Say You’re One Of Them (30 page)

“I warned you about mentioning the word
Muslim,
did I not?” the chief said.

“I
dey
sorry,” Monica apologized. “I forget.”

“How come nobody listens to royal fathers anymore in this country?” the chief said. “What is wrong with us?”

Emeka stood up and went to where Jubril was, stepping carefully over the chief ’s feather on the way, to explain things to him. “You see, Gabriel,” he whispered, “you know that, since this is a civilian government, we should try to settle our quarrels without bringing in the police or soldiers. The generals stole billions of our oil dollars during the years of military rule. . . . Now some of these generals have turned around in these democratic times to back laws that would cut off the limbs of poor chicken thieves . . .”

“If we drag dese same generals go Charia court,” Tega came in, “what part of deir body we go cut? What part go remain? Still we no go recover our money. Charia cannot toush dese rish Muslims
o!
Before you know it, dem go run go Common Law court. Even de rogue governors who introduce
am
no go smell de so-called Charia court. Dem go run go ordinary court for immunity against de same Charia . . .”

“My sister, just take it easy,” Emeka pleaded with her. “Just allow me to carefully explain things to Gabriel.”

But she said, “My advice to all of
una
be say make we poor people
dey
learn to protect ourselves. . . . Gabriel, quick quick, go remove dis case from police hand.”

But Jubril was past hearing. His mind had drifted back to his woes as they analyzed the crisis. His vacant face wore a collapsed smile. His eyes were distant, vaguely transfixed on the ceiling of the bus, away from the TVs.

How will my father receive me when I reach Ukhemehi? he thought. What will I tell him about Yusuf? Would my leaving Islam for Deeper Life placate him and the extended family? Yusuf had said some of them had remained Catholic and some relapsed into their ancestral religion. What does justice demand of me? When would I tell my father the whole truth? Yusuf must have told him I was a conservative Muslim when he visited home. What do I tell them about my hand? How long could I keep it hidden? Maybe I should lie to my people in the delta, tell them that I did not steal, that I was forced to confess, that I never in my life supported Sharia. Maybe if they knew that, they would be more sympathetic to my situation.

He reached down into his heart and found some solace: maybe a full public confession would be the right thing to do, the kind that Yusuf himself preached about in the parable of the Prodigal Son. Jubril was ready to risk any consequence, even death. His flight began to assume the mission of going back to tell his father the truth, a truth he must do everything to conceal until he reached his destination. He was very sure of his father’s forgiveness and the hospitality of the village of Ukhemehi because of what Yusuf had told him.

“Gabriel doesn’t hear properly,” the chief said, chuckling, seeing Emeka and Ijeoma’s consternation. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Sometimes he even uses sign language.”

“Gabliel, you
dey
claze!” Ijeoma snapped, shouting so loud that the rest of the bus turned to look. “We
dey
beg you say no bling porice kill us, you
dey
smile and pose rike Gucci model . . . wid one hand for pocket.” She grabbed him and shook him until his mind came back to the bus. “We say we no want porice to settle any case for dis bus!”

When Jubril looked around and saw everybody looking at him, he said, “Ah, no police again.”

“You be deaf?” Emeka asked.

“No vex,” Jubril said to them, bowing.

“My people, don’t worry,” the chief said. “I’ll tell the police not to bother, OK?”

“Yes, Chief!” they said.

“Tank you, Chief. . . . So you be real chief.”

“God bless you, Chief!”

Now that the police were out of the picture, the passengers relaxed again. Jubril listened to the banter in the bus about the power in the chiefs’ domains. Jubril could only compare the idea of being a chief to that of being an emir in the north, though from what he was hearing, he knew the emirs had more power.

Chief Ukongo rose to his feet and cleared his throat. “My people, now you’re talking . . . to me . . . your chief!” he addressed the bus. He thudded the floor with his stick and went to where the feather was. He picked it up as tenderly as possible and put it together with his talisman in his bag. “As our people say,” he continued, “the world is full of gods, but the important ones are called by their names. And also, do not forget: no matter how small an idol is, it is good to carry it with two hands. You see, my people, this is a period of national crisis. You should rally around your royal fathers. . . . The north is uniting around the emirs.” He asked Jubril to sit on the floor near him, where the feather had fallen. Jubril sat down immediately, near Monica. She smiled at Jubril; he ignored her.

