Arrows of Rain

by Okey Ndibe

“You’re the accused in this case, not Lieutenant Lati. Now continue with the business of cross-examination.”

  Bukuru ignored the order, addressing himself to the judge. “But am I not also presumed innocent?”

  “Don’t let me run out of patience with you,” the judge warned. “My court’s time cannot be wasted. I said, and I say again, for the last time: continue your examination of the witness.”

  Bukuru turned towards Lati.

  “How did you arrive at the conclusion that the statements I made were untrue?”

  “Through our investigation.”

  “How many people did you interview in the course of it?”

  “Three.”

  “And all three, I take it, are the so-called vagrants?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to any members of the vice task force?”

  “We found no cause to. We can’t waste our time and other people’s time on the basis of a suspect’s false allegations.”

  Bukuru looked towards Justice Kayode. The judge’s face remained impassive.

  “Nor did you talk to any of the prostitutes arrested by the vice task force?”

  “No.”

  Bukuru wiped his hand across his brow. “The Head of State created the vice task force, I believe in September or October of last year. Do you remember what their mandate was?”

  “Yes, to rid the city of prostitution. It’s part of the effort to attract foreign tourists to the city.”

  “Oh,” Bukuru said. “I used to think prostitution helped tour­ism, that many tourists actively seek a bit of exotic native sex. Thanks to you, I now know better.”

  Chuckles spread through the courtroom. Justice Kayode brought down the gavel on his desk and restored decorum. Bukuru faced the detective, grim.

  “When he set up the task force, I believe His Excellency told the soldiers it was a declaration of war on prostitutes. Do people get wounded in a war?”

  “Yes.”

  “And killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, then, do you find it hard to believe there would be casualties in a war declared by your commander-in-chief? You’re not by any means implying that an officer of the caliber of General Isa Palat Bello doesn’t know what he’s talking about when he declares war?”

  A look of exasperation came over the judge’s face. “The witness may not answer this question.” Disgustedly, he said to Bukuru, “You must not talk about His Excellency with sarcastic levity. The patience of this court is not inexhaustible.”

  “Your Honor, I was only trying to . . .”

  “Don’t Your Honor me,” the Elephant fumed. “Just continue your cross-examination.”

  Bukuru folded his hands in front of him and paced the room as Okadi had done. Suddenly stopping, he swept a glance in the direction of the reporters. His lips parted in a half-smile. Then he spun round on the witness.

  “You’re convinced, detective, that I raped and killed the deceased woman?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Not only that, you are convinced that I am a serial rapist and murderer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it fair to assume you read the newspapers two days ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see reports about another woman’s corpse found on Coconut Beach?”

  “Yes.” Lati looked uncomfortable. “My department is investigating that incident.”

  “Do you imagine that I somehow slipped out of detention and committed that crime?”

  “It’s the work of copycats, criminals inspired by your example.”

  “Is it possible those criminals are soldiers?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Let’s return to the crime I am charged with. Did I not tell you, detective, that the deceased was assaulted for at least two hours by members of the vice task force?”

  “You did.”

  “And that many other prostitutes were similarly raped? Indeed, that one such prostitute spoke to me?”

  “You lied.”

  “You have not answered my question.”

  “You did, but it was a lie. The police have received no reports from any prostitute to the effect that members of the task force raped her.”

  “Mr. Lati,” Bukuru said, pronouncing the detective’s name as one might a profane word. “How many men did the police prosecute last year for rape?”

  The detective said nothing.

  “Answer my question, detective.”

  “I don’t have the figures handy,” said the detective.

  “Ten?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But maybe not?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Is it possible that there was not a single prosecution for rape?”

  “Yes. There are years in which we receive no reports of rape.”

  “Would it be because women never get raped in this country?”

  “Objection!” came a voice from the prosecution bench. “The witness is being badgered with irrelevant questions.”

  Bukuru looked at the judge. “My point is to show that women hardly report rape cases to the police. The police cover up assaults on women. I know.”

  Justice Kayode had a doubtful air. “What you think you know is irrelevant. I’m afraid the police cannot be put on trial here. The objection is sustained.”

  Bukuru shook his head despairingly, then resumed his questioning.

  “You told the court that I tried to implicate a—to quote you—powerful member of the military government as a rapist and murderer.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I believe I told you that the woman in question was a prostitute. That the same officer murdered her about a year later. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Mr. Lati, could you tell the court who General Isa Palat Bello is?”

  “Objection!” shouted the two prosecutors in unison.

  Justice Kayode fixed Bukuru with blazing eyes that seemed to burrow into him.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Man of No Name! You must understand and respect due process in this court. This is a court of law, not a civics class. I’m sure that everybody in this room”—he pointed to a pregnant woman among the spectators—“everybody, including the baby in that woman’s womb, knows that General I. P. Bello is the president and commander-in-chief of the Madian armed forces. Your question is grossly improper. It is a blatant and wilful show of disrespect to the person and office of His Excellency, the Life President of the Sovereign Republic of Madia. Let me sound a strong warning, once and for all: this court will not sit idly by and allow you to use the name of His Excellency in vain! I have already tolerated too much of your madness.”

