Lament for the Fallen (27 page)

The girl smiled as she watched it go, following it as it rose up and drifted out over the waves. Others joined it, flying in swooping drifts parallel to the coast.

‘It’s getting closer,’ said the girl. ‘You shouldn’t be here. It isn’t safe.’

‘We shall see,’ said my wife. She was setting the table now. Placemats, glasses and steel cutlery being placed just so.

The girl began to sing. Her voice sweet and melodic. A sound like the changing of the tide, of change and renewal, of the relentless wild places.

Slowly, inevitably, the sea advanced. Ripples in the depths turning to white and churning waves as it struck the rocky shallows. Washing up and over the pools, submerging and revealing, before hiding them completely.

The girl stands and turns towards my wife. She is a teenager, her soft cotton dress flowing down to her ankles. Her eyes are storm-tossed green.

The wind has risen, and our curtains are being flung back and forth against the wall. Our windows rattle.

‘Please don’t stay,’ says the young woman. ‘Please, the sea has no quarrel with you.’

My wife says nothing. Her face sunken in, her eyes blackened and her skin pulled back into her skull. Her concentration is focused on a point somewhere deep inside.

The woman walks over to me, her pace anxious and tense. She pulls at my arm, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes are grey, foamed with flecks of white.

Water is starting to wash against the door frames, held back from entering by my wife’s will.

‘Please,’ begs the woman. ‘Make her listen. She mustn’t do this.’

I look at my wife and shake my head. The cast is made. The investment is poured. The water is rising. All that is left is for the sea to take the form. Whether it wants to or not is not up to it.

Water is piling up around the outside of the cottage. It swirls, grey and cold and heavy against the windows and walls. A thundering maelstrom churns calf-deep through the living room. Our furniture remains unmoved, untouched. The water flows from the kitchen and out through the living room doors.

The woman is now middle-aged. Her hair is damp against her head and neck, and her eyes are dark.

Still my wife ignores her, remaining standing, leaning forward, her hands flat on the table.

The woman, her hands twisting in against her belly, shakes her head and moans. Pain and distress as her face changes.

My wife is unmoved, focused only on holding the forms in place.

‘Why are you doing this?’ shouts the old woman. Her face wrinkled and soft, her eyes fading to blindness.

My wife turns at last, staring into those eyes so full of fear and confusion.

‘Please,’ begs the old woman, her body failing. ‘Please don’t cage me so. All I ask is my freedom.’

34

‘I do not understand,’ says Joshua.

‘I think I do,’ says Ghanim. He cradles his coffee mug in his hands. ‘Your father was a griot?’ he asks of Samara.

‘No, not as they are. Many of them studied with him, and they model their stories after his.’

Ghanim nods, setting his mug upon the table. ‘Joshua, your great-grandfather must have realized this before setting out for Ewuru.’

‘What is the lesson?’ asks Daniel.

Ghanim stands and walks over to his desk. He picks up a small bronze cast of an ox, holding it, feeling the coolness of the metal.

‘You should not force a people. Not through strength of will or threat of arms. The form must be freely taken, or not at all.’

Joshua thinks on that, of Ewuru, and the slow accretion of the years. ‘What is the meaning for us?’

Ghanim turns, shaking his head. ‘Not for you. For me.’

He looks at Samara in admiration. ‘Your father was very wise. We should not take the shape of our old world with us when we step into the new.’

‘That is a meaning, yes,’ says Samara. ‘Each person takes their own message from my father’s stories.’

Joshua thinks, realizing there are depths for him, too.

‘Even if we had the strength to fight the warlords,’ continues Ghanim, ‘we should not do so. Not their way. They are dying out. Isolated. There is no wealth left to plunder and such that they have is falling apart.

‘If we fight them,’ appraising his brother, ‘if we fight them, we become them. No better.’

He rests his arm on Faysal’s shoulder, staring out into the garden.

‘Would that I had your people’s longevity, Samara, I would suffer the time it will take.’

