DEATH IN THE TRAIN
I lost sight of Usuman again. After the war, my friend got me the passport you are now holding. He took me into French territory. All I wanted was to rest from fighting. I wished to live a quiet life and turn my mind to peaceful things. One day, I hoped to visit Mecca again. Every time I thought of Dije and the schoolchildren, my heart longed to return to that city.
After a few years of wandering here and there, I settled down in Fort Lamy. I traded quietly and went on with the studies I had begun with Mallam Gobir. Early in the 1930s I came back to Nigeria and lived in peace until World War II began. Though I was old, I joined the British army once more in 1940.
There is something about the army and fighting that I cannot understand. You tell yourself you will never fight again. But when you hear the bugle call and the drums, and you see young men in uniform, your blood stirs. Nothing else matters except the wish to hold a rifle.
That is how it was with me. I could not carry a rifle any more, but I could stay with the young soldiers and watch them. We went to East Africa and came back. The others sailed on to India and Burma, but those of us who had already seen battle stayed behind in the country.
But every story has an end. I grew tired of army life. Late in 1947 — that is, early in the month before I stepped onto this train — I asked to leave the army. It was easy. I was old and the war had been over for a long time. As you can see, I had given up all thought of avenging Zarah. I only wanted to go up to Kano, live quietly for the few years left to me, and wait for Allah to call me home.
I boarded this very train that is carrying us now. The climate in the north felt bitterly cold. It was early this morning. I went into the restaurant car to ask for something hot to drink. I have always loved strong coffee. But there was no coffee. They told me to go into the dining section where the white men had just finished eating. A man there, they said, would bring me some.
I went. A big man stood with his back to me, cleaning the tables and singing softly to himself.
"Greetings," I said.
He turned around.
I have never in all my life been more surprised. For a moment everything went black before my eyes. I could not believe it. It seemed impossible. I had travelled round the African continent for so long without meeting Usuman. Now here he was, face to face with me, alone in a railway carriage. He had not changed much. He had grown heavier, which was no surprise — working as a train steward gave him plenty of food. His eyes had grown soft with age. His cracked lips trembled.
"Ilia! …" he gasped.
"Yes," I whispered. "It is I."
"Still alive?"
"Yes!"
"You are old now and feeble," he said.
"That we shall see."
As he spoke he began to move around the compartment. I watched him carefully. When he stood opposite the door, I threw my knife at him. I meant to pin him against it. But he slipped out and I followed. For the first time in his life, I think, Usuman made a mistake. He had run out — probably hoping to escape into another carriage — but the last coach in our train had no door. It was only the goods van. We were both trapped in the narrow space between the two coaches.
He could not go back into the restaurant car without pushing past me. I could not move forward without facing him. One false step and one of us would fall onto the rails and be crushed by the roaring train. We stood there, staring at each other. Each of us knew that — whatever had happened before — this was the end. I saw his eyes darting about, looking for something to fight with.
Suddenly he rushed at me. My foot shot forward and caught him hard in the stomach. He stopped as if a car had jammed on its brakes. He groaned, clutched his stomach, and sank to his knees.
I was surprised. There had been nothing special in that kick — just an old man straightening his leg — yet there lay Usuman, the terror of the North, writhing and gasping in pain. For one desperate moment his body lay wedged in the open gap. When he realised he might slip and be crushed to death, he tried to pull himself up with the strength of his arms. I stepped forward to help him, but just then we passed over a bridge. The train jolted and he struck his head on the metal upright. I heard him scream. He held on tight to me and tried to drag me down with him.
It was a terrible struggle. He gripped me in a death hold and I fought to pull back. The knife in my breast pocket dug into my side as we rocked with the motion of the train. You have seen the wound. When Usuman's body fell with a sudden crash onto the bridge, I must have fainted.
Honestly, I do not know how I got here. I do not know whether anyone has noticed that the steward is missing.
My friend, I am going to die. It has been a hard life. But Zarah is avenged. I have only one regret: Allah has not let me see Dije again, explain everything to her, and look upon the child she bore me.