The Fishermen

Chapter 16: The Roosters

THE ROOSTERS

My brother and I were roosters:

The creatures that crow to wake people, announcing the end of nights like natural alarm clocks, but who, in return for their services, must be slain for man’s consumption. We became roosters after we killed Abulu. But the process that transformed us into roosters really began moments after we left the garden and entered the house to find the pastor of our church, Pastor Collins, who seemed to appear almost every time something happened, concluding a visit to our home. He was still wearing a plaster over the wound on his head. He was seated in the lounge chair in the sitting room by the window, his legs sprawled out so that Nkem sat between them, playing and chattering away. He hollered at us in his deep, sonorous voice when we came in. Mother, who had grown apprehensive of our whereabouts and would have pummelled us with questions if the Pastor were not there, threw a curious glance and a sigh at us when we entered.

“The Fishermen,” Pastor Collins cried once he saw us, thrusting his hands in the air.

“Sir,” Obembe and I chorused in unison. “Welcome, Pastor.”

“Ehen, my children. Come and greet me.”

He stood slightly to shake our hands. He had the habit of shaking hands with everyone he met — even little children — with certain unusual reverence and humility. Ikenna once said that he was not a foolish man for his meekness, but that he was humble because he was ‘born-again’. He was a few years older than Father, but was short and solidly built.

“Pastor, when did you come?” Obembe said, flashing a smile, standing beside him, and although we’d thrown our shirts away into the dump behind our fence, he smelt of the esan grass, sweat, and of something else. The Pastor’s face brightened at the question.

“I have been here a while,” he replied. He peered with a squint into the watch that had slid from his arm to his wrist. “I think I have been here since six; no, say, since quarter to six.”

“Where are your shirts?” Mother asked, perplexed.

I was startled. We had not planned a defence, not even thought about what it would be and had merely thrown the shirts because Abulu’s blood had stained them, and entered the house with our shorts and canvas shoes.

“The heat Mama,” Obembe said after a pause, “we were soaked in sweat.”

“And,” she continued, rising to her feet, her eyes scanning us closely. “And look at you, Benjamin, your head all covered in mud?”

All eyes fell on me.

“Tell me, where did you go?”

“We’ve been playing football at a pitch near the public high school,” Obembe replied.

“Oh dear!” Pastor Collins cried. “These street football people.”

David began to remove his shirt, distracting Mother. “What for?” Mother inquired.

“Heat, heat, Mama, I’m feeling hot, too,” he said.

“Eh, you feel hot?”

He nodded.

“Ben, put on the fan for him,” Mother ordered while the Pastor chuckled. “And go right away, both of you, into the bathroom and clean up!”

“No, no, let me do it,” David cried. He hurriedly carried a stool to the switch box pinned to the wall, mounted it and wound the knob clockwise. The fan came to life, swirling noisily.

David had saved us, for while they were at it, my brother and I slipped away to our room and locked it. Although we’d worn our shorts inside out to conceal the bloodstains, I feared that Mother, who often found out what we did, would discover everything if we’d stood there a moment more.

The watt bulb caused me to squint for a moment when my brother turned it on when we entered the room.

“Ben,” he said, his eyes filling with joy again. “We did it. We avenged them — Ike and Boja.”

He locked me in a warm embrace again, and when I rested my head on his shoulder, I felt the urge to cry.

“Do you know what it means?” he said now, detaching from me, but holding my hands.

“Esan—reckoning,” he said. “I’ve read a lot and know that without it, our brothers would never forgive us, and we could never be free.”

He gazed away from me now to the floor. I followed his eyes and saw bloodstains on the back of his left leg. I closed my eyes, nodding in acceptance.

