Lightseekers

by Femi Kayode

  ‘What if they bought it specifically for the sting?’

  ‘Then it would demonstrate what made this sting different!’

  ‘Ah. You want to act on Godwin’s testimony. But you said he is unreliable.’

  ‘Yes, he is … but his testimony that Kevin was not part of the shakedown is corroborated by Mercy’s version of events.’

  ‘Another unreliable witness,’ Chika says ruefully.

  ‘Two unreliable witnesses who don’t know each other having the same version of events certainly makes the story a lot more credible …’

  I walk to the wall again. My eyes are drawn to the layout of Madam Landlady’s rooms.

  ‘We need to find this Tamuno individual.’

  Chika stands to join me. ‘That is a relatively common name in these parts. Even here,’ he points at the long list of names of the people interviewed by the police. Three pages of dozens of names. ‘There are at least six Tamunos.’

  ‘All students living in the compound?’ I squint at the layout of the house, looking for a ‘T’ in the initials written in the square boxes representing the students’ rooms. There are ten Ts.

  Chika frowns as he peers at the list. ‘There are two students here named Tamuno, but remember this list was compiled by the police. Can we trust it?’

  ‘We can’t but two’s manageable.’ I pick up red and orange blocks of Post-it notes. ‘So? Red flag or don’t know?’

  Chika considers for a beat. ‘I’d say red flag but considering it’s information from Mercy and the police …’

  I nod. ‘Yeah. Let’s err on the side of caution.’

  I write ‘Tamuno’ with a question mark on the orange block, tear off the Post-it note and hand it to Chika to stick on the wall. He pours more whiskey for both of us and we continue deliberating into the night.

  By the time Chika leaves my room, it’s well past midnight. The bottle of Jameson is now half empty, and I suspect Chika’s not much more sober than me, since he seemed to have forgotten to take it with him. I crash on the bed, feeling light-headed and rather pleased with myself, considering what a disaster the earlier part of the day had been.

  I reach for my phone, preparing my goodnight message to the kids even if it’s way past their bedtime. There’s a message notification waiting, so I click on it. My heart sinks.

  ‘What did I do so wrong that you’d forget today?’

  A BOY IN HAVANA

  I am now officially John Paul Afini-Clark.

  It had taken thousands of naira, a willing local government clerk in Owerri, patience and a lot of follow-ups to ensure that against my given name the record is marked ‘deceased’ and new documents have been prepared in the name of John Paul Afini-Clark. I have a birth certificate, signed affidavits that my parents were dead and that other documentation of my identification was lost in a flooding disaster that drowned them and my two siblings a decade and half earlier.

  But I didn’t plan on being summoned by Amaso on the same day my local government clerk called to say the papers are ready for collection. So, I hire a motorbike from Owerri to PH, and wait around the city centre for the late-night appointment.

  Havana is the picture of a once affluent middle-class neighbourhood gone to the dogs. Tell a taxi you’re going to Havana, and you will get a double take and double the fare. Hail a motorbike, you will pay through your nose, and the driver will most likely ask to be paid before allowing you on the bike. And when you get to your destination, be ready to get off at the speed of light or you will fall off the bike as the driver speeds away.

  The dangers of the neighbourhood do not faze John Paul as he gets off the motorbike and walks towards Amaso Dabara’s house. Five years of being the drug lord’s most profitable distributor has its benefits.

  ‘I hope you came with a plan, Aboi,’ Amaso says when John Paul stands in front of him, surrounded by groupies and thugs, all high on the drugs Amaso provides to keep them on his leash.

  John Paul’s face does not betray his hatred of the kingpin’s nickname for him. From the beginning of their relationship, Amaso insisted on calling him ‘a boy’.

  ‘I have, if you’ll go for it.’

  The pungent smells of cigarette and marijuana fill the air. Amaso himself is dressed in loose linen trousers and nothing else but a large gold necklace. His jutting ribs look like gnarled fingers gripping the Star of David pendant hanging on his sunken chest.

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ Amaso says.

  John Paul proceeds to outline the plan.

  ‘You trust them?’ Amaso asks when John Paul is done talking.

  ‘They’ve been buying from me for years and as far as I can tell, none of them are users themselves. So, yes, they’re reliable.’

  ‘Not like that Godwin boy?’

  John Paul tries to keep his voice regretful. We both knew Godwin would come up.

  ‘Godwin was a mistake, but he no longer sells for me. I told you.’

  Amaso shakes his head, displacing the cloud of weed smoke around him. ‘You should have let me deal with him when he exposed us like that.’

  John Paul stays quiet. They’ve been through this before, and John Paul has learnt not to rise to the bait.

  ‘These buyers,’ Amaso breaks the long silence, ‘they want to up their game? Become direct suppliers?’

  ‘I’ve sounded them out but they are scared of you.’

  ‘They should be –’ Amaso says arrogantly.

  ‘Which is why you should meet them,’ John Paul cuts in. ‘Talk to them. Reassure them that you’ll take care of them as long as they keep the supply chain going.’

  ‘How can I trust you? You promised to wait another year before graduating –’

  ‘You asked me but I never promised. Besides, how would a first-class student who suddenly fails his finals look?’

