by Femi Kayode
‘Mr Nwamadi and the other parents don’t agree with those facts.’
‘Who can argue with the grief of a parent? Anyone would want to believe the best of their dead child,’ Ikime replies levelly.
I detest public officials who peddle platitudes. It’s an annoyance I have carried with me since my time standing behind government officials at press conferences in San Francisco, when I had to wear an impassive mask as they put a spin on human tragedies that could’ve been avoided with better infrastructure in the poorer neighbourhoods of the city.
‘I’d like to see that report nonetheless.’
‘Sure. It’ll be in the public domain soon anyway, available on the university’s website once the Vice Chancellor signs off on it.’
‘A report like that can be very useful,’ I say, holding his gaze. ‘I’m sure it has lessons learnt and insights into what the university could have done better –’
‘There was nothing the university could have done differently.’
‘Oh, but I’m sure there was. And that’s the problem, don’t you agree?’
Ikime’s smile disappears and his eyes become shuttered. An uncomfortable silence follows, but clearly the Registrar is a consummate public servant because his calm voice cuts through it as if the brief tension never occurred.
‘You know, when we saw how deeply affected Godwin was by the tragedy and, realising the critical role he would play in the court case, we went to great lengths to support him. We put him in special accommodation where he’d be safe, and we have constantly reminded other students about everything Godwin did to try and avert what happened in Okriki.’
Tom Ikime speaks as though he’s reading from a script, perfected by repetition on multiple forums where he’s had to defend the university and deny any culpability. Not so different from what would have happened in the States, now that I really think about it.
The Registrar’s secretary, a young lady who had ushered us in earlier, knocks softly to inform Ikime of Godwin’s arrival.
‘Is the boardroom free?’ Ikime asks.
‘Yes, sir.’
We follow her to the outer office, where a skeletal young man is pacing back and forth. He stops, turns to us and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jersey, staring at us with belligerence. His gaunt face, bloodshot eyes and crown of unkempt hair tell a story I have seen many times over the years.
There is no doubt in my mind that Godwin Emefele is high.
THE MOST HATED BOY ON CAMPUS
‘My dad told me not to talk to anyone without my lawyer,’ Godwin states as soon as the registrar leaves us alone in the boardroom.
‘We’re not the police. We just want to ask you a few questions.’ I’m careful to be gentle, considering Godwin’s possible altered state of consciousness.
‘You don’t know how hard this is!’ Godwin snaps, startling me. He shakes his head vigorously as though to clear unwanted thoughts. ‘Every time I try to forget, someone comes asking the same questions all over again.’
‘Who’s asking you?’ I make the question soft, unthreatening.
‘Everyone! If it’s not the police or lawyers, it’s the other students. Everyone hates me.’
Godwin is getting more agitated, his hands shake, and the cadence of his voice sounds like he’s talking to a crowd rather than Chika and me.
‘Why would anyone hate you? You did nothing wrong.’ I stress the last part to test Godwin’s perception of his role in the killing.
Godwin stops and looks at me like he has found a long-lost friend. ‘Yes, yes! How was I to know things would end the way they did?’
‘Of course, there’s no way you could have known,’ I say reassuringly.
‘Yes!’ His voice gets more excited. ‘You get it! Even when the crowd came, I tried to tell them it was all a misunderstanding, but no one listened.’
‘You must feel really bad.’
Godwin nods vigorously, his eyes threatening to pop out.
‘So bad. I don’t sleep. I can’t eat. I want to run away from here, but I have to stay to help the police and the lawyers and the school. I hate it here. I’m trying to make it right, but no one in the world believes me.’
Is Godwin’s magnification of scenarios symptomatic of paranoia brought on by the drugs and/or the consistent exposure to an unsafe space? I need to stop diagnosing Godwin and concentrate on the purpose of the interview.
‘Not believing you doesn’t mean they hate you –’
‘Oh, they do.’ He says this with a dry laugh that hints at a sob. ‘If they could kill me, they would.’
