Lightseekers Page 5

  ‘You were sleeping, moppet,’ I say.

  Lara lowers her voice dramatically. ‘I wasn’t. I was waiting for your call.’

  ‘Your mom is there, right?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject, Dad.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I just thought you’d be sleeping. Won’t happen again.’

  ‘I googled that airport, Dad. You know it’s been voted the worst airport in the world more than three times? Like in the whole wide world!’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

  I spend some time downplaying my experience at the airport, but when Lara asks if I have pictures, I realise how disoriented I was yesterday. I tend to take photographs on my trips and send them to her for her scrapbook.

  ‘Mom’s ready. Gotta go. Wanna speak with her?’

  ‘I’ll call her later. Don’t keep her waiting.’

  ‘Okay. Chat later?’

  ‘Mos def, moppet.’

  I hang up and check the time. I rush into the shower, dress at record speed and I’m ready when Chika knocks on my door.

  We decide to skip the complimentary breakfast of eggs swimming in oil, and a butchered loaf passing for sliced bread. The coffee is lukewarm and tastes horrible. We both push our mugs aside and decide it’s best to start the day with an empty stomach.

  We set out to the police station, and I get to see the town in daylight. Several rows of bungalows line the uneven untarred road. I now appreciate why Emeka gave Chika a 4x4. It is a bumpy ride.

  Rust-spotted roofing sheets come in and out of view as we drive through the town. People on bicycles, motorcycles, and in cars weave past and around us. It is a bit disconcerting to see people looking up from whatever they are doing to stare at us. A small town’s fascination with strangers or something more? I test this theory quickly as I wave at three boys who should be in school, but instead are kicking a dirty soccer ball on the side of the road. They wave back. I relax. It is a small-town thing.

  Soon, we’re in front of an unpainted bungalow. The red rust here has dripped down the walls to create strips of brown that almost seem intentional. A hand-painted sign says where we are, but I still look at Chika askance. Surely it can’t be –

  ‘We’re here,’ Chika says as he parks the car.

  The police station. We’ve driven past bungalows this morning that are more impressive in size and level of maintenance.

  ‘I will wait here, sir,’ Chika says.

  ‘Nonsense,’ I protest immediately. ‘You can come with me.’

  ‘But sir, I’m not sure –’

  ‘Come,’ I insist.

  He smiles mischievously. ‘Sir, it’s the police station. Nothing like the airport yesterday, I assure you.’

  The mention of the airport reminds me of my out-of-depthness, and I make a mental note to call Emeka. The efficient way Chika navigated me out of there, not to mention the careful and orderly compilation of the case notes, convinces me that he could be much more than a driver on this assignment.

  ‘Chika,’ I say in a voice I hope puts paid to any argument, ‘it’s either you come in with me or you’ll have to call Emeka to explain why you’re driving me straight back to the airport.’

  I mean it as a joke of course, but Chika seems to take me seriously. He turns off the engine and we head in. The open-plan reception – technically, the living room of the bungalow – is furnished with desks held upright by broken pieces of other furniture. It’s early, but there are already a few people in the station. One man is speaking agitatedly to an officer who is writing morosely. Two men sit on a bench staring straight ahead; both are sweaty, breathing heavily and, on closer observation, I notice they’re holding on to the waistband of one another’s trousers, apparently from a scuffle they refuse to resolve without the intervention of the law.

  An officer sitting on the other side of another precariously positioned desk beckons us over. I can see he’s a rookie from how clean and new his uniform is. Behind him, a poster with a fresh-faced male model in police uniform proclaims: ‘Police is your friend. Help Police.’

  The rookie tries to sound imperious. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’re here to see Inspector Omereji,’ Chika answers.

  ‘In connection with?’

  I proffer the envelope with the seal of the Commandant of Police College, Lagos. The rookie turns the package over in his hands with ill-concealed curiosity.

  ‘Wait here,’ he orders and leaves us.