  ‘Stop boasting.’

  ‘I’m just stating the facts,’ John Paul says without guile.

  ‘I want guarantees before I let you go.’

  We anticipated this. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Something on these guys to keep them in check.’

  John Paul turns to take his backpack off. He bends to open it, aware that the bodyguards are on high alert. Slowly, he brings out the hard drive and hands it to Amaso.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Information. Their names. All past transactions. Their full background and how much they each sell on a monthly basis.’

  Amaso turns the hard drive this way and that. ‘Is it enough?’

  ‘You can be the judge of that.’

  ‘Bring them here.’

  ‘They are too scared. You come to them. Meet them in my room. That will reassure them.’

  Amaso has to agree to the plan, but John Paul must not push. Amaso is unpredictable and resents being told what to do.

  We wait.

  ‘When?’ Amaso eventually asks into a cloud of weed smoke.

  THE CULT OF DISTINGUISHED GENTLEMEN

  For the first time in seventeen years, I forgot our wedding anniversary, and the psychologist in me can’t help but wonder if there’s a Freudian logic to this.

  I could make the excuse that yesterday was perhaps the busiest day since I began the investigation. But, if I am being honest, I know my current lack of marital harmony is making me a willing hostage of the Okriki Three’s web of intrigue.

  To counter my rising guilt, I give in to irritation. She could have called. Or texted a ‘happy anniversary!’ No, instead, she waited till the end of the day, well after I lost any chance of redemption, before sending her damning message.

  What did I do so wrong …? I snort. So, she knows she did something wrong? Or was this a lawyer’s trick – asking a leading question? No doubt, Folake knows something is wrong, given my behaviour over the past couple of weeks, but I wasn’t sure she knew that it was because of her until this text message.

  Was there a part of me that wanted her to know that I know? Did I forget yesterday was my anniversary be
cause I didn’t want to remember?

  My thoughts descend to ramblings as I move from tipsy to drunk. The next thing I know, I’m locked in the Land Cruiser. I try to get out, but all the doors are jammed. My knuckles hurt from punching the unyielding glass. I see Folake and Mercy pointing accusing fingers at me. I can’t hear them but they’re angry at me.

  Mercy’s father appears with a plastic jerrycan and starts dousing the car. I bang harder on the windows. Folake and Mercy are still shouting words I cannot hear and ignoring my pleas. I see the Chief, Inspector Omereji and several others, including Madam Landlady. They are all raising fists, chanting something that seems to encourage Mercy’s father to light a match and throw it towards the car, a malevolent smile on his face. I scream and –

  Wake up.

  I hold my pounding head, stagger to my suitcase and retrieve a bottle of aspirin. I down three tablets with copious amounts of water, then check the time. Less than two hours before I’m supposed to meet Chika at reception.

  I take a long shower and as my headache recedes, I decide to do some research to prepare for the day. I started typing ‘cultism’ in my search browser and remembered my father’s disapproval of the word, so I changed it to ‘confraternities in Nigerian universities’ and ninety minutes later, I’m as horrified as I am informed.

  My shock at knowing my father’s involvement in a fraternity during his university days was informed solely by urban legends. These were stories that were shared as whispers amongst Nigerian high school students as they prepared for university. They were like the bogeyman, folklore even, told to young boys to caution them when they became freshmen about the dangers of joining what had descended into being a ‘cult’. Factually, I knew very little, and to be honest, based on what I am reading on the Internet, ignorance is indeed bliss.

  According to Wikipedia, the first known confraternity was formed at my father’s alma mater, the University College, Ibadan, by no less than the Nobel laureate Wole Soyinka with six other students. Their Pyrates Confraternity was initially punted as a fraternity of promising young students that challenged the status quo, and was later registered as The National Association of Seadogs. They had a code of conduct and language that was reminiscent of European pirate-speak, complete with a skull-and-crossbones logo.

  More clicks later, and it’s unbelievable how something that started out as a fraternity of elite students in the fifties transformed into such a nationwide network of mayhem, which is now popularly referred to as ‘cultism’. Every campus in Nigeria seems to have reported some kind of cult violence over the years. From north to south, the confraternities have taken such violent paths that most universities have a zero-tolerance policy against them. This has driven the fraternities underground, making the ‘secret’ part of their names the norm.

  On getting to the tale of a decapitated head impaled on a spike at the entrance gates of the University of Port Harcourt, I decide I’ve read enough. I check my watch. I still have some time before meeting Chika, so I call my father.

  He is already at work, but he takes my call and, after some awkward questions as to my well-being and how the investigation is progressing, I take the plunge.

  ‘Dad, about the cults, sorry, fraternities. Did you … were you ever involved in the kind of violence that I’ve been reading about?’

  I hear a long sigh on the other side of the line. ‘Kenny, I told you, in our days it was not a cult.’

  ‘What was it then?’

  ‘We prided ourselves on being a group of distinguished gentlemen, of high moral standards and exemplary academic records.’

  ‘What went wrong? When did it become what it is today?’

  Another long silence. I can picture him pulling at his impeccably knotted tie while reclining on the ergonomic leather chair my sister Kenny Girl had presented him for his seventieth.

