Oil on Water by Helon Habila

Author:Helon Habila
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2011-05-08T21:00:00+00:00

11

Zaq had fallen asleep while I was talking, his whiskey bottle, now three-quarters empty, clutched tightly in his hand. I went out and walked up the hillock, and suddenly I was facing the water over the top of the scanty trees. The wind from the sea blew into my face, fresh, moist, and I was instantly filled with an unaccountable exhilaration. I felt free. With my back against a tree, I faced the water, and when I got tired of staring at the water I opened my book. But as I bent my head to read I noticed a white shape in the distance, many white shapes, a procession coming out of the line of trees on the path that circled the hillock, leading to the sea. They were each holding a staff, and toward the middle two men were bearing what looked like a body covered in a white sheet on a stretcher. I thought I was about to witness some kind of sea burial, and I debated whether to dash back to the hut to get my camera. But I decided against it; I didn’t want to miss anything. A low chanting reached me faintly where I sat. When they got to the edge of the water, they put down the stretcher and then the corpse threw aside the white sheet, miraculously sat up and started to crawl on all fours, its robe dragging in the wet sand, till its knees and arms were in the waves, and then it sat in the water. The others gave out a loud sigh and joined the sitting figure, forming a semicircle behind it, their backs to me, facing the huge dying sun, their arms outstretched, supplicatory, and their sighs suddenly turned into loud wails. They went on like this for a long time, swaying rhythmically, imitating the movement of the waves, and then one by one they came out of the water and headed back to the huts.

—They believe in the healing powers of the sea.

I turned, startled by the voice above me. A woman, her face unclear because my eyes were still blinded by the sun, was facing me, her back to the sun. She was tall and slim, wearing a long black skirt and a green blouse.

—Hello.

I stood up.

—You were watching the worshippers.

—The worshippers.

—Yes. You must be the other reporter. I’m the nurse. I’ve been attending to your friend. I saw you come up this way.

I pointed at her clothes. —You’re not worshipping with them today?

—I’m not a worshipper. I’m just the nurse.

—Well, I see . . .

Now that I could see her properly, I put her age at about thirty, but she had intimations of lines on her face, signs of habitual worry, or grief, and there were a few white streaks in her hair, but instead of making her appear aged, the lines and gray hair made her look interesting, beautiful in an unconventional way.

—I’m Rufus.

—I’m Gloria.

We stood side by side and watched the procession disappear into the trees.

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