Lightseekers

by Femi Kayode

  I shake my head. ‘But if they came to buy drugs, why bring a gun? They’re customers after all.’

  Tamuno shrugs. ‘Who knows with that boy? Some people say he was owing Winston money and they wanted drugs as payment and he refused. And if Kevin was there confronting him about his role in Momoh’s death, I imagine Godwin was feeling threatened on all sides. Everything must have been too much for his drug-crazed mind. He cried for help and the townspeople rushed to the compound. The rest is …’

  Tamuno shakes his head sadly, looking very near tears. There is a brief silence as I allow him to compose himself.

  ‘You were supposed to meet Kevin. Why weren’t you there? Where were you?’

  Tamuno breathes in deeply and exhales. ‘Maybe it’s all my fault, sir.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I ask.

  ‘Because that day I had a lot of classes that ran over and I called Kevin to postpone, but he said he was already on his way there. I begged him to wait, but he refused.’

  I can believe this about Kevin Nwamadi, having met his father.

  ‘So, you never saw what actually happened?’ Chika asks before I can counsel the young man not to beat himself up over something he clearly had no control over.

  Tamuno shakes his head, and exhales deeply.

  ‘You never shared this information with the police?’ Chika asks.

  ‘I did, sir!’ Tamuno insists as if we would contradict him. ‘I swear I went there myself the very next day after the tragedy and asked to speak to the investigating officer. I told him what I knew, but he said it was all conjecture since I was not actually there. I went as far as telling him the reason he didn’t want to take my testimony was because it proved that Godwin may have used the police to get rid of Momoh. He sent me away and told me to come back when I was ready to tell the truth.’

  Even if Inspector Omereji was not around when this might have happened, it doesn’t quell my anger every time I consider the role – or lack thereof – of the police in all this. Such compelling account from someone like Tamuno would have gone a long way to shed more light on what happened that October day.

  ‘Thank you so much, Tamuno,’ I say. ‘You’ve really been a great help.’

  Tamuno nods and his eyes brim with tears. ‘I am just glad someone finally hears me. I know it can’t bring Kevin or the other guys back, but it’s the least I can do.’

  I don’t have much else to ask the young man because all I can think of is how badly I need to speak with Godwin again.

  FINGER OF SUSPICION

  I call Tom Ikime’s office as soon as we drop Tamuno off at Harcourt Whyte Hall. The secretary says he’s not available. I request the letter for the Dean of the Law Faculty, to which she responds that it is not ready yet. I hide my exasperation and ask her to relay my intention to interview Godwin again.

  ‘I’ll let him know, sir.’ The secretary hangs up without saying goodbye.

  I put the phone away, irritated.

  ‘We can drive to his hall,’ Chika says.

  ‘You know it?’ I am surprised, even though by now I know I shouldn’t be.

  ‘If we ask around, someone can tell us where he’s staying.’

  I’m sure Chika’s right, but the registrar might not be as understanding if we speak to Godwin without his consent or prior knowledge.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel. Before we see Godwin again, I want us to be sure what we want him to clarify.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Tamuno’s recollection of events aligns with Mercy’s, but could it also be that Godwin does not recall the events as they happened because he was high?’

  ‘Could be, but he has had a year and a half to re-evaluate his testimony and he didn’t. He insists that he does not know how Kevin came to be at the compound. His story checks out and matches the timeline of events down to the Momoh incident. It finally makes sense why the police did not help out when they realised Kevin was involved.’

  I agree. But it is all too easy. That three lives were lost because of Godwin’s lies seems too convenient. Besides, I refuse to be arrogant enough to think I have found the answers in less than four days when even Emeka’s months-long independent investigation could not uncover the truth of what led to the events of that day.

  We are driving past the campus bus stop on the way out of the main gates when I’m struck by a thought.

  ‘Is it always like this?’ I ask, looking around at the rows of cars and motorbikes.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Not busy.’

