Lightseekers Read online

  ‘Thank you, Chika,’ I say as I look around.

  ‘You’re welcome, sir. The list of the places you’re going to tomorrow are in that file.’

  I go to the desk and open the file. I look at Chika. ‘You did this?’

  He nods. I am impressed as I riffle through the well-categorised notes, names and locations.

  ‘So, you know why I’m here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who briefed you?’

  ‘The big boss. The MD. Mr Nwamadi.’

  ‘You work at the bank?’

  ‘I’m the driver and PA for the Branch Manager in PH.’

  ‘Forgive me, Chika, but you don’t seem like a driver …’

  Chika smiles ruefully. ‘I studied Computer Science at the university here. Graduated six years ago.’

  ‘And you’re working as a driver?’

  He shrugs. ‘And PA, sir,’ he says and walks to the door. ‘I’ll be ready for you from seven-thirty. Your first meeting is at nine.’

  I express my appreciation for all his work again and then he’s gone.

  I undress and switch on my phone. There are voicemail notifications and text messages from Folake and the kids. In my hurry to leave home, a kiss to my still sleepy thirteen-year-old daughter and quick shout-outs to the twin boys, who grunted their responses from under the covers of their beds, was all I had time for.

  I’m nervous about reading my wife’s messages. Folake’s frank nature might prompt her to come clean about her affair and, while I’m relatively sure she’s not the sort to do this via text, her messages may be invitations to ‘talk’. Given that similar fears where my dad was concerned were unfounded though, I know I am just being a coward.

  But I’m missing home already so I dial Tai, my elder son, who’ll most likely be playing games on his phone while his twin brother has headphones on to allow the music of Kendrick Lamar to lull him to sleep.

  ‘Hey, Dad!’ Tai says as soon as he picks up.

  ‘You shouldn’t sound so awake when you know you should be in bed.’

  ‘I am in bed.’

  ‘You know what I mean …’

  ‘Yes, Dad, but I was staying awake to hear from you.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’

  We both laugh, and soon I’m telling him about the long wait at the airport and my first impressions of Port Harcourt and Okriki. Tai then puts me on speakerphone after ordering his brother to pull off his headphones so he can join the conversation.

  As they tell me about their day and performance on the basketball court, I can’t help but think how blessed I am. Three beautiful kids and a marriage that has been relatively happy for almost seventeen years. Is it possible that I might lose it all?

  ‘Dad, you should call Mom,’ Kay says.

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Tai answers.

  ‘She was quite testy today.’

  ‘And she kept looking at her phone all day,’ Kay adds. ‘Maybe she’s worried about you?’

  ‘I’ll call her as soon as you guys promise you’re going to sleep.’

  They both lie, but I let them be and hang up.

  Folake’s texts are really just a series of ‘have you landed?’ messages that appear to have been resent repeatedly over the past six hours. But I promised the boys, so I type: ‘Arrived safe. All good’, then hit send.

  There’s a message from my dad, too. ‘Heard you left. Thank you. Be safe.’ I choose not to respond.

  I walk into the shower and stay under the cold water for a long time. When I finally get to bed, I see Folake didn’t respond although I can sense she’s awake. Just as I’m about to put the phone away, it vibrates in my hand. I open the message.

  ‘All settled in, Americana?’ Salome Briggs.

  I smile at the memory of our encounter earlier today and respond, ‘Big room. Big bed. Generator at full blast with rumbling A/C.’

  ‘Ah. 5 Star welcome. Enjoy’, beeps back.

  I resist the temptation of late-night banter with an attractive woman while I’m feeling vulnerable about my marriage.

  I put the phone away, and although I’m tired, sleep only comes after I wilfully replace the image of my wife in another man’s arms with memories of her kissing my forehead after a long day and whispering: ‘Sleep now, my sweet.’

