Lightseekers

by Femi Kayode

  My stomach rumbles. My twin brother and I were regulars at most of the bukas that surrounded our high school. But since I came back from the States, I have yet to check out the haunts of my teen years. Three months into our return, a sense of nostalgia made me want the twins to experience Ghana High, a popular buka around the neighbourhood I grew up in. I made the mistake of suggesting this to Folake and she threatened to sue the buka’s management and me if the kids came back with food poisoning. I’ve yet to summon up the courage to defy her.

  Standing in this queue at a buka situated midway between Okriki and the State University, waiting for Mama Patience to dish out a dollop of egusi soup next to my pounded yam, I feel a sense of homecoming I’ve not had since I arrived from Lagos. The heat and the noisy, crowded canteen combine to rid me momentarily of the horrors I have been reading and analysing in the past week.

  ‘You like it, sir?’ Chika asks from behind me.

  ‘You bet,’ I answer with unabashed glee.

  I can see he’s relieved that I’m not as stuck-up as he had me pegged. He laughs as I direct Mama Patience to the exact piece of meat I want – a leg of goat meat with muscle lines so tenderised they pop off the bone. I order a Star beer and prepare myself for a treat.

  We are lucky to find seats in a corner where we can talk. Not that anyone would hear us anyway. Everyone is speaking all at once, while different Nollywood movies play loudly on two separate screens.

  In between swallowing morsels of pounded yam and wiping the sweat off our foreheads, we discuss our interview with Godwin.

  ‘I still can’t wrap my head around how Godwin can’t explain how Kevin got involved,’ Chika says.

  I take a swig from my bottle of beer. ‘I guess it makes sense if Kevin was the lookout guy. But these cult guys, from what I hear, are gangsters. They had no way of knowing what fate awaited them, so what did they have to fear? Why would Winston and Bona need a lookout guy if they weren’t planning to do more than shake Godwin down again?’

  Chika nods. ‘Bringing a gun means they intended to rough up him big time if he didn’t cooperate.’

  ‘But why bring a gun and still have a lookout guy? Something seems off.’

  ‘Maybe Godwin owed the guys something,’ Chika says. ‘There’s the drugs. Could be drug money.’

  I’m wary about leaning into Godwin’s relationship with drugs. It’s an unreliable space to extrapolate from, but I’ll concede one thing. ‘If Godwin was on drugs at the time of the incident, it would be interesting to know where he gets them. On campus? Off campus?’

  ‘What if he’s a seller and user?’

  I pause at this leap. ‘Where is this going?’

  ‘He kept going on about travelling and buying and selling clothes, but I don’t really believe that. I’m not saying he was not selling stuff, but too many students do that already for Godwin to be singled out by the cult guys. I think there was something else between them.’

  ‘And you think it’s drugs?’

  ‘I mean, what else would it be?’

  A boy who denies being on drugs would clearly not admit to selling them. As much as I’d like a key witness who’s clean as a flute, Godwin is all I’ve got; an addict who may tell the absolute truth in every other area of his life but would never volunteer information that might jeopardise his habit.

  ‘What if the guys bought drugs from him and were refusing to pay, or Godwin was buying from them and was refusing to pay?’ Chika wonders aloud.

  I am not convinced. ‘Still doesn’t answer how Kevin got involved. Except it was all a mistake in the first place. We know there’s no way the people of Okriki would admit that. It’s better to lump all of them together and claim they were all armed robbers rather than admit they had killed a potentially innocent bystander.’

  ‘You’d think, even in the crowd frenzy, someone should be able to recall how and why Kevin was included in the beatings,’ Chika says as he struggles with his oxtail, careful to avoid splattering both of us with red oil.

  I shake my head and resist licking my fingers. ‘Crowds don’t work like that. Especially violent ones. Many people walk away from such an experience horrified by their role in it. They’ve been known to repress selected memories or embellish them either to exonerate themselves or justify their role. Point is, you can’t trust what anyone who’s been part of a mob action says.’

