The White Man's God Keeps Paper

Calabar was not what Osaze thought a city of white men would be.

From the sea, it looked like Benin City had looked from the forest — a hill of roofs, but the roofs were not thatch, they were tin and they shone. Smoke came not from cooking fires, but from big ships in the river. And there were flags everywhere. British flags, but also other flags he didn't know.

They had paddled for six days from the Ijaw lagoon. Six days of open water that made Osaro cry, that made Adesuwa vomit from the waves, that made Osaze's arms feel like they would fall off. They followed the coast, sleeping on sandbanks, trading dried fish for water with Efik fishermen who spoke a fast language that sounded like song.

On the sixth morning, an Efik fisherman pointed at a hill and said, "Duke Town. Calabar. Plenty white man there. Plenty book."

They landed at Duke Town beach just as the rain started. A heavy, cold rain that Benin never had. The beach was full of canoes, but also full of white men in white clothes, shouting, with big umbrellas held by small boys.

Osaze hid his satchel under his wrapper. He had learned that lesson in Ughoton — if white men see you carry something old, they want it.

Adesuwa tied Osaro to her back again. Her cowrie necklace from Chief Keme was hidden too. White men liked cowries.

"Where do we find the Scottish missionary who keeps paper?" Osaze asked an Efik boy who was watching their canoe.

The boy looked at his satchel. "You mean Presbyterian? At Creek Town. Not here. Here is government. Creek Town is book."

"How far?"

The boy pointed up the river. "Two hours by canoe. But you cannot go like that. You need pass. White man asks for pass."

They had no pass. They had no money. They had fish and a wooden fish and a bronze fish and paper that no one wanted except them.

Chief Keme had told them to find the Scottish missionaries, but she had not told them how to get past the British who now owned the river.

Adesuwa, who had been quiet, suddenly spoke to the Efik boy in Efik — she had picked up some words trading.

"My brother is sick," she said, pointing to Osaro, who was indeed shivering from rain and fever. "We need medicine man. White medicine man."

The boy looked at Osaro, who did look sick, pale and shaking. The boy's face changed. In Calabar, fever killed children fast. Everyone knew that.

"Okay. Follow me. My uncle knows missionary. He is not white. He is Efik but he works with white man. He can help."

They followed the boy through the mud of Duke Town. Past warehouses full of palm oil casks. Past a big building where a British officer was shouting at a line of carriers. Past a market where Efik women sold cloth that looked like the cloth from Ughoton, but brighter.

Past everything, to a small compound on the edge of town, surrounded by a white fence. Inside the fence was a church, but not like the Portuguese chapel in Ughoton. This church was big, made of wood, with a cross that was straight, not tilted. And behind the church, there was a smaller building with no cross. It had many windows and inside, Osaze could see shelves. Shelves full of paper. Books.

His heart beat so fast he thought Adesuwa could hear it.

The boy knocked on the door of the smaller building. An old Efik man opened it. He was wearing glasses, like a white man, but his face was Efik, lined and kind. He wore a simple white shirt and wrapper.

"Uncle, this Bini family. Child sick. They say they want book man."

The old man looked at Osaze, at Adesuwa, at Osaro shivering.

"Come inside," he said in English. Clear, perfect English. "Rain is bad for small ones."

Inside, it was dry and smelled of old paper and ink. Better than any smell Osaze had ever smelled. There were books everywhere. On shelves, on tables, stacked on the floor. Some were big Bibles. Some were small notebooks. Some were just loose papers tied with string.

"My name is Ekpo. I am teacher for Hope Waddell Institute. I teach children to read. Who are you?"

Osaze knelt, out of habit. "I am Osaze, son of Igun Street, Benin City. This is Adesuwa, daughter of the dyer, and her brother Osaro. Our city was burned by the British. We were told to find a man who keeps paper, not for money, but for God. Chief Keme of the Ijaw water village sent us."

