Arrows of Rain

by Okey Ndibe

  “Nothing. I don’t have that need.”

  “What do your friends call you?” asked another detective.

  “Oh, friends.” He raised his head as if in thought. “Different things. Depends.”

  “Say one. One name,” the detective goaded.

  “That’s between my friends and me,” said Bukuru.

  “Names shouldn’t be a secret,” said the chief detective.

  “Mine are not secret to my friends.”

  “We’re officers of the state,” the chief detective announced in a grave tone. “That’s why we ask. In the name of the state.”

  “Good. The state is not one of my friends.”

  “You should regard us as friends. My name is John Lati.” The chief detective extended his hand; when Bukuru ignored it he nodded to one of his colleagues.

  “Douglas Okoro,” said the second detective.

  “Abdul Musa,” said the third.

  Bukuru refused their outstretched hands.

  “Let’s leave names aside, then,” said John Lati. “What do you know about the drowned woman?”

  “I tried to save her.”

  “Yes?”

  “But I failed.”

  “Was she in some kind of trouble?” asked Lati.

  “She had been raped.”

  Okoro asked, “Did you see who raped her?”

  “Yes, I saw them. From a distance.”

  “You mean there were more than one?”

  “Yes.”

  The detectives looked tensely about them. Seeming for the first time to notice the presence of eavesdroppers, they drew Bukuru out of earshot.

  The dead woman was carried into the ambulance. The siren’s wail came on again as the vehicle drove away. When the sound subsided Lati wagged his finger at Bukuru, who stood arms folded, mouth clasped shut. Okoro produced a pair of handcuffs. Bukuru offered up his hands.

  As Bukuru was led to the detectives’ car many spectators drew their cameras and clicked away while others spattered him with questions.

  “Are you cooperating with the police?”

  “Is it true you’re Mammy Water’s lover?”

  “Did you cheat on Mammy Water?”

  “Did Mammy Water kill the woman?”

  “Are you a madman?”

  “Is Bukuru your true name?”

  He walked on, answering no one, and was soon sandwiched between Lati and Okoro in the back of the police car. The siren came alive, then the car sped away, driven by Musa, in the direction of the police headquarters in Moloney in the heart of Langa.

  The siren’s wail became faint, then faded away into the distance. In its wake the familiar sounds of the beach returned. The waves rumbled. Men and women giggled and talked excitedly and played tag games. Children enacted water fights, threw sand at mock fiends and foes, and waded into the waves. Observing the gaiety, I could not detect any sense that, moments before, a corpse had lain on the sands.

  Seized by a desire to leave the scene, I made for the bus terminal—a noisy, smelly, bustling place—and boarded a bus for Moloney. The bus was a patchwork of scrap metal, the rusty welding burst apart at too many seams, exposing sharp edges. Inside, the bus was choked with passengers. Like most of them I stood, my right hand clasping a bar above my head. The bar was smooth and slippery with sweat, but it served to keep me stable when the bus lurched.

  During the journey the bus grew hot. Then a rowdy contest for the passengers’ attention developed between a travelling medicine salesman and an itinerant preacher. The salesman’s wares included an antibiotic dubbed “No more sufferhead” made by “India’s medical wizards,” able to cure “bad spirit and witchcraft, eczema, craw-craw, gonorrhea, syphilis, AIDS, watery sperm and dead penis.” It sold briskly. The preacher tried to keep pace, undeterred by a passenger’s joke about his “rainy mouth.”

  After a while, my mind detached itself from my surroundings, then focused on the bizarre challenge of this, my first assignment as a reporter. My editor’s words resonated in my thoughts.

  “New Year’s Day is bad for news,” the news editor had said in his soft, slow manner. “Even criminals tend to take the day off. But the business of informing our readers must go on. If we have to squeeze news out of stone, so be it.”

  Pausing, he had furrowed his brows. His face wore the look of a man weighed down by all the sorrowful news he had spent thirty-three of his fifty-four years bringing to readers.

