The Other Side of Truth

by Beverley Naidoo

  “You’re mad! It’s free-eezing!” Femi dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

  “When he sees that we waited in the cold, he’ll listen to us!” insisted Sade.

  “We might be dead!”

  “Be serious, Femi. You know what I mean.”

  “I am serious! You are the one with crazy ideas!” Femi’s voice rose indignantly. He blew out a mouthful of air and a thin mist of steam rose under the lamplight.

  “Like Papa,” he added under his breath.

  Sade was not sure she had heard correctly. She did not want another argument. Certainly not one about Papa—nor outside the television studio. It was unlikely that Mr. Seven O’Clock would appear before eight. Femi was probably right. They would freeze just standing there.

  “OK, we’ll come back later. I’ve got money. We’ll get fish and chips. I know you like them.” Before he could push her away, Sade put her arm around Femi and steered him once again into the shadows.

  As soon as she had said fish and chips, Sade wished she hadn’t. They had not passed any fish and chips shops along the way. They would have to walk farther on up the road, which seemed even darker than the direction from which they had come.

  “We can go there!” Femi pointed to a restaurant on the other side of the road.

  For a brief moment, it seemed ideal. If they sat near the front window, they could keep an eye on the entrance to the television studio. But even before they had stepped on to the pavement, Sade knew it was not possible. Silver cutlery glinted off linen tablecloths. A waiter was folding napkins and placing them upright like fox ears. Another was beginning to light candles.

  “We don’t have enough money for this place, Femi.”

  “Let me see,” he said boldly. There was a menu by the door. “What does this mean, Sade?” Suddenly there was an edge of caution in his voice. Some words were in French but before Sade could reply, Femi whistled.

  “Fourteen pounds!”

  Femi pointed to an item about fish baked in wine with ingredients Sade had never heard of. She pulled at Femi’s arm. This time he did not resist.

  The farther they walked from the television studio, the more murky and desolate the street became. There was something menacing and grim about the buildings as if phantoms might be lurking behind the doors. She tried not to let Femi feel her fear. However when three figures emerged in the dimness ahead and came reeling toward them, she clutched her brother’s arm. He, in turn, snatched her away toward the road. They hovered on the edge of the gutter, for a moment trapped between the staggering bodies and the headlights of a vehicle. Then a strong stench of alcohol hit them and a sound like a bull in pain. As the car’s rearlights receded like discs of fire, they dashed across the road. Sade was about to urge that they should turn back, when Femi pointed to a light shining from a doorway in the next block. They would go as far as that.

  It was a tiny shop and the shopkeeper was bringing out a grille to close for the night. The children slipped inside behind him. The man’s cap and tunic reminded Sade of Mariam’s uncle, although Daud’s Store was twice the size. But here too, newspapers, magazines, sweets, biscuits, drinks and all sorts were crammed on to narrow shelves. Certainly no fish and chips. Sade grabbed a packet of chocolate biscuits and Femi yanked open the cabinet with canned drinks. The man studied them with a weary patience as Sade handed him her coins.

  Femi did not argue as they set off back toward the television studio. Nor did he mention fish and chips again. Ahead of them the great white pillars now stood out like distant beacons. Once again, the revolving doors and the lights both beckoned them and held them at bay. Sade was painfully aware of the time. Two more hours outside in the cold. The only place that seemed to offer any shelter was a small recess next to the restaurant with the silver cutlery and candles. It was actually a doorway set back from the road and at first Sade expected someone to come out at any minute. If they were asked what they were doing, she would say that they were waiting for their father and then move away. Where to, she did not know.

  Femi tore open the packet of chocolate biscuits. Two biscuits were enough for Sade but Femi continued munching until only a couple were left. Sade decided not to drink her Coke. It would make her even colder, but Femi ignored her advice and gulped the contents of his can. After he had finished, he stood with his teeth chattering. Sade suggested they play word games to pass the time, but Femi was not interested. For a while she tried running on the spot to keep warm, but felt her legs becoming so heavy with the cold that it was too much effort to move. Femi was now frozen into silence and did not resist when Sade pressed close to him, twining her arm through his. At least they could share whatever little body heat they had together.

