He reached down into his heart and found some solace: maybe a full public confession would be the right thing to do, the kind that Yusuf himself preached about in the parable of the Prodigal Son. Jubril was ready to risk any consequence, even death. His flight began to assume the mission of going back to tell his father the truth, a truth he must do everything to conceal until he reached his destination. He was very sure of his father’s forgiveness and the hospitality of the village of Ukhemehi because of what Yusuf had told him.
“Gabriel doesn’t hear properly,” the chief said, chuckling, seeing Emeka and Ijeoma’s consternation. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Sometimes he even uses sign language.”
“Gabliel, you dey claze!” Ijeoma snapped, shouting so loud that the rest of the bus turned to look. “We dey beg you say no bling porice kill us, you dey smile and pose rike Gucci model . . . wid one hand for pocket.” She grabbed him and shook him until his mind came back to the bus. “We say we no want porice to settle any case for dis bus!”
When Jubril looked around and saw everybody looking at him, he said, “Ah, no police again.”
“You be deaf?” Emeka asked.
“No vex,” Jubril said to them, bowing.
“My people, don’t worry,” the chief said. “I’ll tell the police not to bother, OK?”
“Yes, Chief!” they said.
“Tank you, Chief. . . . So you be real chief.”
“God bless you, Chief!”
Now that the police were out of the picture, the passengers relaxed again. Jubril listened to the banter in the bus about the power in the chiefs’ domains. Jubril could only compare the idea of being a chief to that of being an emir in the north, though from what he was hearing, he knew the emirs had more power.
Chief Ukongo rose to his feet and cleared his throat. “My people, now you’re talking . . . to me . . . your chief!” he addressed the bus. He thudded the floor with his stick and went to where the feather was. He picked it up as tenderly as possible and put it together with his talisman in his bag. “As our people say,” he continued, “the world is full of gods, but the important ones are called by their names. And also, do not forget: no matter how small an idol is, it is good to carry it with two hands. You see, my people, this is a period of national crisis. You should rally around your royal fathers. . . . The north is uniting around the emirs.” He asked Jubril to sit on the floor near him, where the feather had fallen. Jubril sat down immediately, near Monica. She smiled at Jubril; he ignored her.
The old man dropped some biscuits into Jubril’s lap. Jubril thanked him. The refugees who supported him a few moments ago did not even look at Jubril. His loneliness and fear came back, rising like yeast. He pushed his body against the seat of the chief to keep from trembling. The more he pressed against his sore muscles, the more he aggravated the wounds under his clothes. He came back to his senses when the chief asked him why he was not eating. Chief Ukongo sounded to Jubril as if he would not only deprive him of the food but might use his magical powers to turn him into a grain of sand. He ate quickly.
SOMEWHERE IN THE CROWD outside, above the din of the bus stop, a dog barked breathlessly several times. With each effort the barks got weaker, as if the dog, like a whooping-cough patient, could not save itself from that sickening, involuntary urge.
The local TV station continued to broadcast its ugly pictures of the conflict, taking with it most of the passengers’ attention as they waited for the driver and fuel. Now, without passion, they watched the pictures of the barracks, shown over and over again, listening to the same TV anchor telling them everything was OK. But Jubril was watching the chief the whole time. The old man, in spite of finally being recognized by his people, was restless. It seemed to Jubril that the momentary peace that had pervaded the bus had evaded this man. Every now and then, some indiscernible angst brought tears into the gullies of the chief ’s eyes. He took out his identity card, looked at it, and asked Jubril how the refugees could have refused to acknowledge his ID. “How could they refuse to see it, when I voluntarily showed it to them?” he asked.
“Sorry, Chief,” said Jubril. “Sorry.”
“It’s OK,” he said.
The chief peered at the happy, confident face he once had and wrinkled his brow as if he was trying to remember something. Another wave of tears came close to spilling onto his cheeks, but then lost steam, as if the chief lacked the energy to remember and to cry simultaneously.
“My son, Gabriel,” he said, glancing sorrowfully out the window, into the dark of Lupa, “I once enjoyed this country. You know I once did?”
“No, Chief.”
“I’m telling you I once did.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“I don’t know why the god of my ancestors allowed the military to hand over power to civilians. . . . With the military in power, this Sharia war would never have taken place. We royal fathers used to go to the seat of government as the sole representatives of our people, guardians of the people’s mandate. Now everybody treats us as if we are no longer important.” For the first time, the chief ’s tears fell. “I remember how General Sani Abacha granted us royal fathers five percent of the taxes collected in our domain for saying a resounding yes to his plan to rule our country forever. He even promised us each a house in the capital city. He gave us cars, good cars . . . but I’m in this Luxurious Bus because I have hidden my cars for now. You know why?”
“No, Chief.”
“Because I don’t know whether these new democrats would ask the royal fathers to return them. This democracy is now destroying the country. You agree with me, yes?”
“Yes, yes, Chief.”
Jubril was now leaning on him, giving him his full attention. The more the chief spoke, the more the boy came to believe that this man could probably protect him, not just in this bus but when they reached their destination in the delta. Jubril liked the fact that the chief was confiding in him, and he thought the chief was more reliable than the other passengers.
He touched a fringe of the chief ’s dress, the corduroy material soft on his fingers. Back in the north, he could never imagine being this close to an emir. He could not imagine traveling in the same vehicle with an emir or sitting down to talk with him face-to-face, much less such an important personality whispering to him his life’s disappointments. He remembered all the times he had seen an emir. Jubril was always deep in the crowd, quiet and courteous. He could not boast of shaking an emir’s hand or of being close enough to touch his turban as he was touching the chief ’s dress now.
He felt bad about not giving up the seat all this while, about arguing with Chief Ukongo, about inviting the police to harass him. Back in Khamfi, complete obeisance to the emir was the beginning of wisdom, and the emir’s word was law in his domain. Jubril remembered the sirens and motorcades of governors, and even the presidents, paying courtesy visits to the emir of Khamfi, Alhaji Muhammad Kabir Jadodo; he remembered the politicians going to seek the emir’s blessings before declaring their interest in any elected office in Khamfi. Above all, he thought about the beautiful and imposing palace in Khamfi and of all the salaried workers and all the charity Alhaji Jadodo doled out to the endless number of talakawas who flocked there. He remembered how these talakawas rose against some human-rights activists who tried to question the emir about the source of his wealth.
“For example,” the old man whispered, “it wasn’t necessary that you harass me for this seat as you did.”
“Sorry, Chief.”
“All because of tickets.”