Blood is Dirt. Robert Thomas Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ just in front of the arena under whose brilliant whiteness all colour was drained from the scene.

      The strangeness of it, like black-and-white, incomplete stop-frame animation of life. The sweat steeled cold on my face. A group of men were huddled, just away from a body lying on the ground, their hands on their knees as if completely out of breath. Squares of halogen light stared out unflinching all around. Two other men converged in such a way that I knew they didn’t want to but they were drawn. The body, my Christ, the body was smoking. Smoking thin trails of God knows what into a light so brutal it prickled the vision to graininess. Ten feet beyond the men, stacked up into the darkness more than twelve foot high, higher than the light dome, were hundreds of drums, some dull and plastic, others with the sheen of metal, some whole, some split. A gap in the edifice showed where a single drum had fallen from. The drum, capless and split, lay some feet from the body. The cap, stuck upright in some sludge, was at the foot of the drums. A slicked track from the open drum showed where the man had tried to crawl out of himself.

      Details crashed into my mind, some magnified by horror. The man’s skull was visible, his ribcage too. Rubber gloves and boots on his hands and feet twitched. Two men stood up from the huddle and vomited black. Four armed men appeared from the circling darkness. Their rifles were pointed at the group. The two men converging finally arrived. One of them said the single word.

      ‘Acid.’

      The armed men put their hands up to cover their noses and mouths. One of them peeled off and went to talk to the man in the digger. The digger started up, moved to the edge of the lights and planted its feet. The driver manipulated the levers and the elbow straightened at the back. He scooped out a deep trench in the earth. The soldiers herded the group of men away from the body, their rifles pointing at the ground. The digger lifted its feet and reversed in a wide arc and dropped the hydraulic shovel. The shovel tilted. The machine moved forward and consumed the top six inches of earth and the dead man before throwing its neck back and swallowing. The digger manoeuvred to the side of the trench and tipped out the shovel and scraped the earth in over it.

      ‘Toxic waste,’ said Bagado.

      The soldiers stood with their backs to the drums, the other workmen in front of them. The noise from the generator and digger overwhelmed the scene. I stepped out from the trees and shot off half a roll of film. Bagado and I moved back into the trees. We made a rough calculation of the size of the dump and put the figure at around a thousand two-hundred litre containers; a lot of them were in poor condition and all the ones we could see had Italian language printed on them.

      From where the soldiers had come into the light we guessed the direction of Akata village. At the back of the dump there was a track of dead vegetation leading from the drums down a slight incline. At the end of it we found a stream running towards the village. Bagado filled the water bottles.

      We circled back round to the other side of the dump to get some shots of the machines and men with the dump in the background. The digger was scraping more earth away from in front of the drums and dumping it in the forest. There was a jeep parked up near the generator with its licence plate facing our position. The workmen were on their haunches, eating. The soldiers looked down on them, still with their rifles but at ease.

      I was more nervous this time and didn’t step close enough to the light. When I reeled off the shots the automatic flash operated. I might as well have used a heliograph to yoo-hoo them over here. One of the soldiers pointed at me. I stumbled back and fell hard on my shoulder tying to protect the camera. Bagado dropped a water bottle and hauled me up by the collar. We bolted into the trees. All I could see was the black-and-white scene burned on my retina – two soldiers running, the other two kneeling and loading. I blundered through the forest. Bagado was gone. The first bullets snapped through the foliage, hungry but wide, well wide.

      I ran like all people in films should learn to run who’ve just seen the lunatic making his selection from the Sabatier block. I ran with no control over my tongue. I ran faster than my bowels. I found the quickest cure for gout – three pints of adrenaline injected directly into the heart.

      Just when I’d begun to think I could see something beyond the X-ray of the halogen-lit scene in my eyes, the generator cut. The light imploded behind me and with a jack-hammer jolt a jagged crack of light opened up in front of me. I ran into it, but it was too small, too tight. Then I wasn’t running any more and it was dark. So dark I thought I hadn’t been born.

       7

       Near Akata. Nigeria. Monday 18th February.

      I surfaced from a liquid heavier than mercury into chaotic night where distant voices shouted incomprehensible things – bola numasabba hanipitti tibiwanna subsub nabbitihib. Why did I feel sandwiched in sponge cake? There was a popping sensation. No noise. A soap bubble bursting. A smell. I was never so glad to smell that smell. Earth. Rich, damp, black earth. The voices were speaking language this time. Yoruba. Not one of my strengths. Bad-egg saliva squirted into my mouth, my tongue was as huge as a zeppelin in a hangar.

      A mechanism clattered. A man checking to see if there was a round up the sleeve. I lay flat on my back. A ridge of pain was scored down my forehead, over my right eye, my cheek and jaw. I wanted to put my hand to my face but my arm was as heavy as a truck axle. The voices, movement, came closer. Shafts of thin light swept above the undergrowth, boots shuffled by my head, a word repeated close enough to hear the plosive on a lip. Voices moved off. High - lifted boots crushed leaves and such. I wanted to move now. I wanted to take off through the trees. The darkness pinned me, pressed me into the moist ground.

      The voices vanished. Only the faintest shuffling remained.

      A frog offered a tentative croak. He got a couple of replies. Insects rubbed themselves up to full volume and somebody brought in a whole percussion section of football rattles, whistles, maracas and castanets.

      A man, no more than two metres from my head, sighed and moved off.

      The ground released me with the reluctance of setting concrete. A body check revealed that I hadn’t been shot. I was lying at the bottom of a two-foot thick tree which should have my face imprint on its bark even now.

      The lights remained shut down in the clearing. There was a small fire going where some silhouettes passed the time with each other. A truck double-declutched in the distance. I moved towards the noise and found the track and the ditch at the side of it. I remembered the camera. I was in no mood or state for heroism. The camera would have to stay lost.

      The break in the forest where Bagado and I had first hit the road appeared and I went back in there but it was too dark. I sat down to wait for first light and propped my head up on a bolster of terrifying dreams which left me raw and jangling and asking for my mother.

      By 6.30 a.m. I’d found the car with Bagado screwed up and tossed in the back. I lifted the boot and poked him. He came to, speaking Yiddish, and crawled out of the car and sat on the tail.

      ‘I was worried,’ he said, with a yawn wide enough to show me he hadn’t had any breakfast. ‘I was very worried.’

      ‘You should have seen it from my angle.’

      ‘Judging by your face I imagine it was somewhat sharp.’

      ‘Big and blunt. I ran into a tree.’

      ‘Best thing you could have done. This terrain isn’t built for men your size.’

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