by Femi Kayode
‘You keep saying that. Do you know something you’re not telling me?’ There’s a challenge in my tone, and perhaps this is when I expect Chika to explain what the Inspector had meant at our last meeting. But, clearly not now because Chika keeps his face on the road and shrugs as if to say ‘whatever’.
I would have pushed further, but we are now at the police station. I flick a quick glance at Chika and wonder if the heightening stakes in this case worry him more than he cares to show. Having a baby on the way and discovering that your life might be in danger do not make good bedfellows.
‘Let me talk to Omereji. Get a feel for where his head’s at with this new information. Then we’ll know better what we’re dealing with.’ My reassuring tone does not seem to have much effect on Chika. He simply reaches under the driver’s seat and hands me the black plastic bag.
I quickly check the .45 to be sure it’s empty and the safety catch is on. I wrap it back in the bag and slide it into the waistband of my trousers, pulling my shirt over it as soon as I get out of the Land Cruiser.
The police station is full of noise and shouting when I walk in, a senior officer banging on his desk with a baton, shouting ‘Order!’ repeatedly, as if he’s a judge or bailiff. I notice some of the Muslim men that Chika and I had seen at the community hall.
‘If the police won’t protect us, we will have to protect ourselves!’
‘What is the danger to protect you from?’ the officer sneers.
All the men raise their voices and speak at once. There’s more banging of the baton on the desk and there’s a measure of silence. The lead complainant amongst the men pushes a cell phone into the face of the Baton Banger.
‘Have you seen this? This is what they’re saying about us. Our lives are in danger!’
More ruckus erupts and I decide I’ve seen enough. Clearly, the meeting at the community hall didn’t resolve the conflict between the Christians and Muslims. And from the look on the faces of the officers as they observe the aggrieved Muslim men, it won’t be resolved here either.
I shake off my misgiving at the scene before me and head to the rookie’s desk. He looks at me with as much animosity as at our first encounter.
‘I would like to see Inspector Omereji,’ I say without bothering to greet him.
My voice must have carried as silence descends on the room. All eyes look in my direction.
‘The Inspector?’ I prod, keeping my voice even. ‘Is he in?’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘Then, you will wait like everybody else.’ He turns his face to some scribbles he is making in a logbook.
‘Who else is waiting to see him?’
The rookie looks around.
‘You? Aren’t you here to see the Inspector?’
He’s pointing at a youth who is sitting on the floor with a broken tooth and a bloody nose. His swollen eye is half closed and I can’t tell whether he is reporting an assault or he has been dragged to the station for further punishment for a crime he must have committed at a bar or the marketplace.
‘Me? Yes. I want to see the Inspector,’ the youth responds with a slight slur. Definitely an altercation at a beer parlour.
As soon as he struggles to stand up, more people start to speak and all claim to want to see the Inspector. I look at the rookie who now has the face of one that has bitten off more than he can chew.
‘I’ll wait,’ I say with a smile.
I go to a corner while people move in a swarm to the rookie, demanding to see the Inspector. The senior officer bangs his baton more loudly on the desk and calls for order.
‘I am here, but they won’t let me see him,’ I text Salome.
I pretend to ignore the looks of the people who are not sure whether to pursue the possibility of seeing the Inspector to spite me, or take their chances with the officer who is shouting and looks like he wants to use his baton on their heads rather than on the long-suffering desk.
‘Wait. He will come.’ Salome’s text pops up on my screen.
I try not to count the minutes but it doesn’t take that long before Inspector Omereji appears at the doorway and, without looking in the direction of anyone in the crowd, waves me over. I follow him through the hall, sidestepping the furniture and piles of files to get to his office.
‘Two visits in twenty-four hours, Dr Taiwo. It must be important or we’re growing on you.’
I take the seat he offers. ‘Let’s go with important.’
Inspector Omereji sits back in his chair. ‘My cousin says you need my help. How can that even be possible?’
