We are surrounded by water but we cannot drink it. My throat is parched from two days of thirst.
Last night, when everywhere was quiet and the moon was a mermaid preening her reflection on the water, my mother took out a rusty tin and scooped some floodwater for me. She said if I could just hold my breath for long, long enough to let the water travel down my throat, I wouldn’t know the foul taste, or feel like throwing up. My heart raced as I accepted the tin from her. I could see her eyes, despite the darkness, reassuring me. As I brought the tin closer to my lips, I could not help but think of my sister, Juma, being carried away by the harsh current and my father diving in to save her—both disappearing. I felt a pang in my throat, a rising sob. My hand shivered, and the tin slipped out, crashing on the boat’s floor. The thud was a nuisance in the silent night. I wept as my mother drew me to her, wondering if we would ever see those we had lost.
*
We are seven in our boat. Me, my mother, Uma and her eight-month-old baby, Mr. Okon, and two other men whom I know nothing of. Uma owned the beauty salon in our street, my mother used to go there to perm her hair. Mr. Okon owned the drug store down the road, across our street. I know this because that had been my route to school. His shop was designed with pictures of Cafenol, Boska, Sudrex and Procold. The shop was opposite a viewing centre where people watched foreign football matches, groaning or shouting in delight, depending on the team they supported. Beside Mr Okon’s shop was another shop where boys played snooker and PES 2
I hated Mr. Okon’s shop. One time, when I came down with malaria, my body had been so hot as if I had walked into the stone-made oven in one of Confluence Town’s local bakeries; Mr Okon gave me a series of injections that stung and sent waves of pain to my brain. As much as I hated his shop, those injections and the drugs saved me. But whenever I approached the drugstore, I would race past it as if a dog had been unleashed on me. I would imagine Mr. Okon standing by the doorway, syringe in hand, beckoning to me with a devilish smile. I had nightmares for a long time.
People said Mr Okon had been in Confluence Town forever. No one could tell when he had arrived or from where he had come. It seemed everyone grew up to meet the drug store and the man who always gave a reassuring smile to help his patients pull through any illness. I remember him to be chatty that one time my mother had taken me to him. He had assured my mother that the injections, coupled with the drugs he gave her, would work just fine and had instructed her on how I should take them.
“You see madam, just give him one tablet each morning and night, together with the syrup. If your boy doesn’t get better after two days, come back again, you hear?”
I had told my mother after we got home, tears streaming down my face, that if she ever took me to Mr. Okon’s shop again, I would run away and she would never see me again.
My mother, who had been anxious all the while, had managed a smile, patted my head and said, “My boy, and where will you run to, ehn?”
“I don’t know. I will just run anywhere…”
She had laughed and gone to the kitchen to get me something to eat. That was a long time ago, the streets were dry and kids played in the open.
Now, we are floating in the middle of nowhere. We are waiting to board the ship which The Preacher has named the Ark of God. We are a crowd, in a haphazard chain of boats, some tethered to stilts and tree branches. Some survivors are camped on weird-looking makeshift platforms. Anything one can stand on, that won’t sink below the water, is heaven.
Some say we are in Ojila, a small suburb of Confluence Town where the houses are small and clustered, the roofs are leaky and brown with rust and the gutters, now invisible, are clogged with filth. Ojila is the place where a woman lost her toddler and another lost six children to the flood. There is no landmark in sight to tell where we truly are. I can see the minaret of a submerged mosque but that is hardly any landmark given the number of mosques in Confluence Town.
*
Before the flood drove us out of our homes, there were many postulates.
My sister, Juma and I were watching Penguins of Madagascar one bleary-eyed evening when I heard my parents arguing. It was two weeks before we were forced to abandon our home. The sun was slowly losing its command of the sky to the fast incursions of clouds. The clattering of the window panes and loose flaps of roofing sheets was enough to alert us that rain was around the corner. My mother said she heard on the news that Cameroon was slowly releasing water from its dam across the border. My father laughed at her as she sliced okra that evening. She paused and looked up at him with hurt written on her face.
