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  ‘Definitely business.’

  Her eyes rest on my wedding band. ‘Madam is here in Lagos?’

  ‘Yes. She’s a lecturer at Unilag.’ I resent that the note of pride in my voice is unaffected by my sense of betrayal at Folake’s possible infidelity.

  ‘Ah, the brains in the family,’ Salome says. ‘Which would make you the money, I assume.’

  ‘Alas, not so. I’m working on it, though. Hence, the business in Port Harcourt.’

  ‘I take it you’re not a regular visitor to this side of the country.’

  ‘What gave me away?’

  ‘Saying “Port Harcourt” where “PH” will do.’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  She chuckles. ‘So, what’s happening in PH?’

  I’m not sure the killing of the Okriki Three is the kind of conversation anyone signs up for on a flight like this. But here I am, going to a place I’ve never been, and this friendly passenger lives near there.

  ‘I’m writing a report on an event that happened there a couple of years back. Well, not there exactly but in one of the outlying towns.’

  ‘I’m generally a good judge of character, and I can bet my iPhone you’re not a journalist.’ She leans close to me in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘My whole life is on my iPhone.’

  I can’t help but laugh. Salome Briggs seems to do everything for effect, from her make-up to her clothes to the way she speaks.

  ‘I’m an investigative psychologist.’

  ‘A shrink?’

  ‘No, no …’ I laugh again at the way her kohled eyes widen like I just confessed to harbouring Tupac Shakur at my house. ‘I study crimes and determine why and how they occurred.’

  She snorts as only a Nigerian woman can. A dismissive grunt accompanied by multiple facial movements that simultaneously include eyes rolling, brows raising and a downward curve to the lips. ‘What’s the point? It has happened abi?’

  ‘When we understand how a particular crime occurred and can identify the motivations that led to it, the chance of preventing it from happening again is much higher.’

  ‘Hmm. That’s what they told you when you were filling in your admission forms for whatever fancy American university you went to, right?’

  I should take offence, but I can’t. ‘Am I that obvious?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell your alumni group. Now this event. You’re going to write a report on it so it doesn’t happen again?’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that –’

  Ladies and gentlemen, please turn off your electronic devices and fasten your seat belts as we begin our preflight –

  I reach for my cell phone and see two messages from Folake. I switch it off without reading them. Salome does the same to her rose-gold iPhone, and to another, less flashy not-an-iPhone. She puts them and her iPad in the side pocket of the laptop bag and pushes it under her seat just as the plane starts to move. She sits back, turns to me and flashes that smile again.

  ‘Define complicated.’

  ‘Huh?’ I try to shake off my guilt for not reading my wife’s messages.

  ‘You said this event you’re investigating is complicated.’

  ‘The media called it the Okriki Three. It’s a tragic inci—’ My voice trails off as Salome turns away and makes a show of adjusting the bag under her seat as the plane taxies down the runway.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ she says without her earlier warmth.

  THE WELCOME PARTY

  As soon as the seat-belt sign goes off, Salome retrieves her iPad, plugs her ears with headphones and proceeds to act like we didn’t just introduce ourselves. Through the catering service offer of a pitiful sandwich wrapped in cellophane with juice and/or water – a no-thank-you from both of us – she ignores me, and I pretend to go back to my notes.

  We’ve been up in the air for more than thirty minutes when I decide to grab the tusks of the elephant on the plane. I nudge her by the elbow. Gently, but firmly enough to demand attention. Salome arcs an eyebrow but doesn’t take off her headphones. I gesture towards her ears. She sighs and reluctantly takes the left ear off.

  ‘I thought we had a thing going there –’

  The second the words leave my lips, I realise they are the wrong ones. Her eyebrow rises even higher, and the crease on her forehead betrays her irritation.

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way –’ I begin.

  ‘How did you mean it? Because I smiled at you and was polite when we met, you think we have a thing?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I meant … well, I thought we were having an interesting conversation, but you shut me out as soon as I shared my reason for going to Port Harcourt.’

