“Yeye gods!” Tega said.
“If you pagans stop sacrificing human body parts to the devil,” Emeka said, “this country will be more peaceful than Switzerland.”
The chief laughed a sardonic laugh, casting a telling glance at the faces of the TV refugees, in whom nobody was interested any longer. “And your imported religions are blessing this country, yes? Or, please, tell me: are we, the so-called pagans, the ones chasing these people to the barracks? Are we the ones chasing you from the north?”
“We no dey shed brood!” Ijeoma eagerly argued for the Christians.
“Which blood?” the chief asked. “Is the blood of goat and sheep that we use for our sacrifice to be compared to the human blood you are spilling in Khamfi?”
“You dey rie,” Ijeoma said. “You dey do human saclifice and litual too.”
“Be careful, my daughter!” the chief said. “A royal father does not lie. Be very careful.”
“Chief, you dey lie, period,” Monica said, and people started laughing. The chief himself could not keep a straight face and joined in. He put his stick down, rattled his necklace, and proudly ran his fingers all over the many lion prints on his dress.
“But why are you attacking my religion?” he said, finally regaining his composure.
“See now,” Monica continued, “anybody who fit laugh like you fit lie.” This brought more laughter. Even a few people outside hopped by the window to see what was happening.
“It’s the Muslims who kill in Allah’s name,” Emeka said in a serious voice. “It’s not a laughing matter.”
“Haba, calm down, Cousin of Dubem, Friend of Tom,” Monica argued. “We no want too much stress for dis bus. . . . You get too much tension for body.”
“No, we must correct the chief ’s erroneous theology. By the grace of God, Christianity is pure forgiveness. Otherwise, this country would have gone up in flames by now. You pagans are like the Muslims . . .”
“It’s an insult to compare my religion to that barbaric religion!” the chief said, still laughing. “I had warned you not to mention Islam or Muslim in this bus, remember?”
“Yes, we made dat rule,” Tega said, and the bus was quiet for a moment, as if silence was needed to purify the air of that violation.
“Abeg o, we must settle my seat wahala o,” said the man whose space the chief wanted to give to Jubril.
“Yes, let’s see the tickets,” Emeka said. “Too much talk.”
Everyone turned in the direction of Jubril and the chief.
Jubril immediately showed them his ticket. He brandished it as if he had a winning lottery number. At least there will be a third party to settle this case, he thought.
“So, Chief, where your ticket?” Monica asked, the question that was on everyone’s mind.
“Me?” the chief said, clearing his throat.
“Of course,” Ijeoma said.
“Do you think I could be sitting here without a ticket?”
Ijeoma and Emeka exchanged glances, and for some reason nobody wanted to push Chief Ukongo to produce his ticket. Instead, the passengers were cheering for Jubril, encouraging him to claim the seat from the chief. Jubril felt relieved. Though he knew their cheers would die instantly if they discovered that he was a Muslim, the mere fact that they supported him, a sixteen-year-old boy, against a chief made him feel good. He knew that in Khamfi nobody would ever support him over and against a royal father or an emir, even if he were 200 percent right. It was like a foretaste of the freedom he hoped to enjoy in the south, and all the beatific visions of the place now flooded him. It was as if he had finally gotten the support of his people, the southerners. Jubril was not bothered by the religious difference between the chief and his Christian supporters, or even by that between his supporters and himself anymore. He felt like singing and dancing. He had learned in the last few days that one needed to tolerate certain things for the sake of other things. Because of this singular gesture of support, for the first time in that bus, he could see himself letting go and daring to look at the TV—just to show his appreciation. This was not the time to think about Islam or Christianity or God too much, he thought. It was a time just to be a human being and to celebrate that. What mattered now was how to get people to lay down their weapons and biases, how to live together.
THOUGH THE CHIEF HAD not ceded the seat to him or shown his ticket, Jubril was still lost in happiness. In this unguarded moment, the memories of his flight again forced themselves into his mind. And because he felt more accepted on the bus, he let them flow. For the first time during his wait at the motor park, he believed he could manage his inner turmoil without giving himself away.
He remembered falling and losing consciousness in the savannah as the mob, led by Musa and Lukman, pursued him, but he did not account for what happened while he was blacked out. The next thing he remembered was waking up, weak and sore, covered by mats in a dark room.
The tart smell of the mats had hung heavily in the room. He was lying on his back on the floor; the place was dead quiet. Jubril pinched himself to be sure he was alive. He was so tired that the mats felt like lead. For a moment he thought he was a body being prepared for burial. He breathed cautiously, not daring to move. He cursed the day he had met Musa and Lukman and wondered whether they had captured him. Why would they keep him alive? He could still see their triumphant faces as they beat him, and their gnarled expressions as they pursued him up the valley. He tried to accustom his eyes to the darkness. He could hear the wind ripping through the savannah as well as the faint chirping of birds. He knew he was in the country, but he could not tell how far he was from where he had fallen.
Suddenly, he heard the unimaginable: the explosive sound of Pentecostal Christians speaking in tongues. It poured out all around him, in unrelenting torrents. Jubril’s heart beat faster; he had fallen into the hands of Christian fundamentalists. Some of them were praying in tongues, which reminded him of his brother Yusuf on the day of his death. The Christians were very near and seemed to fill the room. He thanked Allah that he did not move or attempt to stand up, knowing how dangerous that could have been, even if he had the energy. They prayed as if the place belonged to them, their trembling bodies ruffling the mats. He was scared and would have blocked his ears if he had not been so afraid to move.
The rapid-fire prayer flooded him with memories of Yusuf. Were they going to spare his life? Why had they brought him into their midst? How did they find him? How could Allah allow Jubril’s friends to condemn him for supposedly belonging to a faith he never assented to or practiced, and hated with a passion? Disowned by Muslims and now captured by Christians, he held on to his conscience and prayed.
As the prayers filled Jubril’s ears in the dark, he tried to forget the stones falling on Yusuf. He tried to forget how Yusuf screamed the names of his uncles and neighbors and pleaded with them to spare him, and how, when Yusuf realized it was no use, he resumed, with ebbing strength, praying in tongues and calling on the name of Jesus.
“Allah the Merciful, forgive me!” Jubril repeated silently to drown out the unnerving memories of Yusuf. I should have been nicer to him when he came back from the delta, he thought. I should have listened more to my mother. I should have refused to witness his stoning. “Allah, soften the hearts of these Christians and spare me,” he prayed, begging with every inch of his bruised body. With what had been done to Christians in the north and the vengeance that was sweeping across the land, Jubril knew it was only Allah who could save him. “Allah, you will remember me,” Jubril prayed. “Give me the strength to remember you.”