We huddled into the bathroom afterwards and he bathed from a bucket he placed in a corner of the Jacuzzi, scooping water sporadically with a big jug, and pouring it on his body to wash off suds from a bar of soap. The soap had been left in a small pool of water, which had dissolved it into half its original size. To use the soap judiciously, he’d first rubbed it on his hair to lather. Then, pouring water on his head, he rubbed himself with his hands as the water and suds swam down his body. He wrapped himself with the large towel both of us shared, still smiling. When I took over at the Jacuzzi, my hands were shaking. Winged insects that had flocked in from the tear in the netting behind the louvres of the small bathroom window to congregate around the light bulb, crawled about the walls of the bathroom while the ones that had shed their wings formed insect goo around it. I tried to focus on the insects to steady my mind, but I could not. A feeling of some great terror hung about me, and as I tried to pour water on my body, the plastic jug fell from my hand and broke.

“Ah Ben, Ben,” Obembe called, dashing forward. He steadied my shoulders with his hands, “Ben, look me in the eyes,” he said.

I could not so he raised his hands to my head, moved my head to focus on him.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Why Ben, why? Ati gba esan—We have achieved reckoning. Why, why, Fisherman Ben, are you afraid?”

“The soldiers,” I mustered. “I’m afraid of them.”

“Why, what will they do?”

“I’m afraid the soldiers will come for us and kill us — all of us.”

“Shh, put your voice down,” he said. I had not realized that I had spoken aloud. “Listen, Ben, the soldiers won’t. They don’t know us; they won’t. Don’t even think of that. They don’t know where we are or who we are. They didn’t see you come here, did they?”

I shook my head.

“So, why then do you fear? There is nothing to be afraid of. Listen, days decay, like food, like fish, like dead bodies. This night will decay, too and you will forget. Listen, we will forget. Nothing”—he shook his head vigorously—“nothing will happen to us. No one will touch us. Father will come back tomorrow and take us to Mr Bayo and we will go to Canada.”

He shook me to get an approval and I believed — at the time — that he easily knew when he’d convinced me, when he’d totally upturned a belief of mine or a piece of inferior knowledge as one would upturn a cup. And there were times when I needed him to do it, when I deeply craved his words of wisdom, which often moved me.

“You see it?” he asked, shaking me now.

“Tell me,” I said, “what about Daddy and Mama; will the soldiers not touch them either?”

“No, they won’t,” he said, punching his left fist into his right palm. “They will be just fine, happy and will always come to Canada to see us.”

I nodded, was silent a while before another question — like a tiger — sprang out of the cage of my thoughts. “Tell,” I said softly, “what — what about you, Obe?”

“Me?” he asked. “Me?” He wiped his face with his hand, shaking his head. “Ben, I said, I said: I. Will. Be. Fine. You. Will. Be. Fine. Daddy, will be fine. Mama, will be fine. Eh, all — everything.”

I nodded. I could see that he’d become frustrated with my questions.

He took a smaller jug from inside the big black drum and began washing me. The drum reminded me of how Boja, after he got saved at a Reinhard Bonnke evangelical convention, persuaded us to be baptized else we’d all go to hell. Then one after the other, he coaxed us into repentance and baptized us in the drum. I was six at the time, and Obembe, eight, and because we were much smaller, we both had to stand on empty Pepsi crates to be able to dip into the water. Then one after the other, Boja bent our heads into the water until we began to cough. Then he would lift our heads, his face gleaming, hug us and declare us free.

We were dressing when Mother called out that we should hurry up, because Pastor Collins wanted to pray for us before he left. Later, when the Pastor asked my brother and me to kneel, David insisted he would join us.

“No! Get up!” Mother barked. But David made a face, ready to cry. “If you cry, if you try that, I will flog you.”

“Oh, no, Paulina,” the Pastor said, laughing. “Dave, please don’t worry, you will kneel after I finish with them.”

David agreed. Placing his hands on our heads, the Pastor began praying, occasionally splashing spittle on our heads. I felt it on my scalp as he prayed from deep down in his soul, that God should protect us from the evil one. Midway through the prayers, he began talking about the promises of God concerning His children as if delivering a homily. When he’d finished this, he asked that these things might be “our portion” in Jesus’s name. He then begged for God’s mercy on our family—“I ask, oh heavenly Father that you help these kids move on after the tragic events of last year. Help them to succeed in their quest to travel overseas and bless them both. Make the officials at the Canadian embassy grant them the visas, oh God, for thou art able to make all things right; Thou art able.” Mother had been interjecting a loud “amen” all along — followed closely by Nkem and David, and the muffled ones from my brother and me. She joined the Pastor, who suddenly broke into singing, interspersing the song with hisses and clicks.

