stuff46:
Sometimes i wonder if Lauren is a teneger or adult in this story.

Great story, great shearer. Loving the twists.

She's quite exposed and outspoken.
I guess that's why.. But she's still a teenager

Just4yhu:
so no update for us?

Sorry dear, I've been very busy lately.
Will do something today

CHAPTER 22




Richard received the newspaper from his lawyer and read the peoples’ report. He clasped the paper’s edges.

Majority believed the police, and expected him to confess guilty in the arraignment. Some cursed and called him murderer.

They prayed he rot in jail and begged the EFCC not to spare him the way they did other elites in the country. God shouldn’t answer that prayer.

“We would plead not guilty at the arraignment,” Mr Victor said.

Richard raised eyes to his lawyer. “What if the judge finds me guilty?”

The lawyer stayed quiet.

“That’s possible, right? I might be found guilty.”

“Are you guilty?”

“No.” He laid the newspaper on the desk.

“Then don’t plead guilty. The best thing to say before the judge is the truth.

You’re not guilty, don’t lie before her. If you plead guilty, barely anything can render you not guilty. I don’t do plea bargains when my client is innocent.”

“The arraignment would be tried by a female judge?”

“Yes. She would hear the arraignment and the trial.”

The male magistrate at the preliminary didn’t favour. Females might see reasons not to jump into conclusions.

“She tries cases as male judges do. Her feminine nature will pose no advantage,” the lawyer said.

“I never expected any advantage,” Richard said. “Only the guilty needs advantage.” He wished that were true.

The lawyer lifted the newspaper. “Don’t mind what the people say. If you think of that, you might lose focus.”

“They believe I’m guilty.”

“That’s what we are trying to disprove.”
Confidence mingled with the man’s words, but doubts also had its place, even if it tried to hide.

“What about the ballistics result?”

The lawyer’s lids dropped and his flat lips rounded. “The tests have been performed and the results are with the FCID.”

Richard braced hands and pressed them against each other. “What was the result?”

“I’m not supposed to know. The state’s ballistician would announce it on trial.”
Not all lawyers were good liars.

“Lawyer-client relationship is a two way thing,” Richard said. “You tell me everything you know, and I tell you everything.”

The lawyer lowered head, and then raised it to him. “It was a match. The 9 mm bullet was analysed and found to have come from a Glock pistol that had your ID. The United States’ database said you purchased it 2011.”

Richard hit his head with a fist. The lawyer held the fisted hand and prevented him from making a second hit. “This is merely another high profile case. High profile cases get solved.”

“You are a Christian?” Richard asked.
The lawyer released Richard’s hand. “I am.”

“What if this is a punishment from God.”

A curve arched a corner of the lawyer’s lips. “You are no criminal, God don’t punish the innocents.”

“God don’t punish the innocents, but he penances them for every sin they commit. This could be the penance for my sins.”

The lawyer did a chuckle. “You are not the first Christian in this kind of situation.”

“That changes nothing. I’m a Christian, a catholic.” He looked away from the lawyer.

“I’ve erred in some ways. God might be using this to make me atone for that. He’s using my sins against me.”

The lawyer sighed and drew a hand down his face. “Tomorrow is your arraignment. You don’t want to lose focus. God didn’t put you here, and you are not supposed to be here.”

“Then let him make the judge see the truth. I’m innocent.”

“Look, Mr Richard, you’re innocent, and we’d do our best to prove that.”

Richard covered his face with both hands and breathed into them. “You help me call a priest, I want to say confessions. I need to do that before the arraignment.”

“You can do that after the arraignment. They’ll be enough time.”

“No, I want to do it before.”
The lawyer tapped his head. “I’d find one.”

“Do you think the judge will allow bail?”

“We’d ask. She might allow, but it’d be expensive, it might run to about twenty million.”

Twenty million. Twenty million as bail for a crime he knew nothing about. The world was not fair. Nigeria was not fair.

“How’s Abbe?”

“She’s fine. She’d witness at the trial.”

“Hope she isn’t burdening herself too much.”

“I told her not to. I pray she adheres.”
God should answer that prayer.

#


The High Court was larger than the Magistrate’s Court where the preliminary was heard. Everyone had seats and engaged in side talks. Richard was glad he didn’t have large ears to hear the talks.

Erneto Aives staffs dominated the first row.

