them to know how poisonous they are. Their benefits to mankind are enormous. They are very useful in many areas of toxicology.” “It sounds like a risky profession,” Sam said. “Yea, life itself is a risk,” Rajiv said. “And it’s even riskier when we don’t take risks. We must do these things in order to understand the world around us. Even, your journalism profession has its own risks, don’t you agree?” Sam nodded. “How did you get into serpentology in the first place?” “Well, I come from Mysore, in the Indian State of Karnataka. We have this large forest which is protected by conservation laws. It is home to a 290
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large species of plants and animals which include sandalwood, silk and sweet-smelling plants used for making perfumes. Snakes love and live around those sweet-smelling plants. That forest is part of our lives, and so are the plants and animals in it.” The snake incident seemed to have calmed nerves, loosened tongues and enlivened the party. Rajiv’s brief lecture was elucidative. Sam now knew that the Indian was a hardcore scientist. Of Kay, he knew nothing beyond being a student of National Research Institute. But it had become obvious that the link between the two was not romantic love but the love of science, and they were on some kind of research mission. From then on, Sam decided to do more listening than talking.
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Chapter Twenty-Eight
T
o the authorities of National Research Institute, Vom, Kay Ludwig, 28, was a student of University of Krakow in Southern Poland, who had come to the institute to research for her doctoral thesis. In reality, Kay was a German scientist who got her PhD in biological sciences four years ago from Bayreuth University, Germany. She was not working on any doctoral thesis. She was sponsored to the institute by her employer, Richfields Pharma, a large pharmaceutical manufacturing company based in Bombay, India. Her specific mission to the institute was to study tsetse fly and to test a newly developed chemical formulation that would boost cow’s immunity against trypanosomiasis. But in general, she was
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to search for new business opportunities in the country. Earlier that year, she had travelled extensively in the northern states, and her contacts and reports led to the manufacture and supply of CSM drugs to the country by her company. Her mission, therefore, was both espionage and academic. And this was why the pretty young lady kept to herself always, except for occasional visits by a white missionary, who drove down from Jos in a white Land Rover to drop supplies and pick up something. Sam would never know all these details, as a free ride turned into an interesting adventure, every minute adding some spice to it. At Aburu village, the Benue River bifurcates, leaving a long stretch of island that extends to Iga where the river becomes one again. The island in between the two arms is a very good fertile land for dry season farming. Stocks of corn and millet drooping under the weight of grains, were ready for harvest. The lower part of the land was already ankle-deep in water. 293
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A couple and their children were busy with the harvest. The man, naked except for a tattered short around his waist, was rapidly cutting ears of millet and corn. His wife, with a child strapped to her back, was gathering them into a basket and carrying them to the dryer part of the land. On the higher ground, one of their two boys was trashing out the grains with a long stick; the other was crouching under a tree, aiming at some animal with a catapult. “Stop,” Kay said to the driver. She strapped on her backpack. Rajiv followed suit. Sam looked from one to the other, but none spoke. He got up also, and the only thing that came to his mind was to take his notepad and pen. He had decided to do more listening than talking. The farmer rose from his chore and watched them step out of the boat and come towards him. Obviously, he was surprised if not afraid. A white woman, a black man and a man that was neither white nor black – such were not normal visitors to 294
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the farm. He looked at his wife, his children and his canoe bopping gently with the water weeds at the water’s edge. Kay noticed his apprehension and was wondering how to douse it, when a bout of violent coughing erupted from a makeshift shade to one side of the farm. The farmer’s wife dropped what she was doing and ran to the shade. Her husband followed. Kay and her team strode behind them. Inside the shade, a young girl was sitting huddled on a bag of grains; her chin resting on her knees, and shivering all over. She was covered from toe to neck with a dirty wrapper. There were red spots on her face, neck and lips. No one needed to be told that she had caught the fever, and was in a critical condition. The farmer, his wife and the boys stood looking at her helplessly as she continued coughing with the little strength that was left in her. It seemed they had done all they could to save her. “Na your pikin?” Sam asked. 295
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The man looked at Sam with watery eyes and nodded. “Wetin de do am?” The answer was obvious. “The fever,” he said hopelessly. Rajiv unzipped his backpack and fetched two pairs of hand gloves. He slipped one on and gave the other to Kay. Kay knelt on one knee before the sick girl. “How old is she?” she asked. “Sixteen years,” the man answered. Kay could not be sure. Sickness and hardship had taken their toll on the girl. “Bring the first aid kit,” she said to Rajiv, “and two syringes.” When the girl saw the syringe, she cringed. About eight years ago, when government health officials came to her school to immunise the pupils against contagious diseases, she was one of those who ran away out of fear. She was in primary two 296