  ‘One. The issue of how interesting our conversation was is a matter of opinion. You’re entitled to yours. Two. As I said, I was simply making polite conversation with a fellow passenger and –’

  ‘I’m sorry if I said anything wrong, or did anything to make you angry.’

  She is silent. Apologising for doing nothing wrong is a tactic I learned over seventeen years of marriage.

  ‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ Salome replies grudgingly.

  ‘There is. I miss my friend of thirty minutes ago.’

  ‘You make friends easily.’

  ‘Only if they’re worth it. I’m a gut-feel kinda guy.’

  ‘Then you’ll be hurt easily.’ She says this like a warning, and I wonder if she’s talking about my intuition or something else.

  ‘I’ll live,’ I respond rather glibly, trying to quell the unease I feel at her words.

  She holds my gaze briefly and laughs, again drawing curious stares from the other passengers. She puts away her headphones and iPad, then turns back to me with her dazzling smile.

  ‘Okay, Dr Taiwo, let’s start again …’

  ‘Philip. And life’s too short. I prefer to move on. You closed off when I told you the reason for my trip. Why?’

  She is silent for a beat, perhaps gauging my determination to get an answer. ‘Because you’re pulling at a tiger’s tail.’

  ‘It’s a cold case, Salome. I’m just going to write a report –’

  ‘I know the story, Philip. Those boys were killed in my mother’s village.’

  Later I will reflect on how close the degrees of separation in this assignment were already becoming. For now, all I can think to say is, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. But I can assure you there won’t be welcoming arms in Okriki, eager to tell you what happened. Or to quote you – why and how it occurred.’

  ‘So, I might as well go back to Lagos before I even get to Okriki?’

  ‘You might as well.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘I’ll pray for you. Now, can we change the subject?’

  Her eyes dare me to continue on a path that will most likely lead to the retrieval of her headphones.

  ‘Of course we can.’

  We talk about my work as a part-time lecturer at the Police College. She tells me she’s a lawyer specialising in the oil and gas sector and I smile inwardly. It seems I have a type.

  Ladies and gentlemen, we will begin our descent shortly. Please ensure that your tray table is –

  We touch down without drama and when we’re told it’s okay to switch on our cell phones, Salome and I exchange contact details. She stands to take her bags from the overhead compartment.

  ‘If all this is your hand luggage, I dread to see the number of bags you checked in.’

  She shakes her head in mock pity. ‘As soon as that door opens, you’ll see why I never check in my luggage on any flight to PH.’

  Even the blast of hot, humid air and her words couldn’t have prepared anyone for the chaos that awaits me after the short walk from the plane to the arrivals area. My shock must be evident because Salome is laughing.

  ‘Welcome to PH, Dr Taiwo,’ she says. ‘Keep in touch.’

  She waves daintily and is gone.

  I look around me, feeling lost. O
n top of a dilapidated building is a huge sign – Port Harcourt International Airport – that towers over a structure someone must have had the intention of completing but didn’t get around to. Behind me, people are still disembarking, but I feel like rushing back into the plane and commandeering it back to my life in Lagos.

  ‘Dr Taiwo? Dr Philip Taiwo?’

  The gruff voice belongs to a dark-skinned man who must be in his early thirties but looks older in his rumpled shirt and tie. There are patches of sweat around his armpits, but one can see he has made an effort to look presentable and even professional. He’s holding a piece of A4 paper with my name on it and a picture that could only have been printed off the faculty page of the Police College website. This must be the chaperone Emeka promised me.

  ‘Yes, I’m Philip Taiwo. Are you Chika?’

  He smiles and reveals perfect white teeth. ‘Yes, sir. Chika Makuochi.’

  We manage a handshake as he puts aside the rudimentary sign and we are jostled by the mass of people around us on the tarmac.

  ‘Come with me, please.’

  I follow him into a canvas tent labelled ‘Arrivals’ and find more chaos.

  Suitcases, Ghana-must-go jute bags, boxes and more are spread on the ground. Men dressed in overalls bring yet more luggage into the tent, dumping them with the ones already there. Now, I see Salome’s point.

