Letting out the cigarette smoke slowly, the sentry shuts his eyes as if in the throes of ecstasy. He throws another glance in our direction and looks away.
In his all-black combat outfit and AK-47 rifle slung over his right shoulder, his gentle mien helps to defuse the tension in the room where the four other fellow captives and I have been caged for seven, or eight days now.
‘Sergeant Meek’ as I have come to nickname him, strolls toward the door of the baked mud house which he flings open to allow in 2 young women with wooden trays containing the regular boiled rice and tomato stew. The leader of the kidnappers enters after them.
They drop the tray trays beside the several plastic cups and big jerry can of water in the centre of the room and hurry back out on the orders of the new entrant.
‘My friends eat up before food gets cold!’, “Commander’’ as the all the other hostage takers call, him, ordered.
‘Cigarettes, please’, I hear myself plead. The sight and smell of the food make me want to throw up.
Commander signals to sergeant Meek who lights a stick and hands it over to me. I drag several puffs and exhale. I thank the man who, in the last few days has dictated the pace of my life.
‘You people better pray well, well that federal government or your oil company pay the ransom soon or else…’, he threatens, looking at us all sitting on the bare, hard floor of the poorly ventilated mud house.
‘You people think you can come to Niger delta and drill our oil, pollute our water with oil spillage, corrupt our government and women with your foreign currency and deprive us of good life, eh?’
‘Look, sir! We are not Americans or Europeans. We are Asians. We only work for the oil company as International staff.’ Phillipe, one of my countrymen reiterates.
‘Shut up! Whether you be Indian, Chinese or Arab, we don’t care! All of you foreigners who work for oil companies be our enemies and we will drive you out! This is just the beginning!’ responds, Commander in a controlled angry voice.
He turns to speak in vernacular with his junior comrade-in-arms. I figure he is bringing the latter up to date on the current development in respect of their demands to their home government. A slight slopping of the younger man’s shoulder betrays a sense of futile despair with the new piece of information.
With a pat on the back of the younger man as a show of solidarity, ‘Commander’ reassures him of what I think is the legitimacy of their cause. He turns the door handle and opens it to go out.
‘What if your government refuses to pay the ransom for our release?’ I ask, trying to muster a relaxed demeanour.
‘Then pray that your company go pay up.’
‘And what if they also refuse?’
‘Then my friends…’, Commander spoke in a calm, crystal clear voice, ‘…then, it is not our fault when we feed your dead bodies to the fishes of the Niger delta.’
