Lightseekers

by Femi Kayode

‘I have a surprise for you. From all of us,’ Father Ambrose whispers in the kitchen.

  John Paul smiles and asks what it could be.

  Father Ambrose grins. ‘It’s a secret,’ he says. ‘We’ve been planning it for some time.’

  John Paul waits until Father Ambrose carries the bucket of bread loaves to the dining hall and then he gets to work. From under his cassock, he brings out pouches filled with tablets. He goes to the door of the kitchen and peeks into the dining hall. The priests are trickling in, chatting amongst themselves while Father Ambrose places bread on the eight tables.

  John Paul walks back into the kitchen and goes to the pot and empties the pouches of neurotoxins into it. He’d tested the same composition on Godwin, so he is sure of its potency.

  He takes two old towels and wraps them around his hands to allow him to carry the hot pot. It is heavy, but he carries it as easily as he has done the past eleven years. Some of the monks wave at him and he smiles back at them.

  Do they know Mama is dead? Is that why they are being so nice?

  Clearly, no one is aware of the chaos in town. It’s safe to assume it won’t be long before the injured and fatally wounded from the riots in town rush to the monastery, looking for help.

  John Paul walks back into the kitchen briskly. He works fast, putting the last of the poison in the drinking water, properly measured so as not to overtly affect the taste.

  John Paul uses the kitchen knife to deftly create a hole in the rubber pipe behind the ancient cooker that supplies the gas burners. He pours water in a large pot and puts it on the naked flame. In case Father Ambrose comes in, he must think the boiling water is for drinking and not switch off the gas.

  John Paul checks the gas pipe again. It’s leaking fast. Too fast. The flame beneath the pot is flickering; not getting enough fuel to keep burning. He should have thought of this.

  He walks to the pantry and retrieves the Sellotape. Working quickly, he seals a significant portion of the hole he had opened. The flame beneath the pot of water steadies.

  Satisfied, John Paul then turns the control of the gas cylinder anti-clockwise, causing the gas to leak from there. Now, he needs to guess how long it will take for the gas to fill the kitchen, since all his earlier calculations had been based on a leak from the pipe rather than from the faster control switch. He must hurry.

  He places the poisoned jugs of water on the old trolley that Father Ambrose had used for years to wheel food into the dining room. Eight jugs. Eight tables. He pushes the trolley into the dining room and stops when he sees where Father Olayiwola and another monk place a cake on the largest of the tables.

  Suddenly, the room bursts into cheers and there is a lot of clapping. The monks come one by one to hug him, patting his back, congratulating him. They pull him towards the cake and he makes out the writing on the icing.

  ‘Congratulations to our lawyer!’ they cheer.

  No! Don’t be nice, I shout from the shadows. Not today!

  They pray over John Paul, thinking he is me. They clap, and sing, while John Paul smiles, desperate for them to start eating. He sees Father Ambrose taking over the water trolley and his eyes follow the old monk as he places a jug on each of the tables.

  The monks insist John Paul makes a speech but he pretends to be self-conscious and stumbles through a smattering of thank yous to the monks. As his expression assumes that of humble appreciation, I see his eyes counting the monks in the dining hall. The celebration means all of them are accounted for. All forty-seven. There is no one in the prayer room, dispensary or running errands in the chapel. They are all here.

  I watch them all from the shadows as the eating and drinking begin, and the monks are trading stories about some of my escapades in the past years. They make fun of me and when John Paul feigns laughter, they think it is me and laugh too.

  I want this. This joy. Redemption. Love. I’ve wanted these for so long.

  Even in the shadows, I swear I can hear the hissing of air from the gas cylinder in the kitchen. I look at the monks drinking poisoned water and eating poisoned food. Soon, there will be vomit and then the inevitable paralysis that will make them unable to run from the fire.

  Suddenly, it hits me that this is the only home I know. That I will ever know.

  I think of Mama. Gone forever. A part of me wanted more time with her. Hearing her laugh and call me her gift from God. Her Tamunotonye.

  My mother.

  And John Paul killed her.

  I killed my mother.