Ekpo's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Benin City? The city that was punished? I heard. The British brought many bronzes through here on their way to England. Many crates. They said Benin people killed white men."

"They killed seven. The British killed hundreds," Adesuwa said quietly, holding Osaro.

Ekpo nodded slowly. "The white man always counts his own dead carefully. He does not count ours."

He looked at Osaze's satchel. "What is in there that you carry like a baby?"

Osaze unwrapped it. He laid out everything on Ekpo's table: the stained white man's paper with ink that had run, the smoked plantain leaves scratched with fish bone, the white counting stone from Chief Ohen, the carving tool from Iwebo, the bronze fish pendant from Oba Ovonramwen, and the wooden fish from Chief Keme.

Ekpo did not touch the bronzes at first. He touched the papers. He picked up one smoked leaf and held it to the light.

"You wrote this?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Where did you learn white man's writing?"

"From traders in Benin. And from a Portuguese priest who came when I was small."

Ekpo read the leaf out loud: _"Iwebo Igiehon, master caster of Igun Street, who buried his kings in the earth so white men could not find them."_

He read another: _"Adesuwa, daughter of Amadin the dyer, who refused to marry a fisherman from Ughoton and who paddled a canoe for two days without crying."_

He looked at Adesuwa and smiled.

"You write true things," he said. "Not like the papers the British write. Their papers say Benin was a city of savages and slavery and they saved it. Your paper says it was a city of dyers and casters and children who crossed rivers."

Osaze felt tears come, sudden and hot. No one had ever said his writing was true. Iwebo said it was foolish. Chief Keme said it lied. The Oba said it must run.

Ekpo put his hand on Osaze's shoulder. "I can keep it. We have an archive here. We keep papers from all the peoples of this coast — Efik, Ibibio, Ijaw, now Bini. The Scottish missionaries started it because they believe every people should have their own story before the British write it for them. But..." He hesitated.

"But what?"

"But if I keep it here, the British government in Calabar may find it. They search our archive sometimes. They took some Efik papers last year that said the British took land. They said it was seditious. If they find your paper that says Benin was not savage, they may burn it. Or they may take you. They want no Bini chiefs or scribes making trouble. The Oba is exiled here, in Calabar. Did you know? Ovonramwen is here, under guard."

Osaze stood up so fast his stool fell.

"The Oba is here? In Calabar?"

"Yes. In a house in town, guarded by soldiers. He is not allowed to see many people. The British fear him."

The room spun. He had paddled for weeks, lost a city, crossed rivers, been called foolish, been told his paper lies — all because the Oba told him to run to the river and live. And the river had brought him to the same town where the Oba was a prisoner.

"I have to see him," Osaze said.

"You cannot," Ekpo said. "No Bini allowed near him without British permission."

Adesuwa spoke, her voice firm. "Then we get permission."

Ekpo looked at her cowrie necklace, now visible.

"You are brave," he said. "Like Efik women. Okay. I will help. But not today. Today, your brother is sick. My wife will make soup and give him medicine. You will sleep here. Tomorrow, I will take your papers and make copies. We have a printing press. A small one. If we make copies, even if British burn one, another lives. That is how paper survives. Not by hiding. By multiplying."

That night, they slept on the floor of the archive, surrounded by books. Osaro's fever broke. Adesuwa slept with her head on the satchel, like it was a pillow.

Osaze could not sleep. He looked at the shelves of books. Hundreds of books. And none of them were about Benin, not truly. There were books about England, about Scotland, about God. But where was the book about Igun Street? Where was the book about Adesuwa's mother who said a house cannot move?

He took a fresh piece of white paper that Ekpo had given him — real white paper, not smoked leaf — and he began to write the beginning of Chapter 7.

He wrote: _In the year the white men burned Benin, I thought history needed to run. Now I learn history needs to stay and make copies of itself._

Outside, the rain in Calabar kept falling, washing the tin roofs, washing the beach, washing the blood from the river, but not washing the memory.

Tomorrow, he would try to see his king.