  ‘Perhaps we can ask when you speak to some of the accused already arraigned for trial? After all, they’ve nothing to lose. They might tell us something that indicates how Kevin became part of this whole thing.’

  ‘Which they’ll keep to themselves if they think it might hurt their case even further. Vigilante justice on suspected armed robbers is one thing, and possibly defensible in court. But if an innocent bystander was killed, that’s different. Manslaughter can move to first-degree murder in a split second.’

  ‘True,’ Chika agrees. ‘So, if Godwin could have easily testified that Kevin was with Bona and Winston, but insists otherwise, that means someone else was there.’

  ‘Exactly. And if we find that person, we’ll know how Kevin got involved.’

  ‘Involved enough to be called out as thief?’

  A sinking feeling hits me. ‘Involved enough to have been called out to be executed.’

  A BREWING STORM

  We’ve almost grown accustomed to the hostile stares, whispering and pointing by the locals whenever we drive through Okriki. Which is why the absence of these signs of unwelcome when we drive into town is so jarring. All the adults we see appear to be heading in one direction, paying us no mind and talking animatedly amongst themselves.

  ‘Something’s going on,’ Chika says.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ The people are walking towards a lone white bungalow down the road.

  ‘That’s the community hall,’ Chika says. ‘Should we follow them?’

  He didn’t have to ask twice. There was no way I would pass up a chance to see the people of Okriki together and observe their dynamics.

  Chika parks across the road from the hall. We approach the side of the building to avoid the people entering via the main doors. An instinctive choice since we both know our presence, if noticed, might elicit a hostile response. We walk stealthily towards the large window, which now frames our view of what appears to be a meeting already in progress inside.

  Most of the attendees are men. At this time of day, most of the town’s womenfolk are likely at the market or on the farm. The few women I see are older, late fifties and above, clustered at the back of the hall, whispering amongst themselves as the men sit and most stand, closer to the front.

  The atmosphere is one of agitation. These people are unhappy about something.

  A man in his mid to late seventies, dressed in an all-white caftan and massaging the intricately carved head of his walking stick, sits on a dais. There is something vaguely familiar about him – the way he sits, nods while listening and the commanding manner he raps the stick on the floor when there is too much noise.

  ‘He’s the chief of the community,’ Chika explains.

  ‘It is time we say enough is enough! This is a free country, and we are tired. Tired of these insults, these abuses. And the disrespect of our faith!’ The passionate speaker is dressed in an all-white long thobe, with its top part tailored like a shirt, and the bottom flowing loose. He sports a white skullcap on a clean-shaven head framed by a dark beard.

  Other similarly dressed men are nodding in agreement and grunting their support, as the speaker declares: ‘They are forcing our hand, and one day, monkey go travel go market e no go come back!’

  At this last pronouncement, the whole hall erupts into noise, which prompts the Chief to rap his stick on the wooden floor below his makeshift throne.

  ‘Silence!’ the Chief bellows, and a near-absolute quiet washes over the crowd. The Chief himself sits at the midpoint of four other men, who look about as old as him but have less authority. They nod in unison to show
their support for the Chief’s call to order.

  ‘Usman, I was not aware you called us here to make threats,’ the Chief says calmly.

  ‘No, your Highness. I apologise if my passionate protest gives the impression of a threat but –’

  The Usman guy switches to another language. I look at Chika to decipher.

  ‘I can only pick up a few words here and there,’ he says, straining closer, as if this would give him better understanding of the rapid-fire Ikwerre, the local language that I’ve read has sprinklings of Igbo, Ibibio and Efik.

  ‘It seems there’s a fight,’ Chika whispers. ‘Some church people did or said something, and the Muslims are angry.’

  ‘Close enough,’ a familiar voice says from behind us.

  We turn around to find Inspector Mike Omereji, staring at us with undisguised hostility.

  ‘This is a meeting of indigenes, and I’m not sure they’d appreciate strangers listening in to what you can see is a closed meeting.’