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then, and after that incident she never returned to school. Her parents had never thought it necessary to persuade her. She had been waiting for someone to seek her hand in marriage, and now it seemed her sickness had ruined every chance. Kay put on her best charming smiles. “It’s okay,” she said again and again as she touched her face gently with a gloved hand, dabbing the red spots with cotton wool soaked in methylated spirit. “Give me your hand,” she said. “Ok, that’s fine.” Kay was rubbing the back of her hand with the wet cotton wool. It felt cool on her skin, and the girl was beginning to feel that there was no pain in the oyibo medicine after all. When Kay found a vein, she quickly jabbed the needle and drew blood. She needed the blood sample for analysis later. The short sharp pain took the girl unawares, and she was struggling to free her hand when Kay removed the syringe containing the blood sample, and inserted another containing a golden-coloured anti-viral first 297
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aid drug. The girl closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, as a warm sensation seared through her vein. “That’s all we can do,” Kay said, turning to Rajiv. “Let’s get out of here.” Turning to the man, she said: “Take her to the hospital.” Kay began to walk around the farm collecting samples of rat droppings, cow dung and soil samples from footmarks. It was all amusing to the children, but the man and his wife did not find it funny. What was oyibo going to do with these things? Or was this one a witch? Had she come to take away the fertility of their farm? The farmer’s wife was the most disturbed. With the flood rising with every ripple of the river, the visit of these strangers was certainly ominous. But she said nothing, for fear of the unknown and in deference to her husband. Inside the boat, Sam could hardly contain his curiosity anymore. “What are you going to do with these?” he asked, pointing to the samples Kay had collected. 298
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“Basically, I want to know what the rat’s urine and faeces contain. And then what the cows are taking to the next farm and what the farmers are taking home with their feet,” Kay answered. “I don’t think I understand, Kay.” “You should. There’s an epidemic going on. It’s spread by both man and animals. The rats are contaminating the soil and food with their urine and faeces. The wet soil in the farms is a veritable breeding ground for the bacteria and viruses. The farmers step on the land and pick up the germs. Then take them away without knowing what they’re doing. With these samples, we may know what’s eating up that poor girl.” She was talking rapidly now, and Sam could sense the impatience in her voice. On his part, Rajiv was busy putting away the samples, handling every item with utmost care and gentleness. He had once again become that smallish dark-skinned Indian with disheveled hair and wiry moustache, who spoke only when he was spoken to. 299
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It was mid afternoon when they got to Iga village, where the two branches of Benue merge into one. At the tip of the island, there were some farmers trashing and gathering grain. On the far left bank, some Fulani herdsmen were watching their cows drink from the shallow muddy water. On the right bank of the river, was a forested region, with huge tree branches hanging over the bank of the river. “Stop, and pull up over there,” Kay ordered the driver. “Look at that,” she said, pointing to the forest. Rajiv quickly came out of his cubicle and joined her at the railing. Sam expected to see some animals. That could only be the reason for Kay’s excitement. But there were none. The jungle loomed large and intimidating. Sam didn’t know that Kay and Rajiv were actually looking beyond the gloomy forest. If she was captivated by the scenic beauty of the grassland and rocky hills of Vom, she was now overwhelmed by the majesty of giant trees and 300
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lush vegetation. And for Rajiv, he was once again back in his native village in Mysore, where nature speaks through the hissing of snakes and the scents from forest leaves. To them, the research mission had just begun and it would not be complete until they explored this forest. Sam watched them strap on their backpacks once again and made for the muddy bank. Kay beckoned Sam, but the reporter shook his head. Nothing, he swore, would make him go into that forest. The last time he passed here, the canoe man kept to the middle of the river. He uttered no word, until they had left that stretch far behind. He told Sam that it was an evil forest where people who died from the evil fever were buried. Sam recalled that in his village there was also an evil forest which was associated with weird tales. True or false, he might never know. He had made up his mind never to try to investigate such things. “This is Africa,” he said, “dark, semi-explored and mysterious. 301
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Chapter Twenty-Nine
T
he first host they met was a colony of giant bats, dangling their heads down from tree branches. Their presence in such a large number would have scared ordinary people. But Kay and Rajiv didn’t see them beyond what they are – flying mammals. “Look at those,” Kay exclaimed. “They’re amazing.” “Yea,” Rajiv said, “but for people like you and I.” “What do you mean?” Kay asked still looking up at the bats. “I don’t know about the people here, but I’ve been to somewhere in South America where bats are believed to be evil agents from hell.” “Do you believe that?”
