“You toilet people dey cause trouble for dis bus!” one policeman shouted at the line of TV-watching, backward-moving refugees.
“We no be troublemakers o . . . biko!” a man pleaded, turning to face the toilet.
“Shut up . . . na you!” the police said.
“I am sorry,” the man begged. “OK, give us police state. We no want democracy again.”
“Even, you too many for dat toilet line . . . it no be pit latrine. Bring two hundred naira each if you want shit now now!”
The bus became quiet. The line began to fall apart.
“Please, make we pay fifty,” someone said.
“Greedy man,” the police said. “How you take go from two hundred to fifty?”
“Small, small . . . I be businessman,” the man said.
“OK, if you get one-fifty, enter toilet wid immediate effect,” the police said. “First-class toilet. . . . Dey flush after four buttocks only. . . . And no wash your hand. . . . Serious water shortage dey Lupa!” Three refugees paid and moved ahead of those who could not pay.
After a while the police said, “Okay, if you get eighty, stand after first class. . . . If you get less than eighty, shut your buttocks and sit down!”
A refugee begged, “Officer, you fit collect twenty for fifth class?”
“Your head correct at all? OK fifty!”
With the reduced fee, some people returned to the line, including Jubril. Emeka sat there with his head in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks. Tega stood up and made a sad speech to the police officers. She complimented them for their sense of compromise and for not shooting or beating anybody. She told the police that in spite of what was happening in the land, she was hopeful that democracy and compromise would prevail.
When the police finally left, the bus refugees were as beaten down as the hordes of grim-faced Christian and Muslim and northern and southern refugees they watched on TV. In the barracks, or sitting in the fields, in groups, they shared their tears. Some read the Koran for consolation, some the Bible. One woman brought out a little black calabash and placed it momentarily on the foreheads of each remaining member of her household. Others just sat there, too shocked to talk to any god.
Occasionally, their common grief was interrupted as the heavily guarded gates of the barracks opened to admit truckloads of more refugees. Whenever the soldiers and the police came near the refugees, the refugees cringed. Were they going to be betrayed and given out to be slaughtered? If the civilians were not safe when the soldiers ruled the land, how safe were they coming into the barracks? Some of the refugees were so afraid that without being asked, they paid the guards to ensure their protection.
JUBRIL HAD NOT EATEN since Mallam Abdullahi had given him a piece of bread. Now, his eyes began to lust for the chief ’s snacks, and the old man, who was watching him, offered him two Cabin Biscuits. Jubril refused at first, distrustful of his intentions.
“Take it, don’t pretend!” the chief said. But when Jubril mimed his thank you to him and extended his left hand, the chief withdrew the gift. “I cannot allow you to insult my chieftaincy with your left hand!”
“I no want eat. . . . I want sit,” Jubril said, lying.
“Son, I’m not bribing you. Just trying to be nice to you.”
“Tanks.”
In spite of the chief ’s taunts, Jubril could see that the man was not at peace and ate his snacks without pleasure. The wrinkled, feeding movements on his face, like a faulty light switch, happened many a fraction faster than his tottering Adam’s apple moved as his jaws slowly pounded the food. The TV glare splashed on the chief ’s face, like a searchlight on the dark, troubled waters of his soul.
“Make sure you dey de right seat o!” the police shouted from the door.
“Yes, officers,” everybody chorused.
“If you no get your ticket, we go trow you out quick quick. If you dey wrong place, we go charge una extra for loitering o, you hear?”
“Yes, officers.”
“De bus driver dey come now now.”
The news that the driver would soon arrive brought some relief to the bus. People whispered to their neighbors and adjusted themselves in their seats for the long-awaited trip home. Jubril fished out the Madu Motors ticket from his bag. He studied it carefully and was satisfied. Gabriel O: #52 was scrawled on it. He tucked the ticket back into his pocket carefully, like a prized possession, and smiled to no one in particular in anticipation of the trip.
Outside, the crowd was in an uproar. They gathered around the bus as if to storm it.
“No worry, dis no be last bus,” the police addressed them. “Many bus dey come from nord. Dem go stop to carry una. Dem fit arrive before we leave sef. . . . Last night many of dem carry people from here too.”
“Lies, lies!” people shouted. “Dis bus no go leave here tonight o!”
The police stepped forward and fired into the air to ward off an assault. The crowd backed away.
“Why don’t you sit down here?” the chief told Jubril, whom he had been studying. He pointed to a place on the floor that was already occupied by a man. The chief let out a sinister laugh, as if he were above the law in asking the owner to give up his space.
“Old man, na de boy’s seat dey under your buttocks,” the man quickly protested. “Your ears correct so—”
“Excuse me?” The chief cut him short. “I refuse to be addressed improperly!”
“Look, old man, stand up. . . . Tief!” a second person challenged him, and the number of people supporting Jubril grew.
“For koro-koro daylight, you want steal someone seat?” the first man said. “You dey behave like police!”
“I sure say you want all of us to call you shief,” Tega said. “Shief dis, shief dat. . . . Too many shiefs for dis country. I go buy my resource-control hat too!”
“Be very, very careful how you talk to me!” The chief turned sharply to the man whose space he had wanted to give to Jubril. “Are you addressing me as old man? Me? Do you know who I am?”
“Christ de Son of God no like as you dey cheat dis small boy since.”
“Are you preaching to me?”
“By the grace of God,” the man said.
“Look, I’m not even supposed be in this bus with you,” the chief said. “Look, I’m not one of you!”
“Den leave de Luxurious Bus,” Tega said from her seat. “Who you be? Abasha man? Babangida boy!”
“As our people say, before the discovery of peanuts, people were not eating pebbles. . . . Keep your Christianity to yourself!”
“No confuse us wid proverb,” Tega continued. “Maybe you be pagan . . . wizard!” A few people laughed at her comments.
“Pagan, eh?” the chief said. “How dare you call my traditional religion paganism!”
“But, Chief, you dey pray poritics wid dis ting,” Ijeoma said. “Just reave de seat.”
“If you no be Christian, wetin else remain?” Tega said.
“He is suffering from political correctness,” Emeka said, speaking for the first time since the police changed the TV channel.
“Let me tell you,” the chief said, “before the harvest of alligator pepper, the medicine man was already carrying his bag, not the other way round. . . . The religion of my ancestors is far older than yours in this country. This land belongs to us.”