Lightseekers

by Femi Kayode

  I look back at the wall. Many hands had struck the Okriki Three, but if there was someone in that crowd acting with a different motive from the rest of the mob, I had to find out who he or she is.

  There’s no more logical place to start than with the young man who raised an alarm and set into motion the string of events that ended with the lynching.

  THE NARRATIVE

  I’m roused from my sleep by my phone ringing. It’s my father.

  ‘I didn’t get a response to my text, so I thought to check on you.’ The admonition is clear in his tone.

  ‘I am sorry, sir. I got in late and things got hectic almost immediately.’

  ‘But you’re okay?’

  ‘I am. Emeka did know that I arrived safely. The chaperone he provided has been excellent.’

  ‘I am pleased you’re not doing this alone.’ My father isn’t taking the bait. If he is in constant talks with Emeka, he is not letting on. ‘I can’t help but worry that I persuaded you to take a job that might put you in harm’s way.’

  Now I feel bad for avoiding him since our talk in his study almost a week ago.

  ‘Nothing has happened to suggest I am in any kind of danger, Dad. You can relax.’

  ‘Okay. I also wanted to know if you told Folake what I shared with you …’ His voice trails off.

  ‘I didn’t tell her anything, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ His relief is unmistakable, even over the phone. ‘I’d like to be the one to tell her if it becomes necessary.’

  His point is clear: if he is going to be outed to his daughter-in-law, it must be on his terms. I can’t contest this given my current situation with Folake, so I am quiet.

  ‘Anyway, take care of yourself. Let me know if you need anything.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Okay. Your mom sends her regards.’

  ‘Give her mine.’

  He doesn’t hang up, so I hold the line as the silence stretches. This is unusual territory for us.

  ‘Kenny Boy,’ he says finally, ‘I just want you to know how much I appreciate you doing this. For Emeka and, you know, all of us.’

  ‘I have to go now, sir,’ I say but wait till he hangs up.

  I take a shower and I’m almost fully dressed when breakfast is brought to my room by the receptionist, who is now looking decidedly less dour, trailing behind Chika. She places the serving tray on the only available space on my desk, collects some cash from him and leaves.

  ‘I took matters into my own hands,’ Chika says, pointing at the tray with flourish.

  ‘You cooked this?’ A perfectly fried omelette, with three neatly cut slices of boiled yam. There’s a bottle of cold water on the side and a tall glass of juice. I’m not big on eating this early, but my stomach rumbles at the sight of the food.

  ‘I might as well have,’ Chika answers, as he unwraps the cutlery from paper napkins and hands it to me. ‘I gave the cook step-by-step instructions, and then rewarded her with two hundred naira after she was done.’

  ‘Best two hundred you ever spent, I bet.’ I cut into the eggs and yam. Delicious.

  ‘Where’s yours?’ I ask Chika through a mouthful.

  ‘In my room –’

  ‘Go get it. Let’s eat together. We have a lot to talk about.’

  I can sense Chika’s hesitation. Playing my assistant is one thing but eating within the informal setting of my hotel room might be a bit too much for him.

  My phone beeps just as Chika leaves. It’s a message from Salome: ‘My sources are solid, but I won’t pass up the opportunity of free drinks. Let me know when you’re free.’

  I am relieved that she didn’t read more into my text yesterday, but it is to Emeka I send a quick message.

  ‘Good morning,’ I type quickly. ‘V. impressed with Chika. Can do more than just driving. Ok to ask?’

  The response is almost instant. ‘Pls go ahead.’

  When Chika comes back with his tray, we clear the desk of papers, the laptop, Post-it notes, and then settle down to eat while attempting to formulate a coherent chain of events.

  Godwin Emefele, a student of the State University, who resided off campus in Okriki, had been visited by three fellow students: Winston, Bona and Kevin. A fight had ensued because, according to Godwin, the students attempted to extort money from him.

