by Femi Kayode
‘In Okriki?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t follow him?’
‘No!’ she exclaims, scandalised. ‘That would’ve been pushing my poor father too far. I bring my boyfriend to visit him for the first time, and then I go away with him?’
She laughs again. But this time, it’s a bit shaky. Guarded. Chika and I join in, to make her more at ease.
‘So, he left without you?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘When … when did you learn what happened?’
‘Whenever we visited each other on campus, we would call each other afterwards to be sure we got home safe. I waited for about an hour and called him just to be sure he had left Tamuno’s place and was on the way back to campus.’
‘Tamuno?’
‘The student he went to see. He didn’t pick up and I called again and again.’ Mercy shakes her head sadly. ‘But he never did.’
‘That’s when you became worried?’
‘Yes. I called and called, and when it started going to voicemail, I just knew something was wrong.’
‘What did you do?’ Chika asks. Mercy’s smile is becoming less bright, her eyelids have begun twitching slightly, and a vein throbs on her temple.
‘But,’ Mercy continues, ‘my parents had gone to church for evening service. So, I told my sisters where I was going and hailed a bike to take me to Tamuno’s place.’
That name again. ‘You know this friend Kevin went to see?’ I ask.
‘Not really. He was classmates with Kevin.’
I want to ask more questions but Mercy is already looking from us again, lost in a terrible recall that I already regret triggering. I have to find a quick way of bringing the interview to a close.
‘When I saw them … the crowd,’ Mercy continues. ‘I told the bike driver to take another route. But he refused.’
A sheen of sweat is gathering around her forehead. She is blinking rapidly, her words slowing like she is drowsy.
‘They were chanting. Singing that they’ve caught the thieves. That they’ll make them an example today. I didn’t think anything of it. You get used to riots, shouting and stuff like that around here.’
‘What did you do?’ Chika asks before I can stop him. This girl is on the edge. One wrong word and she’ll tip, so it’s best to let her lead.
‘Nothing,’ she says, frowning. ‘The bike driver drove straight towards the crowd. And then … that was when … when I saw them.’
Now Mercy is rocking like a child. I look at Chika and shake my head.
‘Who?’ he asks, ignoring my warning signals.
‘The three of them,’ Mercy answers in a faraway voice. ‘I don’t know the other two, but I saw Kevin. I ran towards the crowd and started screaming. I don’t even know what I was saying. I just know I was screaming and nobody heard me. Then I started fighting people off, and someone pushed me, and I fell … and when I could stand, the crowd had moved on with them. I called my dad and mom. But they were still in church. So, I called Kevin’s dad in Lagos and told him what was happening. He told me to run after them and convince them that Kevin was a relative or something, that he was Ikwerre, and there was no way he could be a thief. He would call the police from Lagos. I ran after them again, begging them to stop. Then someone hit me. Another person said I must be one of the loose girls that encourage the criminals to come to Okriki.’
Mercy’s thumb goes to her lips, and she starts to suck on it. Her eyes dart around like a child looking for a comfortable place to lay her head after a long day at the playground. I can’t help but think of my daughter in this moment. This has gone on long enough; I motion to the nurse just as Chika is reaching towards Mercy.
‘No! Don’t!’ I say sharply to him.
But it’s too late. Mercy is now fighting off Chika as one would an assailant, crying and trying to ward him off. The receptionist and the nurse get to us at the same time as we hear an imperious voice thunder across the garden.
‘What’s going on here?’
We turn, except for Mercy who is now sobbing in the arms of the nurse, her thumb in her mouth. An older man stands before us, his anger as clear as his booming voice.
‘Papa …’ Mercy cries, tears streaming down her face.
Mercy’s father! Instinctively, Chika and I move further away from Mercy, while the receptionist disappears and the nurse tries to appear in control.
The older man rushes to his daughter, who collapses into his arms like a doll.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I say rather feebly, even to my ears.
