Chapter 6 The Crossing of the Current
1999 Words
By four o'clock in the afternoon, the lagoon no longer looked like a body of water.
It looked like a battlefield waiting for its first casualty.
Dark clouds gathered above Lagos, swallowing the fierce afternoon sun that had scorched the city for hours. The humid air became strangely still, as though even the wind had paused to watch what was about to unfold.
At the Olowo-Ina timber jetty, engines coughed violently to life.
One after another, long wooden transport boats pushed away from the weathered docks, their bows slicing through the murky black water. Unlike the slow commercial crossings that carried traders and fishermen every day, these boats surged forward with frightening urgency.
There were six in total.
Every one of them was overloaded.
Men sat shoulder to shoulder, gripping machetes wrapped in dirty cloth, heavy clubs cut from hardwood, rusted axes, iron rods, and bottles stuffed with kerosene-soaked rags. Some had hidden their weapons beneath fishing nets and empty fertilizer sacks, but nobody bothered pretending anymore.
Their faces carried the same expression.
Anger.
Or at least what they believed was anger.
Most of them had never exchanged a single word with anyone from Aiyetoro.
Yet they had convinced themselves they were sailing toward enemies.
Chief Alimi stood at the front of the lead boat, one polished leather shoe resting on the wooden gunwale. His white vest fluttered in the growing wind while his eyes remained fixed on the distant fishing settlement rising from the lagoon.
Behind him stood Segun Danger.
The huge machete resting across his shoulder glimmered beneath the fading sunlight.
He raised the weapon into the air.
"They think because dem dey live for water, dem fit disgrace Olowo-Ina!"
A roar erupted from the boats.
"No!"
"They think say we fear them!"
"No!"
"Today..."
His voice echoed across the lagoon.
"...we go finish this matter!"
The men erupted into chants.
Some beat clubs against the sides of the boats.
Others sang old Yoruba war songs passed down through generations—songs once meant for defending kingdoms, now twisted into fuel for a lie.
The rhythm rolled over the water like distant thunder.
...
Tunde sat near the middle of the third boat.
His faded mechanic's shirt was soaked with sweat.
Grease stained his sleeves, while an old face cap shadowed most of his features.
Buried beneath filthy rags at his feet rested his DSLR camera.
His greatest weapon wasn't a machete.
It was evidence.
Every instinct screamed at him to expose himself, to shout that everyone had been deceived.
But he knew better.
One wrong word...
One suspicious glance...
His body would disappear beneath the lagoon exactly as Chidi's had.
Instead, he listened.
Two men beside him passed around a bottle of local gin.
"I hear say dem kill four of our boys."
"Na true."
"My cousin tell me."
Another spat into the water.
"I hear say dem even burn mosque."
"No be mosque."
"Na church."
The stories changed with every speaker.
Each version grew more outrageous.
Yet nobody questioned them.
Tunde realized something horrifying.
None of these men actually knew why they were attacking.
They were marching toward violence built entirely upon rumor.
He slowly reached inside his backpack.
His fingers found the tiny digital voice recorder clipped beside his camera batteries.
Without looking down, he pressed the record button.
A faint vibration confirmed it had started.
If he survived...
Every lie spoken inside this boat would become evidence.
...
The deeper they moved into the lagoon, the rougher the water became.
Strong currents slammed against the narrow hulls.
Spray soaked everyone's clothes.
Several younger men tightened their grip on the boat's edges as it lurched violently over hidden swells.
One passenger crossed himself.
Another quietly whispered Islamic prayers beneath his breath.
Fear was finally replacing excitement.
Chief Alimi refused to sit.
He remained standing despite the unstable waters.
He looked almost triumphant.
Behind the convoy, thick black exhaust drifted across the lagoon like smoke from an advancing army.
...
Across the water, Aiyetoro had transformed completely.
The laughter of children had vanished.
Wooden walkways that usually bustled with traders carrying baskets of fish were now crowded with frightened families rushing toward the community hall.
Women gathered children into their arms.
Old men carried the village's few hunting rifles from locked storage boxes.
Young fishermen dragged abandoned canoes across narrow passages to create makeshift barricades.
Nobody spoke loudly anymore.
Only urgent whispers filled the air.
Jonah climbed onto the highest observation platform near the bell tower.
His breathing was heavy.
His eyes scanned the horizon.
Then he saw them.
Tiny black shapes emerging from the haze.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then more.
His heart stopped.
They weren't fishing boats.
They were transport boats.
And they were coming fast.
Jonah seized the thick iron pipe hanging beside the warning bell.
He struck it with all his strength.
CLANG!
The metallic sound exploded across the lagoon.
Again.
CLANG!
Again.
CLANG!
"The boats!"
His voice cracked.
"They're coming!"
"The Olowo-Ina people are coming!"
Panic swept through the village.
Mothers hurried children indoors.
Men grabbed paddles, hooks, fishing spears, and heavy wooden poles.
Some wanted to charge toward the landing docks immediately.
Others argued they should wait.
Confusion spread faster than orders.
...
Inside his modest wooden palace, Chief Tobor stood silently before the body of Chidi.
The white cloth covering the young man's broken form fluttered gently in the humid breeze entering through the open window.
Chief Tobor removed the cloth from Chidi's face.
Bruises.
Broken teeth.
Deep rope marks around swollen wrists.
His jaw tightened.
No fisherman had done this.
This was murder.
Deliberate.
Organized.
He covered the body once more.
Then turned toward the doorway.
Outside, the warning bell continued ringing.
Each strike echoed through the village like the beating of a frightened heart.
Jonah came running across the walkway.
"They're almost here!"
Chief Tobor stepped outside.
Far across the dark water...
The convoy had become clearly visible.