Drug-induced exaggeration or fact? Being known as the student who caused the lynching of three fellow students cannot be a light burden to carry on a campus.
I pat Godwin briefly on the shoulder and pass him my handkerchief.
‘Maybe we can help you. You know, help people understand your side of the story.’ My voice is soft, urging.
Godwin looks at me and then at Chika as though he is wondering if the latter can be trusted. I give Chika a slight nod.
‘Time has passed, Godwin,’ Chika says, taking his cue perfectly; even mimicking my reassuring pat on Godwin’s shoulder. ‘Maybe now that people have had time to calm down, they’ll see you did what they would have done if they were in your place.’
‘They won’t! Everyone liked those guys. They were the happening guys on campus. No one knew what they were doing to me on the side.’
‘What were they doing to you?’ I sit up straighter, unable to stop myself from seeking further clarification, despite the risk of breaking Godwin’s flow.
Godwin takes a deep breath, closes his eyes like he’s steadying his nerves. ‘It began in my first year. As soon as I arrived on campus, they were on me. At first, it was little things. They wanted me to buy them food. Sometimes beer and cigarettes. I know it was because I was doing well in my business.’
‘You had a business?’ Chika asks, emulating the softness of my voice. He catches on fast.
‘Yes. I used to travel and buy clothes to sell here. Everyone liked my collections. They said I had taste.’ He pauses, looks at me like he’s seeking understanding. ‘Maybe that’s why everyone hates me. They were jealous, you know. My business was doing well. Lots of people owed me money for clothes I sold on credit. Many of them used what happened as an excuse not to pay me.’
‘You were travelling a lot? To where?’ Chika asks in an admiring tone.
‘London. I worked over the summer vacation and used the money to buy stuff to sell here when school resumed. Mostly clothes, shoes, bags for the girls. I got the items on sale and sold them for a good price.’
Godwin must have been born in Europe with a passport that allowed him to travel to the UK or somewhere similar to take up summer jobs without needing a visa.
‘Every time it was the same,’ Godwin continues. ‘As soon as I came back, they were on me, demanding things. And when I said no, they beat me and took my stuff anyway.’
‘The same guys who tried to rob you in Okriki?’ At this point I needed to be sure we were on the same page.
‘Yes. They were everywhere on campus. They and their friends. I was afraid of them all. It was because of them I moved off campus, but they still followed me.’
‘You never reported them?’
Even in his apparent manic state, Godwin looks at me the way Chika does when I say something that betrays my returnee status.
‘Report cult boys?’
‘And you’re sure they were part of a cult?’ I ask gently, not wanting to overtly challenge him.
‘You don’t act like that around campus if you don’t have some kind of heavy backing. And because they choose their targets carefully and show everyone else their good sides, no one talks about it! They stole from people like me and used what they took to buy nice things for girls and give their friends a good time.’
‘So, the bullying started from your first year?’
Chika’s tone seems to calm God
win somewhat.
‘Yes. After a while, I came to accept it. They were always obtaining me –’
‘Obtaining?’ I ask.
‘Claiming stuff,’ Godwin explains. ‘You know, like just taking things without asking.’
Ah. Extortion. I nod that I understand.
‘They take anything. Money. Food. Cell phones. Even my clothes if they like them.’
‘Even when you were no longer a jambite?’ Chika prods, but he shoots me a quick questioning glance.
I reassure him with my eyes that I know ‘jambite’ is the commonly used word to describe a freshman.
‘They never stopped,’ Godwin continues, anger seeping into his voice. ‘Every year after the long vacation, no matter how many things I gave them, they still wanted more. That’s why I moved off campus.’
‘But they still came after you.’ I am impressed that Chika knows to make this a statement infused with empathy.
