Free Song for Night by Chris Abani Page A

and it was easy to sneak past the officials who were busy watching the mobs, onto the train, which was made up mostly of cargo coaches. Whatever they were carrying was very carefully held down with tarp. Ignoring the cargo cars, I headed for the one passenger car. It was empty and I hid in the toilet.
    The journey down south to the nearest Igbo city of any significant size took thirteen hours. It was the longest, most harrowing trip I had ever undertaken. I kept expecting the train to stop at one of the many stations it rolled past and for the police or soldiers or an angry mob to pull me off and shoot me or eviscerate me. But there were no stops. The train was cheered at every station, town, and settlement it passed through and I guessed it had passed into Igbo territory when the cheering ended. A few hours later the train finally stopped, hissing angrily. I peered out of the window of the toilet, relaxing when I saw the sign on the platform. I was home.
    I waited a few minutes before getting out of the train to be greeted by wails and screams of sorrow. The tarp had been rolled back to expose the cargo: dead bodies, hundreds of Igbo corpses, the harvest of a few weeks of carnage. Some of the bodies had started to decompose, filling the air with their rankness. Many were mutilated—vaginas, penises, mouths, noses, ears, hands, and feet were cut off or out. Even pregnant mothers hadn’t been spared; their fetuses cut out and draped sickly over them. I turned away, retching.
    I saw a group of men surround the Fulani train driver. He stood in their midst trying not to look scared, but his eyes gave him away. The first blow, when it came, was sudden and caught him off guard. He sank to the ground with a sigh. The blows that followed were swift and the only sounds were the fading cries of the driver, the soft thump of fists on flesh, and the gentle grunts of the men. In a few minutes they had beaten him to death with their bare hands. But the bloodlust was keen now and they were not sated. Seeing me standing mouth open, robes spattered in blood, they advanced toward me. But the women in the crowd formed a circle around me, a wall between the men and me.
    “Step aside,” the men said.
    “So we are down to killing children now?” the women asked, not moving.
    “They have murdered our children, so we must murder theirs,” the men countered.
    Just then I found my voice and screamed repeatedly. “I am Igbo!”
    I throw my cigarette into the street and walk to the door of the bar. I stand just inside, signaling a request for food. I am an officer too, I think. I have led a platoon of mine diffusers, I have earned this right in blood; but they ignore me. Finally, an older man, graying, stands up and approaches me. He hands me his chicken. I am so clumsy, I let it fall. As I stoop to pick it up, he asks me if I have come for him. I shake my head, not understanding what he means.
    “You are not a demon?” he asks.
    I shake my head thinking all the old soldiers in this town must be shellshocked. I hear the other soldiers laughing about how the older man always sees ghosts and demons coming for him. I wonder why he thinks I am a ghost. How do ghosts appear?
    Just then he raises his revolver. “Go now!” he screams.
    I am already disappearing into the night when he fires.
    The bullet tears past me harmlessly. I hide in a bombed-out house further down the street.
    “Crazy fucks,” I mutter.
    I am still holding onto the chicken.
    I take a bite.
    It tastes good.

A Thumb in the Air,
Clicking an Imaginary Lighter
    This is what we were told: in the army, one mile is one click. It means nothing to us beyond army speak, so this is how we sign it: a thumb clicking an imaginary lighter held between fingers palmed into a fist. The number of clicks equals the number of miles. Simple really. I don’t know how many clicks I have traveled yet; must be a lot though. I stretch in the early sun. The chicken last night was good but I am hungry