‘Get out of here!’ Mercy’s father thunders over his daughter’s head.
Our shame and the rage in the man’s eyes prompt us to turn and break into a run.
WETIN YOU CARRY?
‘That was a mistake,’ I say after we pass the military police barricade and Chika has discreetly passed on a two-hundred naira note. I am still quite annoyed at myself by what I let happen at the hospital, so this is the first time I’ve spoken since we left there.
‘I wouldn’t say that, sir,’ Chika says quietly, his eyes fixed on the road.
‘It was,’ I insist. ‘Given Mercy’s state of mind, we can’t even rely on her account of events.’
‘Why not, sir?’
‘Because traumatised people are not reliable witnesses.’
‘Even when their version of events matches what we know happened?’
‘Generally, yes.’
‘Is that why the police did not follow up on her story?’
I shake my head. ‘No, no. It’s only in a court of law that Mercy’s testimony can be considered admissible or not. So really, there was no excuse for the police not to follow Mercy’s testimony as a line of enquiry.’
‘Maybe her being in and out of hospital ever since the tragedy has not helped.’
I know Chika is playing devil’s advocate, given what we know about how the police handled the investigation, but I can’t help but roll my eyes and kiss my lips loudly. ‘Her being in and out of hospital served their purpose. Her version of events does not match theirs, so they disregarded it.’
‘So, you don’t think she’s lying? Or maybe that she’s not remembering things as they really happened?’
I look at him, surprised. ‘That girl came across as knowing exactly what happened. In fact, I suspect the sharpness of her memory must contribute to her current state of mind.’
Chika shrugs. ‘Just wanted to be sure, sir, because it seems you’re doubting yourself.’
‘I am doubting the wisdom of what I did back there.’
‘Did it yield something useful?’
‘Well, this Tamuno she mentioned …’ I grudgingly concede. I want to go into what I make of it when I see Chika’s frown. I follow his gaze and see three armed policemen waving us down.
‘What do you think they want?’ I ask. This is unusual indeed, especially so close to Okriki. During our drives through the town itself, I don’t remember ever seeing a police checkpoint.
‘We’ll find out,’ Chika says as he slowly steers the car to the side of the road. ‘You have some cash on you?’
I think of my one-hundred US dollar bill and nod, although this is not the emergency I had in mind when I tucked it into my wallet before leaving home.
One of the policemen walks languidly towards us. Another is on the phone, while the third waves other cars past.
‘Good afternoon, sir …’ Chika says respectfully.
‘Your particulars,’ the policeman asks in a voice that brooks no discussion. I try to gauge whether this is all part of the song and dance before asking for ‘something for the boys’, but Chika is already rummaging through the glove compartment to locate the documents for the car.
The policeman collects the stapled collection of scanned and photocopied papers, then peers at each one for an inordinate length of time. He looks at Chika several times and back at the documents.
‘Come down and open the boot,’ he orders,
then makes a show of checking the upholstery, and looking under the car seats.
‘Officer, is there anything in particular you’re looking for?’ I ask impatiently.
Chika shoots me a look that tells me to be quiet. ‘It’s okay, Officer. My friend is just in a hurry.’
The policeman gives me a dirty look and goes back to checking the documents for perhaps the hundredth time.
‘Is this your car?’ he asks coldly, and I mentally vow not to part with my emergency cash to this unpleasant creature.
‘It’s not my car, sir,’ Chika answers extra-politely. ‘I’m the driver. My Oga is in Lagos.’
‘He –’ the officer points at me, ‘is not the owner?’
‘No, sir.’
‘How will I know if the car is not stolen?’
Seriously? I almost shout out in frustration, but Chika’s quick side-eye stops me.
‘Haba, Officer!’ Chika attempts to joke in pidgin English. ‘I resemble thief?’
The policeman doesn’t laugh but answers in rapid pidgin I can barely follow. Something about armed robbers not tattooing such a vocation on their foreheads. He looks at the papers again and towards the officer on the cell phone a couple of metres away.