He wished they could know how innocent he was, how innocent their CEO was. Abbe and Jide sat on the last row, carrying faces which were like a guilty verdict.

The white girl sat beside them, her white face now black, but not black enough to hide that she believed he shot the man.

Ezinne sat behind him, where his eyes couldn’t reach, and he wouldn’t turn to have a glimpse of her.

Everyone waited for the Her Ladyship, everyone except him. The woman best remained in her chambers or wherever she was.

The door behind the counter opened and Her Ladyship walked in. The court rose. Richard imagined the words that would be coming out from those rounded lips of hers.

She assumed bench and the court returned to the seats.

She studied a file on her desk. She raised head to Richard and drew the microphone closer to her mouth.

“You’re Mr Richard Djebah Fayemi?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Here with me is a copy of the indictment against you. Have you read a copy?” She sounded like the magistrate that heard the initial appearance and the preliminary, like every legal practitioner he had heard speak.

“Yes.”

“Have you and your attorney discussed it?”

“Yes.”

“I would read you the charges filed against you.” She bowed head to the file.

“The court, as it is under its jurisdiction, presents that the defendant, Richard Djebah Fayemi, a native of the State of Lagos, deliberately and feloniously attempt to murder the person of Bakare Obafemi Damijo, on the seventeenth day of August, in an unnamed cherry orchard, in direct violation and against the peace, amity, and dignity of the State and Country.” She raised head to him.

“Do you understand the charges read against you?”

“I do.”

“And do you understand that if convicted, you might be sentenced to eight years imprisonment?”

“I do.”

“Do you plead guilty or not guilty to the charge?”

Pleading guilty would bring up a chance to bargain, and that could lessen whatever cross that would be placed on him.

Most elites in the country gained freedom through plea bargains. A not guilty plea would only forward the case to trial, and trials never had good endings.

He turned to his lawyer who looked fixedly at him, and at his behind was Jide’s head, bowed to the desk.

Abbe’s eyes bored into his and in those eyes were the right words to utter. Richard fixed on Her Ladyship and stated the words to her. “Not guilty.”

The woman gazed at him. Her lips shook and moved. “Mr Richard Fayemi, based on your not guilty plea, your trial is set for December 6th, 10 A.M. All pre-trial matters must be filed before then.”

Richard stared at the woman. A male judge would have been better.

“Any motions?” she asked.

Mr Victor rose. “Yes, My Lady. The defence requests bail.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Victor, I cannot grant bail in this case.”

A male judge surely would have been better.

Her Ladyship closed her file. “Mr Fayemi, you are to remain in jail until the trial.”

A corporal marched to Richard, and Richard stretched his hands to the handcuffs.

He fixed eyes to the door as the corporal led him out of the courtroom. From one hell to another.

CHAPTER 23




The courtroom was getting empty. Erneto Aives staffs stopped by before they headed for the door. Some asked if anything could be done to get their CEO out of the mess.

Jide told them Richard was not guilty but refused to explain how. He told them to go home and pray that the truth unfolded itself. Most left without smiles and few left with smiles.

Lauren wondered how those few managed to smile.

She glanced at the few remaining in the courtroom, she wasn’t the only one without smiles, the woman sitting by her was without, the one Jide said called Richard to the crime scene.

Lauren wished she could hate her.

The woman rose. “I’m leaving, Jide.”
Jide offered a ride. She declined and stalked to the door. Lauren watched her and felt a speck of her pain.

“She should be very close to Richard,” Lauren said to Jide.

“Yes. I suppose she needs some time alone. I can imagine what she would be feeling.”

“How about you try talking to Rick’s wife. If she confesses and—”

“She wouldn’t. Rick’s lawyer said she shouldn’t be contacted.”

She gazed at the position where the wife sat for the hearing and tried to carve out the look on her face, the look when the charges against her husband were read.

“She might confess. She might.”

Jide looped a hand round her neck, faced her, and muttered. “Nobody likes prison. Getting her to confess would be impossible. Proving it is better and more possible than a confession.”

His dimple marks had completely disappeared. A meandered vein followed the edge of his head. The blood caged in them struggled for freedom.

“I would love to visit Richard,” she said.

“You are not in his visiting list.”

“Can’t you make it happen?”

“You’d come with me on my next visit.”

“That would be when?”

“Thursday. I’d pick you.”