  Godwin had raised an alarm when one of his three alleged assailants pulled a gun on him. The sound of gunfire convinced the townsfolk that a robbery was in progress. A crowd descended on the three young men, setting off a tragic chain of events that led to the ‘necklace killings’.

  Twenty-three people were charged, including a police officer identified at the scene from the videos uploaded on social media. The officer, a Sergeant James Johnson – an ethnically amorphous name that gives as little information as his written account – was released because he claimed he was there to stop the mob. Since no one disputed his testimony, he was discharged and immediately transferred to another state. Only seven remain in custody, with the charges against the others having been dropped or dismissed. The fate of the seven is yet to be determined by the courts.

  ‘Nothing new,’ Chika says, scraping up the last of his omelette.

  ‘But that’s not exactly true,’ I muse aloud, struck by a realisation. I push my food aside and reach for my notebook on the bed.

  ‘All the reports say there were gunshots, but there’s no gun on the list of evidence.’ I flip through my notes quickly and look at Chika. ‘If the gun’s not with the police, where is it?’

  ‘Maybe someone stole it?’ Chika proffers.

  ‘Unlikely, although not impossible.’

  ‘Nothing of the boys’ belongings were found,’ Chika countered. ‘No cell phones, no wallets, no wristwatches, no belts, no shoes, no clothes.’

  ‘So, you think someone in the mob could have taken the gun?’

  ‘Chances are.’ Chika shrugs.

  ‘That would mean the gun – if there was a gun – is still around somewhere in Okriki?’

  Chika snickers before he can catch himself.

  ‘What’s funny?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘It’s you, sir … I mean, sorry. I don’t mean you’re funny, but if you don’t mind my asking, when did you come back to Nigeria?’

  ‘Eight months now, give or take. Why?’

  ‘It’s your questions. I’m sorry, it’s like you know nothing of the situation in these parts.’

  I’m slightly miffed by this, but if there’s something he thinks I am missing, I’d like to hear it.

  ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

  ‘This part of the country is very troubled. There’s always conflict, with the government, oil companies, between communities. What with the militancy, people here are always fighting for something.’

  ‘The We-Dey boys, right? I read a little about them before coming here.’

  ‘They believe themselves to be freedom fighters, politicians and economic emancipators all rolled into one,’ Chika continues, and I get the sense he’s not a fan. ‘Some people see them as heroes of sorts, Robin Hood types.’

  ‘Ah!’ I finally get the picture. ‘If there was a gun, it’s probably been passed on to militants.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Chances are the gun is pointing at a hostage right now in the bush somewhere.’

  I can’t let Chika see how unnerved I am by his statement. I have never, in the course of work, felt myself to be in mortal danger. I’ve largely worked in offices, from the safety of my desk. Fieldwork was interviewing suspects, witnesses and investigating officers.

  I try not to dwell too much on my sudden unease. ‘We should still look into the gun, though,’ I say, keeping my voice level with some effort.

  ‘Why is this gun so important, sir?’

  ‘The gunshots were what motivated the crowd, and yet the gun’s not in the evidence chain and no one tried to find it. I understand you’re making a calculated assumption in thinking it was stolen, and maybe it was, but the
re’s something here.’

  I walk to the wall of Post-it notes and frown at the maze. ‘Everyone agrees that there were gunshots, but only one person actually saw the gun or who used it.’

  I reach for a marker and draw a circle around Godwin Emefele’s name and write ‘gun?’ next to it.

  MOMMY DEAREST

  Amaso Dabara’s visit was no surprise. I knew he would come as soon as he found out I am weeks away from graduation. After rejecting his request that I fail my exams so I could stay at TSU for one more year, he has become more demanding. Breaking into my room at odd hours with his goons is the latest of his escalating intimidation tactics.

  To take my mind off Amaso, I returned to the letters from my mother. And though John Paul left me to read each one, I could hear his derisive laughter from the shadows.