‘I can call the owner on the phone and let you speak to him?’ Chika suggests.
‘How will I know if the person on the other side is the real owner –?’
Either I pull out my police pass now or call Abubakar to stop this nonsense. While I am considering which would be the more effective option, the officer on the phone hangs up and walks over to Chika and the obtuse officer, collects the stapled papers from his colleague and hands them over to Chika.
‘You can go,’ he orders. Just like that.
Chika collects the papers, mumbles thanks and gets into the car.
‘What nonsense!’ I sputter in anger.
‘Please, sir, can we leave here before you say more?’ Chika reverses the car, changes gear and drives on to the road.
‘If he wanted a bribe, he should have just asked!’ I say when the police officers are well behind us. ‘Why waste our time unnecessarily?’
‘Exactly,’ Chika says. ‘They didn’t ask for anything. They just stopped us …’
‘And stopped no other car …’ My voice trails off as it hits me. ‘Delaying tactics. But for what?’
‘I suspect we’ll find out soon enough, sir,’ Chika answers drily.
I know my being black in America informs my irritation around any random police ‘stop and search’. I’ve been pulled over too many times to accept the same behaviour in my own country. But still.
‘I’m sorry, Chika. I should have guessed something was up. I should have trusted you knew what you were doing.’
Chika steals a glance at me, and nods. ‘Yes, sir,’ he says with a straight face. ‘You should have.’
I laugh out loud, and so does he.
‘Drop the “sir”, man. It’s becoming ridiculous.’
Chika considers for a beat, perhaps wondering what this shift would mean, moving forward. I try to make things light by turning up my American accent.
‘You gotta admit it’s getting really weird every time you insult me and add “sir”.’
‘Me?’ He puts on an outraged face. ‘Insult you? Never!’
But he didn’t add ‘sir’, so I just give him a disbelieving side-eye and kiss my teeth just as he turns on to the road that leads to Hotel Royale. The lightness in the air becomes instantly tense as soon as we see the maroon Mercedes Benz CLS Class parked right in front of the entrance to the hotel.
We climb out of the 4x4 and Atoka, the manager, meets us at the reception with a nervous smile. He mutters something about us having visitors, but I barely hear. My eyes are on the carefully staged scene before me. Sitting on one of the chairs facing the TV is the Chief from the town hall meeting yesterday. He doesn’t turn around, even though he must have heard the manager announce our presence. He holds his head regally, his back straight while his hand grips the head of his walking stick.
I count five men of varying ages standing silently around the Chief. Like bodyguards. One of them is Inspector Mike Omereji, dressed in civilian clothes and standing closest to the Chief. Their resemblance is even more striking at close range, and I suspect his presence might be the reason for our ‘delay’. Enough time to bring the Chief here to wait for us.
Inspector Omereji bends down to the older man. Slowly, the Chief turns and looks at me.
‘You’re the American,’ the old man announces.
‘No, sir,’ I answer smoothly. ‘I’m very Nigerian.’
The Chief smiles and raps his walking stick. As if on cue, Omereji steps back, and two men move to help the Chief stand up although I’m not sure he needs it. I walk over and bow slightly, without being so presumptuous as to offer a handshake.
‘Yoruba.’ The Chief announces when I give my name. ‘They’re good people,’ he informs the men. ‘Apart from that Awolowo, most of them were kind to us during the war.’
The men nod in understanding although, from their ages, I can’t see any who could have been born before the end of the Biafran war that I assume the Chief is referring to. Of the famed Finance Minister during the said war – Obafemi Awolowo – I’ve no clue what the older man is referring to.
‘Which part of Yoruba are you?’ the Chief asks me.
Nigerians and their tendency to seek precise ethnic identification. This trait is worse in older people, so I try to hide my exasperation.
‘I’m from Lagos, sir.’
