Delta File

Oyo Province, NigeriaT hey lowered the old woman’s body into the loamy soil and made the sign of the cross. There was not much more they could do. At least she died peacefully of old age and infirmity. These days that was a rare blessing. The priest from Lagos would not be available to say the requiem mass for a day or two, but God in his mercy would understand. It was necessary to get a dead body into the ground as soon as possible. The Nigerian climate corrupted quickly, and it was dangerous for the living to delay burial of the dead. There was enough disease already ravaging the land and such precautions were necessary. Jambon Imbasa prayed silently, standing in a light rain while other men from the village shoveled dirt onto the canvas shroud that covered their latest loss. Off to the right of the new grave were two others, a young man and his wife, finally at rest after nearly a year fighting the AIDS virus slowly destroying their systems. And beyond those graves were three more, even more recent. Young men killed in a Boko Haram raid. They tried to run for the forest, but they were too slow. It had been two long days before the rebels left and the villagers could return from hiding to bury those men. Jambon Imbasa was a leader, a relatively educated man, but he had no answers for the Ibo people who relied on him for advice and guidance. And now he would have to make the long walk to Ibadan and use the phone to call the good Father in Lagos, who was also of the Ibo people, asking him once again to come and say the mass for the dead. Jambon Imbasa could only wonder as they all did why God seemed to be punishing them. There was a truck parked near the center of the village when his people returned from the burial. A visitor? They didn’t have many. The village had been carved down to just five or six extended families now. But the man standing in the shade of a banyan tree wore the amulet of an Ibo leader. Jambon didn’t recognize him, but perhaps he was from the family of the dead woman they’d just buried. He looked healthy and prosperous in nice clothing. Perhaps he could offer a ride in his truck to Ibadan. Jambon approached him with a friendly wave. When the stranger spotted the symbol hanging from Jambon’s neck, he smiled and waved back. “I am Samuel Imshana from Lagos,” he said, offering a hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “Thank you, sir.” Jambon shook the extended hand feeling the bite of a large ring that looked to be a diamond set in gold. “We have had too many in recent days.” “So I’ve heard,” the man said, leading Jambon toward the shade near his truck. The rain had stopped and heat from the sun emerging from the clouds was intense. “I have come to offer you and perhaps some others a great opportunity.” He waved a hand at the small cluster of ramshackle homes that lined the village street. “An opportunity to leave all this for a better life.” “A better life?” “Yes, a better life and a good job—in America. It won’t be easy, but it is possible for those who qualify and wish to leave all this behind. Let me tell you about it.”