  It strikes me now what I found familiar about the town chief. He and Inspector Omereji bear a striking resemblance, down to the timbre of their voices and the way they speak.

  ‘Hello, Inspector,’ I say with contrived cheeriness. ‘Chika was showing me the sights of the town.’

  There’s silence as the Inspector and I stare at each other. The tension makes me feel the burning Okriki sun even more as sweat pours down my back and the noise of angry men in the hall intensifies the antagonism in the air.

  ‘We were leaving anyway,’ Chika says. He nudges me and we walk towards Omereji, who holds his position, forcing us to walk around him. We’ve barely gone three feet when his voice stops us.

  ‘Some Christians are posting social media messages calling for the removal of the mosque.’ He speaks like a commentator giving the backstory during the halftime of a soccer match. ‘They say this is a Christian town. That it’s sacrilege to have a mosque here.’ He shrugs. ‘Such things happen once in a while in a small town like this.’

  ‘And it never gets violent?’ I ask in a tone that I hope does not come across as tongue-in-cheek.

  ‘Contrary to what you might believe, Dr Taiwo, the people of Okriki can resolve their differences with dialogue.’

  I look pointedly towards the hall where there’s a cacophony of angry voices, again prompting the rapping of the Chief’s walking stick to restore order.

  Omereji waves a dismissive hand at the noise. ‘In the past, tensions between the Muslims and Christians were settled right here by the chief of the community. They would talk and come to agreement, but nowadays every idiot with a smartphone can post rubbish on social media, and it makes dialogue difficult. That’s what this meeting is about. Some nonsense on social media that made the Muslims angry.’

  He stops and looks at Chika and me as if waiting for questions. I’ve got a lot, but they have nothing to do with this town hall meeting and everything to do with why the townspeople thought it was okay to beat, torture and burn three young men to death. Where was the dialogue then?

  As Chika and I head back to the car, I can’t shake the feeling that Inspector Omereji’s cold eyes are following us.

  MIDNIGHT CALL

  Alone in my room, I strip to my boxers and throw myself on the bed. My last thought before drifting off is to stop complaining about the noisy, but functioning AC as it cools my sweaty body.

  I wake up a few minutes past 9 p.m. To drown out the rumble of the generator and the air conditioning, I reach for my headphones, and click on my Nina, Ella and Billie playlist.

  I prop myself against the headboard on the bed from where I can see the Post-it notes on the wall.

  I open the folder on my laptop containing the profiles of the three victims. As an investigation progresses, there is always a need to revise the composite picture of all the actors. In less than forty-eight hours, I think I have enough to revise my initial ideas regarding Winston, Bona and Kevin.

  I type quickly, not minding grammar or typos, so as not to lose the flow that sometimes inspires a deeper insight into a person or situation.

  Winston. So far, my original summations are supported by the interview I did today. To be fair, apart from his parents, I have not spoken to a friend of his or anyone who might have a contrary opinion. But the reputation of being a hellraiser and something of a party animal appears to have been well earned.

  I click on a link I had saved hurriedly the day before I left Lagos. It’s Winston’s Facebook profile. After scrolling past the several ‘never forgottens’ and RIPs that were posted on his wall, I find Winston was not much of a Facebook user. Most of his posts were pictures of himself and several people at parties. Almost all have no comments attached to them, but are linked to his Instagram page where he appears to have been more active.

  The page itself only confirms a lot of what Godwin said. Winston dressed well in most of the pictures, had multiple girls on his arms and was not camera shy. If there are any indicators in the pictures that he belonged in a secret cult, I can’t find them.

  Bona. He appears to have been more politically aware than Winston and a great admirer of President Obama since a lot of his posts were quotes from the erstwhile American President. There are also posts around local and international hip hop artists, and a lot of information about concerts on campus or the launch of a new single.