  The two men gripping each other’s clothes have started arguing, using their free hands to make fists.

  The bored statement-taking officer raises his voice. ‘Hey! Hey! This is not a beer parlour! Keep quiet, or I’ll lock both of you up!’

  The men shut up almost instantly, but neither releases the other.

  ‘They don’t speak Igbo here?’ I whisper to Chika.

  ‘No. They speak Ikwerre,’ he whispers back.

  ‘I thought all easterners speak Igbo.’

  ‘Don’t let them hear you say that here, sir.’

  I want to ask why, but the rookie is back and motions for us to follow him.

  We walk down a hall with files and paperwork arranged on the floor in haphazard piles and quickly past what appears to be a holding cell with about half a dozen men playing cards and smoking. I catch a glimpse of beer bottles on the floor. Clearly, the inmates know how to get what they want.

  We enter an office that’s large enough to have been the master bedroom of the bungalow-turned-police-station, and the officer I assume to be Inspector Michael Omereji stands to greet us. He is a tall man, light-skinned with a moustache so well trimmed it suggests a streak of vanity. He’s good looking and he knows it.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us, Inspector,’ I say, as I shake his proffered hand.

  ‘Mike, please,’ he answers graciously, as he motions towards the chairs in front of his desk. ‘Have a seat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply as I take the seat across from him. I notice Chika is not sitting and I motion for him to take the chair next to mine. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

  I turn back to the inspector. ‘The Commandant sends his regards.’

  ‘Sadly, I’ve never met him. The Commandant is quite legendary.’

  Some chit-chat about how well the Police College is doing since Abubakar took over trails into an awkward silence. I quickly introduce Chika as my research assistant and ignore his raised brow at this dubious promotion. The Inspector barely nods at my ‘assistant’ and does not offer Chika a handshake.

  ‘Regarding the case I am writing the report on,’ I begin.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the Inspector cuts in. ‘I read the Commandant’s letter, but I can’t help you.’

  ‘All I need is the case file.’

  ‘The investigations are over, and all the files have been handed over to the Prosecutor General’s office.’

  ‘Surely there must be copies?’

  ‘Look around you, Dr Taiwo. Do you think we have space to keep months-old files, let alone the ones for a closed case?’

  ‘Closed?’

  ‘I’m sure you follow the news. The sad incident was investigated. Twenty-three people were arrested and I believe seven of them are on trial now. The case is in court. Justice is being carried out, and our job is done. Hence, the case is closed.’ He pauses to look down on Abubakar’s letter, which he pushes back to me with a shrug. I don’t reach for it, my gaze fixed on him.

  If the Inspector is fazed, he doesn’t show it. ‘Right now,’ he continues, ‘seven people have been charged with the killing of the three boys, and they’re facing trial in the State High Court in PH. The case file is there. I’m sorry, there’s nothing here for you.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ I say.

  The Inspector seems encouraged by my acquiescence because he stands. ‘If the Commandant had sent an email in advance, it would’ve saved you much trouble.’

  I don’t rise. ‘May I speak to some of the investigating office
rs?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘As the letter states, I’m compiling case studies of forensic precedents across the country. We’re looking for interesting cases that support our curriculum at the Police College. The Okriki Three case is one such. I’m sure the investigating officers will be able to provide information that’ll enrich the text even if the case is … closed.’

  Inspector Omereji looks at me, his watch, then back at me.

  ‘It’s rather early to pull hard-working officers off duty to come for interviews they’re not prepared for.’

  ‘We can come back. Just give me a time.’

  ‘That’ll be best.’ He raises his voice, ‘Constable Doubra!’

  The rookie appears instantly.

  ‘Please take Dr Taiwo’s details. Remind me to tell the team that worked on the Okriki Three to make time to speak to Dr Taiwo and his … colleague.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The rookie salutes and turns to me. ‘This way, sir.’