“Ah, you too think it is the Lagdo dam in Northern Cameroon, abi?” he said incredulously, clapping and shaking his head.
My father went on to tell my mother that election season was fast approaching and the politicians were out for blood. To drive home his argument, he said it was strange that during the peak of the rainy season, there was no flood in Confluence Town, only for it to start happening at the twilight of the season. He also refuted the claim that Cameroon had released water from its dam and was to be blamed for the increasingly waterlogged streets and belching drainages. He said evil forces were at play and it would only take the grace of God for the situation not to get worse. He said we were like mice in a box without any escape route, and someone was standing overhead with a burst pipe. He said we were not going to leave because this was the land his father grew up on. No one runs away from their roots, no matter the threat. My mother continued slicing okra without dropping a word.
Our neighbour’s son, Ade, who hobbled gravely because his right leg had been rendered somewhat useless by polio when he was six, had an entirely different postulate. He said the pastor at their church had declared a three-day intense fasting and prayer session to tackle the ongoing disaster. He said God was punishing us because we had sinned too much. I asked Ade if he believed his pastor. Ade said it did not matter whether he believed him or not. His pastor is God’s voice on earth, and they must all obey him. I asked him if he would partake in the fasting. And to that, he gave me a mischievous smile.
At school, my teacher who knew a lot about rivers and names of countries said climate change was responsible. The boy next to me said his sister told him that the Confluence River was angry and the spirits in the water needed to be appeased before the water could disappear from the streets. He said that if this was not done, the flood would get worse and drink up our houses and the people.
I did not know what to believe. It seemed everyone had a different idea as to why water was pouring into our streets and refusing to leave. Three days later, my mother and I would be clinging desperately to the iron bars of our apartment’s protector while we were circled by cold angry water, watching as my father attempted to rescue my sister.
*
The sky has been abuzz with the whirring of military helicopters and private jets since we began dwelling on the water. My ears hurt from the constant sound. Towards the evening of the second day of another hopeless wait for the ark, a helicopter came to pick up a family of four. From the looks of it, the helicopter is from the military because it is painted in camouflage. The man and his wife holler and wave at the man staring out the open door of the helicopter scanning for the family they have been instructed to pick.
“You see people with connections?” Uma says, shaking her head.
“Is that not what this country is all about? If you know someone who knows someone in a high position, then you are free. The rest of us depend on God, hoping He won’t let us perish,” my mother responded as she sucks air through her teeth and sighs.
The helicopter dances around until it spots the family. As I look up, squinting and shielding my eyes with an arched palm, I see the man in military gear with binoculars hanging around his neck throwing down a thin ladder. As soon as the ladder unfolds and begins to dangle about, many desperate hands begin to lunge for it. There is a sudden rowdiness. The family that is supposed to be picked up is lost in the commotion. I fear for their lives. I fear that some canoes may be upturned, and many will lose their balance and fall into the water. Hands grab the ladder and quickly two men struggle to climb, both of them clawing, cursing and kicking at each other. One is bald, the other carries a tree top on his head.
The man who has thrown down the ladder looks confused as he intermittently uses his binoculars to get a good view of the situation. He grabs a megaphone and tells the men to desist from climbing, threatening to throw them to their deaths once they make it up. That does not seem to work, for the first man, the bald one, is almost halfway up, clinging desperately to the ladder’s slim frame. The man, through his megaphone, threatens to shoot. He goes ahead to crack his gun in a bid to drive home his intention. The second man hesitates and retreats. The first man does not listen, he continues his ascension. Boom! A gunshot rents the air. A wail follows. The bald man on the ladder lets go of his grip. His hands are spread wide in the air as he falls back, plunging into the water like a flick in a movie where a man throws himself off a cliff to his death. The crowd below trails his fall with shouts of grief and disbelief. The man does not surface. I close my eyes in a futile attempt to hold back tears as the drone of the helicopter grows distant.