‘I have evidence that may shed more light on what happened that day.’
‘We know what happened.’
I am tired of this cat-and-mouse game. ‘Just hear me out. If you still don’t want to help afterwards, I won’t push.’
Omereji raises his hand in mock surrender. ‘Okay. I’m listening.’
‘On one condition.’
‘You want my help on a condition?’ he asks mockingly, but his eyes are not smiling.
‘When I tell you what I know and show you what I have … if you can’t help, this conversation stays between us for now.’
‘Dr Taiwo, you do remember that I am an officer of the law, right?’
‘I know. And I promise you that I am not trying to compromise you in any way. I’m just saying that if you can’t help me, you must give me the opportunity to look for someone who will.’
‘I won’t promise, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.’
It’s the best I am going to get so I pull up my shirt, bring out the black plastic bag and place it on the desk between us.
‘What’s that?’
I pull out the .45 and leave it on the plastic bag. Omereji’s expression does not change.
‘Now, I’m glad I didn’t promise anything …’
‘You remember Godwin?’ My eyes are fixed on him.
‘The boy who died yesterday?’
Does he know because he was told or because –?
‘We are the police, Dr Taiwo,’ Omereji says drily, and I can see my face has betrayed me again. ‘We are told these things and even if it’s the university, we remain on standby to go in if our help is required.’
‘Well, your help should have been sought because the campus security is messing up evidence big time in that place.’
‘They said it’s an accidental death.’
‘Not from what I can see.’
Omereji sits up straighter. ‘You think he was killed?’
His alertness and the note of surprise in his voice are not feigned. While Godwin’s death might not be a surprise to Omereji, the possibility that he was murdered is. This makes me even more sure of the gamble I am taking by being here.
‘I’m not sure,’ I respond honestly. ‘But I am sure I found that gun in his room.’
Omereji’s eyes pop. ‘They let you into his room?’
I shrug. ‘They don’t think it’s a crime scene because they’re assuming accidental death …’
‘Even then …’ Omereji shakes his head.
‘You remember in the report,’ I continue quickly before police procedure – or lack thereof – derails my purpose, ‘fired bullets and their casings were found in the compound as evidence of the gunshots everyone heard?’
‘Yes. The townspeople always maintained that it was the gunshots that convinced them that a crime was in progress.’
‘You and I know automatics like this one will leave casings on discharge. I’ve got no proof but my gut tells me that if you do a ballistic check on this gun, you might find it’s the one that fired those bullets in evidence.’
Omereji looks at the gun as if it’s a hissing cobra. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Godwin said one of the boys, Winston to be precise, fired the gun several times. If it’s the same weapon, then I’m sure you’d like to know how it came to be in Godwin’s possession and why he never declared
it in his testimony.’
Omereji looks from the gun to me. ‘Maybe he fired it?’
‘Or someone else who Godwin was protecting?’
‘Someone who now wanted him dead …’
Omereji and I look at each other. There’s nothing more to say.
‘I’ll have to send it to ballistics in PH.’
I pick up my laptop bag and stand while he packs away the gun.
‘Where’s your sidekick?’
‘If you mean Chika, he’s staying in the car.’
‘He lies,’ the Inspector announces.
I frown but can’t ignore the slight fluttering in my gut. ‘That’s a strong allegation.’
‘He never went to the TSU. His name is not on the graduating list of 2012.’
This throws me, but I recover quickly. ‘Maybe it was a little lie to get you to bond with him.’
‘So, what lies did he tell you to get you to bond with him?’
A SURPRISE DEFENCE
The drive back to the Tropicana is my formal introduction to the legendary Port Harcourt traffic. Previously, we’ve always managed to beat the rush hour but today, it is clear we miscalculated. Badly.
We spend hours on the road so that by the time we arrive back at the hotel, we are too exhausted to do more than confirm the next day’s programme, eat and sleep.