  “Here’s what I want you to do,” he continued. “Get out to B. Beach early tomorrow. Interview a sizeable number of people. Get a sense of their reactions to this latest farce. Find out how they plan to cope with life under our perpetual leader. Give me your findings by 7 p.m.—in a sharply written feature of no more than one thousand five hundred words.”

  I understood that the farce in question was the announcement, to be made on New Year’s Day, that, with immediate effect, General Isa Palat Bello would assume the title of Life-President of the Federal Republic of Madia. The farce had little to do with the new title, which was superfluous enough, there being nobody in the country who seriously expected His Excellency, after a brutal reign of twenty years, to hand over power to any force less ultimate and compelling than death itself. The ghastly joke lay in the regime’s claim that 99.5 percent of Madians had voted affirmatively in a referendum, thus compelling Bello to confer the title upon himself.

  At police headquarters the female press officer smiled broadly when I introduced myself.

  “We have a fantastic scoop for you,” she said. “Our men just solved one of our most important cases.” Then she pulled a press release from a file and handed me a one-page statement marked stop press!!

  Crack homicide detectives from the Madia police headquarters this morning arrested a suspect in the death by drowning of an unidentified woman at B. Beach. The suspect, who refused to give his name and whose age has not been determined, is of no fixed address. He confessed to investigators that he was the last person to see the deceased alive.

  The suspect may also be responsible for the recent spate of rapes and murders at several city beaches. All the victims are believed to be prostitutes. Investigators believe that the suspect lured his victims to a beach, then raped and killed them.

  The investigation will continue in order to gather more evidence. The police encourage anybody who may have any relevant information to contact the nearest police station.

  “I can’t believe this,” I said, oblivious of the officer’s presence.

  “What?” she asked

  “I have one or two questions about this release.”

  At once her manner changed. “I’m not authorized to answer any press questions.”

  “But . . .”

  “Sorry. I can’t talk to you.” She disappeared into an inner office. The door clanged shut after her.

  After writing the first sentence, I sat staring at the keyboard, my fingers cold with inertia. The story seemed too large and unwieldy to be pinned down. Search as I might, I could find no words with which to achieve a reporter’s distance. My mind swirled with images: the dead woman’s improbable smile, Lanky’s myth-making, the detectives’ vigor, Bukuru’s calm. A phrase from the news release reverberated in my head: All the victims are believed to be prostitutes. Prostitutes. The noun was strangely potent and familiar. It reminded me of the word orphan. The word illegitimate. It reminded me of my own past.

  “How’s the story coming out?” The news editor’s voice gave me a jolt.

  “I have it all in my head.”

  “Type it out. You’re paid to be a reporter, not a memory chip.”

  I threw my head down and began to write.

  Waking up after a sleepless night, I jogged to a newsstand for the morning papers. Bukuru’s arrest was the second most prominent story in all of them. In keeping w
ith the law, the front pages were devoted to His Excellency’s New Year’s broadcast.

  His Excellency proclaims self president for life. Releases 120 political prisoners as a gesture of his statesmanship and generosity. Wishes Madians to know that he is still the sun, rising and setting with unfailing regularity. That he steadily sees all the traitors; all the patriots, too. All saboteurs and colluders with imperialist agents working to undermine the Madian nation will be fished out and thoroughly dealt with. All patriots will be rewarded. His Excellency predicts that 1988 will be a year of plenty for all. His Excellency guarantees a bountiful harvest this year.

  Ten years ago, to mark the tenth anniversary of his rule, a decree was promulgated which made it an offense for any editor to use a story whose length or prominence upstaged a presidential pronouncement or deed. The offense was punishable according to the discretion of a special tribunal by a minimum of five years in jail.