  ‘Which one is yours?’

  I look at Chika in a daze.

  ‘Your luggage, sir. Point at yours, and I’ll get it.’

  For a moment, I can’t remember the colour of the suitcase I checked in. What if I point at luggage that’s not mine but looks like mine? What if I take one that has contraband and I am arrested?

  ‘Don’t worry. Just point, and we’ll confirm it’s yours before we leave,’ Chika says reassuringly.

  I really have to do something about my poker face.

  I point at the Samsonite suitcase that looks closest to what I had placed my belongings in over ten hours ago. Chika retrieves it, turns it this way and that, and we see the name tag didn’t survive the rough handling.

  ‘I think it’s mine.’ I bend to run the combination on the lock. 2302. Day and month of my birth. The lock opens.

  Chika carries the luggage. ‘Follow me, sir.’

  He speaks rapid pidgin to the security men we meet. He gestures towards me as the traveller, but I sense this is a formality since he is quick to remind one that he has ‘settled’ with everyone before they let him meet me on the tarmac. Another recognises him, and after more exchanges of pidgin and laughter, they let us through to the outside.

  By the time we get to a Land Cruiser in the parking lot, I’m drained and sweaty. Chika holds the rear passenger door of the 4x4 open, but I shake my head and indicate that I’d rather sit in front. Before I get in, I look around to be sure I didn’t imagine the past fifteen minutes.

  ‘It can be a bit overwhelming,’ Chika says. ‘The airport has been like this for over a decade. Doesn’t stop the government from allocating millions for its completion every year. Let’s go, sir.’

  He turns on the engine and a blast of cold air from the AC hits me.

  ‘Welcome to PH,’ Chika says as he reverses, and expertly turns the car in the direction of the exit sign.

  ENTER THE DARKNESS

  ‘How long is it to Okriki?’ I ask Chika as he turns off the airport road on to one that has a stop–start relationship with tar.

  ‘About an hour, sir. Today’s a Sunday, so traffic is light.’

  I look around. Even by Lagos standards, the neglect of such a major road can’t be good for any kind of traffic. I suspect many flights have been missed while stuck in Port Harcourt’s version of ‘light traffic’.

  ‘We’re heading to Okriki now, PH is that way,’ Chika explains.

  ‘We’re not in Port Harcourt?’

  ‘Not really. The airport’s technically in Omagwa, which is on the outskirts of PH. That road,’ he indicates behind us, ‘is to Port Harcourt, but you’ll still pass other towns like Rukpokwu, Elele, Isiokpo.’

  I only partly listen as I take in my first view of Port Harcourt, the capital of Rivers State; a city once deemed so beautiful that it was declared the ‘Garden City’. Today everywhere is hot and dusty and I’m not feeling charitable enough to call what I see a garden of any sort.

  ‘Okriki is in the opposite direction of PH,’ Chika is saying, ‘but maybe sometime, I’ll take you there to show you around.’

  Just then, he slows the Land Cruiser down. Ahead of us is a long line of cars approaching what appears to be a police barricade.

  ‘Police?’ I ask.

  ‘Military police.’

  I consider using the pass Abubakar gave me before I left Lagos. It is a bona fide police badge that he insisted would reduce a lot of the hassle on this assignment. But even I know when it comes to the military police – basically, army officers with the dubious mandate to terrorise civilians in the absence of war – presenting an honorary police badge can be counterproductive.

  ‘The trick is not to argue, sir,’ Chika says, as he weaves from one lane to another. ‘Give them something as quickly as possible and move on.’

  We make a snail-paced approach towards the heavily armed men. A seamless operation is in progress. The officer standing on the driver’s side bends slightly to reach into the car. He collects cash that he deftly puts in the front pocket of his bulletproof vest, then nods to the officer standing further down the road to open the barricade.

  When it’s our turn, I stare straight ahead. Chika hands over the cash, and we are cleared to move on. I look back at the officer as he waves us off. Implacable, with no indication he just broke the very law he is sworn to keep.

