“Who still want travel for dis bus?” the police asked the crowd.
“Officers, give us time,” one refugee said.
“De driver of dis luxurious hearse no get time to waste o,” the police said. “Just dey pretend say de bodies dey alive or pretend say you be dead. . . . Last night, many refugees like you dey join de hearses. By now dem done reach home . . . or you want make we remove de dead from de bus?”
“No, we must carry our dead home,” someone said.
“We shall never leave them in the north!”
The harmattan wind sniffed the land in short livid bursts, sending up a low cloud of heavy dust that stung the refugees’ nostrils and eyes. They pulled whatever clothes they had tighter around themselves and gathered at the back of the bus near the heat of the exhaust pipe.
THE POLICE BUNDLED THE sick man on the veranda and brought him toward the luxurious hearse. He was no longer babbling, but weak and flailing his arms. He protested as the police dumped him on the bus.
“I don’t want this bus!” the sick man shouted.
“But you be as good as dead!” a policeman shouted back. “Dem dey count fish, crab dey talk!”
“Please, let me die in the north!” he begged.
“No, you must go home!” Then the officer turned to the refugees: “See, you no go die if you enter de bus. Even dis sick man no die. He even get energy to shout.”
Gradually, silently, volunteers got onto the bus and filled up the few remaining seats at the front. Some, still weeping, sat with the dead. As more people entered the bus, the space became tight. A group of men came up with a plan to maximize the space for both the living and the dead. They grabbed the corpses like logs of firewood and rearranged them, pushing them toward the back so they rose like a hill, reaching the TV set near the ceiling. Some tore their scarves or shirts into strips, which they used to blindfold their children before boarding the bus. Others argued that it was too long a journey to make in a blindfold and forced their children to gawk at the dead until they got used to the sight.
Two more buses arrived.
THOUGH THE REFUGEES IN Jubril’s bus knew that colonel Usenetok had the police on his side, they were not yet completely defeated. When they were sure the soldier and his dog were sound asleep, they began to plan their next line of attack.
“Jesus no go let de devil win for dis war!” Tega whispered to those around her.
Madam Aniema said, “My daughter, why don’t we let the sleeping dog lie, as they say? I’m sure this soldier is not going to cause any trouble on the way.”
“No talk rike dat, madam,” Ijeoma said. “What of Emeka?”
“We need Emeka for dis bus,” Monica said.
“De man done pay for de bus,” Ijeoma said. “And wetin I go tell my ferrow virragers who know am?”
Madam Aniema hushed. People began to talk about how to bring Emeka back. The bus had taken on the feel of a community whose progress had been thwarted by a temporary evil, a misfortune whose duration no one knew, but whose defeat was certain.
“My people, these days we need the hottest kind of Spirit,” the chief said. He stood up, cracked his knuckles, and adjusted his beads. “The kind that possessed Emeka . . . to cleanse this country. As we say, if a ghost rat is stealing from your house, you also buy a ghost cat, not an ordinary cat. . . . I know what needs to be done!”
“De chief is making sense,” Ijeoma said.
“So, Chief, wetin we go do?” Monica asked.
“My people, we must act fast now that the soldier is asleep. A little while ago, we taxed everybody so we could vote him out, remember?”
“Yes, yes!” they said.
“Let us contribute more money. Enough to get the soldier out, enough to bring Emeka back. I will do a quick e-commerce with the police. I know them. If we give them enough money, they won’t remember who is wearing a military uniform or not.”
They began to tax themselves again. The old man went out to negotiate with the police, and they let Emeka back in. The police did not throw out the mad soldier. Emeka came in looking very somber. The drunken, spiritual dazzle that had covered his face when he spoke in tongues had long since deserted him. Now, he looked like an ill-prepared akpu and shivered from the cold. They found a place for him to stand, away from the soldier. No matter how much the refugees tried to lift his mood, telling him how useful his spiritual powers would be for the journey, Emeka was inconsolable. He babbled nonstop about the corpses he had seen in the other bus.
THE POLICE FINALLY WOKE up the driver. A huge, muscular fellow, he shuffled to the bus, looking like he had carried the drum of diesel from Lupa to the motor park on his head. The passengers were relieved to see him and actually applauded him, the way passengers sometimes clap for a pilot when a turbulent flight has touched down safely. As he entered the bus, the refugees stranded outside screamed uncontrollably. He turned on the engine and revved it, causing echoes in the savannah. The two police officers came onto the bus and took their seats, and as the driver negotiated his way out of the park, he turned off the cabin lights.
Jubril’s whole being seemed to levitate as the bus pulled away, and he welcomed the semidarkness wholeheartedly. If he could have made the darkness absolute he would have done it. It was as if it could conceal his whole history until daybreak. He sat up for the first time since he leaned forward on the headrest, still not knowing whom to trust. He surveyed the place the way he had wanted to when there was light, though now he could not see anyone’s face clearly. He remembered the time he lay under the mats in Mallam Abdullahi’s home, covered in darkness, and how consoling that darkness was after he learned they were prayer mats.
As he looked out into the passing savannah, the wind from the open window whipped his face. He thought of how Mallam Abdullahi had released him in the bush under the cover of darkness, how he ran in the direction the mallam had indicated. How in the daylight, he had slipped from tree to tree, like an eaglet too young to handle long flights, knowing he was vulnerable to attack in the open spaces between the stout savannah trees. He hid from bands of fellow refugees because he could not trust anybody. At night, he listened for signs of danger within the howls of the wind, yet he covered more distance, keeping close to the Khamfi-Lupa Road. He remembered his constant plea before Allah, his maker: “If you do not accept me and my plans to embrace my southern identity and lead me safely home, who will?”
AS THE BUS GATHERED speed, the police wished them a pleasant journey and told them not to worry about those left behind and promised to turn on the TV. The driver honked and turned on his hazard lights, like the recently arrived luxurious hearses from the north. Before long the bus was going at top speed, slipping quietly through the savannah toward the rain forests.
In spite of the circumstances of his travel, for Jubril, being on this bus was like a dream: the rush of wind in his face; the sight of the bus’s headlights cutting through the darkness in an unending thrust; the feeling of being still while the dark bushes sped past, streaked by the flashing hazard lights; the gentle pull of the seat to one side as the bus took wide corners or descended into the valleys. He was thankful to Tega for giving him the seat and looked at her often as she stood beside him in the dark. By the time the police turned on the TV and went to the local channel, Jubril was so happy to be in this crowd he could no longer restrain himself from watching. Though the pictures were fuzzy, he could make out some of the images.