  No editor trifled with the decree. Not since three years ago when one of their number paid a stiff price for breaching the law. A public housing unit in Port Harcourt had caved in during the night, killing twenty-nine people in their sleep, among them a family of five. Moved by the enormity of the tragedy, the editor of a regional newspaper had used the story in the forbidden fashion: he had made its headlines bolder than a report of His Excellency’s opening speech to a conference of farmers. The reckless editor was duly arraigned before the News Use Miscellaneous Tribunal. The tribunal’s military chairman, a small­ headed giant named Brigadier Tipa Panizi, spent an hour shouting imprecations at the hapless editor before imposing a sentence of six years’ hard labor.

  My story appeared on the Chronicle’s second page. I read it with the haste of a bureaucrat skimming an official document. Then I turned to the other newspapers.

  The government-owned Sentinel published a report headlined “Serial Murder Case Solved!” There were two photographs: one of Lanky, bare-bodied and smiling, the other of Lieutenant John Lati, spare and sad-faced. Bukuru’s impending arraignment, wrote the paper, would create a precedent, being the first time “somebody who may be a madman will stand trial for culpable rape and homicide.” Then it boasted that “the law in Madia is truly no respecter of persons—not even the crazy.”

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks later Bukuru’s trial began before a Langa high court.

  The day was hot and humid.

  I arrived at the court at 7 a.m. Cars and buses already filled the parking lot. Many buses bore the colorful logos of newspapers and magazine publishers as well as radio and television stations. Photographers dashed here and there, cameras hoisted on their shoulders, flashing explosions of light at the crush of spectators. Several television cameras were mounted outside the courthouse. Their operators turned them now this way, now that, like anti-aircraft weaponry. The crowd steadily grew in size and rowdiness.

  At a few minutes past 8 a.m. the court door was opened. The crowd rushed forward in a wave that overwhelmed the police cordon. One police officer lay on the ground, cradling his ribs, groaning. Incensed, the others began to swing their cowhide whips. Those stung by the whips ran in every direction, letting out squeals of pain.

  A police officer speaking through a portable microphone asked reporters to come forward, their picture identity in hand, and file into the courtroom. I detached myself from the crowd and moved towards the police line. Two policemen checked my press identity, then waved me in. Inside the courtroom the reporters were herded to a corner, standing room only.

  After we were settled in, the gate was opened to a throng of spectators who rammed their way in until the stifling courtroom was packed full. The previous day the Madia Gazette had predicted a large turn-out. In a lengthy preview the paper had disclosed that a crew of reporters had arrived from London to cover the trial for the British Broadcasting Corporation. The West Africa correspondent of the New York Times was also expected to report on the trial. The Gazette disclosed that many Madian civil servants, determined to attend the trial in person, had bribed doctors’ clerks in order to obtain false sick slips.

  At 9:15 four detectives led Bukuru into the courtroom. His entry caused a quiet commotion as many spectators raised themselves on their toes, straining to catch a glimpse of him.

  The trial was scheduled to begin at 9:30 but at 9:45 neither the prosecutors nor the judge had entered the courtroom. A wall clock behind the judge’s bench ticked monotonously; two ceiling fans stirred the stagnant air with creaky revolutions.

  At 9:50 the main courtroom door squeaked open and the two prosecuting counsel walked in, severe in their dark, cape-like robes. With his long hair and unkempt beard, Bukuru seemed out of place among the lawyers in their old-fashioned wigs. Very soon the lawyers began to fan themselves with papers.

  At 10:06 an air of apprehension spread through the crowd.

  The clerk bellowed, “Court!” and a hush fell. In the silence heavy, measured footsteps could be heard approaching the courtroom.

  A uniformed orderly opened the door that led to the judge’s chamber and stood aside, frozen at attention. Justice Primus Kayode squeezed through the door, a tall, bulky man, bespec­tacled. This was the one the lawyers called the Elephant. The name alluded to the judge’s size; but it also had to do with his tendency to bear down on whoever was within sight whenever his mood was in “bad weather.” Lawyers and accused alike dreaded the Elephant’s hectoring style and it was rumored that if he found a defendant’s face or manner disagreeable, regardless of evidence indicating innocence or guilt, he was wont to convict and impose a harsh sentence.