*
A day after the incident with the helicopter and the two men, another military helicopter comes visiting with a boat suspended beneath it. It is painted in camouflage and the green is so shiny that it makes me wonder whether the aircraft had just come out of production. The helicopter dances above the expanse of water and the people waiting to be saved, as if feeling for a good spot to land. Three men climb down onto a boat which is lowered gently until it settles on the still water. Another helicopter bearing a second boat emerges and settles beside the first. Three other men are also climb into the second boat. They are a great distance ahead of us. Someone amongst us shouts, pointing at the man in white agbada, saying it is the Governor. He is wearing a life jacket, as are the other men. The second boat also has all three men wearing life jackets. One of them has a camera and quickly gets to work, his camera on his left shoulder, his eyes enveloped by the lens and his right hand hovering over the equipment to keep it steady. My mother says that perhaps the big ship will soon arrive now that The Governor has shown his face.
The Governor looks overweight and strained in the life jacket. He holds a furrow on his forehead as if he would rather be anywhere else but here. He stretches a hand to the man closest to him who is wearing a suit under his life jacket and dark shades. The man tries to hand the Governor a megaphone, but he frowns, and I can see his mouth moving rapidly. The man in dark shades hands the Governor a kerchief and he wipes the sweat on his face. The third man who is standing behind the Governor quickly steps forward and hands his boss a bottle of water. The Governor accepts it and first takes a sip, pauses, and then drinks greedily. He wipes his face again with the kerchief and accepts the megaphone from the man with the shades who has broad shoulders and stands straight and still, hands behind his back when not called upon.
The Governor clears his throat and tests the megaphone. He then launches into a sermon that will last for nearly 20 minutes, “The good people of our beloved state, God has decided to test us with this misfortune. Believe me, we are going to get you out of here and we will reclaim our lands…”
All the while The Governor is talking, the cameraman is focused on him, and his two companions are taking notes. The Governor talks about patience, God’s plan, and how he has toiled day and night to get relief materials and other things ready for the evacuation. He blames the delay on how difficult getting approval from his superiors has been. He punctuates his speech by drinking water from the plastic bottle and wiping sweat off his face. Each time, he signals the third man whose sole job seems to be manning the water bottle. Whenever I see him drink water, the hurt in my throat increases a notch higher and I swallow empty air which makes it hurt even more. I know now that there are two types of water; the one in the governor’s plastic bottle which we could kill for, and the one that surrounds us, which none of us can drink. The realization weakens me more.
When the show comes to an end, there is a loud cheer from the crowd. The cheering grows louder when the helicopters return and our guests are lifted away. My mother holds me closer to her and tells me that help is coming and we will soon be away from here. Her voice is calm and it makes me wonder if she does not miss Baba and my sister, or even think of them. This time, I do not tell her of my hunger or thirst because there is no use. I look up into the sky at the departing governor and his entourage, as they slowly become a spec in the distance.
*
Sabon Gari is the promised land, flowing with relief materials, according to The Preacher. When I try to imagine what the place would look like, all that comes to mind are makeshift tents and cartons of food. Maybe it would be like the IDP camps set up for those in the BAY area like I once saw on TV. What I can’t wait for is to quench this thirst and hunger sitting like an arrogant king in my stomach and to set foot on dry land again. The Preacher talks about the importance of hope, faith and prayer in these trying times. He says we are like the Israelites about to be liberated. What I do not know is if the Governor is our Moses. At least, Moses stayed with his people and went through thick and thin with them. But our governor made a speech, promised salvation and flew away afterwards. We are all waiting for that to happen.
