Lightseekers

by Femi Kayode

  ‘You know what she told her?’ His voice shakes as he speaks. ‘One mother to another, the so-called mother of the nation told my grieving wife that it wouldn’t be politically correct to interfere in state matters.’

  Abubakar and I had discussed this part of Emeka’s independent report. The fact that murder is a capital offence could have easily made this a federal case. The nationwide condemnation of cult activities, militant insurgency in the Niger Delta and an ongoing political feud between the Governor of the state and the President, himself an indigene of the region, meant that forcing a federal investigation into the deaths of the Okriki Three would have escalated an already tense situation. It’s a mess indeed. No wonder Abubakar has lost faith in the whole process and wanted me to take the case.

  Finally, Emeka seems to calm down and I gently steer him back to my question. ‘Are you saying you know all your son’s friends?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he says emphatically. ‘Look, Philip, I know most, if not all, my son’s friends. He used to invite many of them to Lagos to spend weekends or just stay with us to intern at the bank when the school was closed. Any friends I’ve not met, I would have heard about from Kevin himself. He never spoke of Winston and Bona.’

  ‘Then how did they end up together?’

  ‘That’s what I’m paying you to find out.’

  I don’t appreciate being spoken to in such a manner, and I let the succeeding silence drag.

  ‘Look, Philip,’ Emeka continues, in a less aggressive tone, ‘you’ve spoken to Winston’s parents. You know they think their son is capable of being in a cult, of stealing and extorting. If you speak to Bona’s mother, I’m sure she’ll say the same about her late son.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that of Kevin?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘So, why was Kevin in Okriki in the first place?’

  ‘I told you he was visiting his girlfriend. Her father and mother are teachers at the Grammar School there, so she lives off campus in Okriki.’

  While Emeka is talking, I put him on speaker and turn on the iFlashlight app on my phone. I look at my wall of Post-it notes where I had put a question mark against the name: Mercy.

  ‘I just can’t understand why her testimony is not in any of the witness accounts.’

  There’s silence on the other side.

  ‘Emeka?’

  ‘I had hoped you could do this without needing to speak to her.’

  ‘Why?’

  The heavy sigh on the other end worries me.

  ‘Emeka, are you there?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What are you not telling me?’

  ‘Mercy is at the State Psychiatric Hospital in Port Harcourt.’

  As if on cue, the generator rumbles to life and the bedside lamp comes on.

  ACT TWO

  light waves reflecting off a parabolic barrier will converge at a focal point

  A DISTURBING VIEW

  The next morning when I walk to Chika’s room, the door is ajar, and I can hear him on the phone, his voice raised.

  ‘I told you I’m not into that shit any more!’

  Although it’s been only three days since we met and I can’t claim to know that much about him, I am surprised to hear him so emotional. His voice becomes much lower when he says: ‘I know, I know … baby, please. It’ll be over soon, and I’ll be home.’

  Ah. A girlfriend, or even a spouse? I start feeling guilty for my unintentional eavesdropping, so I tap on the door and this causes it to open wider.

  ‘Yes?!’ he barks.

  I push the door more firmly.

  It’s the first time I’ve entered Chika’s hotel room, and I’ve never seen him without a shirt. But here he is, the leanest human machine I’ve ever seen, the only flaws being hints of scars on his chest and the sides of his ribcage, forcing me to look away lest I crumble to dust in envy.

  He turns sharply to pick up a shirt hanging on the chair next to the bed and I catch a glimpse of scars on his back. They are keloidal, mounds of thickened flesh that look like a 3D map. I am even more horrified at the thought of what could have caused such deep, calloused wounds.

  My gasp is instinctive and must have been loud because Chika hurriedly pulls on the light blue cotton shirt.

  ‘Good morning, sir! Did you want something?’

  ‘Err … there’s a change of plans today …’

  As he quickly buttons up the crisp shirt, I pass on what Emeka had told me about Kevin’s girlfriend.

  ‘You want to talk to her?’

  ‘I think we should. Emeka’s trying to call the parents for permission to visit her, but he says we can go on ahead to Port Harcourt.’