  I stand, shake Inspector Omereji’s hand and walk out with the rookie Doubra, right behind Chika, who again isn’t offered a handshake.

  ‘He’s lying, sir,’ Chika says, as soon as we’re in the car.

  ‘I know, but there’s nothing we can do. If the matter has been handed over to the Prosecutor General –’

  ‘Yes, but why is he lying about the officers being busy? This is Okriki, not the underbelly of Aba market. How busy can they be?’

  ‘Maybe he’s buying time.’

  ‘To prep the officers?’

  I like Chika’s street-smart distrust, which I’ve come to associate with people operating at a lower level than their qualifications. Survival forces insight, I guess.

  ‘Back to the hotel, sir?’ he asks as he starts the car.

  ‘No. The crime scene.’

  GHOST ROAD

  If I were in the States, visiting the site of a cold case could still yield previously unknown information years after an incident. Investigators would check whether there were previously unnoticed security cameras on the streets. They would look for buildings around the scene that had windows facing where the crime took place. They will then go into those buildings and speak to possible witnesses, even those that have already given their testimonies when the case was live.

  However, this is Okriki. The crime scene is a small clearing off to the side of a gravel road, less than twelve minutes’ bumpy drive from the police station. There are no houses around. Or street lights. No cameras. Nothing really.

  I look around and take pictures of angles that I hope to match to the video clips of the lynching later tonight. I quickly check the setting of my old crime scene companion: my Nikon 500. It’s on automatic, and I switch to manual to control the precision of the images against the harsh sun.

  ‘Where does this road lead?’ I ask Chika.

  ‘To Ochuko. We will pass the university’s main campus before we get to the town proper.’

  ‘So, it’s like a major road?’

  ‘Sort of. You can also take the road leading from our hotel around the town towards the main campus. It’s a better road but takes longer.’ He gesticulates northwards. ‘This one takes you through to the campus directly, the other one from our hotel will take you through several villages before getting to the university.’

  ‘Can we assume that this is the road most people would take if they’re driving directly to the campus?’ I ask, frowning. There is something strange about this road, deserted and neglected, despite the fact that it is the shortest and most direct route to the State University’s main campus.

  ‘I guess so,’ Chika says but I can sense he is trying to understand my line of questioning. ‘I would have said no, because of its current state, but then most roads in these parts are like this.’

  A battered Volvo drives by. Its occupants look at us, curious until they are out of sight. A Toyota loaded with heaps of unripe plantain follows soon after.

  ‘If this is the road that’s the fastest to the campus, it doesn’t make sense that it’s so deserted. Come.’

  We walk back to the 4x4. Chika starts the car so that the AC can be turned on, and we can close the doors and escape from the heat and dust. I bring out my iPhone and open one of the videos of the lynching, which I had saved. As it starts to play, Chika takes in a deep breath.

  ‘You don’t have to –’ I start to say.

  ‘It’s okay, sir. I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘It doesn’t get easier …’

  ‘It shouldn’t get easier.’ Chika bends to peer at the small screen. ‘What are you looking for, sir?’

  I press pause. ‘If you can take your eyes away from the boys, just study the road.’ I press fast forward and continue speaking, ‘We know they were brought here from that side. See?’

  I raise the phone and look in the direction we came from.

  ‘Can you see that?’ I pause the video. ‘See that tree? That tall one. Is that not the same one in the distance …?’

  I point at the unusually tall palm tree in the distance that matches the one that stands out in the video where, at this point, the Okriki Three are still being paraded down the road like Christ on the Via Dolorosa.

  ‘I see it,’ Chika says, squinting in concentration as I enlarge the scene on the screen.

  ‘If they were coming via this road, there’s no way they wouldn’t have passed the police station.’

  Chika hisses in anger, ‘The police must have seen the mob.’

