A Single Swallow by Horatio Clare

A Single Swallow by Horatio Clare

Author:Horatio Clare [Horatio Clare]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2010-03-04T05:00:00+00:00


CHAPTER 6

Nigeria: Gulf of Oil, Coast of Slaves

Nigeria: Gulf of Oil, Coast of Slaves

WE WAKE TO rain falling quite hard with a hissing noise. Bodies are stirring around me, cursing quietly as those of us without shelter struggle and slither, crab-like, towards sheltered parts of the deck which are already over-full. I fall asleep in a sort of crouch. When the rain stops I move back to my former spot. It is wet but the air is still hot.

At three in the morning the rain comes again, heavier this time. I struggle to my feet, drunk with fatigue. The land is invisible in the dark but to seaward half the horizon is on fire. Oil flares, rigs, supply ships and tankers form a motorway of light. In the depths of the night it is business as usual in the Gulf of Guinea, one of the hottest oil spots on earth. I stand there, swaying, staring at the illuminated sea, trying to distinguish between different ships and rigs, breaking the strings of light and fire into separate vessels, too tired to care about the rain and wishing I had some emergency whisky with which to fend it off. The door to the bridge opens and a figure beckons me in. It seems an extraordinary kindness: I can barely believe it. Thank you so much, merci, merci, I whisper, and curl up, making myself as small as possible in a corner. I black out and sleep deep and dreamless.

Daylight comes with lots of ankles and legs, engine noise, conversation and the luxury of the hard, dry floor of the bridge.

‘Bonjour!’

Heads turn, faces look down from above: ‘Bonjour!’ they grin. I stand, feeling excellent, as though all my muscles have been wrung out.

‘There you are!’ says Mark. We return to our spot, yawning. He found a good place to sleep too, he says. A man comes around with milky coffee and a sweet pastry, which, strangely, has some sort of fish paste in the middle.

We are cruising up a wide channel of mangroves and palms. It looks like an ancient, eternal Africa of picture books, of Just So Stories and legends. The palms with their heads nodding slightly to one side and the mangroves, clutching the sea between their roots, seem to promise fever, snakes and slavers. Here and there, through breaks in the green walls, are villages made of reeds, half-floating. In the channel canoes are working: they are heavy wooden things, flat like big punts; some are being paddled, some sailed and one or two have motors. There are three men in each, throwing out and hauling in nets. The channel is thick with flotsam: lumps of wood and clumps of mangrove bob out to sea as large terns dive into the water, fishing, and supply ships steam past us, heading out for the rigs in the gulf.

‘What is the absolute proof of God’s mercy?’

As it gets hotter the preacher starts up again. His assistants come round handing out leaflets, then the Bible, instructing us to read a bit and then pass it on.



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