  ‘He thinks the parents will be okay with it?’

  ‘To be honest, he doesn’t think they’ll be, but he’ll try.’

  ‘But if he can’t get their permission, won’t it be a wasted journey?’

  ‘Even if we don’t get to talk to her, I’d like to see her, get a feel for her.’

  Chika looks at his watch as he buttons the cuffs of his shirt. ‘We should be there in less than an hour.’

  ‘Let’s meet up at the restaurant, although I’m guessing today’s breakfast won’t be as nice as yesterday’s.’

  Chika laughs but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, sir, the cook is aware of our standards now. I’ll be down in five.’

  ‘One more thing,’ I say. ‘I have been looking through the boys’ social media profiles. A particular hashtag kept popping up on Kevin’s Facebook profile. Something about justice for a Momoh guy. Some student who died in police custody.’

  ‘Here in Okriki or somewhere else?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You think it might mean something?’

  ‘It’s certainly worth exploring. If the boy died in police custody and Kevin was spearheading a campaign to investigate the police, that could explain why they looked the other way when the crowd came.’

  Chika nods, his brows furrowed. ‘Makes sense, sir. You think the police might be the ones who pointed him out to the crowd?’

  ‘Too early to say that, but I’ll like to know what happened to this Momoh and what role Kevin played in the whole thing. You said you studied computer science?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You must have contacts that can get into Kevin’s Facebook account.’

  ‘You mean hackers?’

  In the States, I wouldn’t have bothered having to explain myself to the cybercrime unit of the SFPD, but the way Chika said ‘hackers’ made me feel like I was asking for something out of the norm.

  ‘Well, yes. But if it’s a problem, I don’t want you to do anything illegal. I can also ask Emeka for his go ahead, just in case.’

  ‘I’ll ask him, sir. I know a guy. Don’t worry. Consider it done.’

  From the tone of his voice, I get that the conversation is over. I turn to leave, then stop just as he’s reaching for his cell phone again.

  ‘Chika?’

  He looks at me with an expression I can’t read. ‘Sir?’

  ‘The scars? I couldn’t help but notice …’

  ‘Oh, those?’ He scoffs and shrugs at once. ‘A long time ago. A bad car accident. I was lucky to be alive.’

  ‘An accident?’ It’s hard to reconcile what I saw with the wounds from a car accident, but he doesn’t elaborate and I am forced to leave. As I walk down the corridor, I hear the door of his room close. Firmly.

  The receptionist cum waiter from yesterday comes to me as soon as I enter the reception/restaurant/viewing room, CNN playing silently on the two TV screens. She tells me rather proudly that breakfast is ready. I offer my thanks, take a seat and ponder on what I saw in Chika’s room.

  The scars worry me and the athletic physique intrigues me. But it is the lie that alarms me. There is no way those scars were from a car accident, except if scraps of metal from the automobile had been deliberately used to etch deep wounds on his back. But you never
know. I would have liked to think that, in the brief time we’ve known each other, Chika would trust me enough to be honest, and I must admit to being a bit disappointed that this is not the case.

  My breakfast arrives just as Chika himself appears and I dig in, famished from being awake most of the night.

  ‘I wish I’d known about this PH trip yesterday,’ he says, pulling the chair opposite me, right as the waiter brings his plate of boiled yam and fried eggs. ‘If we had left earlier, we would have avoided some of the traffic I’m sure we’ll meet now.’

  ‘It’s okay. It’s not an appointment.’

  ‘Yes. But these things need to be planned. I don’t want us to get there and find that we can’t see the girl because her father won’t let us.’

  He avoids my eyes and speaks – no, whines – without the usual ‘sir’. What’s he nervous about? What I might have heard or what I shouldn’t have seen? I weigh the odds and take a gamble.

  ‘So, I couldn’t help but overhear you on the phone. Sorry. The door was open.’

  He visibly relaxes. Good call, Philip.

  ‘It’s okay. Home issues. My wife is pregnant, and I guess she’s not coping well with my absence.’