The Preacher looks for every tiny opportunity to remind whoever cares to listen that he went to one of the best seminary schools in the country but did not graduate. He says it as if it is a thing to be proud of. He will quickly follow that personal revelation with an argument that one does not need any formal education, or an official document in the art of worshipping God, for one to learn to be steadfast and righteous. He tells us that our faith is being tested by the Most High. He punctuates his long sermons by breaking into praise songs, urging everyone around him to join in. He then reminds us about the Biblical deluge, about how God punished the unholy by flooding their lands. The Preacher says that what we are experiencing is an act of cleansing and that we should look on the brighter side by repenting. He says we should have faith that God is showing us love. God wants us to start over on a clean slate. He says the ark is coming to save us just like God ordered Noah to make a large ship to save the righteous.
But what I do not know, and what I would have loved to ask The Preacher, is if there is a Noah somewhere close to Confluence Town who is currently putting the last touches to his ark and coming to save us. The Governor, perhaps. But I cannot say anything because I am saving what is left of my energy. I do not know when next I will get something to eat or drink. Besides, it is useless trying to put an eloquent preacher in a tight spot with a question, because they will always find a way around whatever you throw at them. The Preacher continues until fatigue takes hold of him. And the day ends again without the ship’s arrival.
One other person who is as vocal as The Preacher is Datti who calls himself an activist. He is very dark in complexion and keeps a thick beard and a mighty afro that resembles a tree top. He has a radio that is always switched on. He is always listening to the news. The news of the big ship first comes to us through his radio. He says the newscaster at Confluence FM, a girl who feigns a British accent and who used to be his lover during his secondary school days announced the government’s evacuation plan—sending a big cargo ship to rescue us. It is Datti who first tells us that they will convey us to Sabon Gari, some miles away from here where the land is dry and houses have not been submerged.
I have been praying without much luck for the radio’s battery to die. I wonder how, out of every valuable a man can rescue from the encroachment of water, he would choose a radio. Can a radio stop hunger or thirst? What use is the news now? How will it save us? Datti says it will help us to not have a closed mind. That there is satisfaction in knowing that our plight is being mentioned and people are aware of what is happening. And at the moment, we can only know that through his radio. He says it as if his radio is now some kind of saviour that we should be grateful for. All I hear is meaningless voices and occasional static that we have to bear alongside The Preacher and the aircraft buzzing in the sky. All these things are draining my energy.
*
That night, something squirms in the water. One of the men on our boat who will speak to no one, peers into the still water and shouts fish! Fish! His clamour rouses everyone from sleep and fatigue. People peer into the water but see nothing. There are hisses and curses. The man swears that he has seen something move. As insults fly about, I close my eyes and snuggle closer to my mother who gently pats me on the head. I drift in and out of sleep. I want to dream of happy moments, so I conjure up memories from two years ago, one afternoon when my mother, sister, and I were gardening. We were trying to make a fence around our tomato garden to prevent goats from trespassing. The tomatoes were beginning to ripen and the goats and chickens from our neighbour’s house were beginning to take notice. We had planted spinach too. It grew so rapidly. It was the peak of the rainy season and the rains came almost daily. I loved how the spinach’s green became more profound after every downpour. I am trying to pin my sister’s face to her body in this memory but I cannot seem to remember how she looked like. Is this how easy it is to forget the dead?
Uma’s baby is the only cheerful thing around here. He is barely one and he squeals with delight at every sound. I envy him. At least, he has his mother’s breasts to contend with, no matter how dry they have become. He cannot comprehend what is happening around us; why we are on a boat and whether or not we will survive this hunger and displacement. I wish I could have that. Whenever he suckles, I look at him, imagining what it would be like to have some of that breast milk now. I am lost in my thoughts and when I feel Uma’s eyes on me, I look away in embarrassment.
I hold the baby whenever I can. He bunches his fists and punches at imaginary adversaries in the air. I hug him tightly, shut my eyes and take in his babyish scent, allowing myself to travel to a distant place filled with cosmic substances moving trance-like and rebounding off each other in a jelly-like space. It is peaceful there. No whirring of helicopters that do not bring relief but increase our despair with every passage. No wailing of children. No grumbling or sighing. No noise from the sloshing of floodwater, the creaking of tired boats, birds hooting overhead, or Datti’s never-tiring radio. I stay in this state until the baby’s wailing brings me back to life and I have no choice but to hand him over to his mother.