  Justice Kayode cleared his throat noisily and deposited the phlegm in a paper towel. His motions seemed those of a man aware that the eyes of the world were on him. He looked up and surveyed the crowded courtroom. If he was impressed or perplexed, his expression did not show it: his triple-chinned face had that practiced look of blankness cultivated by men whose business it is to read others’ faces while taking care to mask their own state of mind.

  “Clerk!” he shouted.

  “Your Honor, Sir!” answered the clerk, the response at once rehearsed and startled, as if there could be no getting used to the Elephant’s booming summons. The clerk was middle-aged, bald and portly, like a scaled-down version of the judge.

  “Have you established protocol with all the parties in this case?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Call the case.”

  “Case number CH847-LSP 33902. The State vs. Mr. X., male, adult, of no ascertainable address. Count one: That you, the accused, on 1 January 1988 at approximately seven a.m., contrib­uted, by acts of omission or commission, to the death by drowning at B. Beach of a human female, age unknown, of no ascertainable address, thereby committing a crime punishable pursuant to the provisions of the penal code number six, sections four and five (as amended) by death or up to a lifetime in jail.

  “Count two: That you, the accused, on 1 January 1988 at approximately seven a.m., unlawfully assaulted the said deceased in a physical and sexual manner prior to her death, thereby committing a crime punishable pursuant to the provisions of the penal code number five, sections eight and nine by up to fifteen years in jail.

  “Count three: That you, the accused, on 1 January 1988 at approximately seven fifteen a.m., aided and abetted the death of the aforementioned deceased by hindering her resuscitation, thereby committing a crime punishable pursuant to the provisions of the penal code number six, sections eight, nine and ten by up to five years in jail.”

  “Is the accused ready to enter a plea?” asked the judge, looking morosely in Bukuru’s direction.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Do you understand the charges?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Have you sought the advice of counsel? I have it in my notes that you have chosen to defend yourself. But the charges are serious, I must have you know. In the
circumstances you would be well advised to engage a lawyer.”

  “I can’t afford one.”

  “I understand that a number of lawyers had offered to provide you with free counsel.”

  “My case is beyond a lawyer’s understanding.”

  Justice Kayode’s face grew sour. He fixed Bukuru with reproving eyes.

  “I have no wish to waste time. I have advised you to accept legal help. It is for you to decide whether to follow my advice. Meanwhile to business. The charges have been read. How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty.”

  Lanky the lifeguard was the prosecution’s first witness. His answers were so long-winded that on two occasions Justice Kayode warned him to respond more succinctly. The third time the judge raised his voice. “For the last time, cut out the cock and bull and get to the point!” Lanky lost his composure. He stuttered and stammered and became so fidgety and incoherent that the prosecutor cut short his examination.

  “You may now cross-examine the witness,” Justice Kayode said to the accused.

  “I do not wish to. The witness said nothing of importance,” said Bukuru.

  “May I warn you, Mr. X,” thundered the Elephant, “that such decisions are to be made by me. You understand? By me, exclusively!”

  A forensic pathologist was next to take the stand. He testified that medical evidence indicated that the deceased woman had been raped. “She had sustained substantial lacerations to her labia minora, labia majora, clitoris and vestibule. The injuries were multiple and devastating, consistent with persistent forced entry and penetration with a penis or some sharper object.”

  The pathologist testified that the alkalinity of the seawater had compromised the integrity of the semen sample taken from the victim. He also told the court that he could not determine whether the wounds had been inflicted by one attacker or several.

  Bukuru waived his right to cross-examine the witness.

  The prosecution then called a psychiatrist. He wore a pair of thick reading glasses and entered the witness box with a stack of files in the crook of his arm. The prosecutor, Jerome Okadi, asked him to summarize his findings.