  ‘It is busy,’ Chika answers and slows the car. ‘Public transport is not allowed on campus. These are the accredited taxi drivers. This is as busy as it gets.’

  ‘And the bikes? They also go off campus?’

  ‘If you pay enough, but mostly they’re for within-campus trips. There’s no reason to take them for off-campus trips unless you’re in a big hurry.’

  I observe the orderly way the taxis move along and away as they get filled. Chika is right.

  ‘If this is as busy as it gets here, there would have been no reason for Bona and Winston to take a bike.’

  ‘I agree,’ Chika says. ‘And since it was a weekend and even less likely to be busier than this, they most likely got into a taxi as soon as they walked here from the hall.’

  I press the stopwatch on my phone as we drive out of the campus. ‘I reckon it should not take more than fifteen to twenty minutes to walk from Whyte Hall to the bus stop. Add that to the time they left, so they got in a taxi say at 4:20-ish?’

  Chika nods. ‘Makes sense …’

  I am still calculating how long it must have taken Bona and Winston to get to Okriki as we drive into town. When we drive past the police station towards Godwin’s old compound, I check my stopwatch.

  ‘Seventeen minutes from the taxi rank,’ I say, frowning. ‘Do the taxis drop passengers at their destinations or only at the bus stop?’

  ‘It depends. Everyone could go as far as the last stop, but if your destination is on the route, you’ll be dropped there.’

  I look back at the police station, and again, the feeling that this is all too easy hits me. Even trying to match the timelines of the boys’ arrival in Okriki seems unnecessary if, in fact, Godwin was lying about everything.

  ‘Let’s pay our friends at the police a quick visit.’

  Chika does not argue as he turns the car round. Perhaps it’s the time of day, but the station is relatively empty. The rude rookie is absent and we’ve never seen the bored-looking officer at the front desk, who doesn’t keep us waiting after confirming that the Inspector can see us briefly.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Chika’s tone is hushed as we walk past the holding cells towards Omereji’s office.

  ‘No.’ I slow my steps but speak in a rush. ‘He wasn’t here when all this happened, but I want to get an idea what he knew and buried, and what he flat out refused to explore further.’

  ‘That’s a lot.’

  ‘Let’s just say after speaking with Tamuno, I’m feeling lucky.’

  Minutes later, Inspector Mike Omereji’s derisive laughter fills his office. ‘Is that the best you can come up with?’

  ‘That’s not a denial,’ I say, holding his gaze.

  ‘Because there’s nothing to deny,’ he answers sharply.

  ‘You have to admit it’s not looking good for the police …’ Chika says from where he stands at the door of Omereji’s office.

  ‘I was not talking to you,’ Omereji snaps at him.

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ Chika says very softly, and despite knowing he’s not speaking to me, I feel a chill go down my spine.

  ‘You’re in my office,’ Omereji says, matching his tone.

  ‘And you’re a public servant who has no reason to speak to me like that,’ Chika shoots back.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ I raise my voice to cut the tension between them as they look like starving dogs about to tear each other apart.
/>   Inspector Omereji hisses, ‘This conversation is over. And for the record, so is any other conversation with you two in future. You may leave.’

  ‘Inspector, we just want some answers,’ I say.

  ‘You’re throwing accusations around.’

  ‘We’re telling you what we found out!’ My voice rises despite my best efforts. ‘This boy Momoh Kadiri was arrested by the police here. He was put in custody, he had an asthma attack and died.’

  ‘The police gave him asthma?’

  I ignore the sarcasm. ‘He didn’t get treatment –’

  ‘And what has this got to do with the Okriki Three?’ Omereji cuts in again.

  ‘We know Kevin started a social media movement to make the police take responsibility for what happened to Momoh,’ Chika says. ‘The #justice4momoh campaign was gaining traction –’

  ‘Where?’ Omereji asks with derision. ‘On campus? With his fellow troublemakers and cultists?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whose attention it gained,’ I snap, beside myself with irritation. ‘It did gain attention and the police didn’t like that.’

