Читать книгу Welcome to Lagos - Chibundu Onuzo - Страница 10

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THE TWO SOLDIERS WALKED through the night with Chike leading. They would make their way to Yenagoa, the closest city, and from there find a bus to Port Harcourt or Benin or perhaps even Lagos. Even now, Benatari might already be searching for them. In theory, they should be given a chance to defend their refusal to carry out the colonel’s order. In theory.

They still carried their guns, another crime to add to their desertion, but it would have been too dangerous to wander through this bush unarmed. Morning was already starting to show. Without hesitating, any party of militants that came upon them would kill them.

“Remove your shirt,” Chike said to Yẹmi. They could do nothing about their trousers, which announced their occupation, camouflaging nothing.

“I wan’ rest,” Yẹmi said.

“We stop when we reach the main road.”

“I never drink water. I no fit.”

Chike eyed Yẹmi but his former subordinate did not drop his gaze.

“At ease,” he said, just before Yẹmi flopped to the ground. The semblance of command must remain until they reached Yenagoa. After that, they could go their separate ways. For now, two were better than one.

DAWN CRACKED OVER THE forest. The sun rose slowly, an orange yolk floating into an albumen sky. He was hungry. Beside him, Yẹmi was starting to doze when the young man with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder walked into view and began to urinate, his back turned to them. Chike left Yẹmi and crept up to the man, who had squatted to defecate.

“I am officer of the Nigerian Army. You are under arrest. Hand over your gun. Do not turn. I said do not turn. Throw your gun on the ground and stand up with your hands behind your head.”

“How do I know you have a gun?”

“I should shoot?”

“My people are close.”

“So are mine.”

“Chike.” The man stiffened at the sound of Yẹmi’s voice and dropped his gun on the ground.

“Stand up. Slowly.”

“Can I pull up my trousers?”

There was a foreign tang to his speech, something in his diction striving to be American.

“He fit take us to the road,” Yẹmi said.

“We’re trying to get to the main road.”

“I wanna see you first.”

“You can turn. Slowly.”

It was a boy, not a man, just leaving his teenage years. His eyes were deeply planted in his face, giving him a starved look, but the rest of his features were regular. A furrow ran along the middle of his forehead, a crevice that deepened when he looked beyond and saw no signs of a Nigerian army.

“If I refuse?”

“We go shoot you. You think say we be soldier for nothing?”

To the best of Chike’s knowledge, Yẹmi had never shot a living thing, but his bravura was convincing.

“If you lead us into a trap, we will still kill you before your friends get to us,” Chike said, adding his own threat.

“No, no. I was going to the road myself anyway.”

“Your name?” Chike asked as the militant led them into the undergrowth, his gun a few inches from the boy’s spine.

“Fineboy.”

“Na which kind name be that?”

“Na my mama give me,” Fineboy said, for the first time dropping his accent and sliding into pidgin.