  It was clear to me by the time I had gone through those letters that I couldn’t live with not knowing, without seeing my mother again. I have no idea how this will affect The Final Plan, but I must see Mama.

  But first, I have to do my rounds of the cybercafes at the Students’ Village to check on the online progress of The Final Plan for John Paul. All on track.

  I log on to Pastor Oriakpu’s online sermons and find inspiration for my next series of posts. The reactions are immediate and expected. Soon, the anger will boil over.

  I log off the different accounts and leave the Students’ Village as quickly as I can.

  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over the fear that comes over me any time I have to manage The Final Plan as me. I know how careful we have been, but it doesn’t stop me from constantly looking over my shoulder to be sure some nosy student is not reading the posts as I type at the cybercafe.

  There have been times when I walked out of the cafe, absolutely sure everyone on campus knows. Those were terrible moments of searching every face, wondering which one has called the authorities on me, while John Paul hid in the shadows.

  The fear and John Paul’s mocking laughter make me walk fast, my head low and my shoulders hunched. I avoid eye contact, counting the steps that will get me to the taxi park, and then counting backwards when I hit every hundred. I try not to say the numbers out loud, so people don’t think I am talking to myself. It also helps to hear my own voice in my head. That way, I can pretend not to hear John Paul.

  It is midday and off-peak; traffic is not so bad. In less than an hour, I am in the reception of the teaching hospital in Port Harcourt, staring at a huge signboard. I see that the ward number Father Olayiwola gave me is on the oncology floor and my heart sinks.

  There’s a small crowd of people waiting for the elevator, so I take the stairs instead.

  When I get to the oncology floor, the nurse at the duty station points me to my mother’s ward.

  There are five other women in the room, all of them sleeping, all attached to multiple intravenous drips and beeping machines. I would have missed my own mother were it not for a name-board over her bed.

  She has grown old. The lines on her face are relaxed in sleep, but there is no doubt that the past eleven years have not been kind.

  I feel as though I am in a trance as I walk towards her, my progress slowed by memories, hope and, yes, fear.

  As though sensing my presence, my mother opens her eyes, stares straight at me and smiles.

  My knees wobble as I get to her bedside and lay my head on her chest.

  ‘You’re here.’

  I burst into sobs at the sound of her voice. It’s weaker now, but still the same.

  ‘No tears,’ she says softly. ‘You’re a man now. No tears.’

  Despite her jutting collarbones, her close-cropped grey hair and her skin that’s brittle from medication, my mother is still beautiful.

  ‘Mama,’ I say over and over. Like a prayer.

  ‘I am not dreaming?’

  I shake my head, laughing through a sob. ‘No, you’re not dreaming.’

  ‘Sometimes I see things that aren’t there.’

  ‘I am here, Mama.’

  ‘I ask after you a lot. Do they tell you?’

  ‘Yes, Mama. They tell me.’ The anger rises inside me. The fate planned for the monks cannot come soon enough. I will cheer John Paul from the shadows as they all burn.

  ‘You look very handsome. Like your father,’ she says and reaches to touch my face. Her hand trembles against my cheek. I gently lay it back on the bed, careful not to upset the attached IV line because I can see that finding a vein will be difficult.

  I read the medicines listed on the label of the bag of IV: Cisplatin and paclitaxel. Standard combination chemotherapy for cancer, with hydromorphone for pain management. I know this from years of working at the monastery’s dispensary. I read the dosages of the medicines. Not good.

  ‘You look great, Mama,’ I say.

  ‘You lie,’ she says. ‘But I forgive you.’

  She laughs feebly and I join in.

  We’re together again. Like in my dreams when I have the light.

  AT OWNER’S RISK

  In an ideal world, Godwin Emefele should have graduated. When the Okriki Three tragedy happened, Godwin was already a third-year political science undergraduate. But since then, the university’s academic and non-academic staff have gone on strike a combined total of three times, each lasting at least three months.