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“I don’t have to, but people have their different beliefs and traditions. What is amazing is how people hold on to these beliefs without any proof that they are true or false.” “But you don’t think they’re anything more than animals?” Kay said jokingly. “Of course not,” Rajiv replied, “but if you understand them, you learn so many things from them. You know, nature speaks through its creatures.” From somewhere up the trees, another host stirred the quietude of the forest with a loud shriek. Rajiv and Kay looked up at the same time and saw a monkey leap from a tree branch and land on another. Other monkeys followed, leaping away and shrieking at the same time. Their noise woke the bats from their sleep. In a minute, the sleepy forest came alive with flapping dark-brown wings and tree branches swaying under the weight of monkeys. “Aha!” Rajiv exclaimed. “Look at that up there. The monkey may be a game here, but in India it is untouchable, a spirit.” 303
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Kay had never been to a virgin tropical forest before. She was fascinated by the sights and sounds around her. She wanted to touch every tree and smell every plant. But Rajiv was very much at home. His interest was to find rare species of plants and animals, and he knew he had come to the right place. There was no evidence of human interference here. They were at the edge of a clearing in the middle of the forest, when they heard the first sound of human beings. They stopped to listen. It was a song, melancholic in tune, coming from several voices and approaching rapidly. The fleeing bats and monkeys seemed to have summoned whoever it was out there. They backed up against a tree, ready to see what was coming or fleeing. Finally, the voices came into the open. It was a funeral procession. Kay and Rajiv were transfixed at the solemn nature of the procession coming towards where they stood. It was too late to flee 304
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now. But suddenly the pallbearers cried out and dropped the body and took to their heels. Those closely following behind them also turned and ran, when they saw a white female and a male that was neither white nor black. The chief priest, the leader of the procession, hesitated a moment, to make sure that no one was hallucinating. Yes, it was real; Sefinatu and her prince were standing at the edge of the clearing, waiting to take possession of this one, another soul that would turn to an owl and hoot all through the night. With a cry, the old man turned and limped away as fast as his aching joints and walking stick could carry him. The thought of going into the evil forest was frightening in the first place, but coming face to face with the spirits that ruled the forest of the dead, was an experience no one had ever bargained for. So, they ran, falling over each other and crying foul. The once solemn funeral procession had gone awry, the sorrowful chants and lamentation turned into a cacophony of distressed voices and stampeding feet. 305
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Confused and afraid, Kay and Rajiv stood there watching for some thirty minutes. When nobody came back, they moved cautiously towards the body. It was wrapped in white cloth and secured on a wooden plank with ropes. A twig had pierced through and torn part of the cloth when they dropped it. Rajiv knelt on one knee and looked at the body from head down. He unstrapped his backpack and zipped it open. From it, he took a surgical knife and hand gloves. Then he ripped through the cloth. It was a man. His body was covered with sores. He took some cotton wool and dabbed the sores and carefully put it into a glass jar. Then he jabbed the knife into the side of the body and took a sample of the fluid soaked in cotton wool. He was working with the speed, fearlessness and lack of emotional involvement of a morbid anatomist. “Why did they run?” he asked. “Maybe they thought we were from the authorities?” Kay answered. 306
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“Authorities in the forest? That doesn’t make sense.” “Well, to them, it might. Let’s get out of here,” Kay said with some urgency in her voice. “Do you think they will come back?” “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Let’s get out of here,” she declared. “And if they don’t?” “What’s the matter with you, Rajiv?” She had lost her temper. “I say, let’s get out of here.” “I’m afraid we have to do the needful, just in case they don’t come back. I think it was our presence that scared them away.” Rajiv took hold of a hoe dropped by the fleeing crowd. As he began to dig, Kay put both hands to her mouth to stifle a cry. “What do you think you’re doing?” she cried. Science and culture had taken hold of Rajiv. In his native land, a corpse was either cremated or at least buried. It was an abomination to allow it rot away on the surface. On the other hand, leaving a diseased body to rot away or be eaten by scavengers 307
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would further spread the viruses and bacteria that killed it. Grunting with the self-imposed charity labour, he looked up at Kay’s distress-stricken face. “Yes, we have to do the needful,” he said and continued digging. It was three hours later when they returned to the boat. Sam had been restless and worried, and so was the driver. They were relieved to see them. Rajiv was dirty and caked in mud all over, and Kay was no less tidy. When Sam lent a hand to pull her over the railing, she was smiling, but he saw beyond that veil; fatigue was written all over her face. Rajiv did a better job of concealing his own feeling with his natural taciturnity.
