Free Oil on Water by Helon Habila

the anger left his face, to be replaced by a malevolent smirk. He put a hand on my shoulder.
    —You—how can I be sure you are who you claim to be? Do you have any ID? Nothing? Not even a recorder, a pen, a notebook? What kind of reporters are you?
    —We lost our things when your men sank our boat.
    —Hmm. So far I have treated you like gentlemen. I am a gentleman, an officer and a gentleman. Ask my men. They love me because I am a fair man. But I have one question only for you: how can I know you are who you claim to be? That is all. Answer me that question and you are free.
    He smelled of sweat and the marshes, and petrol. The petrol had left stains on his trouser legs and on his boots.
    —We’re looking for the Englishwoman, for the story. That is all.
    —I’m looking for the woman too, everyone is looking for her. You think you can find her if we can’t? Still, I don’t trust you. I can’t trust you, you see my dilemma? You have till tomorrow to think of something. Talk to the other guy. Tomorrow, I want proof. Answers. Otherwise I’ll have to lock you up with the rebels and treat you the same way.
    —What of the old man and his child? They’re innocent, nothing to do with all these—
    —Go. I have work to do.
    —I must insist, Major.
    —Insist? Did you say insist? Do you know what’s going on out there? There’s a war going on! People are being shot. In Port Harcourt oil companies are being bombed, police stations are being overrun, the world oil price is shooting through the roof. You insist! I can shoot you right now and throw you into the swamp and that’s it. Now get out.

6.
    — W hat can we do to help the old man and his son, Zaq?
    —Nothing, my young friend. I wish it were that easy to intervene and change the course of things. It isn’t. We’ll observe, and then we’ll write about it when we can.
    We lay side by side. The Doctor had given me one of the cots vacated by a sick soldier who had been moved to one of the huts for the night. Zaq and I were alone in the infirmary. Half of the structure was open to the elements, and not far away in the swamps we could hear the bullfrogs bellowing, we could see the glow of the gas flares like distant malfunctioning stars. Though it was humid and airless, our blankets were pulled to our necks—they were our only protection from the mosquitoes. The Doctor had apologized for the accommodation; the only alternative to the infirmary was the lockup, where the militants were being held under heavy guard, and as much as we wanted to interview them, spending the night cooped up in a tight hut with them didn’t appeal. Zaq was sleepless, restless, and though his voice was weak and raspy, he kept talking, keeping me from nodding off.
    —You don’t regret being here, do you?
    —I don’t know, Zaq. I’d have given a lot not to have witnessed the boy and his father being drenched by the Major.
    —I’ve seen children snatched away from their mothers, never to be reunited. I’ve seen husbands taken from their wives and kids and sent away to prison. I’ve seen grown men flogged by soldiers in front of their kids. That’s how history is made, and it’s our job to witness it.
    —And is it always like this?
    —No, not always. I’ve also witnessed ordinary bystanders pull passengers from burning cars, I’ve seen judges sentence generals and politicians to hard labor, without fear. I’ve seen students stand up to soldiers and policemen, protesting against injustice. If you’re patient, you’ll see those moments too, and you’ll write about them.
    We watched the flares shake in the wind, wavering and dimming, but always regrouping to shine on again; we listened to what sounded like singing far away in the distance. Across the water a dog, or a hyena, howled and was answered by other howls. Then for a moment there was silence.
    —Tell me, Rufus, why did you become a journalist?
    My father is standing over me, gently shaking me. Outside the night is