‘Yes. They sent different guys to harass me, but I knew them all. It was Bona and Winston they sent that day. They wanted me to give them money, and I told them I didn’t have any, so they wanted to claim my laptop, TV and cell phone. I said no. They insisted and just walked into my room and started taking stuff. That was when I shouted “thief!” because I thought it would make them stop and we could talk about things and come to an agreement.’
‘But people heard you,’ I state, like I was with Godwin that day.
‘No. It was not the shouting that brought people. It was when Winston shot the gun.’
‘Winston was carrying a gun?’ I ask as if this is a new piece of information.
‘Yes. He brought it out and told me to shut up. It was not the first time they’ve pulled a gun on me. But this time Winston actually shot it! He said I should stop shouting “thief” and fired it again. I kept screaming, but Bona told me to shut up, and Winston shot into the roof again. There was dust from the holes in the ceiling and smoke everywhere. I ran outside and kept shouting for help.’
‘That was when people came?’ Chika asks.
Godwin nods. ‘They came from everywhere. I recognised a few from the compound, and some from the neighbouring houses, but I think most of them were from the market down the road. They asked me what was going on and I told them I was being robbed. It was true!’ He shouts like he expects us to contradict him. ‘It was daylight robbery! Armed robbery!’
I nod at him reassuringly. ‘If it happened as you tell it, then you were right to ask for help.’
The look of gratitude on Godwin’s face makes me sad for him. To have the act of self-preservation end in such tragedy must be hard. I want to ask about his parents, but I worry it might derail the conversation. Maybe another time.
‘So, the people came to help you?’ I prod gently.
Godwin exhales. ‘They called for more people to come. Shouting that the thieves have come again. Then Winston came out and they just went at him. Bona tried to run out through the back of the house, but they caught him too. Before I knew it, they had stripped them and were beating them.’
‘Still in the compound?’ Chika asks.
‘Yes. It was when they started leading them to the road that I saw how bad things were getting.’ He bows his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
‘You didn’t follow them out of the compound?’ I ask after making sure he is not crying.
‘No.’ He looks up, but his eyes are darting around, as if he’d rather be anywhere but in this room. ‘I ran back to my room and started calling the police, but their emergency number didn’t work. I called the school security, but no one took me seriously. When I called my dad, he told me to drive to the police station and tell them what was happening.’
‘You have a car?’ Chika asks.
‘Yes, but not any more.’ He shakes his head sadly. ‘It was vandalised when I came back to campus after, you know, everything. They stripped everything from it. The stereo. Wheel. Tyres. Seats. Everything. They left an old tyre, a matchbox and a bottle of petrol inside.’ He gives a deep, sad sigh. ‘Their message was clear.’
So much for the Registrar’s claim of supporting the young man.
It’s a weird thing about young people in groups, though. They might jostle for relevance and popularity on campus, but on the whole, it’s them against the world. I suspect many on campus felt that Godwin overreacted to what was nothing more than a tussle between students. To accuse fellow university students of robbery must have irked many. And studies on the fallout of a mob action have confirmed that stories like the Okriki Three raise people’s primal fear of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and becoming victims of vigilante justice themselves.
‘You drove to the police station?’ Chika now asks.
‘Yes,’ Godwin answers. ‘I got there as fast as I could and told them what was happening. They said an officer had gone to check on the noise, and if he came back to tell them there was a problem, then they’d look into it.’
‘Did you tell them that you had cried out only to stop Winston and Bona from claiming your stuff?’ Chika asks.
‘I did. But the police guy there asked if any of them had fired a gun. When I said yes, he said then they deserved a sound beating for coming into town with a gun.’
Although this isn’t new information, I’m disgusted all over again by the role the Okriki policemen had in all this.
‘I begged them,’ Godwin continued, ‘told them that it was all a misunderstanding. But they didn’t listen.’
‘What did you do next?’ I ask.
‘I drove to the university. I got the security guys at the gate to come with me, but by the time we got back to Okriki, it was too late.’