  I instantly feel ashamed that I know so little about this man who has been assisting me so well.

  ‘Wow! How far along is she?’

  ‘Seven months.’

  ‘She’s due in a couple of months. It can’t be easy.’

  ‘I know, but she also knows I need this job. We discussed it and she gave her blessing.’

  I smile at him like an elder brother with multiple experiences in the pregnancy space. ‘She’s expecting and you’re not with her. She must be lonely. Is this your first?’

  Chika nods. ‘Yes, sir. Maybe you’re right. It’s just that everything was so good when I spoke to her last night. We even discussed names for the baby. Then this morning, bang, it’s shouting, blaming and saying how selfish I am for leaving her alone. I just got tired. I guess I could have been nicer.’

  The weariness in his voice, and his despondent slouch help me set aside my uneasiness about his lie about the scars. I remember my state of mind when Folake was pregnant with the twins, so I can imagine that right now Chika’s preoccupation will be on his recent conversation with his wife.

  ‘From what I heard, I know you could’ve been nicer.’

  There’s a brief moment when it seems Chika wants to argue and defend his position. Then he seems to think better of it and instead, leans closer to me with a rueful smile.

  ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘Give her some time, then call later to apologise,’ I declare like the expert I am on these matters.

  ‘For what?’ His voice rises with belligerence.

  Lawdamercy on amateurs. I sigh and patiently explain why, in a marriage, it’s imperative that a husband learns the art of apologising for things he couldn’t tell he had done wrong. He appears to listen, and I give more free advice until we finish our breakfast and it’s time to set out for Port Harcourt.

  MURDER, SHE SAW

  The text comes as soon as we arrive at the Psychiatric Hospital. I read it out loud as Chika parks the car.

  ‘Mercy’s father says it’s not a good idea at this time.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Chika says and turns to me, ‘but we’re here now.’

  I think for a beat. I don’t know what meeting Mercy will reveal but the question of how Kevin became part of the Okriki Three niggles at me. Since reading Emeka’s report and then speaking to Godwin, all I still have are speculations, assumptions and, frankly, confusion. I hate it.

  ‘You did say you might get something from just seeing her,’ Chika cuts into my thoughts.

  I look around the hospital grounds. It’s a well-maintained, large parcel of land that’s reminiscent of mental health facilities in several of the places I have worked. Perhaps observing Mercy, even from a distance, can give me something to work with.

  ‘We are here,’ I say, turning to Chika.

  Chika nods and lets himself out of the car. I follow suit, pushing back my misgivings.

  Inside, the reception is a picture of peace and serenity. Some nurses, mostly male, pass purposefully around us into the wards. A tall, dark male receptionist stands behind a large desk, rows of filing cabinets framing his thick-set body.

  ‘Let me handle this, sir,’ Chika whispers.

  I nod and wander through a door with a ‘Visiting Room’ sign. No one but a grey-haired orderly flipping through a newspaper is there. I catch a glimpse of the sign that states the visiting hours. No wonder. We are here when visitors are not allowed. I am about to head back into reception when Chika comes over to me.

  ‘He says we can speak with her,’ he whispers hurriedly. ‘But they want to be with us.’

  I don’t want to think about what Chika may have promised or given to get this concession but if we can see or speak to Mercy under the watchful eyes of hospital staff, surely there can’t be any harm? Just a few questions. Nothing heavy.

  ‘Even better if they’re with us.’

  ‘Wait here, sir.’ Chika goes back to the reception area.

  I sit on one of the plastic chairs and bring out my iPhone. Lara sent pictures of some cooking class in school with a ‘wish you were here’ and lots of hearts in varying states of GIF animation, while the twins’ slew of emojis inspires only incomprehension.

  Nothing from Folake.

  I scroll to the message from Salome that I hadn’t responded to and type quickly.

  ‘Sorry. Things got hectic. Drinks mos def on the cards. Will let you know.’

  A smiling sunshine emoji comes back immediately. I consider calling to let her know I’m in PH and maybe we can meet.

  ‘We must hurry,’ Chika says from behind me, motioning for me to come. ‘They’re bringing her to the garden at the back.’