‘They are stories, not instructions,’ says Samara.

‘I understand,’ says Ghanim, ‘but a wise man would listen even to stories.’

35

It is a night and a day and another night.

Many families appear to live in the compound, and there are numerous kitchens, libraries and courtyards. Children study amongst the books, tutors at their sides. At times, they play in the gardens. During the day, the only adults about are women, reading or talking amongst themselves. If they are bored with their lot, they hide it well.

There are guest rooms and the food is tasty although different to what they are used to.

‘What do you call this triangular parcel?’ asks Jason, eating while reclining on one of the sofas in the gazebo.

‘It is a samosa,’ says Joshua. ‘And these are falafel.’

Jason holds a samosa up between his thumb and forefinger. ‘It is really extremely good,’ he says, his mouth full.

‘Yes, we are well treated,’ says Sarah.

Even so, the walls are high and armed men patrol them throughout the day and night. Faysal is a quiet presence.

‘It feels like a prison,’ says Daniel.

‘That is because it is, both for us and for them,’ says Joshua.

They lapse into silence. Their weapons have been taken from them, and the guards seem to divide their time between staring over the wall and nervously watching Samara.

‘You are well trained,’ says Samara.

Daniel spears an olive with a toothpick and chews it carefully. Satisfied, he assembles a few more. ‘We train every day,’ he says. ‘More than those militia. They think having a gun is all that is required.’

‘I am sorry,’ says Samara. He is standing in the shade of an oil palm. He has eaten throughout the day, recovering his strength.

‘What for?’ asks Sarah. ‘You almost removed that man’s head. I never even saw you move. They were so surprised, we had plenty of time.’

She is plaiting Abishai’s hair. A hot iron in her hand as she seals the hair extensions in place.

‘If I were well. If Symon and I were in alignment – we would never have walked into that trap. I would have seen where to go. I would have known where they were.’

‘Do you blame yourself?’ asks Joshua.

‘I do not blame myself for my situation. I am apologizing for the danger I keep bringing upon you.’

‘Samara,’ says David. He rises and walks over to where Samara is standing. ‘I have never learned as much as since you came to Ewuru.’ The others are nodding. ‘I am sorry that the circumstances could not have been different, but I am honoured to have met you. I am honoured to experience your being. Your memory will be with us, always.’

It is a long speech from the quietest of the group. Sarah stands and embraces David from behind, her arms across his stomach.

‘For me too,’ she says. The others nod.

Abishai, with only half her hair in braids, says, ‘Hey, we need to finish here. We leave in the morning.’ She is smiling.

Samara is silent.

Daniel turns to Joshua. ‘What will we do after?’ he asks.

‘You mean after Samara returns to his people?’

Daniel nods. ‘You told Ghanim that we are to be a city. He seems to understand more even than the amama.’

Joshua lies back, staring up at the pale-blue sky.

‘It was my great-grandfather’s plan. More a fragment of a dream. To build a chain of free independent cities all along the Akwayafe. We have achieved a small freedom, but we do so slowly. Our towns are too small to offer even such as the opportunities in Calabar. You have seen how it is here. Entertainment, variety. Food we do not get at home. Trade goods from many places. These things also attract those who fear or feed on others.

‘With our new sphere we will be able to communicate with the other villages. We will be able to share knowledge. Coordinate our efforts. Our culture will grow.’

He leans up on one elbow, looking from face to face.

‘I have a vision,’ he says, his face rested and his eyes bright.

‘I imagine that Ewuru is a great white city. Our lands extend almost to the cliffs at the edge of the forests. I see our people, wealthy, strong. We are the equals of the sky people.

‘In the centre of our city, on the edge overlooking the Akwayafe, is our Ekpe House and the amphitheatre before it. There is a square, lined with the statues of our most treasured leaders, scholars and –’ he pauses, grins ‘– storytellers. Our university is the greatest in our nation. Our graduates spread through the land, sharing their knowledge, teaching. There is honest trade and ships visit our city from free peoples across the world.

