“Very sorry, Chief.” Jubril felt so bad that he unearthed his ticket from his bag and offered it to the old man. “Keep. I no want again. . . . Sorry, Chief.”
The old man collected it and stuffed it in his pocket and nodded. “Good boy. You see, we know what’s good for this country. We, the emirs, obas, chiefs, we advised the military governments against Sharia! That’s why we did not have Sharia all these years.” He thumped his chest repeatedly and placed his ID on Jubril’s leg.
Jubril picked it up. “Good photo . . . beautiful, Chief!”
The old man smiled. “That’s right, my son. We kept this country together until this madness of democracy!” Then he became serious and began to admonish the press: “The newspapers say the generals, whether from the north or south, were rats from hell who were waging war on the central bank for decades and that we needed elected people, whom we could hold accountable! The press is to be blamed for this democracy in our country. They say the most decorated soldiers have all their children in universities in Europe and America, while the commoner’s child is stuck in our rotten universities. They say even our Muslim soldiers’ children drink, eat pork, and womanize freely in the white man’s land, while their parents want Sharia back home. They say though the northern generals have stolen all the money in the country and have ruled this country for very long, their north is still full of wretched cowherds. But, Gabriel, the worst is they say that we, we royal fathers, are sitting on our people!” He paused and swallowed hard. “Don’t these new democrats and the newspapers know that the people of England respect their royalty? They blame us . . . in spite of all we have done for the country . . .” His voice broke off, pained at the mere recall of the criticisms. Jubril nodded in sympathy.
“The generals took us very seriously . . . us, us!” the chief said. “Cordial relationship. . . . For example, they told us why we needed to send our troops to Liberia and Sierra Leone, why our sons had to die for democracy there.”
“Our soldier people go Sierra Leone?” Jubril asked.
“Em . . . Gabriel, don’t forget to put ‘Chief ’ before asking your question.”
“Chief, no vex, no vex, Chief.”
“Yes, that’s more like it. . . . And stop covering your mouth with your hand or chewing your finger when you talk! It’s annoying.”
“Sorry, Chief. I no brush my tood for many days. My mout dey smell.”
“Anyway, as I was saying, if not for our soldiers, those countries would be no more! We and the generals gathered other West African countries under ECOMOG—”
“Hey Chief,” interjected Monica in a whisper, pointing an accusing finger at him, “na you dey boast like dis? When did General Babangida share power wid you?”
“Woman, you don’t understand,” the chief said.
“Na lie o. . . . I understand dis one,” she insisted. “Dat general like power too much o. If he no change handover date many times, if he no cancel our 1993 elections, Abacha no for become our leader. . . . Na de same people. Locust years. De man dey use you. He no share no power wid you, abeg.”
“OK, woman, it is not exactly like I was saying. All I was trying to say was that the military respected us. May I talk now, Madam Lawyer?”
“Just make you no lie for dis young man, Chief.”
The chief went back to Jubril, who did not like Monica’s intervention at all.
“Gabriel, the point is, we taught those Sierra Leonean and Liberian rebels a lesson. We lost a lot of soldiers . . . for a good cause!”
“Chief, how many die for combat?”
“That’s codified information, not for everybody, you know. A lizard may listen to a conversation, but he may not say something. I mean, who are you to want to know how many soldiers died in combat? Is government business your father’s business that you must know about it? Or are you now the commander in chief?”
“No, Chief.”
“Then stop behaving like a democrat!”
“Yes, Chief.”
“I tell you, if we bring back those ECOMOG soldiers, these Sharia people in the north will think twice! Trust me, ECOMOG can keep this country one! Gabriel, don’t be confused by all this talk about freedom and equality. . . . To let an old man rest on a good seat is a virtue. To let a royal father take the better seat is nothing compared to what we actually deserve—”
“Yes, Chief.”
“It’s rude to interrupt a royal father.”
Jubril opened his mouth and quickly closed it, afraid of making another mistake. He resorted to nodding.
“Gabriel, I know you want to say something, yes?”
“Chief, pardon me. . . . I happy for ECOMOG.”
“Good. If the government were this sensible, appealing to us, we would stop the Sharia war, you understand?”
“Chief, bring ECOMOG to Khamfi.”
“Don’t worry. When we arrive in the delta, I shall call up fellow royal fathers in the north. We’re important. We’re the repository of wisdom and history and tradition.”
This little assurance about the patriotism and effectiveness of ECOMOG soldiers gave Jubril hope that someday he would return to his Khamfi. Already, he was adoring ECOMOG soldiers and fantasizing about their coming to stabilize the country. Even if things worked out with his father, Jubril decided, he must return to Khamfi to find his mother and Mallam Abdullahi, within whose house Allah had planned Jubril’s miraculous escape. Jubril could only think of ECOMOG, the sacrifices they had made abroad, and what they could do for his compatriots. Maybe ECOMOG soldiers are like Mallam Abdullahi, he thought. The more the chief prattled on about ECOMOG, the more the image of Abdullahi burned in Jubril’s mind. He felt better. Imagining what ECOMOG could do felt a bit like the comfort of a return ticket in his back pocket, though he had none.
He remembered the night after the mob threatened to burn down the house. He remembered the harsh wind that bit into his wounds as Mallam Abdullahi drove him and the other escapees in his Peugeot 504 pickup deep into the savannah, where he released them, one by one, like pigeons. Knowing that there were Muslims and Christians in the group, Mallam Abdullahi had told them he was uncomfortable releasing them together. Jubril was the last to be set free, so his fellow Muslim had spoken longer with him, empathizing with him about his hand. He had advised Jubril to hide his wrist in his pocket until he reached his father’s village. Repeatedly, he told Jubril that Islam was a religion of peace. “You and I,” he said as he hugged Jubril, “must show this to the world. Remember, nobody has a monopoly on violence. So don’t go around trying to terrorize the Christians.”
Now, Jubril looked at himself, at his clothes and shoes and the Marian medal Mallam Abdullahi had given him to help him fit in with the southern crowd. The money the mallam had given him was not gone, even after Jubril paid the exorbitant bus fare. That night in the bush, Jubril had knelt down to thank Mallam Abdullahi for the money, but the man said he was only doing zakat, one of the five pillars of his religion, and bade him do the same to the next person.
“Gabriel, don’t cry . . . don’t cry,” Chief Ukongo consoled, as the memories got the better part of Jubril. “Don’t be sad about how the government has treated the royal fathers. They shall remember us soon.”
“Chief . . . I dey tank God for my life. Chief, you be big man like de emir?” he asked suddenly, to make the old man happy.
“Of course, yes. Glad you get the point. Finally!”
“Chief, you go help me when we reach home?”
“That’s how it should be. As our elders say, the ant’s hope of reaching the sacrificial food lies in the folds of the wrapping leaf. You can’t hope to reach my place, but you’re harassing me . . . the folly of youth!” The chief managed a deep hearty laugh, shifting and stirring in his seat as if on a throne. “Of course we chiefs are like emirs, but our people are a bit heady and don’t give us the respect we deserve—but will in the end. You have just seen the typical behavior toward a southern chief in this bus and from this woman.” He pointed at Monica, who smiled.