  A PAST COMES CALLING

  Sundays are the busiest days of the week at the Monastery of The Anargyroi Order of St Cosmas and Damian, which is why I am expected to come and help at the dispensary. It is the day when the monks, whose vocation is to provide free spiritual and medical care to those who cannot afford to pay, work the hardest.

  Today is no different and I am so tired by the time the last patient leaves that I consider spending the night in my old room instead of going back to campus.

  Father Ambrose comes in as I am packing away the generic drugs and taking stock of the medicines that need replenishing.

  ‘The Abbot wants to see you,’ Father Ambrose says.

  I leave what I am doing and walk to the office. As soon as I enter the austere space, crammed with books and several versions of the Bible, I start to feel suffocated. This is the place I hate the most of all in the monastery, second only to the old monk who had summoned me here.

  ‘John Paul,’ he says, calling me by the name they gave me as a sign of my new life at the monastery. The same one I appropriated when it was time to give my affliction a name.

  ‘You’re doing well at the dispensary.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ I say respectfully, having perfected the art of hiding my abhorrence of him over the years.

  He looks up at me, his fading eyes struggling to focus over his pince-nez. ‘Your school reports are also good.’

  I’d say better than good, but I keep quiet lest my response is read as prideful.

  The old monk pushes a folder of rubber-banded envelopes towards me. ‘We decided that you’re ready to have these.’

  I reach for the folder and my hands start to shake when I open it.

  ‘Those are from your mother. She has written to you frequently over the past eleven years.’

  I flip through the envelopes, all addressed to me and none appear opened.

  ‘We all felt it was better not to give them to you right away.’

  Better for who? I want to scream, but I can’t trust myself to speak. The rage inside me threatens to call John Paul to the light. I put the envelopes back in the folder, close it and force myself to look at Father Olayiwola.

  ‘Her letters would only have been reminders of your sin, for which you were still making penance.’

  ‘I understand, Father. But why give them to me now?’

  The old monk reclines on the wooden chair. ‘You’re a man now. We’ve done our part. Your whole life is ahead of you, and the past shouldn’t dictate how you go into your future.’

  The self-righteous way he speaks infuriates me. How dare he? How dare they all think they can decide for me?

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ I say instead.

  ‘That’s not all.’

  I wait. Nothing can be worse than the first seven years of living at the monastery. Even the unopened letters only prove this.

  ‘Those letters used to come regularly,’ the Abbot continues. ‘Sometimes every three months. Then they stopped. Because I knew the day would come when we would have to hand over these letters to you, I requested the parish in Port Harcourt to look for your mother.’

  I keep silent even as my heart beats fast. The urge to choke the life out of this man is strong. I resist it because to give in would mean calling John Paul into the light. But, not now. Not yet.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s very sick and has been for some time. That’s why the letters stopped coming.’

  Still, I say nothing and can see Father Olayiwola is becoming disconcerted.

  ‘We think you should go and see her.’

  ‘Why?’ I can feel the knocking at the back of my head. That precursor to John Paul stepp
ing out of the shadows. I find my voice to stem the rage that threatens to swallow me.

  ‘Because she’s your mother.’

  ‘She abandoned me.’

  ‘She saved you.’

  I don’t trust myself to respond to this. I start putting the envelopes back in the folder. When Father Olayiwola’s wrinkled hand touches mine across the desk, I try not to flinch.

  ‘We believe your penance will be complete if you visit her at the hospital. God has forgiven you both. But it’s time you forgive yourselves and each other.’

  I make a quick sign of the cross, bow and force myself not to run. From here, him and everything that’s kept the contents in the folder from me all these years.

  ‘… your penance will be complete.’

  The Abbot’s words reverberate in my head all through the taxi ride back to campus. So, what have I been doing in all these years? How many beatings, enforced self-flagellation to the point of irreversible scarring would it take? Who decides what makes penance complete?

