Weeks later, in New York, I opened my eyes to see my entire bedroom ceiling covered in Ijaw war paint. I lay there staring and paralyzed until the vision receded. You cannot visit a place of such violence and death and not expect it to follow you home, I thought; you cannot seek out another man’s suffering and not become part of it. One day it will paint your ceiling and fill your mind and hijack your dreams. One day it will appear on hospital equipment above your head when there is nothing left to do but hope Egbesu hasn’t decided you were lying the entire time.
