How often did the laborers question the value of their lives? Did they cry at night in regret? Whenever we saw one of them at the bus stop with a packed trunk, having decided that the prospect of riches was no match for a simple life of love and quiet, we knew not whether to admire the man or scoff at his weakness in fleeing.
A month before that first meeting with Mr. Fish, the men of Kosawa had an assembly. The Sweet One and the Cute One had called for it, telling us that there was an incredible development they wanted to inform us about, the breakthrough we’d been waiting for.
They told us that the Restoration Movement people in New York, having grown tired of Pexton’s broken promises, had filed papers with an American court to force Pexton to clean up our land and waters and start sharing its profits with us; the Restoration Movement intended to argue that because Pexton was profiting from our land, we were entitled to a portion of whatever the company earned from the oil it sold. But Pexton was under a new leadership that was determined to show the world that fairness was at the core of their business. The new leadership had decided it wanted no court case—they were ready to work with the Restoration Movement to finalize an agreement. Under the agreement, we would not be receiving an envelope of cash, as had years ago been given to our mothers and fathers. We would receive, instead, a percentage of all the money Pexton made from our land from that day forward. We’d get a percentage every single year.
At that first meeting with Mr. Fish, his interpreter confirmed all of this.
He said that, though the two sides had not yet agreed on what the percentage would be, there was no doubt that everyone would agree on the right percentage.
“Approximately how much would it be?” someone shouted.
The interpreter whispered something into Mr. Fish’s ear. Mr. Fish nodded and whispered back into the interpreter’s ear.
“Mr. Fish says it’s hard to know what the percentage will be,” the interpreter said. “You have to remember, Pexton has a lot of people who want its money. The government in America wants some of it. The government here wants their share. All the people who work for Pexton, they need their monthly salaries. But your share is also very important, because together we inhabit this valley, and we must do so peacefully.”
Questions came from every direction: Did the people in Bézam know of this pending agreement? What did they have to say about it? Were they going to tax our percentages? Why weren’t they present at the meeting?
“Pexton wants to do what’s right by you,” the interpreter responded. “Sharing profits with communities is not something corporations do, but we’re going to do it, because that’s who we are. We don’t care if the government of this country supports or does not support our plan. Governments do whatever governments want to do, that’s just life. At Pexton we believe our duty should be to people first, not to governments.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” one of us asked. “Isn’t it the government who gave you our land?”
“Yes, of course, in a way,” the interpreter said. “But Pexton is Pexton, and His Excellency’s government is His Excellency’s government. We operate by our own principles. As a company, our mission is to do what’s best for the world—that’s why we’re here today. After this deal is final, if you need help from us on how to use your money to improve your lives, we’ll gladly send people to help you. If you’d like to move to Lokunja, or buy land in one of the other seven villages—”
“Move to Lokunja?” several shouted in unison.
“Buy land?”
We did not need to hear any more.
We stood up and lifted our stools. We signaled to our wives that it was time to leave. Some of them appeared reluctant to obey; one look and they knew it wasn’t the right time to attempt to defy us. The interpreter called out to us as we walked away, saying we didn’t need to sell our lands and move to another village unless we wanted to. We heard Sonni calling too, saying we should give Mr. Fish a chance to explain.
A few of our fathers lingered to talk to the interpreter, to find out what it was that Pexton truly wanted, but we knew there was no need to ask—they wanted the entire valley. They wanted whatever oil was below the ground on which our children played. They wanted to search for oil beneath our huts. They wanted whatever oil sat idly under the kitchens in which our wives cooked. We would die before we let them have it.
—
The next day, Sonni made a round of our huts to extend an invitation from Mr. Fish: the oilman wanted to sit down with us in his house. It was certain to be another waste of time—what more could he have to say?—but we went anyway, a week later, along with the Sweet One and the Cute One, who insisted we owed it to our friends in prison.
In a room full of books and pictures of a long-haired woman and three boys with leaf-green eyes, Mr. Fish’s interpreter told us that Pexton absolutely did not expect us to sell them our lands. The only thing Pexton wanted, the reason they’d sent the previous overseer back to New York and brought Mr. Fish to us, was that they truly wanted peace. If we wanted the same thing, why didn’t we all shake hands and start anew? Pexton was ready to
