Oil on Water by Helon Habila

to dry ground, where we sat him down and stood over him, unsure what to do next. The Lagos reporters stood to one side, looking at their watches, impatient to be off, not attempting to assist in any way. I knelt beside the boatman, who was trying to communicate with the bowed Zaq. As I touched his arm, which was hot and dripping with sweat, he looked up at me, licking his dry lips.
    —If I can get a drink, I’ll be fine. I’m just tired. All I need is a drink. Just a little bit.
    His voice in my ear was hoarse, whispery. I felt sad and disappointed by this once-great reporter, whose success and dedication had to some extent inspired my own career and doubtless that of many others. I turned away from the beseeching, pitiful grin on his sweaty face, and suddenly I felt angry. It was a helpless, directionless anger, and it disappeared almost as soon as it came.
    —If we can get to a hotel you can have something, I’m sure. But we have to go now. It’s late already.
    I moved away from him. He lurched to his feet, and the boatman went to him and held his left arm.
    —Is . . . is there a hotel nearby?
    —Hotel? No hotel. We go shrine.
    —Shrine?
    —Yes. You get food at shrine.
    —Did you hear what he said? Do you know where you’re going?
    My shout reached the others, who had already put a good distance between themselves and us, drawn to the faraway lights, like camels scenting water, and they stopped and waited for us.
    —Aren’t we going to a hotel? There must be a hotel here somewhere.
    —The man said we’re going to a shrine . . .
    —Shrine? What shrine?
    I had no answer for them, so I urged the alarmed boatman and his boy to keep walking. The man seemed harmless enough, and if he said we should go to some shrine, I was willing to follow him, especially if there was food to be had.
    We went slowly, supporting the weak, dead-weight Zaq between us. Twice we had to stop as he slipped gasping onto the muddy ground. Then we dragged him up and started again. It was an arduous, backbreaking progress, worsened by the humidity in the airless, tree-bordered path, and I was soaked in sweat by the time we got to the shrine, about a quarter of a kilometer from the water. The thick vegetation suddenly disappeared and we were in an open yard where still, silent shapes couched in darkness watching our approach. Our steps faltered, finally coming to a stop in instinctive response to the menacing air of the immobile figures ahead of us. At first I thought: the kidnappers, waiting in ambush. But why were they so still? The boatman lifted his lamp so the light fell on the figures.
    —Na statue. Many statue. For the shrine.
    We passed the statues warily, once more packed together like skittish colts, our heads swiveling wildly to keep the figures in view, half expecting them suddenly to jump on us. At the edge of the yard we could see an open doorway in which a lamp glowed brightly. The boatman disappeared into the hut and we waited outside, straining to hear the exchange coming faintly from within, but we didn’t have to wait long. He soon came out, followed by a man leaning on a stick, a blanket flowing down from his shoulders.
    —We have been expecting you.
    He spoke in English, his words slow and distinct, and he looked from face to face as he spoke.
    Nkem stood boldly, almost challengingly, before the man, his arms akimbo. —You were expecting us?
    —Yes. I am Naman, assistant to the head priest. Apologies, the head priest is not well and cannot be here to receive you. We’ve been instructed to take care of you for the night. Tomorrow you can catch the ferry back to the city.
    The man’s voice carried easily over our heads and into the open yard behind us, a voice accustomed to addressing congregations. There was confidence in the way he raised his hand as he spoke, and in the way he threw his chest forward when he moved, and yet the voice remained even, clear, polite.
    —Come inside.
    He stepped aside and waved us