  ‘They’re here every day?’

  ‘And night. Those barricades cause the go-slow just as much as the bad roads.’

  ‘It’s the same in Lagos, but it’s usually regular police.’

  ‘The militants and gang-related kidnappings have put this part of the country in an undeclared state of emergency.’

  ‘The situation is still as dire as one hears?’

  Chika shrugs. ‘It’s a bit better, but still quite tense. It might seem strange but the presence of the military police really makes a big difference. The violence is now more sporadic and focused around the oil rigs.’

  I wish I could curb my dismay at how we’ve all learnt to live with this paradox. So much so that no one questions military personnel when they collect bribes in broad daylight because they protect us from the violence fuelled by the inequitable access to the country’s most precious resource: crude oil. The whole situation fills me with the same helpless rage I have when mall security in the States follows me around because of my skin colour. At least I could leave the US, but here my frustration is worse because this is home.

  It’s getting dark and the only illumination is from the headlights of other cars. I decide not to ask Chika more questions since he’ll need all his wits to navigate the road.

  I close my eyes for what seems like a minute.

  ‘We’re here,’ Chika announces.

  I jerk awake. It’s pitch black with flickers of light here and there. The sound of generators follows our journey through the town. In Lagos, this is a regular soundtrack to the hustle and bustle of life. In Okriki, far away from city noise, it sounds like the continuous rumbling of heavy machines on a construction site.

  ‘The electricity situation is better here than in PH normally,’ Chika is saying as I look around. ‘I’m sure it won’t be long before they bring light.’

  Nigerians are perennial optimists especially when it comes to electricity. Since I returned, I’ve accepted the possibility of constant ‘light’ is as distant as Abubakar’s desire to bring back the glory days of the Nigerian Police Force.

  ‘I checked in for you earlier today, so the manager is expecting us.’

  I see some people sitting outside their houses. There are clusters of men in front of bun
galows, drinking and playing board games, their faces illuminated by kerosene lamps. Children are running and laughing, playing in the darkness. There’s singing in the distance. Clapping too. A church. Churches actually, as the singing seems to come from different directions.

  ‘There are lots of churches around here?’ I ask, not really surprised but inwardly groaning. Living in the staff quarters of the university insulates us from the multitude of churches and mosques on every corner of most Lagos streets, with their megaphones and singing.

  Chika pulls up in front of gates with a ‘Hotel Royale’ sign affixed to them.

  ‘There’s a service every day in any given church,’ Chika answers as he honks. ‘Sunday services last the whole day.’

  The gates are opened by a security guard who yawns widely, as he waves us towards what looks closer to a guest house than a hotel.

  Chika drives into the compound of well-tended lawns, illuminated by bulbs attached to the two-storey rectangular building at different angles. The generator, a white beast on the far side of the building, is the less noisy type more upmarket hotels use. I mentally thank the heavens for this and hope the place has stocked up on enough diesel for the duration of my stay.

  A scene of fading glory meets us as soon as we enter the reception area. Two huge TVs are on in a lounge littered with an assortment of chairs, sofas and tables. The same rugby game plays loudly on both screens, and I imagine this must be the reason why the reception area, which looks like it doubles as a viewing centre, is empty.

  At the front desk, we are greeted by loud snores coming from underneath a head of poorly executed braids. Chika raps his knuckle on the desk and a sleepy face rises, hands our room keys to Chika without any greeting and goes back to sleep. Chika gives me an apologetic smile, before carrying my luggage up a short flight of stairs to a door marked Room 7.

  ‘I’m in 11 over there.’ He indicates the rooms further down the hallway. ‘I checked all the rooms and selected this one for you. It’s the best of all of them.’

  It’s a rather big room. The sheets of the king-sized bed are clean and smooth. There’s a table with a chair and a small sitting area that has a pretty-worn leather sofa facing a flat-screen TV. The air conditioning is on full blast, but I know I’ll be turning it off soon since the noise it makes nullifies the relative silence of the generator.