  ‘So, we set him up? The police somehow managed to frame him for armed robbery, set the whole town on him to beat and burn him and his friends to death?’

  I take a deep breath and try another tactic. ‘You were not even here when it happened. All we’re asking is that you look –’

  ‘Dr Taiwo, you’re accusing the police of murder and conspiracy. I am the highest-ranking officer in this station; pardon me if I take offence on behalf of the force.’

  ‘Hear me out,’ I say, reaching out my hand conciliatorily. ‘We’re not saying the police set up the boys. We’re saying – no, suggesting, that perhaps they were not motivated to help them when they realised Kevin was one of them.’

  ‘Dr Taiwo, it was a mob. An angry mob. Do you really think anyone had the presence of mind to be that calculating?’

  ‘But you’re not denying it,’ I insist.

  ‘Okay, amateurs,’ the Inspector sits back on his chair, his smile now patronising. ‘Let me ask you just two questions, and if you can answer them, I’ll oblige you further. Ready?’

  Chika and I are silent. Omereji forges on.

  ‘One: this Momoh boy was arrested on a tip-off. I read the report. Has anybody ever wondered who tipped the police off?’

  ‘The police said it was anonymous,’ I answer.

  The Inspector scoffs, ‘An anonymous tip simply means there’s someone who has something at stake in divulging a piece of information. Furthermore, the police tried to find out who called in this tip about this specific person, and the closest we got was a random prepaid number that was not even registered with the network provider.’

  ‘That’s convenient,’ Chika says and I shoot him a warning glance.

  Inspector Omereji doesn’t acknowledge the interruption. ‘Two: if the court had already ruled that Momoh’s death was accidental, how damaging do you think the police would have considered Kevin’s campaign on social media?’

  ‘He’s from a powerful family. He could have attracted more attention than someone from a less influential family,’ I counter.

  ‘Nonsense. Kevin Nwamadi’s pedigree was not advertised on his Facebook page. He was just a student making noise about the death of another student. Simple. You think the police cared enough to have him killed him for that?’

  ‘Look, Mike,’ I pause. ‘I can call you Mike, right?’ I don’t wait for his answer. ‘All we’re asking is for you to consider the options. A lot of unanswered questions are coming up in this case and I’m hoping that your sense of responsibility will make you want to find some answers. Just consider the possibility that there is a conspiracy within your team. Let me speak with the investigating officers, give me the contact information of the officer who was redeployed. Let me –’

  ‘No.’ His tone is flat and final.

  ‘And you wonder why we would suspect the police of foul play?’

  ‘When you first came here, I told you not to go opening old wounds. Now you’re asking my help to do exactly what I told you not to do.’

  I am suddenly tired of Omereji’s stubbornness. Besides, I had come here on intuition without a clear strategy, so the futility of this conversation is becoming apparent. I stand.

  ‘Just think about it. We’re on the same side here.’

  ‘Are we?’ Omereji’s gaze is hostile.

  ‘Let’s go, Chika.’

  ‘Have you told him yet, Chika?’ Omereji says, when we get to the door. ‘Have you told the good doctor who you are?’

  ‘Who am I?’ There’s a challenge in Chika’s tone.

  The Inspector gives a cruel smile and sits back in his chair watching us. ‘A dropout playing at being a detective.’

  I grab Chika’s arm and shake my head at Inspector Omereji. ‘That’s uncalled for –’

  Chika tries to shake off my hold but I press tighter.

  ‘Please, Chika,’ the Inspector says from his desk, ‘as they say in the movies, make my day. There’s a very friendly group of men in the holding cell willing to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Chika!’ I pull harder and Chika relents, jerks his hand out of mine and walks out.

  ‘What did you mean by all that?’ I ask Omereji.

  ‘You’re the investigator,’ he says. ‘Go investigate. I am just suggesting you start in your own backyard.’

  NA ME KILL THEM?

  Too much has happened today and I am burning with curiosity, but I need to focus on my real task in Okriki, so I don’t confront Chika to ask what Omereji meant. I get in the Land Cruiser and point in the direction of the compound.