“It’s another world in there,” Kay said again and
again to Sam’s every question, as she squatted on the edge of the boat, washing her feet. Sam knew it was a polite way to say she was not 308
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in the mood for questions. He didn’t press further because he thought they might not want to tell him what transpired out there. He did not tell them why he did not want to go with them, for fear that they might laugh at him. But his suspicion grew. These were a special couple on a special mission. Again, he thought about spies and how vulnerable the country could be to foreign espionage. In silence, they moved on; everyone laden with the load this adventure had brought to bear. The sun had dipped some degrees overhead, and in about an hour it would drop low on the horizon. Sam was checking his wristwatch when a familiar rumble tore through the air overhead. An aircraft was heading north. He knew who it was up there – the health minister and his team flying back to Abuja. ‘What are they going to tell the people, when they do not walk on the same ground with the people,’ he wondered. It was dark when they negotiated the rocky 309
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headland that ushers River Benue into the Niger. They turned left, coasting downstream in the bigger river. In the distance, they could see the colourful lights of Confluence Hotel. It promised to be an ideal place to rest after the adventure. To their left, was Ekitiva, the island in the middle of the Niger, now in darkness. Wearied by exhaustion and lured by the prospect of a good night’s rest at the hotel, no one except Sam saw the lone tongue of light flickering on the island. It made no sense to him after all he had experienced; for Sefinatu, with all the song and dance, could not be true. But who else could be there at night? Later, he would understand that there is no shadow without an object, and no smoke without fire. Nature teases us all, every day, with riddles in languages that cut across borders. Those who enquire understand, and those who do not, live in fear.
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EPILOGUE
A
maechi Ugwu is standing by a table beautifully decorated with purple linen. He is surrounded by his friends. On the table sits a beautifully decorated 11th year birthday cake, a white-handled knife thrust into it. In a smart black suit, white shirt and bow tie, there is no mistaking the celebrant. A huge dogonyaro tree at the centre of the compound provides a cool shade for the occasion. When he cuts the cake, his friends clap and cheer and holler and jump up in excitement. Parents sitting in the background also clap and laugh and grin from ear to ear. The DJ lets go of the controls, and the music bursts forth from giant loud speakers. Instantaneously, the small crowd of teenagers erupts
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with intricate and acrobatic dancing. Amaechi is overwhelmed with joy, for this is a moment to relish heightened expectations. It has been a year since he had an encounter with Sefinatu. That incident, like a nightmare, has long vaporised from his memory. Everything before him now is real, alive and breathing. But just out there behind the fence, life goes on as usual. Sefinatu still looms large in the imagination of the people; and the streets are still alive with the silent whispers of the gods. Nothing has actually changed, and no one can say if it ever will. * * * Dr Jeremiah Ameh is sitting at the departure lounge at Murtala Mohammed International Airport, Lagos, a folded newspaper on his laps. The front page story has made him sad: ‘LASSA FEVER: DOCTOR AMEH SACKED OVER NEGLIGENCE’. It bears the by-line, Sam Durueke. 312
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He picks up his cell phone and dials. “Hello, Sam,” he says. “I’ve just read your front page story, and I think I should tell you my own side of it. I would have preferred to let sleeping dogs lie, but having been so rubbished without justification, I think I have to let the public know the rot in the government hospital. “...I know, I know. Never mind. I was not sacked because of negligence. That’s a fabrication. I resigned because of the interview I granted you at the height of the Lassa fever epidemic. The board was embarrassed by my revelations and subsequently asked me to deny my statement. I could not do that because that would prick my conscience forever and injure the public further. So they told me to resign and I resigned. “...No, no, no, Sam. I know that you wrote your story with the information available to you. I had wanted to go quietly without joining issues with anybody. That’s why I didn’t pick your call. “Yes. Now listen. I’ll give you the lowdown. The fake drugs were supplied by a member of the 313
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board who is also a brother-in-law of the governor. He received a query from the chairman of the board. But when the governor got wind of it, he pressed a few buttons and the matter was hushed up. The chairman, you may have heard, has been reassigned to another board...” A musical female voice is announcing the boarding of Saudi Air flight 295. Dr Ameh grabs his briefcase and gets to his feet. “Sorry, Sam, I have to go now. I have a flight to catch. But I’m sending you documented evidence of all I’ve just told you. The public has the right to know.” He takes a few quick strides to the travolator. Brain drain, like the May flood, is also a natural process. *