  John Paul is in me. I am John Paul. There it is. The truth that must be faced.

  I close my eyes in the shadows and let the laughter of the monks usher me towards the light.

  John Paul pauses as he cuts a piece of cake. He sees me coming. But he can’t stop me. The happiness of the priests makes everything brighter until I can touch the light. I see John Paul’s hand tremble as he holds the cake to his mouth.

  But I am the one who reaches for the water.

  AFTERMATH

  With the smouldering hulk of the Land Cruiser behind us, Chika and I ran into the bush and beat a path back to the Oparas’ house, avoiding the chaos on the main roads.

  There, we waited, listening to the sounds of violence, huddled in the living room with the women, subdued and scared, my aches abated by my medicines which Folake had brought in her handbag. Mercy was sedated, asleep in her room and thankfully unaware of the fear and agitation that had the whole town in its grip.

  The explosion in the distance, far away from where we were, we would later learn to be from the Monastery of the Anargyroi Order of St Cosmas and Damian. This added to the confusion. Did the Muslims go there too?

  When helicopters had flown over the roof and we had heard several sirens in the distance, I called Omereji and he confirmed that the state had appealed to the federal government for support, and the result was an invasion of heavily armed military police in Okriki. But it was still some time before anyone knew where the explosion came from and for any kind of help to be rendered to the monks.

  There were no survivors. The place was razed to the ground and Omereji’s eyes were red with exhaustion and a deep sadness as he relayed what the police, firemen and other volunteers had seen at the monastery.

  ‘You think the boy did it?’ I asked as Omereji drove Chika, Folake and me back to PH.

  ‘We have to assume he did.’

  ‘So, instigating the riot was some kind of diversion to prevent help from getting to the monastery?’ Folake asked from the back seat where she sat next to a quiet and uncomfortable Chika.

  ‘Again, we don’t know; we can only assume that the boy planned everything all along. Why he did it?’ Omereji sighed. ‘Unless we can find him to explain, we can only guess.’

  I could already see he wouldn’t stop until he found Tamuno Princewill and made him answer for his heinous crimes, or at least proved his innocence.

  We would have asked more questions on that drive back to PH, but Omereji was both distraught and distracted. It was in contemplative silence that we arrived back at our hotel.

  It’s been two days now, and as much as Folake and I are eager to get back to our lives in Lagos, she understands why I need to see this through. I know that while she has chosen not to come with Chika and me to the police headquarters in PH, she won’t be lying in the comfortable bed at the Tropicana but pacing the room. Worried and restless. This is perhaps the most horrible legacy of exposure to unexpected unrest and violent mob actions: a morbid sense of dread that it will happen again. Anytime, anywhere.

  The police station in Okriki couldn’t contain the number of arrests made during the violent unrest in the town, so almost all – both Christians and Muslims – who were suspected of being involved were transported to the police headquarters in PH. It is also where Amaso Dabara, his henchmen and four undergraduate students of the State University are being held. Which is why Chika and I are now being ushered into a room to observe what we are told is the fif
th interrogation of the drug lord in the two days since he was arrested in Room 481 at the Harcourt Whyte Hall.

  ‘I was played! We were all played,’ the skinny man in handcuffs says.

  ‘That’s what you keep saying but the evidence says otherwise,’ Inspector Mike Omereji bears down on Amaso, his disdain evident.

  ‘What evidence?’ Amaso asks.

  ‘What we found when we searched your house in Havana. Everything that proves you are the mastermind behind all the violence in Okriki.’

  ‘That’s a lie! Ask everyone – even your fellow police – Amaso only sells drugs. I don’t do politics. I don’t do religion.’

  ‘The list of your transactions, the telephone calls you made to your suppliers are not making things look good for you.’

  Amaso looks at Inspector Omereji with bloodshot eyes and I can see his hands are shaking and his nose is dripping. Forty-eight hours in jail cannot be good for a drug addict. I’ve no doubt Amaso will crack soon, but I’m not sure he’ll say anything that can shed light on how Tamuno Princewill played everyone and disappeared. Like all of us, I suspect Amaso Dabara doesn’t know.