‘Ha!’ He waves one hand dismissively. ‘Everyone claims Lagos as their own.’
I smile at the truth of this statement. ‘My great-great-grandfather came from Dahomey and settled in Lagos long before it became part of Nigeria.’
The old man nods sagely. ‘Sometimes when a place becomes as big as Lagos, it is good to remember that people were there before all the tall buildings and foreigners came.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t get your name …’ I let my voice trail off respectfully.
The old man lets out a loud laugh. ‘You must think me rude. Chief Kinikanwo Omereji, paramount chief of the Okriki people. Welcome to our town.’
I instinctively look at Mike Omereji’s impassive face. Father, grandfather or uncle?
‘You have met my son …’ The Chief moves his head towards the Inspector.
Definitely a late child. The Chief looks to be in his seventies and Inspector Omereji, despite his serious demeanour, appears to be on the early side of his thirties.
‘We’ve met, sir,’ I announce, ‘your son is a fine officer of the law.’ I ignore the Inspector’s raised eyebrow and turn to introduce the Chief to Chika, but before I can, the man speaks.
‘Take a drive with me, Dr Taiwo,’ the Chief announces.
‘A drive?’ I ask, but the Chief is already walking out of the hotel lobby, passing Chika whom he doesn’t acknowledge and the hotel manager, to whom he gives a short, imperious wave. His entourage follows, carefully measuring their steps so as not to walk ahead of him and leaving me with Omereji.
I look at Chika, who looks at the Inspector.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Omereji says brusquely and motions for me to follow him.
A MAN OF THE PEOPLE
The Chief gets into the back seat of the Mercedes Benz and one of the men holds open the other rear door for me. I get in beside the Chief, Omereji sits in the front passenger seat, and, after all the doors are closed, the driver reverses out of the compound. I see the other men get into a modest Mazda and follow us.
The Chief turns to me. ‘How are you enjoying our town?’
He knows I’m not in Okriki for its tourist attractions, but I play along.
‘It’s lovely. Very quiet.’
‘After Lagos, our town must be heaven,’ he says and, without missing a beat, he tells the driver, ‘take the road past the market.’ He turns back to me. ‘I’m told you are here to find out what h
appened to those hooligans who were terrorising our community.’
I try not to show my surprise at the directness. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as to call them that, sir. They were students of –’
‘I know what they were. Even a thief is someone’s child. This community has suffered a lot at the hands of students from that school.’
‘So, I hear, sir.’ Passive-aggressive might be my best line of defence.
‘But you don’t believe?’
‘No one has really spoken to me since I got here.’
‘And no one will if they know why you are here.’
I face him squarely. ‘If I may, sir, why do you think I’m here?’
‘To find trouble? Divide us with your doubt and make the world hate my people even more.’
‘It’s a report I am writing, sir. Hardly a judgement.’
‘Anything on paper is a judgement of some kind.’
I consider this weird logic and decide the old man might have a point. I change tactics.
‘But, Chief,’ I say earnestly, ‘I’m not here to cause trouble. What I’m doing may even help the community.’
The Chief raises an eyebrow so high it almost reaches his hairline.
‘Sir, surely you must want to know why your people would be so cruel.’
‘Justice is not cruel, it is the lack of it that breeds cruelty,’ the Chief pronounces.
My genuine curiosity forces frankness. ‘Does the town really think jungle justice was the best way to have handled the boys even if they were, as you say, hooligans?’
The Chief shrugs. ‘Jungle justice is better than no justice.’
‘They could’ve been handed over to the police if –’
‘Stop here.’
I stop talking instinctively before I realise that the Chief was speaking to the driver, who’s now bringing the car to a slow halt.
‘Come,’ he says and this time, I think he’s talking to me.
The driver comes to help the Chief out of the car. I look at Inspector Omereji in the rear-view mirror askance. He shrugs as if to say, you’re on your own. I get out too and stand next to the Chief.