  I follow him and the receptionist guides us past his desk into the garden area.

  The receptionist is eager to please – confirming my suspicions of Chika’s method of persuasion – as he ushers us to a bench.

  ‘That’s her,’ he whispers and points. ‘Please be quick.’

  Look beyond the hospital overalls, and the lack of make-up or any other adornment, and it is instantly apparent that Kevin Nwamadi had great taste. Mercy Opara looks so slight, and delicate like the child she is, that I can’t help but think of my daughter. A part of me regrets doing this, but I’m tired of grasping at straws. I need to form a clearer picture of what happened to Kevin Nwamadi, and Mercy might hold the key to doing that.

  ‘She’s having a very good day today, aren’t we, Mercy?’ the female nurse accompanying her says kindly.

  Mercy smiles back and nods. I look for any sign of psychotropic medication; tremors in her extremities, dilated pupils, swollen limbs or dry lips. None.

  ‘I’m Dr Philip Taiwo,’ I say and offer a handshake.

  ‘A doctor?’ Mercy shakes my hand shyly, but she keeps smiling. ‘How nice. Did my dad send you?’

  Chika and I exchange quick looks.

  ‘Dr Taiwo is doing some research so he can write a report, and we think you can help us.’ Chika gives his name with a reassuring smile and stretches out his hand, which Mercy takes as graciously as she had mine.

  Although the receptionist and nurse have retreated to a safe distance, we know they are watching us. Mercy guides us to a bench and as we sit, it strikes me that she’s acting as if this is a social visit. So gracious is her attitude that I wouldn’t be surprised if she asked us what we would like to drink.

  ‘A report? And you think I can help?’ she asks but does not wait for an answer, ‘I don’t get many visitors. Besides Mom and Dad, and my sisters, of course.’

  ‘Why?’ I venture tentatively.

  ‘Sir, this is hardly a hotel.’

  The lucidity of the girl makes me wonder what her diagnosis might be. She appears to be very aware of her environment and circumstances. P
erhaps it’s worth the risk?

  ‘We spoke to Kevin’s father –’ I start.

  Mercy’s eyes light up. ‘Oh, Mr Nwamadi! How nice. He calls me sometimes.’

  ‘He said Kevin came to see you the day … you know, the day …’

  ‘The day he died?’

  This time, her smile is sad. ‘You can say it. I know he’s gone. It’s the memory of how he died that overwhelms me sometimes. I’ve been in and out of here three times already, but each time is shorter than the last so I think I’m getting better.’

  Even if I had received parental consent to speak to her, I had expected to tiptoe around issues. But Mercy is calm, and while she’s not eager to share, she’s not unwilling. I discreetly bring out my iPhone and start recording.

  ‘Do you mind telling us about Kevin’s visit to you that day?’ I ask.

  ‘I always wanted him to meet Papa. We’d been going out for two years, since our jambite days. I remember he was nervous about meeting my dad. Papa didn’t make things easy, but I know he was happy that I was steady.’ Mercy’s smile turns melancholy. ‘My mom had met Kevin before. I had brought him home one time when Papa travelled. My mom even found out that Kevin’s mom was her senior in high school at Umouhia. I was so happy.’

  ‘So, this encouraged you to invite Kevin to meet your dad?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. Actually, it was my mom that invited him. She said he was getting too skinny from campus food.’

  She laughs at the memory. Chika and I smile.

  ‘So, your mom invited him that day?’ I prod gently.

  ‘Yes. I was at home and we cooked while Papa acted like he was not interested. That man!’ Her affection for her father shows in the way her face lights up.

  ‘Kevin came on his own?’ I ask gently.

  ‘Yes. He came in the morning. And stayed for the whole day. He and Dad spoke about everything under the sun. We even called Kevin’s mom. It was wonderful.’

  ‘When did Kevin leave?’ I ask.

  She frowns. ‘I think about four. We had finished eating, washed the plates and all that. My dad wanted to give him a lift to campus, but Kevin said he had to go somewhere.’