  All the while, Sade kept her eyes trained on the other side of the road. The revolving doors were never still for long. It was like watching a strange dance inside and outside the glass. Some people stepped away purposefully, but very often a figure strode onto the pavement with an arm held aloft as if raising a flag. A black taxi would roll up, absorb the figure and whisk it away. Sometimes the arm had to swoop up and down a number of times before a vehicle came. Only occasionally did someone cross the street as if coming toward them. But no one appeared to notice the children.

  It was difficult to see her watch in their dark corner. Sade made herself wait a little longer each time before trying to check it, as if that might hurry the minutes along. Instead the long needle seemed to become slower and stiffer. When at last it was ten minutes to eight, she and Femi had become just as stiff themselves. They hobbled across the road together and placed themselves alongside the glass wall a little way aside from the revolving doors. It was still better not to attract the attention of Mr. Buttons behind the desk.

  Eight o’clock. Five past. Where was Mr. Seven O’Clock? Quarter past. Was it possible to become paralyzed through cold? Twenty past. A tall thin man with silver-gray hair who had his back turned to them was walking away with one arm raised. Surely that was him! How had they missed him coming through the door? He was calling a taxi! He would be gone before he had seen them. Sade wrenched Femi from the glass wall and tried to run. Her bones felt brittle enough to snap.

  “Please! Wait! Please!” her words fluttered out jerkily. Mr. Seven O’Clock turned as Femi slipped, slid and tumbled toward his feet. Swinging an arm forward, Mr. Seven O’Clock grasped him just before he hit the ground. A black taxi purred to a halt next to them.

  “Please…please!” Sade’s words were as cracked as her lips. “We need…to see you…please!”

  Mr. Seven O’Clock’s eyes were larger than she had imagined. His forehead furrowed as he helped Femi up. Then glancing across at the taxi driver, he shook his head. Sade’s heart leaped. He was going to listen after all.

  “You had better come inside. It looks as if you could do with a hot drink first.”

  Guided through the glass doors, past the desk and Mr. Buttons, into the lift and through corridors, Sade ignored the curious eyes, aware only of the tall man behind them. He was like a great sail, pushing them forward. Protecting them.

  Outside, Sade had tried to rehearse where to begin. From the shot that killed Mama? Or before that, with Papa’s articles? Or later, with Papa and the false passport? There were so many possible starting points. In the end she did not need to worry. Mr. Seven O’Clock waited patiently as he sat opposite the two children. With a sense of touch beginning to flow back into her fingers around the mug of hot chocolate on the table in front of her, Sade found the thread she needed.

  She began with Papa, locked up in Heathlands Detention Center. Papa who believed so strongly in telling the truth that his articles made the Brass Button Generals in their home country very angry. So angry that gunmen had tried to kill him and killed Mama instead…Slowly she unraveled the tale. Mr. Seven O’Clock’s nods encouraged her. Finally she explained that the Immigration people were thinking about sending Papa back into the arms of those who wanted to do away with Papa. They did not
seem to understand. That was why she and Femi had come here. Mr. Seven O’Clock leaned forward.

  “And what about you two? You haven’t said much about yourselves. Where do you go to school?” he probed gently.

  Despite the soft tread of his words, they disturbed something deep inside Sade. Like a buried mine erupting. The wall behind Mr. Seven O’Clock faded and she saw him as he had been in her dream with his keen blue eyes straining against the sun and the dust-filled wind. She couldn’t take them looking into her anymore. They would surely see what kind of person she had become. Tears swamped her. Embarrassed, she tried to wipe them away. She had not prepared herself to talk about themselves.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean—” Mr. Seven O’Clock delved into his coat pocket and pulled out a neatly pressed handkerchief to hand to Sade.

  “We were smuggled.” Femi arched his eyebrows. He had been stubbornly silent until now, not saying a word. Sade had even had to give his name to Mr. Seven O’Clock. But now—just when she suddenly felt herself falling apart—Femi was stepping in to rescue her.

  “It was horrible,” he announced.