  ‘Exactly. Perhaps that’s why Inspector Omereji needed to prep them for our questions. Look –’

  I rewind and press play again, and it is almost surreal the way the journey of the doomed boys matches our drive from the police station. But now, there are no makeshift shops, stalls and kiosks like on the video. I see the edge of a table stacked with homemade gin; another seems to have battered bottles of engine oil and lubricants. If it’s anything like Lagos, there should also be gallons of petrol and kerosene for sale, bread sellers ready to smear margarine on your purchase, water peddled in plastic bags and a myriad of food stalls lining the side of a significant road like this.

  I freeze the image where this particular recording follows the Okriki Three as they fall down. There they are: stacks of old tyres with a vulcanising machine next to what seems to be the long, dirty tube of a pump. The mystery of the origin of the tyres thrown over the victims is explained. Albeit partially.

  ‘Let’s drive back to the police station.’

  Chika turns the car around.

  ‘Slowly,’ I say, as we begin to drive back, my eyes darting from the iPhone screen to the road and back again.

  Chika goes slowly. I pause the video intermittently. I focus on the surroundings and not the dying boys, and I switch programmes quickly, taking pictures of scenes that match what I see in the video.

  When we get to the police station for the second time today, I ask Chika to turn the car round again.

  ‘To the scene again?’

  ‘Yes. And even slower this time.’

  We must be coming off as very strange to those passing by. But I know I’m on to something here, although it’s far from a breakthrough.

  The second time we get to where the Okriki Three met their tragic end, I pause the video and look at Chika.

  ‘The road was cleared,’ I declare.

  ‘Cleared, sir?’ Chika looks at me briefly, then back to the road.

  ‘There were shops here … Stop here! See?’ I gesture to the frozen video, then outside. ‘See the similarities in the vegetation? Look at that power line. And the transformer in the bush there? You see? We’re at the same place and yet, in the video, there were shops and makeshift stalls, but now, there’s nothing. The road is not deserted. It was cleared.’

  ‘Maybe the people were traumatised and didn’t want to remember?

  I shake my head. ‘It’s possible but not plausible. All of them can’t be affected to the same degree that they would all clear their wares off the most p
otentially profitable route to the university.’

  ‘You think they cleared the route of the witnesses who saw what happened?’

  ‘Or were even part of the lynching.’

  ‘But there is proof on the video.’

  ‘Yes. But look.’ I press play again, and inch the iPhone towards Chika on the driver’s side. ‘Remember that Omereji said twenty-three people were arrested, but even if we can’t see the faces, there are much more than that here …’

  I stop the video, look around and back at Chika.

  ‘I need to go to where it all started.’

  MADAM LANDLADY

  The compound where the undergraduate named Godwin Emefele had lived is like most of the houses on the street; separated from the next one by trees and a patch of vegetables, maize and yams. In the large yard stands a double-storey building that appears to have been recently painted a bright yellow with dark brown highlights around the window ledges.

  Chika and I are parked at the corner of the road, measuring the distance between the nearby market where we were told most of the mob came from and the police station that lies in the opposite direction.

  ‘It’s quiet for such a large compound,’ I say, trying to picture a crowd entering the yard, apprehending the alleged thieves and dragging them all the way past the police station, to where they were finally killed. ‘No tenants? Kids of families living here?’

  ‘It was built for students.’ Chika says, pointing. ‘See? The big windows are the rooms themselves and the smaller ones are the bathrooms and toilets.’

  I nod and try to count the number of large windows from where we are standing, while discreetly taking pictures with my phone. Six large windows downstairs on the side we are facing, so I assume the same will be on the other side. Give or take. Fewer upstairs because it has a large balcony at the front, so I would say eight or ten rooms on the top floor.

  ‘If the townspeople say no one knew the boys were students, and yet the house is mainly occupied by undergrads –’

  ‘I read that the townspeople said they’ve always been terrorised by students coming in from campus to steal their belongings.’ Chika squints against the glare of the sun. ‘The fact that they’re students might have even aggravated the violence.’