I had lived on B. Beach for close to twenty years when the screams of Tay Tay and the others awoke the demons of my past. After that the hallucinations about knives and shadowy men with guns resumed, along with the old insomnia. I kept my ears open at night because I had promised Tay Tay that the next time I heard a woman scream I would walk up to the soldiers and spoil their gruesome party, even at the risk of my life.
For the next two weeks the soldiers kept away; the nights were stirred only by familiar sounds: the roar of the waves, the hiss of nocturnal insects, the voices of people who came to the beach at odd hours of the night to smoke their joints of marijuana or to make love. Then one day in October I read about two unidentified female corpses that were found at Tarkwa Bay and Coconut beaches. Was Tay Tay one of them, I wondered? Had she met the violent, anonymous death I feared was her destiny?
That night, screams pierced the air again, a single woman’s shriek, long and steady. There were male voices, too: barking at her, taunting, hooting, gloating, laughing lecherously. I did not stir but lay crouched against my boulder, unable to revive the rage and resolution that had provoked my pledge to Tay Tay. It was as if I had split into two persons: the man who had promised to stand up to the brutal rapists and the man who now listened to a woman’s terrified screams with a sort of indifference.
Time passed and the bloody orgy ended. I heard the blast of the truck’s exhaust, then the sputter of its engine as it drove away. A part of me desired to search in the dark for the woman left on the sand and try to help her. But another part of me dissented. Why endeavor to save the life of a woman already utterly destroyed? So that, till her dying day, she could endlessly relive and recount the horrors of that night? I did not move.
In the weeks that followed, the soldiers returned with regularity, sometimes with one screaming quarry, other times with more. I read news reports about female corpses found at other beaches, too. The accounts contained police theories of the killer’s psychological portrait and likely motives. One theory was that he had contracted a serious venereal disease from a prostitute. Another, that he had been cheated out of money. Or he could be a religious fanatic waging a moral war against prostitution.
W
I clearly remember the events of that morning when a young woman died on the beach and I was arrested, charged with rape and murder.
The night had been cold and dark as charcoal. I had spent it coiled up against the boulder, like a baby drawing warmth from a mother’s body. Soon after the church bell rang four times, I heard the clatter of a truck pulling to a stop, then the shudder of a turned-off engine. A cold dread enveloped me. My heart thudded in my chest.
The voice of a woman being dragged, pleading, aroused a weak flame of anger inside me, but it quickly died away. Lethargic and weak-willed, I lay still. For two hours the fierce torrent of the woman’s shrieks tore the night in two. After the soldiers’ departure, my dread unthawed. Compelled by shame and guilt I decided to seek out the victim. Guided by her groans, I traced a path to her through the mist. As I approached her the bell at St. Gregory’s Cathedral chimed seven times. I bent over her and asked, “Can you hear me?”
She stopped groaning. There was silence. “Can you?” I said again.
She let out a shriek that stilled the wind. Then, in one wild motion, she bolted up and ran towards the waves, like one hastening to embrace a lover returned from afar. I wanted to shout after her that I was not one of her tormentors, but my tongue was glued to the floor of my mouth. As I watched, her faint figure disappeared in the mist. I heard a choked cry as she collided with the waves: a cross between a belated cry for help and a defiant dare to fate.
It was then that I ran after her, following the path she had cleared through the mist. I ran until a wave hit me. I reeled, then lowered myself into the cold water. I swam blindly, thrusting this way and that, drawn by her voice. Time seemed to stand still. I was already exhausted when I heard her cough just behind me. I lunged in the direction of the cough, then grabbed one of her legs. She kicked out with her free leg and hit my face. The stab of pain spread in widening circles inside my head. Dazed and out of breath, I was unable to swim properly for a while, but could only rise and fall with the rhythm of the waves. The woman’s yelps grew fainter as the waves drew her further and further away. Eventually she became one with the mist, invisible. Too tired to go after her, I began to swim in the direction of the shore.
I was almost there when I saw a tall figure wading in. I recognized Lanky the lifeguard.
“Don’t bother,” I muttered to him. “Death’s will is strong.”
He paid me no heed but ploughed on into the ocean. A short while later he began to shout instructions, to which the drowning woman responded with weak moans. Soon their voices ceased. Had the two of them met the same fate, overwhelmed by the ocean’s power? I wondered. But in a moment Lanky appeared at the edge of the shore. The next wave deposited the woman’s body at his feet. He pulled her out of the reach of the waves, then stood astride her and began to press on her belly. Faint snorty sounds came from her, followed by horrible gargles. I moved closer and observed the lifeguard at his work of resuscitation. I knew his efforts were in vain.
The sun broke through the mist and bathed the scene in pale light. The dying woman turned her head ever so slightly towards me. Her eyes were red, as if daubed in blood, but the expression on her face was turning into something radiant and peaceful. A smile.
I turned and walked away, ashamed of myself for yet another failure, another turning away from responsibility. What was my life but a succession of silences, evasions, abdications? I saw the panorama of my past projected as if on a large screen spread before my mind’s eye. My mother. My father. My grandmother. Iyese. Tay Tay. Iyese again. And again.
Later, I saw from a distance that people had begun to gather around Lanky and the corpse. I could not resist the urge to return to the scene.
I listened to Lanky tell the dead woman’s story. His gusto saddened me. For neither he nor his audience understood the dreadful and devious workings of power. They did not realize that for those who suffer in this life, the grave can possess a dark allure.