‘Our people are at peace. Have always known peace. There is justice. Equality before the law. Compassion.’

He is silent.

Daniel touches his shoulder. ‘My brother, I would be proud to build that dream with you.’

Joshua furrows his brow, looks humbled. Abishai looks as if she will burst with pride.

In the evening, Ghanim returns.

He whispers to Samara. ‘There is no war.’

‘You were careful?’

‘We have done as you asked. I spoke with my cousin in Creek Town. I asked no more than what is the news from across the waters. We discussed a few matters, but there is no war.’

‘Thank you, Ghanim. I am relieved.’

‘One other thing,’ he smiles. ‘Your battery is charged,’ and leads Samara into a narrow room where an oblong black block, the size of an ox, rests on wooden posts laid flat on the ground.

Samara studies it, licking each of his thumbs. He places them across the terminals for a moment. He nods towards Joshua, then moves over to Ghanim. ‘I thank you. You are true to your word.’

Ghanim raises his right hand and touches it to his heart. ‘I am grateful for your custom. In the morning, Faysal will lead you to Beach Town. And, if your friends will complete our business?’

Faysal indicates a console fastened to the wall. Joshua places his card in the console tray. He, Abishai and Daniel sign, and the transaction is complete.

‘I would be honoured if you would join my family for dinner, as my guests,’ says Ghanim.

‘It would be our pleasure,’ says Joshua.

36

‘You were friends, once,’ says d’Este, his voice cold but probing.

He and Argenti are sitting on the veranda of his house in Harbour Town on the hill overlooking the lights of the marina. Both their guards stand watchfully, observing each other.

Four sections of a kola nut pod lie on a white ceramic plate on the table between them. The ceremony as between guest and host is complete. After first offering, and then refusing the honour, d’Este split the pod, both immediately remarking on their good fortune.

‘Whatever good he is looking for, he will see it.’

They are not friends.

‘Never a friend,’ says Argenti, his eyes hidden behind his dark glasses.

He is drinking from a tall glass, ice cubes plinking against the tepid water. Neither will touch anything else in the presence of the other. The obligatory bottle of palm wine, brought as a gift by Argenti, will remain unopened. Later, it will be fed to the pigs.

Argenti is visiting, but this is not a social call.

‘Colleagues, then,’ pushes d’Este.

‘Rivals. Guido Guerra was old, losing his Juju,’ says Argenti. His words suggest that d’Este, similarly old, should take heed.

D’Este laughs, the sound brittle and mocking.

‘Yes, Guerra was old. And a fool. He looked to his whores more than to his business. You were both right to murder him. You did us a service,’ d’Este’s voice is a query. ‘You never have told me the story of what happened between the three of you.’

Argenti is silent. D’Este still controls the most lucrative of the Calabar markets. Argenti, squeezed between Henshaw and Big Qua, must make do with Duke Town. That does not suit the scale of his ambition.

‘Uberti tricked you, yes?’ hunting for a crack in the composure carefully hidden behind dark lenses. ‘Henshaw was the prize. It must hurt to sit there in its shadow?’

Argenti’s jaw is a tight bunch of grinding muscle. He breathes sharply out through his nose, startling the guards.

‘Yes. But he is losing his grip. I want the right to take it from him.’

D’Este grins quietly. He has won. He has made Argenti ask.

‘What is it worth to you?’

‘Uberti sold his sons into slavery for Henshaw,’ says Argenti, his voice bitter.

D’Este nods. ‘And I sold my second wife and her children for Harbour Town. It was a good deal. Egbo is fair. If you want it, you buy the right to seize it from the other Awbong. Have you spoken to Corneto?’

Rinier Corneto controls Big Qua Town and is the other crucial Awbong in Argenti’s plan. The warlords across the river in Creek Town, Alligator Town and the other districts are minnows.

‘Yes, I met him yesterday. I promised him my two youngest wives and five per cent of Henshaw Market’s comey for five years.’