  His fierceness spent on this tirade, he added, “Objection sustained.”

  “Detective Lati,” Bukuru continued, “did I not tell you that twenty-three years ago, General Isa Palat Bello raped a woman named Iyese?”

  “Objection! This is insufferable!” exclaimed the junior prosecutor.

  “Sustained!” thundered the Elephant.

  A fearful stillness pervaded the courtroom. One spectator let out a nervous cough; others murmured. The judge sat back in his chair, poised between rage and resignation.

  Bukuru pressed on. “Did I not tell you, Mr. Lati, that this woman was eventually murdered by Isa Palat Bello?”

  The courtroom erupted into rowdy disorder which even Jus­tice Kayode was powerless to suppress.

  “Objection! Stop the madness!” cried the junior prosecutor, running towards the judge’s bench.

  “Order! I rule the accused in contempt!” pronounced Justice Kayode, bringing down his gavel with deafening force.

  Detective Lati descended shakily from the witness stand. On the courtroom floor, four detectives fell upon
Bukuru from behind and fastened handcuffs on him. The mayhem in the courtroom increased as many spectators pressed for a glimpse of the trapped man.

  The Elephant rose to his full height. His gavel struck discordant notes, out of sync with his repeated cries of “Order! Order!” Gradually the din died down. Justice Kayode waited for complete silence.

  “The court hereby recesses for fifteen minutes,” he said in a hoarse voice. Mopping his brow, he walked away.

  When the judge returned to the courtroom, twenty minutes late, the expression on his face showed that he had recovered his strength. He let his gaze fall on Bukuru, who sat between two policemen, shackled.

  “In all my years as a judge I have never before seen such a blatant display of malicious contempt as took place today. My first instinct was to sentence you to jail for eternity—lock you up and throw the key into the Atlantic!—as a lesson that you cannot come to court and scandalize the good name and immaculate reputation of His Excellency.

  “But—because this is a court of law, not a court of vengeance—I have tempered justice with mercy in arriving at the following rulings:

  “One: The members of the press are barred from reporting any part of today’s proceedings where the good name of His Excel­lency was maliciously smeared. Any reporter who flouts this order will be summarily dealt with.

  “Two: I shall appoint another psychiatrist to evaluate the defend­ant’s mental state and report his findings to the court. After the depravity we all witnessed today, it is my considered opinion that a second psychiatric opinion is called for.

  “Three: In order to allow ample time for the new evaluation, this case will be adjourned for two months, until 15 March at nine thirty a.m.”

  The judge’s gavel traced an arc as it came down one last time—koi!—on the varnished wooden bench. As the spectators began to file out of the courtroom, there was something disappointed about their gait—as if an exciting performance had been interrupted as it hurtled towards its climax.

  Chapter Five

  “Your report is riddled with irrelevant details,” the news editor criticized, his face dour. Then, as my spirits sank, he brightened up: “But, oh, so bold! This will earn you a file at the State Security Agency. Perhaps even a visit. Be prepared!”

  For four days after my story’s publication my nerves were set on edge. I shuddered whenever a human shadow approached me from behind and trembled when I heard an unfamiliar voice.

  On the fifth day I awoke to the discovery that the nervousness had vanished. Strangely, I missed it. While it lasted, it had imbued my life with meaning and purpose, a sense of being in the dark swirl of events, in danger. The story, with its rich details of the courtroom drama, had made me an enemy of the state, an object of interest to the dreaded security apparatus. When nothing came of it and my life went on much as before, I felt that time passed dully, purposelessly. Other assignments seemed poor distractions. I could come alive again only when the trial resumed. Until then, there was little to do except count the days.

  The ninth day after the adjournment, I was set to go home after a dull day spent covering a trade fair when a call came through from the switchboard.

  “The caller says it’s urgent,” the operator said to me.

  I put the receiver to my ear, expecting an animated voice. Instead, the caller spoke in a carefully calibrated tone.

  “My name is Dr. S. P. J. C. Mandi,” came the measured voice. “Let me warn you that this call concerns a highly confidential issue.” Then he asked me to meet him the next day at 12:45 p.m. outside the gates of Bande maximum security prison. I was not to tell anybody about the meeting, he said. Not even, he stressed, my editor.

  “It’s essential that you are on time, Mr. Adero. And please wear a jacket. A fairly good one, but not too fashionable.”

  He must have anticipated that I wanted to say something, because he quickly cut in: “Any questions you may have must wait till we meet tomorrow. I wish to stress, again, that punctuality is of the essence. And appearance. Goodbye, Mr. Adero.” Then he rang off.

  I was incensed by the caller’s air of mystery. Who did he think he was, to order me to a secret meeting, even instruct me on how to dress, without offering the slightest hint of what it was all about? His calm, clinical voice added to my irritation. My thoughts were a formless whirl, torn between fear and an instinct for self-preservation on the one hand and a hunger for danger and recklessness on the other. In the end I decided to go. Even so, I wanted to be cautious. At the top of a sheet of paper I wrote, in case i’m missing. I gave details of my conversation with the stranger, then put the note in my top drawer.