I wake up quite refreshed, and eager to continue what I consider my lucky streak of discoveries from yesterday. My misgivings about the assignment are much less this morning and I am momentarily regretful yet hopeful that Godwin’s death might lead to some of the answers I came to Okriki to find.
I am about to jump out of bed when the text message arrives, complete with visuals. Trouble by Boucheron; my wife’s favourite perfume.
‘I would have preferred a call, but this is the best apology so far!’ Folake adds several kiss and heart emoticons to this message.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around it all when Tai’s message appears: ‘You owe us, Pops.’ I am adding two and two together, when Lara’s message comes: ‘Dad, got a long list of tinz u’re gonna do to make it up 2 me 4 donating all my pocket money’, and it all makes four. I am moved and ashamed at the same time. I immediately call Lara.
‘Safe to talk?’ I say as soon as she answers.
‘Wait, Dad, lemme go to the boys’ room.’
I picture her padding upstairs to their bedroom.
‘You’re on speaker, Dad …’
‘Guys, I just want to say a big thank you –’
‘Nah!’ This is Kay. ‘Not that easy, Pops. Guys, we can’t let him off the hook just like that.’
‘Kay, remember that basketball camp you want to go to in Montana?’ I ask pointedly.
‘Er, Dad, I can assure you pitching in to buy Mom a present was the least we could do …’
I can mentally see Tai punching him for the about face while Lara rolls her eyes. I laugh and thank them again. I really have the best kids in the world.
I talk with them a little longer and let them off when they tell me their mom is ready to take them to school. I should be worried that this time they don’t implore me to call her, but kids are sensitive. They feel things, and sometimes it’s best to follow their lead, so I don’t ask them to hand their mother the phone.
I go to the shower, dress in the express laundered clothes from yesterday and join Chika at breakfast.
‘I could get used to this,’ Chika says, as he looks around at the buffet. There’s no sign of the tension between us from the previous day.
‘Me too!’ I order an omelette and help myself to some cereal.
We were supposed to visit the prisons and interview some of the accused today. The interviews had been set, but Chika received a message from his contact at the prisons that they were all scheduled to be in court. We agree it’s a better idea to visit the court and observe the proceedings. It should allow me to see most of the players on one space. How they interact and play off each other might be revealing.
‘What time do the courts start?’ I ask Chika.
‘Eight.’
Our omelettes arrive and we eat hurriedly to avoid the early-morning traffic that is typical of any major city but must be far worse in Port Harcourt given yesterday’s experience.
The main road itself is a delight of colours, blaring horns and enterprise. Roadside hawkers run from one car to another, peddling everything from cell phone accessories to boiled corn. Several billboards celebrate the current governor’s numerous achievements side by side with the ones for Coca-Cola and evangelists inviting everyone to crusades with their themes written in bad grammar. It’s bustling and alive, and after the antagonism from the indigenes of Okriki, I feel anonymous and safe in this city. I like the feeling.
The Rivers State Judicial Service Commission is a legal estate of sorts. Before we park, Chika has to ask for directions that lead us past the magistrates’ courts, lower courts, Federal High Court, and finally to the front of the State High Court.
As we exit the car, two men rush towards us.
‘Photocopy?’ one asks.
‘Affidavit?’ asks the other.
Chika says no to both, but asks for details of the courtroom where the Okriki Three case is being heard.
When we get there, the clerk outside pompously informs us that the Honourable Justice Saronwiyo Dakolo-Jack doesn’t tolerate disturbances when in session. However, on pocketing the money Chika discreetly hands over, the clerk opens the door and ushers us in.
The courtroom is jam-packed – standing room only – so our entrance is blocked by people facing the front of the room. We manoeuvre our way to a spot where we can see as much as possible.