*
Datti, who has been speaking energetically these past few days, has lost his gusto. He says he will write a report on the government’s laxness or reluctance in managing the situation.
“This humanitarian crisis is something the world needs to know; I will make sure it does not become underreported as many a crisis in the past. Let me tell you, I am a man of importance. I have reported for CNN and BBC Africa before. This government will learn the hard way how not to toy with our lives. You wait and see. Let’s get out of here first.”
The activist yaps on until he grows weary just like the sun slowly relinquishing its throne in the sky. Today, the activist is silent. He pillows his head in his right palm and his elbow rests on his lap for support as his canoe gently rocks. The energy in his eyes has disappeared just as his voice. He must have told one of his companions that thirst and hunger are wreaking his intestines because the man suddenly distils the quietness by telling him to pee in a tin and drink it like many have started to do. Datti squeezes his face in disgust and shifts uneasily. The only option he has aside from his urine is to drink the stinking floodwater. But I know he won’t because I heard him say that the water is his brother’s grave and that of his neighbour’s dog, how could he possibly take a piece of them or further disturb their troubled rest? Unhappiness is the smog in the air. It pinches my nostrils and makes breathing a difficult chore. Even Uma’s baby, whose silly endeavours have served as a distraction and a place of respite from the gloom, has suddenly grown cheerless. He no longer squeals in delight at the noise of aircraft. He spends more time sleeping now.
*
The Mr. Okon on our boat is not the one I witnessed a few years back during my bout of malaria. He is not that smiling, chubby-faced and owlish-eyed man whose stare reeked of experience with drugs, syringes, and the sick. Here, he is glum and always staring away at nothing as if he is not even here with us, totally detached from the situation at hand.
It has been four days on this boat and Mr. Okon has hardly said a word. I wonder what he is thinking. I wonder if and when all this is over, and he survives, he will return to wherever he came from or go somewhere else and start all over again. Or even return to Confluence Town when the flooding is over. I think of his drug store, the bright painting of drugs on the walls and the iron doors and imagine what part of the structure is left uncovered by water. I think of all his drugs worth thousands, if not more, destroyed by the flood. I think of the tubers of yam, the sack of beans and the expensive rice in our kitchen. I think of all the goods in Confluence Town’s Monday market that have now all gone to waste. I try not to think of all these things because it is draining the precious energy, I have left but the more I try not to, the more I actually think.
I try to think of positive things, like our teacher said we should often do especially when things are not right. But it is so difficult to do that on an empty stomach and a parched throat and in a boat in the middle of nowhere, without help in sight. I try, nevertheless. I remember my ninth birthday. I wish I could have a plate of that rice my mother’s friends prepared that day. My classmates and the children in our neighbourhood had all gathered to celebrate with me. There was a lot to drink and eat. I wanted to partake in some of the games, but the MC, a friend of my mother’s, said I was the celebrant and there was no need for me to partake in any of the games. So, disappointed, I watched other children win prizes of pencils, erasers and 40-leaf notebooks all wrapped in shiny wrapping sheets.
I received many gifts on that day but none beat the electronic toy truck my father bought me. I ate and drank to my fill, and took lots of pictures. The photographer spent more time trying to get everyone in order than the number of times his camera’s light flashed. I wanted to have all the cake to myself. I told my mother that the cake was made because of me and I did not want to share it with anyone. I began to cry when huge chunks of the cake began to disappear. I glowered at anyone who held a piece of the cake. We took some pictures after that and no matter how hard the photographer tried to prevail on me to stop frowning and smile, my frown was deeper. I imagine those photos floating on the water somewhere inside our house now.