He is able/ abundantly able/ to deliver/ and to save/

He is able/ abundantly able/ to deliver/ those who trust in Him.

After the third round of the same tune, the Pastor returned to the prayers, this time more spiritedly. He delved into the issue of the papers needed for the visas, the funds, and then for our father. Then he prayed for Mother—“you know oh God, how this woman has suffered, so much; so much for the kids. You know all things, oh Lord.”

He raised his voice louder as the sound of Mother’s stifling sobs made its way into the prayers. “Wipe her tears, Lord,” and then, he continued in Igbo, “Wipe her tears, Jesus. Heal her mind forever. Let her not have any cause to ever cry over her children again.” After the entreaties, he thanked God, many times, for having answered the prayers, and then, requesting that we shout a “thunderous amen,” he ended the prayers.

We all thanked him and shook his hands again. Mother left with him and Nkem to walk him to the gate.

I had lightened up after the prayers and the burden I’d brought home had felt slightly lifted. It was perhaps the assurance Obembe had given me, or the prayers; I did not know. I knew, though, that something had lifted my spirit from the pit. David informed us “our beans” were in the kitchen. So, my brother and I were eating when Mother returned from walking the Pastor, singing and dancing.

“My God has finally vanquished my enemies,” she sang, lifting her hands. “Chineke na’ eme nma, ime la eke le diri gi…”

“Mama, what is it, what?” my brother said, but she ignored him and trailed into another round of singing while we waited impatiently to know what had happened. She sang one more song, her eyes on the ceiling, before turning to us and with tear-filled eyes, said: “Abulu, Onye Ojo a wungo—Abulu, the evil one is dead.”

My spoon, as if pushed out of my hand, fell to the floor, throwing mashed beans about. But Mother did not seem to notice. She told us what she’d heard: that “some boys” had murdered Abulu, the madman. She’d met the neighbour who found Boja’s body in the well on her way from walking the Pastor. The woman was exultant and was coming to our house to break the news to her.

“They said he was killed near Omi-Ala,” Mother said, tightening her wrappa around her waist after it came slightly undone when Nkem tugged at her legs. “You see, it was my God that kept you safe when you were going to that place every evening to fish. Although it still caused a major damage in the end, but at least none of you was hurt there. That river is such a place of evil and horror. Imagine the body of that evil man lying there?” she said, pointing at the door.

“You see, my Chi is alive and has finally avenged me. Abulu lashed my children with his tongue and now that tongue will rot in his mouth.”

Mother carried on her celebration while Obembe and I tried to understand what we had brought on ourselves. But we could not, for if one attempted to look into the future one would see nothing; it was like peeping into a person’s earhole. It was hard for me to believe that knowledge of a deed carried out in the cover of darkness had spread so widely; Obembe and I had not expected this to happen. We wanted to kill the madman and let him die off by the river shore with his body only discovered after it had begun to decompose — just like Boja.

My brother and I retired into our room after dinner to sleep in silence, with my head filled with images of the last minutes of Abulu’s life. I was thinking about the strange force that’d possessed me in that moment, for my hands had moved with such precision, such pressure that every blow had cut deep into Abulu’s flesh. I was thinking of his body on the river, of the fish crowding it when my brother, who, like me, was unable to sleep and was oblivious that I too was awake, suddenly rose from the bed and burst into tears.

“I didn’t know… I did it for you, we, Ben and I, we did it for you; both of you,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry for this Mama and Daddy. I’m sorry, we did it so you may not suffer anymore, but—” The words went inaudible, drowned in a storm of jerking sobs.

I watched him discreetly, my mind tormented by the fear of a future I thought was nearer than we could imagine — a future that was the next day. I prayed then, quietly, in the faintest whispers possible, that the day might not come, that the bones of its legs be broken.