  I left home at 9:00 a.m. the next morning in a rented Peugeot, taking the expressway out of Langa. About two miles to the tollgate, I ran into jammed traffic, cars moving forward at tortoise pace, the drivers besieged by hawkers and beggars. It was not until 10:11 that I passed the tollbooths. The caller had said the trip would take no more than forty minutes once the city was behind me. I turned left, southbound, onto a minor road which, according to my directions, should terminate at Bande prison.

  It was a bumpy, potholed, dusty road through a flat and sorrowful landscape. For a long time I drove alone. Then I spied, far in the distance, the hazy outlines of a glistening object. It crystalized into a vehicle, the first I had seen for many miles on this sullen stretch of road. As it swept past I saw a marking on its side: madia prison department. I ran full tilt into the cloud of dust it raised; through the rearview mirror I saw it swallowed up in mine. The fear inside me grew.

  Shortly afterwards the road detached itself from the parched, flat plain and climbed a hill. From the top I could see the prison. My eyes skimmed the series of squat structures enclosed within its high walls. The prison was surrounded by lush vegetation.

  At 10:50 a.m. I maneuvered the car into one of the parking spaces marked for visitors. A moat ringed the prison, and a bridge connected the two worlds this moat sundered. An iron gate secured the bridge from traffic. The notice on the gate was somber: warning: prison vehicles only beyond this point. There was a security post beside the gate, manned by two officers.

  The prison’s footpaths, however, were laid with raked gravel. Freshly painted stones dotted the edges, and beds and borders were planted with flowers that glowed in the sunlight: amaranth, zinnia, lantana, impatiens, African violet, bougainvillea, hibiscus, red roses, morning glory, sunflowers, Africa-never-dies. The carefully tended flowers diffused a heady perfume in the air.

  Bande maximum security prison was the brainchild of Askia Amin, our country’s first prime minister. He had seen a model for it during an official visit to Latin America. Upon his return he signed an order for a replica to be built in a reclaimed swamp, in a location as remote from the bustle of life as possible. He had no wish for the intended inmates—his political enemies—to be reached by the familiar sounds of the human world. Such sounds could only be a distraction to men and women secluded in the prison to contemplate the truths of life.

  A few weeks after the completion of the prison Isa Palat Bello led a group of junior officers to stage our country’s first coup. Amin and many of his ministers became the prison’s first inmates.

  W

  As I waited in the car park for Dr. Mandi I grew drowsy with the gathering heat. My head began to throb. I shut my eyes.

  “Mr. Adero, I presume?”

  I awoke with a start. The man whose voice had roused me was bent over the open window of my car, his face level with mine. He was smiling, but I could not tell his smile apart from a snarl.

  “Yes,” I said, belatedly—after he had already proffered his hand. “Femi Adero.”

  “S. P. J. C. Mandi. Pleased to meet you. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble for you, at such short notice and with all the secretive circumstances.”

  He paused, waiting, the smile steady.

  “It was no
trouble at all.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Adero, if I ask you for some form of identification. Anything with your photograph. Perhaps you have your driver’s license handy, no?”

  My heart beat fiercely and I could only stare at him.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I cannot proceed until I’m sure you’re the person I invited. It’s important.”

  I fumbled through my wallet for my driver’s license. He inspected it without taking it from my hand. Smiling again, he motioned me out of the car. He walked towards the bridge and I followed, a step behind. We had only taken a few strides when he stopped.

  “You already know my name, but let me introduce myself formally. I am a psychiatrist with the Madia Military Hospital. I have been asked to provide a new evaluation of suspect number MTS 1646.” He noticed my bewildered expression. “That’s the name officialdom gives the man you name Bukuru in your newspaper.” He laughed quickly, then became business-like.

  “The suspect asked me to arrange this meeting. I know why he wants to see you, but it’s not my business to tell. If everything goes well, you will meet him in ten or so minutes and hear from the horse’s mouth.

  “My own concern is to make our visit hitch-free. I’m taking a great risk in playing facilitator. You must now listen carefully.”

  Dr. Mandi said he was going to introduce me to the prison superintendent as Dr. A. F. Tijani, a psychiatrist attached to His Excellency’s office. He would say that he had received a call that morning instructing that I should participate in the evaluation.

  “Now all I want you to do,” he said, “is to play your part well. Affect a distant demeanor. Act like a man who understands power. Be a little arrogant. A little, I stress. And, of course, humorless. Leave most of the talking to me. If you have to say anything, be brief. And remember to throw in one or two scientific terms. Not pretentious stuff, just standard fare: psychosis, schizophrenic malady, aggravated neurosis. Anything to befuddle the prison strongman.”

  His face became severe as he sized me up. Did he see the perspiration on my forehead, my trembling legs?

  “Let me also warn you beforehand, Mr. Adero—I’m sorry, Dr. Tijani,” he continued. “You’re going to see things inside the prison that may shock you. But don’t show that anything is new to you. Act like one who has seen everything, a man who is accustomed to the workings of power.”