On the left of the room is a bench where the accused – two women and five men – sit. They are dressed in green khakis, and are haggard and tired-looking. They stare straight ahead, their eyes dull, and their lack of animation makes me wonder if they’ve been drugged. I’ve read enough journals on criminal reforms in Nigeria to know that Thorazine is the drug of choice for controlling prisoners. The somewhat passive demeanour of the accused might also be a sad testimony of how long this case has been in the courts.
From where we are, I can only see the backs of the lawyers. There are quite a number on both sides, their wigged heads making them look like actors in costume. I assume the lawyers for the accused are the ones seated closest to them, while the prosecution sits to the right. At the moment, I don’t know which side is cross-examining but I recognise Dr Ngozi Okaro sitting in the square wooden box.
‘… you’re saying your autopsy didn’t reveal anything that can shed more light on the cause of death?’ the counsel asks.
‘As I’ve said numerous times, the bodies were burnt beyond recognition. Any conclusion beyond death from third-degree burns would be speculative.’
‘Dr Okaro, you’ve made it clear that this is not your first time here. Can we skip this prefix to every one of your answers?’
This admonition is from the Honourable Justice, a man in his late fifties or early sixties who looks as tired as the accused. He takes his glasses off-and-on depending on whether he is reading from the sheaf of papers in front of him (on) or looking at the witness or lawyer (off). He was writing as the questioning progressed and I will later learn that lawyers prefer his courts because he writes faster than most. Apparently, judges here write all court proceedings by hand. I can guarantee Folake will never practise in Nigeria. Her impatience won’t allow it.
‘I apologise, My Lord,’ Dr Okaro says unconvincingly. ‘But I’ve been here numerous times on behalf of the state and have been cross-examined by every lawyer on both sides of this case. My Lord, when will it end?’
‘It is not so simple, Dr Okaro,’ the Honourable Justice says almost sympathetically. ‘We have to ascertain that the accused were responsible for the beatings and the fire that caused the deaths of the victims.’
‘That logic is lost on me, My Lord. They’re here because they were iden
tified as being at the scene of the crime, right?’
‘Objection, My Lord. The witness is not here to give her verdict on the degree of guilt of the accused.’
My eyes widen. Even if I can’t see the face, that voice is unmistakable. I look at Chika. His face is impassive but he is nodding towards the front as if asking me to confirm what he heard.
Salome is the lawyer objecting!
She is on the left side of the room. I look at Chika again, but even though I still can’t read his face, I know he must have recognised her. He knew! He always knew. But how?
‘… witness shall refrain from giving comments outside of the specific questions asked of her,’ the Honourable Justice says. ‘Understood?’
Dr Okaro throws a disdainful look Salome’s way. The tension between both women is palpable even from where Chika and I are standing.
‘Dr Okaro,’ the prosecution continues after a bow to the judge, ‘in your report, you stated that one of the victims died from blunt trauma to the head. Correct?’
‘Correct,’ Dr Okaro answers.
‘Can you state which victim, for the record?’
‘Kevin Nwamadi.’
‘And the cause of death for the other two?’
‘Excessive burns.’
‘Doctor, in your professional opinion, for anyone to die like that, would we be right to assume that they were set ablaze with the deliberate intention of killing them?’
‘Objection. Calls for speculation,’ Salome and two other lawyers chorus with varying levels of intensity.
‘I will rephrase,’ the prosecutor continues, unfazed. ‘Dr Okaro, do you think the victims could have been saved during the fire?’
‘Tyres were placed over them. Petrol was poured on them. They were set ablaze. I’m no legal expert, but I do know that whoever did all of that meant for the victims to die. Could they have been saved? Of course. Maybe before the fire caught someone could have pulled them free and doused the fire with water or something. But in my opinion, such burn intensity is sure to lead to death.’
‘But no one tried to save the victims, right?’
‘I wasn’t there.’ Dr Okaro answers before another round of objections come from various defence lawyers. ‘But I know they were burnt to the point where we could only use dental records and the videos of their torture to identify them. So, yes, I can confirm that there’s no evidence anyone tried to save the young men from burning to death.’