I wanted to sleep in my birthday outfit, a sky-blue caftan with intricate embroidery on the front, but my mother would not allow that…
The Preacher has roused from his sleep and is saying something about hope. The activist has his radio glued to his left ear. There are some boys on a raised platform, which I assume to be the decking of an uncompleted building. They are sitting on the edge of the decking, their legs dangling freely. They are not talking to each other but staring into space. They look bored, tired and hungry like everyone else except The Preacher and the activist who both seem to have an astonishing reservoir of energy.
I shut my eyes and my sister’s face is vivid. I remember her bright smile on the day we went to Fantasyland. I remember her scream when we climbed the rollercoaster. I remember the taste of shawarma and that suya that had more onions and tomatoes than meat. I remember how we fought over every piece of akara and kayo-kayo on weekends until our father decided it was best to buy separate wraps of akara to stop the fighting. The memories are becoming torturous, and I don’t want them to make me teary, so I open my eyes. I look at Uma and I wish I had the strength to hold her baby. The Preacher has stopped his sermon now. Even the activist has switched off his radio. The water is as motionless as usual. The sun is fast setting and there is no sound anywhere.
*
I try to think of another happy memory, but nothing gives this time. I try to remember my father’s face. I see the two tribal marks on each cheek but not the whole face. I see the terror in a pair of round eyes as my sister floats away, taken by a sudden fast current. There is nothing much I remember about my father now except the ending. He was a man who talked a lot. He was shorter than my mother and he always had to look up at her whenever they were standing and he was doing the talking, as he often did. I do not know if he really liked that. I mean, having to look up at my mother when he spoke. And as if that was not enough hurt to whatever ego he had, he had to cope with the fact that she contributed more to our upkeep after he lost his job at the steel manufacturing company on the outskirts of Confluence Town. I do not know how that happened or what led to his sack, but I remember the day it happened because, on the evening of that day, he returned home a raging bull let loose in an arena. Everything my mother said or did not say seemed to hold a secret meaning meant to annoy him. The food that had always tasted good did not taste decent to him that evening. It was too salty, pepper-ish and half-cooked. It took a few days before everything became normal again. My father was not a bad man. I will miss him. I will miss that akara and kayo-kayo he bought on weekends. It was something I always looked forward to, something that always led to quarrels between my sister and me.
I do not know why I am talking about my father as if I have accepted the fact that he and my sister are gone for good and I may not see both of them again. Every time I close my eyes, that moment replays all over again. That moment when we were clinging to the protector and my sister drifted away and he followed her. I remember his suspicion about the origins of the flood. The water had become violent at that moment when my sister needed saving and my father opted to be her saviour. It was as though there was an alligator that had snuck up on its prey unnoticed and chosen that one moment to become aggressive. There was something in the water, tugging at one’s soul, trying to pull one into her depths. And after that moment, calm returned. The water has been calm ever since. There are no currents, not even the wind that would rock our boats and make us drift away or cause the need for our boats to be fastened to some post. The water is impregnable, asleep and has come to stay.
*
Before the flood gulped our homes and chased us out, my teacher who was obsessed with rivers, asked the class, as he always did, what the size of the Confluence was. Abdullahi, the smallest boy in our class who hardly spoke, said the river was everywhere, it was shifting, drinking up space like a hungry gorilla. He said his community had become part of the river’s clan, that it had swallowed his sister a night ago. The class fell silent as if everyone was trying to dream up the scene where his sister was struggling against the current, water imprisoning her mouth as she tried to scream for help. Our teacher, composure lost, his voice struggling to maintain steadiness, had asked Abdullahi why he was in school.
“My mother is crying, my siblings are crying. I took one of the boats down here. I couldn’t stand the heaviness, the sorrow, they were closing in on me. I feel like escaping somewhere, a desert without water.”
One girl burst into tears, and another followed. I didn’t know why. The air in my lungs became hot, humid, and scarce. That was the last day any of us went to school. I don’t know if my teacher and all my classmates are safe or if they managed to leave this place before it got this bad.