  He spoke bluntly about Mrs. Bankole. How she had taken Uncle Tunde’s money to pretend that they were her children, then deserted them as soon as they arrived in England. How they had been left all alone because they could not find their Uncle Dele. How a man in a dark alley robbed them and how a man in a video shop had accused them of being thieves! And Femi told Mr. Seven O’Clock how they had themselves been fingerprinted in the Asylum Screening Unit—just as if they were thieves.

  More words flowed from Femi than he had uttered in weeks. His outspoken words made him sound almost like Papa! Then, as suddenly as he began, he stopped. He seemed to have exhausted himself. Mr. Seven O’Clock’s face was grave. Who was taking care of them now, he asked, and where were they living? He would arrange a taxi to take them back. He thanked them for coming and for telling him their story. Certainly he would look into Papa’s case further. However, he could not promise it would be made into a news item. Shepherded once again through the corridors, past doors behind which journalists prepared the news, Sade felt her heart quietly throb.

  CHAPTER 33

  WAITING

  THE TAXI ENGINE CHUGGED noisily while the children clambered out. The front door swung open. Even from the gate Sade could see the worry in Aunt Gracie’s face. The gray in her hair seemed to have streaked her cheeks. Uncle Roy had his arm around her. He looked solemn rather than cross. Aunt Gracie quietly insisted that the children eat before Sade was asked to explain exactly where they had been and what they had done. Femi was silent again. When Sade spoke, she fixed her gaze on Aunt Gracie’s collar. It was her fault that Aunt Gracie had been so upset and that Uncle Roy had been out searching the streets for them. But as she related how Mr. Seven O’Clock had given them hot chocolate and how he had listened so carefully, both adults seemed to ease a little.

  “So he really listened to your story?” Aunt Gracie asked.

  “He looks a decent enough man. Now we must wait and see, nuh?” Uncle Roy was cautious.

  The following evening at seven o’clock the children joined Aunt Gracie and Uncle Roy in front of the television. The main stories always came first, then the rest of the news. Sade had made a special telephone call to Papa to make sure that he too was watching, but she avoided telling him exactly how she and Femi had got to see Mr. Seven O’Clock. Papa had sounded pleased. All the detainees shared a single television. Most of them eagerly followed the news just like Papa, always hoping to hear something from their own countries. A few preferred the game shows, films or sports, and arguments occasionally flared up. But Papa had been confident that he could persuade the others tonight. Sade tried to imagine them. Papa trying to remain calm, perhaps with his friends from Somalia and Bosnia next to him. Would they really believe that Papa’s children could get his story on to television?

  That night, Mr. Seven O’Clock and the other presenters said nothing at all about Papa. Nor the evening after.

  “Don’t give up yet,” Uncle Roy advised. “They have to check everything. It must take time getting the information from Nigeria.”

  But Sade’s hopes were dipping. On the telephone, Papa was sounding quieter. No letter had come back yet from the Union of Journalists and there was no further news from Mr. Nathan. She could not concentrate in any of her classes. Even in English, where Mr. Morris asked them to research and write a short piece for a news program such as Making News. They had to work in pairs and Mr. Morris had put her with Mariam. Their silences were awkward. Especially when Donna poked her head between them.

  “What’s up then? I thought you were mates and all!”

  Sade would have liked to slap the grin from her face. But instead Donna’s words burned into her. Mariam looked miserable as well. Both Sade and Mariam told each other that they had no ideas for a news program.

  On Friday evening after supper, Sade said she was going to her bedroom to do her homework. Instead she crept under her quilt, staying there until just before seven when she forced herself downstairs. Auntie and Uncle were watching the television, but Femi had turned his back. He was slapping cards on to the carpet in a game of patience, making clicking and sucking sounds with his tongue and teeth. Sade sank into the sofa. Mr. Seven O’Clock was behind his desk waiting for the fanfare of music to stop. If nothing else, she liked his tie. It was pleasantly bright—pawpaw orange shading into a sunset of red, pink and purple. Papa disliked wearing ties, but even he might like this one. They hadn’t spoken for a couple of days. Was he still bothering to get people to watch this news?