I did not know when I’d slept, but I was awoken by the voice of a distant muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. It was at the neck of the morning, and early sunlight had percolated into the room through the window my brother had left open. I could not tell if he’d slept at all, but he was seated at his study table, reading a dog-eared book with yellowed pages. I knew it was the book about the German man who walked from Siberia to Germany, the title of which I’d forgotten. He was nude to the waist, his collarbones prominent. He’d lost a considerable amount of weight over the weeks of deliberation and planning of our now accomplished mission.

“Obe,” I called out at him. He was startled. He rose briskly to his feet and came to the bed.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

“No,” I said at first, but then said, “But I still fear those soldiers might find us.”

“No, no, they won’t,” he said, shaking his head. “We have to stay inside, though, till Father comes, and Mr Bayo takes us to Canada. Don’t worry, we will leave this country and all of it behind.”

“When are they coming?”

“Today,” he said. “Father is coming today, and we might leave for Canada next week. Possible.”

I nodded.

“Listen, I don’t want you to be afraid,” he said again.

My brother stared blankly on, lost in thoughts. Then, collecting himself and thinking it might have worried me, said, “Should I tell you a story?”

I said yes. Again he was lost for a moment; his lips seemed to move but articulated no words. Then, again calling himself to order, he began the story of Clemens Forell who escaped from Russian imprisonment in Siberia and journeyed to Germany. He was still telling the story when we began to hear loud voices in the neighbourhood. We knew it must be from a mob gathering somewhere. My brother stopped telling the story and fixed his eyes on mine. Together, we went out to the sitting room where Mother was preparing to leave for her shop, dressing up Nkem. It was long into the morning, about nine and the room smelt of fried food. There was a plate of leftover fried eggs between the prongs of a dinner fork, and a piece of fried yam on the table beside the plate.

We sat in the lounges with her and Obembe asked her what the noise was about.

“Abulu,” she said, as she changed Nkem’s diapers. “They are taking his body away in a truck and they say that soldiers are going about searching for the boys who killed him. I don’t understand these people really,” she said in English. “Why can’t someone kill that useless person? Why shouldn’t the boys kill him? What if he’d put some stark fear in their minds that some evil will befall them? Who should blame them? Anyway, they said the boys fought the soldiers, too.”

“Do the soldiers want to kill them?” I said.

Mother looked up at me and her eyes betrayed surprise at my question. “No, I don’t know if they will kill them.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway, both of you should stay indoors — no going out until this has cooled. You know that already you are connected to that madman in some way, so I don’t want you to witness any of this. None of you is getting involved with that creature again ever, whether in life or in death.”

My brother said: “Yes Mama” and I followed in a broken voice. Then Mother, with David repeating every word of the order, asked that we come and lock up the gate and the main door as they left for work. I rose to go lock the gate.

“Be sure to open the gate for Eme when he returns,” she said. “He will come in the afternoon.”

I nodded and hurriedly locked the gate after them, afraid someone outside might see me.

My brother charged at me when I got back into the house, and pushed me against the storm door, sending my heart out of my body.

“Why did you say that in Mama’s presence, eh? Are you stupid? Do you want her to fall sick again? Do you want to destroy us again?”

I shouted “No!” to every question, shaking my head.

“Listen,” he said, panting. “They must not find out. You hear?”

I nodded, my eyes on the floor, wetting. Then it seemed that he pitied me. He softened and put his hand on my shoulder as he had always done.

“Listen, Ben, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I nodded.

“Don’t worry, if they come here, we will not open for them. They will think the house is unoccupied and go away. We will be safe.”

He closed every curtain in the house and locked the doors, and then went into Ikenna and Boja’s now empty room. I followed him and we sat on the new mattress Father had bought — the only thing in the room. Even though it was empty, signs of my brothers were everywhere, like indelible stains. I could see the shinier portion of the wall where the M.K.O. calendar had been yanked off, and the various graffiti and matchstick man portraits. Then I gazed at the ceiling that was full of cobwebs and spiders, indications that time had passed since they died.