  ‘Not them. Certainly not them,’ John Paul says from the shadows and I know he is eager as I am to complete The Final Plan. To wipe away the past, with everything and everyone in it. To start afresh, sinless and without a need for penance.

  Soon, but not now.

  The folder of unopened letters weighs me down as I walk from the taxi stop to the residential hall. Though deep down, I know I cannot wait to read each of them, through the night if need be.

  My hurried steps slow as I make my way past the other rooms towards mine. My door is ajar. I can sense Amaso Dabara is waiting for me inside.

  I take a deep breath and give John Paul the light before walking in.

  POOR, UNFORTUNATE SOULS

  On my first night in Okriki, I dream that I’m locked in a burning Land Cruiser. My fists pound the windows and pull at unyielding locks as Folake walks away from my soundless screaming.

  I wake up sweating and remember I had switched off the noisy air conditioner. I turn it back on, the ensuing sound guaranteeing that it’ll be a while before I go back to sleep. I check the time. 3:14 a.m. Might as well get some work done.

  In Chika’s file, the list of potential interviewees and the places to visit mirrors the one I made in Lagos, although there’s more detail here. While I referred to witnesses by their position or role in the killing, Chika’s notes have names, addresses and brief information about who they are. I cross out some names on both lists and place question marks next to a few.

  One name I put a question mark against is Stella Aligbe, the mother of one of the boys, Bonaventure. She lives in the east and had not been part of the interview session Emeka had organised for me in his office boardroom with the parents of the third victim.

  I open my laptop and click on the folder containing my concise but detailed bios on the victims.

  Winston Babajide Coker.

  Third-year sociology student at the State University. Middle child and five months shy of turning twenty-two when he was killed. His mother, a well-preserved diminutive woman in her late fifties, dressed elegantly, but without any jewellery or make-up. She had been stoic as she sat there and told me God was going to rain hailstones of wrath on the town of Okriki. She had spoken like someone who had no more tears to cry, her voice cold and detached as she informed me that her son may have been many things, but he was not a thief.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I had asked tentatively, since this was not a typical summation of a child by a grieving parent.

  ‘He lied. He was a bully and always fought authority,’ Mrs Coker had answered matter-of-factly.

  ‘He was just young,’ her husband had interjected. He was a very slim and tall man, who anyone could see had decided to take the back seat in their marriage.

  ‘He needed Jesus,’ Mrs Coker had insisted, and her eyes dared her husband to contradict her. He didn’t.

  ‘There’s talk that these boys were in some kind of a gang,’ I had ventured to ask.

  ‘Secret cult,’ Mrs Coker had hissed. ‘That evil spirit that has taken over all the universities.’

  ‘Yes,’ I had agreed, quickly pushing thoughts of my dad away. ‘You think it’s true?’

  ‘How would we know when it’s supposed to be a secret?’ she had scoffed. ‘All I can tell you is that Winston was far away in that school, and we didn’t know what he was up to because we’re here in Lagos.’

  ‘But you don’t believe he was trying to rob anyone even if he might have been part of a cult or gang?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Mr Coker had stated vehemently. ‘Why would he steal? He was well taken care of, with access to the best life could offer. Why would he steal?’

  ‘Even if he was stealing,’ Mrs Coker had added, ‘no one deserves to be killed that way. Why didn’t they just hand them over to the authorities? Why kill our child like that?’

  She had started to rock in her seat and pray softly in a strange language. Definitely a Pentecostal. I had wondered then if the conversion was before or after her son was killed. I turned to the husband.

  ‘So, you think people are lying about your son?’

  ‘To be honest, I really don’t care about their reasons,’ Mr Coker had answered unconvincingly. ‘Only God will judge.’

  The interview hadn’t revealed much more after that. The Cokers only reiterated how much effort they had put into ensuring the legal system brought the people of Okriki to justice. Their son was dead and they could do nothing to bring him back.

  ‘Vengeance is the Lord’s. I’ve forgiven them,’ Mrs Coker had concluded fervently. She was even less convincing than her husband.