  ‘I’ve told you. It’s that boy, Tamuno. He planned it all.’

  And Amaso tells it again: how he approached Tamuno when the boy was a freshman and recruited him.

  ‘That boy is the devil! He set me up. Gave me the hard drive and the phones. He told me it contained the names of the distributors. Then he set up a meeting with his buyers and made me come, then disappeared …’

  ‘It’s not adding up, Amaso,’ Omereji says. ‘Why would this Tamuno go to this extent to set you up? The laptop in Room 481 was the one used to post the messages that caused the fighting in Okriki. One of the phones in that room belonged to that boy who was one of the Okriki Three. Yet you say you don’t know how all of this got into a room that you clearly had access to. Can’t you see how ridiculous you sound?’

  ‘I’m telling the truth! I wanted to deal with that Godwin boy when we found out he was blabbing his mouth around, but Tamuno told me he would do it. I told you this before!’

  I turn away from the one-way mirror towards Chika.

  ‘He doesn’t know any more.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘He’s an addict who’s desperate for a fix,’ I explain. ‘Very soon he’ll start crying and will say anything to get to his drugs. Whatever he says after that point will be virtually useless because it will be whatever Omereji wants to hear.’

  ‘So, there was no point in our coming here then?’

  ‘Oh, there is. Let Omereji finish and we can ask for access to those files on the hard drive Amaso claims Tamuno gave him.’

  ‘Did you hear what he said?’ Chika says, his face turned towards the one-way mirror, ‘about the cell phone that belongs to one of the boys?’

  ‘If it’s true and it belongs to one of them, then that, my friend, is when we can officially say we’ve solved the mystery of the Okriki Three.’

  GETTING TO WHY

  Emeka won’t set foot in Okriki, so I’m grateful to Mike Omereji for agreeing to meet with him at the National Bank guest house in PH.

  ‘It’s the least I can do,’ the Inspector had said when I called to inform him that I was preparing to give my final report to Emeka and would appreciate his presence.

  Chika and I arrive at the guest house and I’m impressed to see Omereji already there, waiting next to his car and dressed in his full police uniform. We exchange pleasantries and my respect for the officer soars when he shakes Chika’s hand as if there was never any animosity between them.

  We walk into the house and are ushered into the living room by Emeka’s driver.

  Emeka is unshaven, but looks better than the last time I saw him. He welcomes us and asks us to sit.

  ‘Before we start, sir,’ Omereji begins, ‘I want to formally, on behalf of the people of Okriki, offer my sincerest condolences for the loss of your son.’

  Emeka looks at him, unsure how to react to the unexpected opening.

  ‘I assure you, sir, that in light of some of what Dr Taiwo and his colleague have been able to uncover, I will do everything in my power to reopen the investigation and bring the people involved to justice.’

  ‘Your father will never let you do that,’ Emeka says bitterly.

  ‘My father is old and at times misguided in his beliefs. The events of the past few days have shown him that the only way to protect his people is by making sure there are consequences for actions that threaten the peace and prosperity of Okriki. I promise you sir, justice shall be served.’

  Emeka looks away. The bitterness and anger he has harboured for close to two years can’t be easily erased but he is gracious enough to respect Omereji’s sincerity.

  An awkward silence follows and I look at Omereji, my brow arched in a silent question. He nods at me to proceed and I clear my throat. There is no easy way to do this.

  ‘Emeka, we can confirm that Kevin was neither part of a cult nor any gang intent on robbing Godwin Emefele.’

  Emeka’s face becomes alert, and my heart breaks for the hope I see in his tired eyes.

  ‘The Police were recently able to recover Kevin’s phone and when we looked through his messages, it became clear that he somehow stumbled on a fellow student’s drug-trafficking ring.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Sir,’ Inspector Omereji says, ‘it seems Kevin’s friend Momoh Kadiri was the one who discovered that Tamuno Princewill was selling drugs on campus. To silence Momoh, we believe this Tamuno set him up by sending him pornographic images that suggested Momoh was a homosexual. He then tipped off the police who arrested Momoh based on what they saw on his phone. When Momoh died in custody, Kevin suspected foul play and started a campaign to investigate his death.’