*
On the afternoon of the fourth day, we hear a loud hoot. No one can tell where it’s coming from. The dreary mood that surrounds us quickly disappears as if someone has just lifted a dark veil from over our heads. Instantaneous chatter bounces around. Children still cried and those who lacked the energy to join in on the excitement stared with confusion on their faces. I am one of them. There is a sickness in my stomach. A dull ache has replaced the hunger. It keeps spreading by the minute, like powdered milk in hot water. Sometimes, I feel as if someone is twisting my intestines the way you wring water out of a cloth before spreading it out to dry during laundry. I try to say something to my mother, but the words will not leave my throat. I swallow the miscarriage and it hurts my throat as if someone has taken a knife to it. My mother senses my predicament and holds me tightly to her bosom, whispering soothingly. I cannot remember what she says. The loud hoot comes again and this time it is nearer and lingers longer than the first. The sound stings my ears and sends shockwaves all through my system. It makes me feel as if my ears are burning. I feel like throwing up. But nothing comes of this urge. Instead, it makes me swallow back the bile. An effort that has become a dread because my throat is a tunnel decorated with thorns.
Through the haze that my vision has become, I see the ark we have been waiting for. It is slow as if it has all the time in the world. It is enormous and I am certain it will contain all of us. I drift into sleep, lulled tenderly by the ceaseless cheering. In my sleep, my father dives into the water to save my sister. Before he dives in, he commands my mother, who is trembling and wailing, to stay firm and not let go of me. He dives in amidst the shouts from onlookers. I do not know how my sister slipped away as we waited for our neighbour to paddle around and come get us on his boat. We are all clinging to the iron bars of our apartment’s protector when it happens. The current is cruel. I see my sister bob in and out of the water as it carries her away. She screams as soon as she resurfaces. It is only twice and she does not come up again. My mother wails and calls out to my father, and at that moment, I am scared she will lose her voice.
The sound of someone talking through a megaphone shakes me back to wakefulness. My vision is blurrier than before. The ringing in my ears has increased and there is a person pounding yam inside my head. It must be an energetic youth for the pounding does not stop even for a second. The voice sailing through a megaphone is coming from the direction of the big ship. But I can’t make out what is being said. I look around me and every movement hurts. It is as if my bones are stiff, or a Dangote truck had rolled over me. My mother is clutching my hand tightly and feeling my skin.
“Hang in there, you hear? Hang in there, we will soon be on the ship,” she says.
Her voice is crackly and filled with desperation. There is noise everywhere and boats sloshing about. Everyone must be desperate to get on the ship. The scene from when the military helicopter came to pick up that family replays in my mind. The ensuing commotion is fresh in my foggy mind. The gunshot echoes all over again. I see the man falling into the water with his hands wide open as though he were praying someone would catch him. I make ample effort to dislodge the scene playing in my head, hoping the same thing won’t happen with the ship. Helicopters are whirring in the air. They make my ears hurt more.
I do not know if I fell asleep again or if it is my vision still playing tricks on me. The earth is shrouded in darkness. I can hear Uma’s toddler crying. The big ship blares and I think someone has placed her next to my ears because the sound makes me shriek and tremble with fear. I hear Uma say it is the fever. I do not know if she is referring to me or even if the words are directed at my mother. I feel my mother’s warm hand in mine, squeezing it tightly. Something liquid falls on my face and rolls down to my lips. It tastes salty. I try to speak and this time the words are like staggering chicks emerging from eggshells for the first time. I tell her that I am tired. We are climbing some kind of stairs and she is half-carrying and dragging me along like a heavy sack of onions. Faintly, I hear someone asking her questions:
—Where is your husband?
—Where are you from?
—What tribe are you?
—Do you have any valuables?
And all my mother keeps saying is, “My child is dying! My child is dying!”
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