  I click on the second file in the victims’ folder.

  Bonaventure ‘Bona’ Cosmos Aligbe.

  Last born son of a single mother of five children, with a reputation for being a hellraiser. From the pictures I had downloaded off the Internet, it’s easy to see why he’d been considered a ladies’ man. At twenty-four, the oldest of the Okriki Three, Bonaventure’s most flattering descriptions came from several girls on campus, while the boys told stories of wild parties, boozing and skipping classes. In a written statement, his mother had described him as a good boy who sometimes ‘forgot the son of whom he was’. Another grieving parent using religion as a balm of comfort.

  Last, not least: Kevin Chinedu Nwamadi.

  I remain shaken by my introduction to Emeka’s son from when his father showed me the video.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emeka had said after we watched it together, ‘for showing you like that.’

  ‘But it was necessaly,’ Abubakar had interjected.

  ‘I remember reading that they were planning to rob someone.’ I had delicately put forward a piece of information I recalled from my students’ presentations.

  Emeka had waved his hand dismissively, his irritation evident. ‘Look at me, Philip. I’m the Managing Director of a major commercial bank. Do you think my only son would be so deprived that he would leave his campus and go to some village to steal cell phones and laptops?’

  ‘Were any arrests made?’ I had asked.

  ‘Eighteen months ago!’ Emeka had shot back harshly. ‘Only seven people are standing trial. Seven! Did you see all those people in the video? Did that look like seven killers? But that doesn’t bother me as much as the lies and the sheer apathy of the police in investigating the allegations made against my son.’

  ‘What are they claiming?’ I had asked.

  ‘Exactly what the media also claimed. That my son was part of a secret cult. That he and his friends were robbing another student. No one bothered to investigate when the student in question clearly gave testimony that he didn’t know Kevin. No one wanted to hear us when both my wife and I said we could prove that Kevin was not even friends with the other two boys.’

  ‘This is where you come in, Philip,’ Abubakar then had said, more to calm Emeka down than anything else.

  ‘The conclusions drawn from that video imply that my son was a criminal and deser
ved to die the way he did. I won’t have that.’ Emeka’s had eyes burned with anger, as he leaned towards me, with an intensity that brooked no argument. ‘Something happened, a mistaken identity at best, or a planned attack at worst. The fact is we don’t know, which is worse than the fact that I buried my son in a closed casket because it would be too cruel to allow his mother see what was left of his body.’

  ‘But this happened in the east. For me to recreate the crime, I would have to go there, talk to people, do some crime scene analysis –’

  ‘– and for this, I’m willing to reward you handsomely,’ Emeka had interrupted but then changed his tone when he saw me flinch at his insinuation that my decision could be bought. ‘Please, Dr Taiwo. Philip. All I want is a report. I want your expertise in recreating crime scenes so I can make some sense of the senseless murder of my son. Please, if only for the fact that you’re a father too.’

  There had been silence for a beat. Then Emeka had reached for his iPhone again, and handed it to me.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not the video.’

  I had looked at the screen and the picture nearly broke my heart. Kevin was good looking and there was a wholesomeness and kindness in the broad smile he flashed at the camera that made me feel rage on Emeka’s behalf.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ Emeka had said with a sad smile. ‘Kevin Chinedu Nwamadi. Third-year law student. He was twenty and the baby of the family. His sisters and mother doted on him. He was a good boy. Top of his class. Best son a father could ask for.’

  That was when the dam broke, and in that classroom at the Police College in Lagos, Emeka Nwamadi, the Managing Director of the third largest bank in Nigeria, had heaved, shuddered and finally, cried.

  POLICE IS YOUR FRIEND

  ‘You called Tai and Kay!’ my daughter snaps as soon as I pick up her call. It’s 7:18 and I know they’ll be ready for school and most likely, the boys had bragged about our late-night conversation.