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I usually approach
Helon Habila’s books with dread. His novels are too long, even when
they are just two pages. I just finished reading his new novel, ‘Oil on
Water’, ostensibly about the hell that is the Niger Delta. Habila
doesn’t disappoint. The novel is too long. He should have stopped right
after the first page and directed us to YouTube to gawk at gas flares
and military goons drawing, hanging and quartering hapless civilians.
‘Oil on Water’ offers absolutely no new insights on the issue of crude
oil and the Niger Delta. In any case, everything has been said; all
that is left is purposeful rage directed at the myrmidons of Nigeria’s
hell-delta.

In this novel, a
white British lady has been allegedly kidnapped for ransom by the
militants of the Niger Delta. Inexplicably, two journalists, Rufus (the
main character) and Zaq (a has-been journalist and a raging alcoholic
who has no business being anywhere but in a hospital) are commissioned
to go establish contact with the militants and the woman. The awful
plot does not allow any room for the thriller that the book loudly
advertises. It does however start on a thrilling note borne on wings of
well crafted prose-poetry. I adore the first line: “I am walking down a
familiar path, with incidents neatly labelled and dated, but when I
reach halfway memory lets go of my hand, and a fog rises and covers the
faces and places, and I am left clawing about in the dark, lost, and I
have to make up the obscured moments as I go along, make up the faces
and places, even the emotions.” Right after these memorable lines, the
book promptly dozes off and never awakens, despite Habila’s gallant
attempts.

It is as if
Penguin Books, Habila’s publisher, needed another African novel and the
author complied with another sleepy-eyed, rheumy riposte on Africa’s
problems. The misfortunes of the people of the Delta have been a boon
to anyone with a laptop and a camera. My eyes have endured some pretty
bad writing, atrocious cinematography and plain bad pictures in honour
of the devastation. There are several books you must read if you are
interested in Nigeria’s war on the beautiful people of the Niger Delta,
for example, Michael Peel’s excellent book, ‘A Swamp Full of Dollars’.
The oppressed people of the delta should rise up in song and strangle
all her oppressors.

Part of the
problem, besides Habila’s challenges with the novel as a medium (he
should stick to writing extremely short stories) is that blogs,
Facebook and YouTube are making books struggle for relevance when it
comes to contemporary issues. In a few lovely places, ‘Oil on Water’
promises to gather up the rage in the reader until it is an inferno
billowing out dark acrid smoke from the conscience’s ears. In a few
precious instances, Habila is priest-like, in a trance, churning out
dark, brooding, gorgeous prose that offer delectable hints of Ben
Okri’s ‘The Famished Road’.

In the beginning, the book is engaging; it
doesn’t sound contrived and there is abundant evidence that Habila did
some research for this novel. There is enough detail to provide
memorable scenes. His greatest strength is deployed to descriptions of
the apocalypse that is the Niger Delta. Dreamy and haunting are the
lush descriptions of the roiling waters and forests. Habila loves water
and he finds a peaceful kinship with the seas and the rivers. When he
is good, the scenes remind one of Vietnam, Napalm bombs, children on
the streets fleeing fires roasting them, and My Lai.

But then it is
hard to overcome the main characters’ self-serving, unctuous
narcissistic self-absorption. Like many of Africa’s intellectual and
political elite, it is always about them. In the end, where is the
rage? Indeed, where is the beef? Habila is perhaps guilty of
romanticising common thugs pretending to be “freedom fighters.” These
are not freedom fighters in the mould of Isaac Adaka Boro and Che
Guevara. As Peel shows in his lovely book, these are mostly greedy,
self-serving thugs. It is the case that the people of the delta are
victimised by their own leaders also. That point seems lost on Habila.

The author does not have the investigative instincts and skills of a
journalist and it shows rather painfully. ‘Oil on Water’ is a gentle
disaster of a story lolling about wishing it was a very short story. As
an aside, the Pidgin English here is a distraction, a tool struggling
for meaning. Inchoate, the Pidgin hangs in the air, squirming in
mid-sentence, as if unsure of its legitimacy. The unintended
consequence: The characters are thus diminished as half-humans.

The
drama and dialogue are forced, and insincere. The book features
editorial issues, jerky disjointed dialogue, awkward attempts at humour
and improbable twists and turns lifted right out of a third-rate MFA
curriculum. Habila, like Rufus, the main character is in pursuit of the
elusive “great story.” He should continue the hunt. This story is
definitely not it.