At this, Godwin’s chest starts to heave. Chika makes to touch the boy’s shoulder, but I motion for him not to. Best to stay practical and focused on the matter at hand.
‘You did what you could, Godwin,’ I say gently. ‘If anything, it’s the police who didn’t do their job.’
‘I don’t think they thought the boys would be killed.’
It’s not the time or place to insist that the police should have been held liable for the deaths. I suspect the redeployment of Inspector Omereji back to Okriki was calculated to deflect such liability. It is also becoming clear to me why the police investigation was filled with inconsistencies. It’s conceivable that the police thought the boys were just going to be given a sound beating as punishment for disturbing the peace with a gun, but that was a judgement call that had cost lives and ruined many more. At the very least, it was the responsibility of the police to control the crowd doing damage beyond beating and warning the boys never to come to town with a weapon again.
I sigh as I remember Folake’s words on the day I was leaving Lagos for Okriki: Nothing makes sense in this country.
Since Godwin has not said anything that’s not in his written testimony, I have one last question. ‘Godwin, you said Winston and Bona are the boys that came to your room in the compound. What about the third boy? Kevin.’
‘I didn’t even know the guy.’
I put the right amount of incredulity in my voice. ‘How’s that even possible?’
‘I didn’t. I swear. This Kevin didn’t come with Winston and Bona. When I drove to the school security to tell them what was happening, I reported the beating of two university boys, but when they followed me back into town, it was three boys that were burning.’
‘How do you think Kevin became involved?’ I try to sound like this is an answer only he can give.
‘I don’t know. Some people said he was the lookout guy. The one supposed to warn Winston and Bona if things got nasty.’
‘If that were true, why didn’t he … well, look out?’
Godwin shrugs. ‘Maybe he left his post for a bit, and by the time he came back, the mob was already beating Winston and Bona. Maybe one of them called out to him, and the crowd realised they were together. Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t know the guy.’
I shake my h
ead, making it like I am as unconvinced as I am confused.
‘Are you absolutely certain he wasn’t somewhere nearby and you were too distressed to notice him?’ Chika asks as if imploring him to help clear my confusion.
‘He wasn’t with Winston and Bona,’ Godwin insists.
‘Were you high that day, Godwin?’ I ask outright, hoping to catch him off guard.
‘No!’ he answers defensively, and then his eyes widen in outrage as he looks from me to Chika as if we’ve just betrayed his trust.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask softly, trying not to sound accusatory.
‘I don’t get high,’ he replies defiantly. ‘I don’t do drugs, never have.’
I can’t hide my deflated sigh. There’s no witness more unreliable than a drug user in denial.
‘It’s okay,’ I say finally. ‘We believe you.’
ONE PLUS ONE EQUALS THREE
‘You think he’s lying?’ Chika asks as soon as we are in the car.
‘A lot of what he said aligns with other witnesses and it is consistent with his own sworn testimony. But it’s unclear how much we can trust him.’
‘I saw your face when he said he’s never touched drugs.’
I smile ruefully. ‘Yeah, my poker face needs work.’
We are on the main road to Okriki, but I’m not in the mood to go back there. I check my watch. Quarter past two.
‘We should eat something,’ I say.
‘There’s a place down the road, but you might not like it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a buka. Like a canteen, you know –’
‘I know what a buka is,’ I cut in a bit too sharply.
‘Goat meat and pounded yam is their specialty.’ If Chika caught my shortness, he ignores it.
‘You reckon I won’t like goat meat soup?’
‘Not one served in that kind of place. Very crowded, and hygiene is not a top priority there.’
‘Have you eaten there before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it’s good enough for me.’
Chika nods, as if to say: I warned you.
When we get to the buka, which has a Coca-Cola endorsed signage that proclaims it to be Mama Patience Canteen, it is crowded. There’s a queue leading towards a very rotund woman who I assume is Mama Patience. She sits at the centre of a series of large cast-iron pots containing massive pieces of meat protruding out of different soups.