  ‘When I entered the university, the country was a new nation, and the inequalities in the system were endemic. Most of us were the first in our families to go to university. We had an obligation to change things. Some of us were active in the unions, others took to writing articles, and others, well, we became political activists, effectively becoming an opposition to an authoritarian government.’

  ‘That’s not different from how most undergraduates think in any society. They are usually idealists.’

  ‘And we were. But we did do things. We created awareness for a lot of what was going on then. I think the problem was that we were too successful.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘By the time I left med school, the naira was one to the British pound and worth more than the US dollar. The country was rolling in oil money and there was aid from the global community to rebuild the country after the war. I think we all thought our jobs were done and so we did not put in place any structures before handing over the reins of the fraternities to the younger ones. Maybe we thought they would self-organise like we did. Or we just didn’t think. The point is, the ones that came after us had no battle to fight, no wrong to right and no responsibility to improve a society that was clearly on the rise.’

  ‘Rebels without a cause?’

  ‘Exactly. At least that’s how I see it. Many of us went abroad for further studies, and others were too busy with their new lives in a prosperous nation. By the time we all realised that what we had created in the universities had become this many-headed monster, it was too late.’

  ‘But the country has not always been prosperous, Dad. The naira did plunge and there were several military coups.’

  ‘Which all made the students who came after us lose faith in our generation. We messed up, Kenny. When the fraternities became cults, I think it was almost like the younger generation was giving us the middle finger.’

  ‘What if Kevin was indeed part of a cult?’ I ask. ‘What if all this happened to Emeka’s son because he did indeed do what he was accused of?’

  ‘Son, I didn’t persuade you to take this job to find out if that boy was in a cult. I wanted you to find out why the boy was killed because I could see how the tragedy was eating at Emeka, literally killing him before our very eyes.’

  ‘So, this is a mission to save Emeka?’

  ‘You could say that. It’s what we’ve always done ever since his father died.’

  While I find this code of looking out for each other quite admirable, I can’t shake the feeling that my dad is not telling me everything. I know him too well – when he waxes philosophical, it’s usually because he is deflecting. But time is passing and I know Chika will be waiting for me, so I thank my dad and sign off quickly.

  We skip breakfast – although I drink a large cup of the bad coffee to ease the light throbbing in my head – and by quarter past eight, we are driving towards TSU.

  I bring out my notepad and Chika groans. I look at him with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘When you bring that out, it means you didn’t sleep.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t … At least not enough.’ I flip through my notes. ‘Do we know the number of fraternities that TSU has?’

  ‘Fraternities? Is that what we’re calling them now?’

  I can’t tell him about my dad, and his sensitivities about cults versus fraternities. ‘Cult then,’ I correct myself, not looking up. ‘So, is it possible to know how many there are?’

  ‘There’ll be all the ones that have national representations on all campuses …’

  ‘Like the Pyrates?’

  ‘Yes, the Vikings, Black Axe and Mafia –’

  ‘And there’ll be the ones that are specific to TSU?’ I interrupt as I look through my notes.

  ‘Chances are.’ Chika nods. ‘Most cults are formed in retaliation to another one. It’s very likely that some disgruntled members of an existing cult decided to form their own and it’s yet to have representation in other universities.’

  ‘And all these cults, they’re only guys?’

  ‘Female students also have theirs but definitely not as violent as t
he boys. Usually, it’s the girlfriends of the members of one cult that join the female versions,’ Chika says, as he makes a turn and the university entrance comes into view.

  ‘If the Okriki Three were part of a cult, any chance we can find out which one?’

  ‘You’ll hear rumours.’ Chika shrugs as he drives through the massive entrance gates. ‘The students will whisper some names.’

  ‘But we won’t be able to confirm which one?’

  He gives his trademark shrug again. ‘It’s a secret, after all.’

  A TRIBE APART

  The Harcourt Whyte Hall of the State University is named after a songwriter who was diagnosed with leprosy and ostracised from his community for over three decades. In that time Harcourt formed a choir with other lepers and created over 600 hymns. Ironically, it was not the disease that killed him, but a car accident in 1977.

  This residential hall was where Winston, Bona and Kevin lived at the time of their deaths. Using my interviewee list, selected names from the police case file and information which Tom Ikime had ordered his secretary to give me plus the university’s report on the Okriki Three, I was able to deduce that Winston had two official roommates and three squatters at the time of his death. Two of them are currently in their final year, and still reside in the hall. None of Bona’s roommates are currently students, but we have the name of one of his course mates who occupied the room next to him. Since Kevin resided in a single room and had no squatter, there is no one to interview.

  We park in front of the hall’s entrance and I look around while Chika goes to ask the security guard for directions and any information that will jumpstart our interviews.

  After a few minutes Chika comes over to where I am standing in the parking lot, smiling, with a piece of rumpled paper in his hands. He tears the paper into two and hands me one half.

  ‘The Security Guard knows the students we want to talk to and most of their room numbers.’

  On my half are three names with a set of numbers against two.

  ‘I’m guessing you have no lead on our Tamuno guy.’