  In between, there were student riots against rising fuel prices, protests against an increase in registration fees and, most recently, student marches to complain about the water shortage on campus. Almost all the student protests ended in violence, necessitating the closure of the university. It’s no surprise that Godwin has only just reached his final year.

  Finding him was surprisingly easy. Emeka made a call to the university registrar who scheduled an appointment with us and promised to make Godwin available for an interview.

  ‘I’m surprised by the level of cooperation from the university,’ I say to Chika, as we drive towards the TSU campus.

  ‘They’ve been the most sympathetic to the parents of the three.’

  ‘Probably trying to avoid a lawsuit,’ I note.

  Chika chuckles. ‘Lawsuit? For what? The incident happened off campus. The university didn’t sign a contract to protect the students from lynch mobs.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I retort, slightly annoyed that he might be right. ‘They have a duty of care. There has to be some responsibility.’

  Chika pulls into a slot in a row of parking enclosures covered by rusting corrugated iron sheets.

  ‘Look at that sign, sir,’ Chika says, pointing. ‘See what it says?’

  I don’t bother to read aloud the ‘Cars parked at owner’s risk’ sign.

  ‘So?’ It’s hard to mask my impatience at this point.

  ‘It’s the same when you send your child to university. When I started here, there were over 6,000 new students across more than fifty departments. Less than 2,000 of the new students had accommodation on campus. The ones that could find a place to squat did, and it wasn’t strange to find students living in conditions worse than shanty towns. Many moved off campus, especially the ones who could afford it.’

  ‘So, students preferred to stay off campus?’

  ‘Generally, yes. But often because they had no choice. The university can’t accommodate all of them. Where they live and cause problems then becomes the responsibility of towns like Okriki.’

  ‘Regardless, they’re students. The school is responsible for them whether they stay on campus or not.’

  ‘In an ideal world, maybe, but here the students come at their own risk. Like the cars.’

  I’m irritated by how normal this all sounds to him. To my mind, there is nothing normal about any of this. The Okriki Three tragedy could not have occurred in a saner climate without a slew of lawsuits against the town, the police and the university.

  Chika cuts the engine and we get out. He clearly knows his way around. Tall trees line streets with faculty buildings jutting out from all
the greenery like trespassers in a jungle. The roads are tarred, and have well-maintained traffic lights. Students walk purposefully amongst staff and visitors. Calm. Peaceful. I’m tempted to like my first impressions of the State University.

  We make our way towards an imposing structure bearing the university’s coat of arms and marked by stencil as the Senate Building.

  Chika slows his pace and turns to me. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, sir, why did you come back to Nigeria?’

  This question comes out of left field and I’m not sure what to make of it. Besides, the ‘sir’ makes me cautious. I know ‘sir’ is not necessarily an overt sign of respect or formality around here. I consider it a salutation used to create distance. It says: only this far until you tell me to come closer. Since my reasons for returning to Nigeria are too personal, I’m not willing to share them with Chika. At least, not yet.

  ‘It was time,’ I reply noncommittally, an answer that is as cryptic as it is true.

  We walk the rest of the way to the registrar’s office in silence.

  Tom Ikime, the Registrar, is a good-looking man in his early fifties. He is well dressed and sports a tie and blazer that should be above his pay grade, but show me a Nigerian civil servant who lives within his salary, and I’ll hand you a live unicorn.

  Ikime ushers us into his office once introductions are made. ‘I’ve sent someone to fetch the Godwin boy.’

  We settle into plush leather seats that can’t be standard university furniture.

  ‘You know Godwin well?’ I ask, glad not to pussyfoot around the purpose of our visit.

  ‘Of course, I do. I was closely linked to the investigation after the unfortunate affair, and I headed the panel that the university set up to write a report.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a university report.’ This is good news. ‘May I see it?’

  ‘Of course. I doubt you’ll find anything of note, though. Everything confirms what we already knew. The boys went to Okriki to bully and extort another student. The student cried for help and the town descended on the boys. Sad, but the facts are irrefutable.’