  Kevin. I must confess the young man is still an enigma to me. His Facebook page shows that he was a much-loved student and son. The outpouring of grief on his Facebook page is monumental. I scroll past innumerable eulogies that get more verbose and passionate on the one-year anniversary of the Okriki Three killings.

  If Bona was politically aware, Kevin seems to have been a bona fide activist. He had an opinion on everything, and backed it up with facts and a lot of legalese. Where Winston showed off his wardrobe on social media, Kevin showed off his intellect. Somehow, I could not picture them being connected in any way.

  Several hashtags follow a lot of Kevin’s posts. Maybe it’s my age and my late introduction to social media, but I do have an aversion to more than two or three hashtags in any given post. I am a little irritated at the almost endless number that Kevin attached to several of his posts. However, the more I scroll the greater the occurrence of one: #justice4momoh.

  I follow the links and it becomes clear that Kevin was the one who generated this hashtag in honour of a friend who died in police custody. Hmm. Interesting. I click on another link and everything but my screen goes dark around me.

  I take off my headphones, breaking off Ms Simone’s ‘I Put a Spell on You’.

  Everywhere is eerily quiet and the AC has stopped working too. I flip the switch on the bedside lamp and nothing happens. Sighing, I lie in the dark, waiting for the rumble of the generator. It’s taking longer than it usually does, so I grope around the bedside table to find my phone.

  The kids have sent text messages, and I restrain myself from calling them so late at night. I type ‘love you, miss you’ to each of them with a promise to call in the morning.

  There’s nothing from Folake, but I don’t dwell on this. I have work to do.

  It has been two quite revealing days. My encounters with Inspector Omereji, the landlady and the Registrar gave context, while the interview with Godwin raised all the right questions. Recalling his account makes me feel compelled to clarify some things with Emeka.

  I check the time. 11:17. It’s late, but he did tell me to call him anytime.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, answering at the first ring.

  ‘Emeka is a very driven man,’ I recall Abubakar saying. Clearly, but does he not sleep?

  ‘I’m fine,’ I respond. ‘Spoke to the Godwin fellow.’

  ‘Good. The Registrar came through.’

  I suspect this is Emeka’s way of hinting that he is following my progress as closely as he can from Lagos.

  ‘Yes, he did. Thanks for that.’ I pause and try to think how best to pose my questions without sounding insen
sitive. ‘This Godwin boy … He insists that he was being robbed by cult boys and –’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Even over the phone, Emeka’s irritation is clear. ‘That’s what all of them say to justify their criminal acts. While I can’t speak for the other boys, I can say with absolute certainty that my son was not a cult member.’

  ‘If he was, would you have known?’ I may be pushing a father already on edge, but I have to ask tough questions. ‘These cults are secret societies. What makes you so sure you’d have known if Kevin was a member?’

  ‘It’s not about whether he’d have told me or not. Kevin would never join a cult. He was not that type of child. Period.’

  ‘Godwin insists Bona and Winston were cult boys. Have you any idea how Kevin could have become lumped in with them?’

  ‘Is this not why I’m so perplexed?’ Emeka’s voice is close to breaking, and I almost end the conversation, unwilling to take a grieving parent down a painful path. But he continues, his voice strengthened by anger. ‘When we pointed out to the police that Godwin’s testimony clearly stated that he didn’t know how Kevin became involved, you know what they said? That the investigation was into what happened after the mob arrived at the scene, and not before. Imagine!’

  Even over the phone, Emeka’s rage is palpable and I let it run its course.

  ‘I pushed. I used all my connections to ensure that at least that lead – that loophole in the investigation – was looked into and I got nothing. They did nothing because it was easier to believe that my son was part of a cult.’

  Emeka’s frustration that despite his wealth he was unable to save his son and powerless to force a proper investigation into his death permeates all of my interactions with him. Even now, as in my previous interviews, he laments the assigning of inexperienced investigators on the case. His voice breaks when he talks about how his wife had asked for an audience with the First Lady to seek a federal investigation into the matter.