Engines roared.
Weapons glinted.
Dozens of men packed the boats.
His face hardened.
"Tell everyone," he said quietly.
"No one strikes first."
Jonah looked at him in disbelief.
"But Chief—"
"We defend."
"We do not become murderers."
The old chief looked toward the advancing boats.
"If blood must touch this water today..."
His voice was heavy with sorrow.
"...let history remember who spilled it first."
Far out on the lagoon, the lead boat increased speed.
The distance between the two communities disappeared with terrifying speed.
The first collision was only moments away.
The roar of the engines swallowed every other sound.
Chief Alimi stood at the bow of the lead boat, one hand gripping the wooden rail as spray lashed against his face. His eyes never left the narrow landing deck of Aiyetoro.
"There!" he barked, pointing his machete toward the village. "Straight to the main jetty! Don't stop until we reach the platform!"
The boat surged forward.
Behind it, the remaining vessels tightened their formation, cutting through the dark lagoon like a pack of predators closing in on wounded prey.
Tunde felt the knot in his stomach tighten.
He could now see the faces on the wooden walkways.
Women clutching frightened children.
Old men standing shoulder to shoulder with fishing paddles.
Young fishermen gripping bamboo poles with trembling hands.
None of them looked like an invading army.
They looked like people waiting for disaster.
He reached into his backpack once more.
Without drawing attention, he loosened the zipper protecting his DSLR camera.
If the attack began, every second would matter.
He had only one chance to record the truth.
The first drops of rain splashed against the lagoon.
Tiny circles spread across the black water.
Then another drop.
And another.
The heavens had finally opened.
A cold wind swept across the channel, whipping waves against the boats and making the crossing even more dangerous.
Still, nobody slowed.
"Faster!" Segun Danger shouted.
"Hit the jetty!"
The outboard engine screamed as the driver pushed the throttle to its limit.
The wooden hull slammed into the landing platform with a deafening crack.
Timbers splintered.
The entire jetty shuddered violently.
Before the boat had even settled, Segun leapt onto the platform.
His machete flashed through the rain.
A young fisherman barely twenty years old instinctively raised his paddle to block the blow.
The paddle split in half.
The blade continued through, carving a deep wound across the young man's shoulder.
Blood splattered onto the rain-soaked planks.
He collapsed with a cry of agony.
For a heartbeat, both communities froze.
Then chaos erupted.
The remaining attackers poured onto the walkways, swinging clubs and iron rods.
Glass bottles filled with kerosene smashed against wooden walls.
Flames climbed hungrily despite the rain, feeding on dry bamboo and old timber.
Women screamed as smoke filled the narrow passages.
Children cried in terror.
Chief Tobor stepped onto the central walkway, raising both hands.
"Stop!"
His booming voice echoed through the village.
"We did not kill your fisherman!"
"We found his body this morning! Listen to me—"
A brick struck him across the forehead.
Blood streamed down his face.
He staggered but remained standing.
His people stared in disbelief.
Their chief had come with words.
The attackers answered with violence.
That single moment changed everything.
The fishermen surged forward.
Long bamboo poles crashed against clubs.
Wooden paddles struck iron rods.
The narrow walkways became a maze of desperate hand-to-hand fighting.
Men slipped on rainwater and blood.
Others crashed through rotten planks into the lagoon below.
One burning bottle landed on a fish-smoking shed.
Within seconds, orange flames crawled across the dry roofing despite the falling rain.
Black smoke spiraled into the darkening sky.
Tunde finally pulled out his camera.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The shutter fired rapidly.
He photographed Segun swinging his machete.
He captured attackers hurling burning bottles.
He zoomed in on frightened children fleeing through smoke.
Evidence.
Every image was evidence.
A sudden shout made him turn.
"That man dey take picture!"
One of the attackers pointed directly at him.
Tunde's heart skipped.
Segun turned.
Their eyes met.
Recognition flashed across Segun's face.
"You!"
Without hesitation, Segun charged.
Tunde slung the camera over his shoulder and ran.
The wooden walkway shook beneath his feet as terrified villagers scattered in every direction.
Behind him, heavy footsteps thundered across the planks.
"Catch am!"
"He be journalist!"
"He no must leave here alive!"
Tunde leapt over an overturned canoe, narrowly avoiding a machete that buried itself in the timber where he had stood a split second earlier.
He ducked beneath a hanging fishing net and sprinted toward the rear of the village.
Ahead of him, Pa Benjamin struggled to help an elderly woman into a canoe.
The old fisherman looked up just as Tunde reached him.
"They're after me," Tunde gasped.
Pa Benjamin saw the camera.
He understood immediately.
"The truth."
Tunde nodded.
"The whole thing is on this memory card."
The old man's expression hardened.
He grabbed Tunde by the arm.
"Then the truth must survive."
Without another word, he pushed Tunde into the canoe.
"Go!"
The younger fishermen untied the rope.
The canoe drifted away from the burning village just as Segun reached the edge of the platform.
He hurled his machete.
The spinning blade sliced through the air.
It missed Tunde by inches before plunging into the lagoon with a loud splash.
Segun roared in frustration.
Across the water, thunder cracked so violently that every combatant paused.
Lightning tore across the evening sky, illuminating the burning village in brilliant white.
For one unforgettable instant, the lagoon reflected everything—
The flames.
The blood.
The fleeing canoes.
The armed mob.
And the body of Chidi, freed at last from the mangrove roots by the rising tide, slowly surfaced in the dark water between both communities.
He drifted silently with the current.
His bound wrists rose above the surface.
The rope was unmistakable.
Voices fell silent.
Eyes turned toward the floating corpse.
The lie that had started the war was about to surface with it.
- Writer