I was watching the outline of a gecko climbing up the thin transparent curtain on which the sun was shining while my brother sat as quiet as the dead when we heard loud banging at our gate. My brother dragged me frantically under the bed with him, and we rolled into the dark enclave as the banging continued, attended by cries of “Open the gate! Anyone in there, open the gate!” Obembe pulled the bed sheet so that it sagged downward, covering us up. I accidentally pushed an empty lidless tin close to my side; it was filled with a gossamer film of web through which the tin’s interior — which was black as tar — could be seen. It must have been one of the tins we had gathered for the storage of fish and tadpoles, one that had escaped Father’s eyes when he emptied the room.

The banging at the gate stopped shortly after we got under the bed, but we remained, in the darkness, breathless, my head throbbing.

“They are gone,” I said to my brother after a while.

“Yes,” he replied. “But we must remain here till we are sure they won’t return. What if they are going to climb the fence and come in, or if they—” He discontinued, staring blankly as if he could hear something suspicious. Then, he said: “Let’s wait here.”

We remained there, me holding back an unbearable urge to urinate. I did not want to give him any cause to be afraid or sad.

The next knock on the gate came some hour or so after the first one. It was soft and was followed by the familiar voice of Father calling out our names, asking if we were at home. We emerged from under the bed and began wiping the dust off our clothes and bodies.

“Hurry, hurry, open for him,” my brother said as he ran to the bathroom to wash his eyes.

Father was beaming with smiles when I opened the gate. He wore a cap and his spectacles.

“Were you both asleep?” he asked.

“Yes, Daddy,” I said.

“Oh, good gracious! My boys are now idle men. Well, all that is about to change,” he chattered as he entered.

“Why are you locking it when we are in?”

“There’s been a robbery today,” I said.

“What, in broad daylight?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He was in the sitting room, his briefcase on a chair beside him, talking with my brother, who stood behind the chairs, while Father removed his shoes. As I entered the house, I heard my brother say “How was your journey?”

“Great, just great,” Father said, smiling, as I had not seen him do in a long time. “Ben said there was a robbery here today?”

My brother shot a look at me before nodding his head.

“Wow,” Father said. “Well, anyway, I have good news for both of you my sons, but first, any idea if your mother left food in the house?”

“She fried yams this morning, and I think some are still left—”

“She left some for you in your chinaware,” my brother said, completing what I’d begun to say.

My voice shook as I spoke because a siren, wailing somewhere in the street, had engulfed me with fresh fear of the soldiers. Father noticed. He glanced from face to face searching for what he did not know. “Are you all right, both of you?”

“We remembered Ike and Boja,” my brother said. He burst into tears.

Father gazed emptily at the wall for a moment, then raising his head, said: “Listen, I want both of you to put all that behind you from now on. It is why I’m doing all this — borrowing, running here and there and doing everything — to get you into a new environment where you’d not see anything that can remind you of them. Look at your mother, look at what happened to her.” He pointed towards the blank wall as if Mother was there. “That woman has suffered a lot. Why? Because of the love she has for her children. The love, I mean, for you — all of you.” Father shook his head rapidly.

“Now, I am telling both of you, henceforth, before you do anything, anything at all, think first of her, of what it might do to her — only and only then should you make your decision. I’m not even asking you to think of me; think of her. Do you hear me?”

We both nodded.

“Good, now, someone should get me the food; I will eat it, even if cold.”

I went into the kitchen with the words he’d said in my head. I carried the plate of food — fried yam and fried eggs — to him, with a fork. The big smile had returned to his face, and as he ate, he told us about how he’d procured our travel passports from the immigration office in Lagos. He did not imagine, even remotely, that his ship had sunk, and his life’s worth of goods — his map of dreams (Ikenna=pilot, Boja=lawyer, Obembe=doctor, I=professor) — was gone.

He brought out cakes wrapped in shiny wrappers and tossed two of them to each of us.

“And you know what is more?” he said, still rummaging in his bag. “Bayo is now in Nigeria. I called Atinuke yesterday, and spoke with him. He will be here next week to take you to Lagos for your visas.”