The old man dropped some biscuits into Jubril’s lap. Jubril thanked him. The refugees who supported him a few moments ago did not even look at Jubril. His loneliness and fear came back, rising like yeast. He pushed his body against the seat of the chief to keep from trembling. The more he pressed against his sore muscles, the more he aggravated the wounds under his clothes. He came back to his senses when the chief asked him why he was not eating. Chief Ukongo sounded to Jubril as if he would not only deprive him of the food but might use his magical powers to turn him into a grain of sand. He ate quickly.

SOMEWHERE
IN
THE
CROWD
outside, above the din of the bus stop, a dog barked breathlessly several times. With each effort the barks got weaker, as if the dog, like a whooping-cough patient, could not save itself from that sickening, involuntary urge.

The local TV station continued to broadcast its ugly pictures of the conflict, taking with it most of the passengers’ attention as they waited for the driver and fuel. Now, without passion, they watched the pictures of the barracks, shown over and over again, listening to the same TV anchor telling them everything was OK. But Jubril was watching the chief the whole time. The old man, in spite of finally being recognized by his people, was restless. It seemed to Jubril that the momentary peace that had pervaded the bus had evaded this man. Every now and then, some indiscernible angst brought tears into the gullies of the chief ’s eyes. He took out his identity card, looked at it, and asked Jubril how the refugees could have refused to acknowledge his ID. “How could they refuse to see it, when I voluntarily showed it to them?” he asked.

“Sorry, Chief,” said Jubril. “Sorry.”

“It’s OK,” he said.

The chief peered at the happy, confident face he once had and wrinkled his brow as if he was trying to remember something. Another wave of tears came close to spilling onto his cheeks, but then lost steam, as if the chief lacked the energy to remember and to cry simultaneously.

“My son, Gabriel,” he said, glancing sorrowfully out the window, into the dark of Lupa, “I once enjoyed this country. You know I once did?”

“No, Chief.”

“I’m telling you I once did.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“I don’t know why the god of my ancestors allowed the military to hand over power to civilians. . . . With the military in power, this Sharia war would never have taken place. We royal fathers used to go to the seat of government as the sole representatives of our people, guardians of the people’s mandate. Now everybody treats us as if we are no longer important.” For the first time, the chief ’s tears fell. “I remember how General Sani Abacha granted us royal fathers five percent of the taxes collected in our domain for saying a resounding yes to his plan to rule our country forever. He even promised us each a house in the capital city. He gave us cars, good cars . . . but I’m in this Luxurious Bus because I have hidden my cars for now. You know why?”

“No, Chief.”

“Because I don’t know whether these new democrats would ask the royal fathers to return them. This democracy is now destroying the country. You agree with me, yes?”

“Yes, yes, Chief.”

Jubril was now leaning on him, giving him his full attention. The more the chief spoke, the more the boy came to believe that this man could probably protect him, not just in this bus but when they reached their destination in the delta. Jubril liked the fact that the chief was confiding in him, and he thought the chief was more reliable than the other passengers.

He touched a fringe of the chief ’s dress, the corduroy material soft on his fingers. Back in the north, he could never imagine being this close to an emir. He could not imagine traveling in the same vehicle with an emir or sitting down to talk with him face-to-face, much less such an important personality whispering to him his life’s disappointments. He remembered all the times he had seen an emir. Jubril was always deep in the crowd, quiet and courteous. He could not boast of shaking an emir’s hand or of being close enough to touch his turban as he was touching the chief ’s dress now.