*
*
This is May, and once again, the flood is on its way. 314
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In a dark silent night, Nyarinya Mai Karfi stands on a rocky outcrop overlooking the wedlock of Rivers Benue and Niger with a child in the crook of her arms. She is pleading with the flickering light on the island to spare the life of this baby. The child, trembling with fever, was born at Waterside, the night Talatu died about one year ago. Her passionate petition, delivered in tremulous voice, carries far and wide. In the wilds, freeroaming hyenas call to each other; owls hoot ominously from tree tops; and from homesteads, dogs respond with barking. Mai Karfi nods with understanding. The children of the gods are pleading on behalf of the child. *
*
*
Sam Durueke is sitting at his dining table looking vacantly at the opposite wall, a pen held between his fingers. The wall clock says 2.15 a.m. It is the first day of May, a year after he reported the outbreak of 315
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Lassa fever. In another couple of hours the workers will troop out to Tafawa Balewa Square, Lagos, to celebrate Workers Day. He will be there to make news out of what they’re going to say, which is not going to be different from what they said last year: demanding for improved conditions of service, implementation of the new minimum wage, payment of arrears of bonuses, prompt payment of retirement benefits, blah, blah, blah. But after all said and done, they will disperse and go home, and nothing will change. This exercise is a cycle, an annual ritual, and he can write the story without being there. He changes the topic. “This is May and the Benue flood is on its way,” he writes instead. “Soon (God forbid) people living along the river may begin to suffer from Lassa fever or gastroenthoritis. But it is not the flood that is the problem. Nor is it Sefinatu, the daughter of the river goddess. In fact, Sefinatu is a myth imprinted on the mind by fear. The flickering light on the island of 316
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Ekitiva is an illusion created by phosphorescent gas escaping from layers of matter that have accumulated over the millennia. It is will-o’-thewisp; a mirage created by spontaneous combustion of self-luminant gas given off by rotting organic matter. At night, it is seen as light in marshy areas, but in the day time it is invisible, even though it is there. The cause of Lassa fever is a microorganism contained in rats’ urine and faeces. The flood only helps to wet the ground for its growth. It is spread by contact, and human beings and animals are veritable agents. The infected person suffers from severe fever, muscle cramps, skin rashes and abdominal pains. In most cases it leads to death. Last season, about 650 people died. There is no guarantee that it won’t happen again. But there is something we can do, if only those who are charged with looking after our health can detach their wings and walk on two legs…” 317
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He reads through what he has scribbled, and then looks up at the ceiling, thinking of the next line. *
*
*
Against the ripples of continued flooding, a canoe is making its way upstream in the Niger. Sitting in the middle is Jamiu Garba in a white flowing gown. His son, Abba, also in a white flowing gown, is sitting at the back, paddling. In between them is a box of gifts of wrapper, powder, pomade, bar soap, ladies handbag and other sundry items. They are going to witness the marriage ceremony of his niece who is living in a village up the river. That she is alive today is a miracle worth celebrating; a miracle performed by a strange white woman who met her in the farm last harvesting season when she was under an evil spell. Jamiu is happy, not just because his son has come of age and will soon take a wife, but also 318
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because he has come to terms with some grim realities of his life. Ageing is inevitable, he has accepted, and Jamiu Garba can never return to those vibrant and athletic days. Weakness and aching joints are all part of growing old. But he can always resort to herbal remedies provided by Mama Abba, to boost his strength and renew his health. As for having more male children, ah, that’s left for the gods. It is beyond the power of man to decide. And as if to concur with his thoughts, a bird gives off a long melodious cry overhead. He looks up to see a black kite sailing gracefully, without flapping its wings. ‘If this one can be happy and singing without a stake in all these things,’ he muses, ‘why, Jamiu Garba should be happier with two wives and nine children and a barn full of grains.’ Ahead, small bunches of water hyacinth, floating down the river greet them with the same refrain: life and death are two sides of the same coin. 319
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