Next week.

These words brought the possibility of Canada so close again that I was broken by it. The time Father had said—“next week”—seemed too far. I wished that we would make it there. I thought we could pack our things and go to Ibadan to stay away at Mr Bayo’s house, and when our visas were ready, we could go from there. No one would trace us to Ibadan. I yearned to suggest this to Father, but was afraid about how Obembe might take it. But later, after Father had eaten and fallen asleep, I said this idea to my brother.

“That would mean giving ourselves away,” he replied without raising his head from the book he was reading.

I struggled to give an answer, but couldn’t.

He shook his head. “Listen, Ben, don’t try it; not at all. Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

When Mother returned that evening and told Father of the searching, and of what she’d heard in the streets that the kids killed the madman with fishing hooks, Father wondered why we hadn’t mentioned it.

“I thought the robbery was more important,” I said.

“Did they come here?” he asked, his eyes stern under his eyeglasses.

“No,” my brother replied. “I was mostly awake while Ben slept, and I did not hear anything except for when you came.”

Father nodded.

“Perhaps he’d tried to prophesy to the kids and they’d fought him, fearing it would come to reality,” he said. “It’s a shame that such spirit possessed that man.”

“It might have been so,” Mother agreed.

Our parents spent the rest of the night talking about Canada. Father recounted his errand to Mother with the same measure of joy, while my head ached badly, and by the time I retired to bed — earlier than anyone else — I was feeling so ill I feared I would die. The longing to move to Canada had become, by this time, so strong that I wanted badly to do it, even if without Obembe. This continued long into the night, after Father had dozed off in the lounge, his throat buzzing with loud snorts. Then the calm and assurance took flight and a chilling fear, as strong as a cold, flushed into me. I began to fear that something I could not yet see, but could smell — could tell was coming — would come before next week. I sprang from the bed and tapped my brother who was under a wrappa. I could tell he was not asleep.

“Obe, we should tell them what we have done so Father can take us — run away — to Ibadan to meet Mr Bayo. So we can travel to Canada next week.”

I’d rushed the words as if I’d memorized them. My brother emerged from under the wrappa and sat up.

“Next week,” I muttered to him, my breath catching.

But my brother did not respond. He looked at me in a way that made it seem as though he couldn’t see me. Then he returned under the wrappa and disappeared.

It must have been in the dead of the night when, panting and covered in sweat, and my head still aching, I began hearing “Ben wake up, wake up,” as a hand shook me.

“Obe,” I gasped.

But he was not visible for the first few moments after I opened my eyes. Then, I saw him throwing out clothes from his closet and packing things into a bag, dashing about.

“Come, stand up, we have to leave this night,” he said, gesturing.

“What, leave home?”

“Yes, right now,” he broke off from his packing, and hissed to me. “Listen, I have realized the possibilities — the soldiers can find us. I saw the old priest of that church while I was running away from the soldier, and he recognized me. I almost knocked him down.”

My brother could see the horror that filled my eyes at this revelation. Why, I wondered, didn’t he tell me this before?

“I have been afraid that he would tell them it was us. So, let us leave, now. They could still come this night, and they, too, might identify us. I’ve been awake and I’ve heard noises outside all night. If they don’t, they will surely come in the morning or anytime. We’ll go to prison if they find us.”

“So, what should we do?”

“We must leave, leave: that’s the only way. It is the only way we can protect ourselves and our parents — Mama.”

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere,” he said, starting to cry. “Listen, don’t you know they will find us by morning?”

I wanted to say something, but no words came. He turned back and started unzipping a bag.

“Won’t you move from there now?” he said when he looked up again and saw me still standing there.

“No,” I said. “Where shall we go?”

“They will search here in the morning, once the sky clears.” His voice broke. “And they will find us.” He paused and sat on the edge of the bed for less than a second and stood again. “They’ll find us.” He shook his head gravely.

“But I’m afraid, Obe. We should not have killed him.”