He felt bad about not giving up the seat all this while, about arguing with Chief Ukongo, about inviting the police to harass him. Back in Khamfi, complete obeisance to the emir was the beginning of wisdom, and the emir’s word was law in his domain. Jubril remembered the sirens and motorcades of governors, and even the presidents, paying courtesy visits to the emir of Khamfi, Alhaji Muhammad Kabir Jadodo; he remembered the politicians going to seek the emir’s blessings before declaring their interest in any elected office in Khamfi. Above all, he thought about the beautiful and imposing palace in Khamfi and of all the salaried workers and all the charity Alhaji Jadodo doled out to the endless number of
talakawas
who flocked there. He remembered how these
talakawas
rose against some human-rights activists who tried to question the emir about the source of his wealth.

“For example,” the old man whispered, “it wasn’t necessary that you harass me for this seat as you did.”

“Sorry, Chief.”

“All because of tickets.”

“Very sorry, Chief.” Jubril felt so bad that he unearthed his ticket from his bag and offered it to the old man. “Keep. I no want again. . . . Sorry, Chief.”

The old man collected it and stuffed it in his pocket and nodded. “Good boy. You see, we know what’s good for this country. We, the emirs, obas, chiefs, we advised the military governments against Sharia! That’s why we did not have Sharia all these years.” He thumped his chest repeatedly and placed his ID on Jubril’s leg.

Jubril picked it up. “Good photo . . . beautiful, Chief!”

The old man smiled. “That’s right, my son. We kept this country together until this madness of democracy!” Then he became serious and began to admonish the press: “The newspapers say the generals, whether from the north or south, were rats from hell who were waging war on the central bank for decades and that we needed elected people, whom we could hold accountable! The press is to be blamed for this democracy in our country. They say the most decorated soldiers have all their children in universities in Europe and America, while the commoner’s child is stuck in our rotten universities. They say even our Muslim soldiers’ children drink, eat pork, and womanize freely in the white man’s land, while their parents want Sharia back home. They say though the northern generals have stolen all the money in the country and have ruled this country for very long, their north is still full of wretched cowherds. But, Gabriel, the worst is they say that we, we royal fathers, are sitting on our people!” He paused and swallowed hard. “Don’t these new democrats and the newspapers know that the people of England respect their royalty? They blame us . . . in spite of all we have done for the country . . .” His voice broke off, pained at the mere recall of the criticisms. Jubril nodded in sympathy.

“The generals took us very seriously . . . us, us!” the chief said. “Cordial relationship. . . . For example, they told us why we needed to send our troops to Liberia and Sierra Leone, why our sons had to die for democracy there.”

“Our soldier people go Sierra Leone?” Jubril asked.

“Em . . . Gabriel, don’t forget to put ‘Chief ’ before asking your question.”

“Chief, no vex, no vex, Chief.”

“Yes, that’s more like it. . . . And stop covering your mouth with your hand or chewing your finger when you talk! It’s annoying.”

“Sorry, Chief. I no brush my tood for many days. My mout
dey
smell.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, if not for our soldiers, those countries would be no more!
We
and the generals gathered other West African countries under ECOMOG—”

“Hey
Chief,
” interjected Monica in a whisper, pointing an accusing finger at him, “
na
you
dey
boast like dis? When did General Babangida share power wid you?”

“Woman, you don’t understand,” the chief said.

“
Na
lie
o
. . . . I understand dis one,” she insisted. “Dat general like power too much
o
. If he no change handover date many times, if he no cancel our 1993 elections, Abacha no for become our leader. . . .
Na
de same people. Locust years. De man
dey
use you. He no share no power wid you,
abeg
.”

“OK, woman, it is not exactly like I was saying. All I was trying to say was that the military respected us. May I talk now, Madam Lawyer?”

“Just make you no lie for dis young man, Chief.”

The chief went back to Jubril, who did not like Monica’s intervention at all.

“Gabriel, the point is, we taught those Sierra Leonean and Liberian rebels a lesson. We lost a lot of soldiers . . . for a good cause!”

“Chief, how many die for combat?”

“That’s codified information, not for everybody, you know. A lizard may listen to a conversation, but he may not say something. I mean, who are you to want to know how many soldiers died in combat? Is government business your father’s business that you must know about it? Or are you now the commander in chief?”