  Emeka’s face is reminiscent of Folake’s expression when we were combing through the numerous files on what we now know to be Tamuno’s laptop, and the messages on Kevin’s phone.

  ‘A lot is still not clear, especially because we can’t find this Tamuno boy anywhere,’ I quickly add. ‘But from what we have gathered so far, it seems Kevin did some digging of his own and somehow traced Momoh’s arrest to Godwin Emefele, who was buying drugs from this Tamuno to sell and use. We cannot say for sure whether Momoh’s inhaler was stolen at the time of his arrest, but we know he had an asthma attack in custody and that’s how Kevin managed to link his death to the people selling drugs on campus.’

  ‘And that is it? Kevin was killed because he discovered drug pushers on campus?’

  ‘He was threatening to expose Godwin and Tamuno if they didn’t come clean about Momoh,’ I say, nodding.

  ‘Why didn’t he come to me?’ Emeka says, agonised. ‘I would have told him to let it go.’

  ‘Maybe because he knew you would say that,’ I say as gently as I can.

  Emeka squares his shoulders, and I’m worried he’ll break down again, but after some time, he raises his head and looks at Chika, Omereji and myself with determined eyes.

  ‘How did he do it? This Tamuno. How did he get my son killed?’

  Chika and the Inspector look at me and I take that as the cue for me to be the one to answer. ‘We think he convinced Godwin to invite two of his buyers who had not been paying off their debts over to his room off campus …’

  ‘Bona and Winston?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘Godwin somehow convinced them to come to his room and get new supplies and discuss a payment plan for their outstanding debts. From the detailed messages between him and Tamuno on the laptop we recovered from the latter’s room, it seems Godwin was told to demand his money from Bona and Winston at gunpoint.’

  ‘The gunshots people heard?’ Emeka asks, looking at Chika.

  ‘We believe Godwin was the one who shot at Bona and Winston,’ Chika answers with a nod.

  ‘But why did Kevin go there?’ Emeka asks, still shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Tamuno asked him to come,’ I answer. ‘From Kevin�
��s messages we could deduce that Tamuno invited him to come for a discussion so they could clear the air.’

  ‘And this Tamuno was so calculating that he was able to predict what would happen if the neighbours heard that a robbery was in progress?’ Emeka asks in understandable wonder.

  ‘I’ve seen how easy it is for people to be manipulated, Emeka,’ I say sadly. ‘All it takes is careful observation of trends and behavioural patterns and it can be pretty easy to make people do what you want them to do. Especially in a group.’

  ‘I’m ashamed to admit it, sir,’ Inspector Omereji says solemnly, ‘but Dr Taiwo is right. Okriki people have been victims of several robberies blamed on the university students in the past. The unemployed youths who couldn’t get admission into that university also harbour a lot of resentment against the students. This Tamuno boy certainly knew this and used it for his diabolical plans. My townspeople fell for it.’ His voice trails off as he shakes his head sadly.

  ‘So, Kevin was the real target and Bona and Winston were what? Collateral damage?’

  It was not the time to tell the older man about the disturbing video we had found on the hard drive from Room 481. The gruesome images of Kevin’s last moments are only matched in horror by the ones of Godwin Emefele gasping for air and finding death. It’s also not pertinent to share our suspicions about Tamuno’s role in the recent violent unrest in Okriki. We are all still grappling with the enormity of his machinations and for now, it’s best to stick to why Emeka had hired me in the first place.

  ‘This boy, Tamuno, you say …’ Emeka sounds as perplexed as we all are. ‘Where is he? Where is this monster?’

  None of us has an answer.

  HOME

  Folake has boarded Emeka Nwamadi’s private jet. I am now alone with Omereji on the part of airstrip where the rich and powerful are spared the ordeal of ordinary citizens travelling through the Port Harcourt International Airport. The events of the past few days have taken a toll and we both look like what we have been through has marked us.