“Don’t say this. He killed our brothers; he deserved to die.”

“Father will get us a lawyer, we shouldn’t leave, Obe,” I said emptily, sobs choking my words. “Don’t let us go.”

“Listen, don’t be stupid. The soldiers will kill us! We wounded their man, they will shoot us, like Gideon Orkar, don’t you know?” He paused to drive his question home. “Imagine what will happen to Mama. This is a military regime, Abacha’s soldiers. Let’s go somewhere, maybe to our village for a while then write to them from there. They can then arrange to meet us, take us to Ibadan, and then Canada.”

The last words temporarily submerged my fears.

“Okay,” I declared.

“Then pack, quick, quick.”

He waited for me to put my things in the bag.

“Quick, quick. I can hear Mother’s voice, she is praying; she might come in here to see us.”

He craned his ear to the door for any sound whatsoever as I pooled all my clothes into my rucksack and packed our shoes into another. Then, before I knew what was happening, he jumped out of the shutters with his bag and the shoes and became a silhouette whose arms I could barely see.

“Throw yours!” he whispered from below the window.

I threw my rucksack and jumped after him, falling. My brother hoisted me up and we started off across the road that led to our church, passing houses that were dead in sleep. The night was dimly lit by the bulbs on the verandas of houses and a few street lamps. My brother would wait for me, run and wait, whispering “come” or “run” every time he paused. As we ran, my fear increased. Strange visions encumbered my movement as memories rose from their tombs; now and again I glanced backwards to the direction of our home, until I could no longer see it. Behind us, the moonlight percolated across the night sky and cast a grey hue around the way we’d come and over the town that lay asleep. Somewhere, the sound of singing voices, supported by drumming and bell-ringing, steadily reached us even louder than the distant noise.

We’d covered a good distance, and although it was difficult to make out in the darkness, I reckon we were about to reach the district centre when Father’s words—“henceforth, before you do anything, think first of her, of what it might do to her, and then make your decision”—pierced me sharply, sending a stray rod into my track. I lost balance like derailing boxcars, my heart tooting, and found myself on the ground.

“What happened?” he asked, turning back.

“I want to go back,” I said.

“What? Benjamin, are you mad?”

“I want to go back.”

When he moved towards me, afraid he’d try to drag me along, I cried: “No, no, don’t come, don’t come. Just let me go back.”

He made forward again, but I started to my feet and staggered off. My knees had been bruised and I could tell they were bleeding.

“Wait! Wait!” he cried.

I stopped.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender.

He unclasped his rucksack, laid it on the ground and walked to me. He made to hug me, but once his hands were around my neck, he tried to pull me forward, but I put my leg between his like Boja was adept at doing and scissored his legs. We both fell sprawling together. While we struggled, he kept insisting we had to go together, while I pleaded with him to let me return to our parents — that I didn’t want them to miss us both. I extricated myself in the end, leaving with my shirt partly ripped.

“Ben!” he cried when I ran a distance from him.

I’d begun to sob freely, too. He gazed at me, his mouth open. He could now see that I was determined to go back, for my brother knew things.

“If you won’t come with me, then tell them,” he said in a shaky voice. “Tell Daddy and Mama that I… ran away.”

He could barely speak, his heart was now bursting with grief.

“Tell them that we — you, me — did it for them.”

In a flash, I was back to him — clasped to his body. He held me closer and put his hand behind my head, to the oblong side of my scalp. For a long time Obembe sobbed against my shoulder, then he disentangled from me, and moved backwards without turning away from me. He raced a distance away. There he stopped, and cried: “I will write to you!”

Then, the darkness swallowed him. I lunged forward and cried: “No, don’t go Obe, don’t go, don’t leave me.” But there was nothing; no trace of him in the darkness. “Obe!” I called aloud, making a frantic dash forward. But he did not stop, did not seem to hear. I tripped, fell and struggled up. “Obe!” I called even louder, more desperately into the night as I entered the road. To my left, to my right, forward, backwards — no trace of him. No sound, no one about. He was gone.

I sank to the ground and began to wail anew.