  Suddenly Sade sat bolt upright. Papa was smiling from a large square behind Mr. Seven O’Clock! A much younger Papa, but definitely their father!

  “Femi! Look!”

  Femi swiveled around.

  “A Nigerian journalist, Mr. Folarin Solaja, currently being detained after attempting to enter Britain illegally, is at the center of a growing dispute. A spokesman for the Nigerian government has said that Mr. Solaja is wanted for murder and should be returned to Nigeria. Mr. Solaja, however, is claiming political asylum. Coming so soon after the execution of the Nigerian writer Mr. Ken Saro-Wiwa, the case is politically sensitive. Mr. Nelson Mandela, president of South Africa, has continued to urge a tougher line against Nigeria’s military dictators. But here in Britain the government has been taking a tougher line against asylum seekers, claiming that many are not genuine refugees. To discuss the situation, we have in the studio Tara Mosam, a writer and filmmaker, who has recently returned from Nigeria, where she followed the case of Ken Saro-Wiwa. Tara Mosam, first of all, what do you know of Folarin Solaja?”

  The camera swung to an earnest young woman with a bob of black hair fanning out from her cheeks.

  “Folarin Solaja is well known within Nigeria as one of a small band of very courageous journalists who still dares to tell the truth about abuses of human rights by the military government. He writes for the small but important weekly paper Speak, which has been playing a dangerous cat-and-mouse game with the authorities. The newspaper’s staff have moved their offices several times to avoid being closed down by the police. But unlike Ken Saro-Wiwa, Mr. Solaja is not well known outside Nigeria.”

  “What events actually led him to seek asylum here?” Mr. Seven O’Clock leaned slightly forward like he had done across the table a few nights earlier.

  “About five weeks ago there was an attempt on his life. Unknown gunmen called at his house, fatally shooting his wife instead of him. Apparently he had been receiving death threats for some time but had ignored them. However, after the assassination of his wife, he went into hiding. The Home Office says that he was arrested a couple of weeks ago trying to enter through London Airport on a false passport. They say that he did not declare on arrival that he was a political refugee and that he did not ask for political asylum until his identity was challenged. So they intend to deport him.”

  “Is there anythin
g stopping them?”

  “Mr. Solaja has appealed on the grounds that his life will be in danger if he is returned to Nigeria and also that his children are here in England. He says they were smuggled here immediately after their mother’s death. But the Home Office claims to have no record of them.”

  Mr. Seven O’Clock looked grave. Was he going to say that he had actually met them? Tell everyone watching that the Home Office was wrong. Sade felt blood flush to her face.

  “I gather that there is a warrant out for Mr. Solaja’s arrest in Nigeria.” Mr. Seven O’Clock was straightening up.

  “Yes, a further twist. Mr. Solaja has now been accused of murdering his wife and Nigeria wants him extradited. Already some Nigerians are saying that the murder charge is an attempt to throw a cloak over the real assassins. But of course it would be extremely dangerous for Folarin Solaja if he were to be deported. As you know there was a great deal of criticism about the trial of Ken Saro-Wiwa and his colleagues.”

  “Well, I imagine we shall be hearing more of this case. Thank you very much, Tara Mosam. After the break we shall—”

  Uncle Roy began to clap.

  “Congratulations, children! My goodness! You actually did it!”

  “But he didn’t say it was us—that we told him!” Femi looked confused.

  “Our English teacher says you have to stick to the main points,” explained Sade.

  “That was probably it,” Aunt Gracie said gently. “But now that your daddy is in the news, it won’t be so easy for them to send him straight back!”

  In the morning, Uncle Roy took Sade and Femi to the library to search through the day’s newspapers. Three of them had printed stories about Papa, one with the same photograph of Papa as a young man. On the way home they stopped to buy their own copies. They spread the newspapers out on the dining-room table to read them again. Suddenly Sade spotted a couple of sentences near the end of one report that they had all missed before: A spokesperson for Nigerians for Democracy announced that his organization would mount a demonstration on Sunday for the release of Mr. Solaja. Unconfirmed reports suggest that Mr. Solaja has begun a hunger strike in protest at his detention.