  ‘Let’s get closer.’

  Wordlessly, Chika drives there and parks across from the building, which looks as desolate as the first time we were here. I alight and Chika follows.

  ‘It couldn’t have taken them more than forty minutes to get here from Whyte Hall. Matches Godwin’s report that they got to his house around five.’

  ‘He remembered the exact time Bona and Winston got here even under such stressful circumstances,’ Chika says pointedly.

  ‘Not too much of a stretch actually,’ I say, squinting at a sun so harsh even my sunshades can’t protect me. ‘For one thing, he’s been asked that question so many times, one can conclude that he’s had to become sure of his facts to support his claims. Besides, I think it’s normal to recall to the last second when someone pulls a gun at you.’

  ‘And not recall when a whole human being joined the party?’

  ‘He said he doesn’t know,’ I point out. ‘Not that he can’t remember …’

  Chika snorts. ‘I would love to put him and Tamuno in the same room.’

  I am about to say that might not be a bad idea when I catch a glimpse of Madam Landlady coming from behind the house, a large wrapper tied around her bosom. She’s holding a machete. She heads straight for us and her aggressive manner indicates that she now knows our real purpose in Okriki.

  ‘You again!’ she shouts, coming at us. ‘Troublemakers!’

  ‘Madam …’ I start placating.

  ‘Madam your mama! Get out of my compound now – now!’

  ‘Technically, we’re outside your compound,’ Chika says calmly.

  The landlady’s rage reaches a boiling point. ‘You want to lawyer me on my own property?’ She turns her head and raises her voice. ‘Dem don come again oh! People come help me oh! Dem don come again!’

  Chika and I run to the Land Cruiser and quickly get in.

  ‘You dey run? Come back now! Troublemakers! People come help me oh!’

  She’s screaming at the top of her lungs, every part of her body shaking with anger as she waves the machete at our car. Three, then four people have come out, more curious than threatening, but none implore the landlady to calm down. Chika roughly reverses on to the road as Madam Landlady keeps yelling for the benefit of the onlookers.

  ‘Troublemakers! Leave me alone! Na me k
ill them? Have I not paid enough?! Leave me alone! Wetin you want from me again?’ She’s screaming so vigorously that I’m afraid her wrapper will fall off.

  Even when Chika turns a corner and the landlady is out of sight, her shrill voice and angry face stay with me as we head back to Hotel Royale. Today confirms that her bravado on our first meeting was an act. If anyone was feeling the impact of the Okriki Three tragedy in the town, it’s people like the landlady who have lost income, reputation and peace of mind.

  As much as I try to dredge up some compassion for her, I can’t help but be irritated at the rashness of her actions. The mindless rage on her face when she came towards us must be reminiscent of the anger several of her neighbours had at the first sound of gunshots and Godwin’s screams.

  This immediate violent reaction to almost everything in Nigeria is something I can’t get used to. So much aggression and anger in the air. There are places where I feel this kind of agitation in the States. Visits to New York leave me in a perpetual state of anxiety and my twin brother who lives in Chicago can’t get me to spend more than a night in his house. So, I understand how crime drives uneasiness in most large cities. I also know how recurring crimes can determine the emotional state of a community. But Okriki is not a large city. Yet, there’s a rage here that seems directed at everything and everyone, all at once.

  ‘Why are they so angry?’ I muse aloud.

  ‘Because there’s no reason to be happy?’ Chika answers drily. ‘Look around you. There’s no electricity, the schools are run-down, there’s no running water, no security …’

  ‘Is that any reason to turn on each other?’ I ask, pained by the all too real picture Chika is painting.

  ‘Let’s be clear, they are turning on strangers, or anyone who they don’t consider part of their community. Perhaps it’s because strangers represent oil companies with head offices in Europe and America. Or even the government and politicians far away in Abuja. When they run out of outsiders to take their anger out on, maybe then they’ll turn on each other,’ he hisses as he finishes.