Thursday was free. She could make it free.

“I want to go home, dad must have begun worrying.”

He removed hands from her neck. “If you touch the steering now, the police might ask for license.”

She unzipped her purse and brought out a license card.

“They would know the difference between a fake and a real,” he said.

“This is real.”

His eyes sharpened as he took it from her. “How?”

“I clocked eighteen last month.”

“You didn’t tell me, I would have tried a birthday present.”

“With all these going on, I wouldn’t want a present.”

She stood up and his eyes followed her up.

“You’ve grown tall,” he said. “Tall and beautiful.”

Every man said those to a woman, daddies told their daughters. It could mean nothing. It meant nothing.

“Thank you.”

“Drive safe.”

A tiny dimple formed on his cheek. There was no dimple, only an imagination. Sometimes, imaginations were good.

#


The Thursday rains landed on the ground with same thuds of snowflakes hitting the Canadian roads.

The Toyota’s wipers swept the waters off the windscreen but didn’t sweep off the penetrating cold. The cold rested on her skin and breached into its once tiny pores.

The downpour waned into droplets and gradually diminished, leaving its haze on the windscreen.

Jide wiped the haze from his side with a rag. He threw the rag on the dashboard and returned hands to the steering.

Lauren picked the rag and wiped the haze off her front. The wipers swished at the dots of water clung to the screen.

A police officer tapped the bonnet and directed Jide to the side lane. Lauren wondered why the officer did that.

Nothing in the car was wrong. If he was checking for papers, he had stopped the wrong man. Jide never drove without the necessary papers.

“What’s wrong with this man,” Jide whined with a puckered face and whirled the steering. He parked and rolled his window down.

The officer stalked to his side and pointed his nightstick to her. “She’s on no seatbelt.”

She glanced at her middle. The officer was right. She was on no belt. Anything but that would have been better. She fixed her seatbelt and prayed it made the officer walk away.
It didn’t.

The officer gawped at the wallet on the dashboard. “I’ll have to fine you for disregarding the rules.”

She broke the rules. The officer ought to be at her window and not Jide’s.
Jide picked the wallet and brought out three thousand notes. He gave the officer and fixed hands on the steering.

The officer attempted saying something. Jide rolled his window up and veered into the road.

A scowl had its place on his face. What introduced that? The officer or her?

“They always find ways to extort,” he said. “I pray I find myself in a position to deal with them.”

He flicked eyes to her and she blinked away. She was not supposed to blink. She was supposed to look straight to his eyes and listen to what he had to say.

She transferred eyes to him, but had already lost his gaze. The windscreen stole all of it. “I normally wear belts, I just forgot today,” she said.

“They ought not to fine. The worse they ought to do is mark with a ticket. The officer was hungry.”

“Are we close to the station?” She tried a new topic.

“We should be there by the next five minutes.”

The signboard pointed to a green and yellow array of bungalows. Jide drove there and parked at the parking lot, or something resembling a parking lot.

Half of the eyes inside the building aimed at her, the exceptions were closed.

A man on uniform who wore a dark eyeshade stretched on a bench. His eyes couldn’t be open, not with the way he laid like a dead man.

She sat on a pew and watched Jide have a long chat with the police officer on the counter. The officer had black horizontal tribal marks, carved three times on both of his cheeks.

Words like oyinbo escaped from their discussion, same word people in school said around her, same uncouth word. Their chat ended and the man made a call. Jide signalled her to walk with him.

“You two debated on if I should be granted access?” she asked.

“He was simply catering for his pocket, and relented when he saw I wasn’t going to succumb.” His lips barely moved, and those words did not come from the good side.

Whatever happened with the officer angered his bones and deprived her of the little cheer that used to be on his face—the little she had hoped to become brighter at the sight of Richard.

An officer led them into a room, a room with nothing but two windows, a fan hung on broken ceilings, and four white chairs scattered at the edges. She put three chairs in place. They sat and waited for Richard.

She peered through a window for a glimpse of the cells, praying they should be nothing like the ones on the internet. At least, Richard’s shouldn’t be like that.

Richard walked along with an officer. His hands weren’t cuffed and he wasn’t wearing a jumpsuit.
He stepped into the room in black trousers and a shirt with the D&G label written bold on its facade.

A friend once told her anyone who had spent two weeks in the Nigerian cells must have a swell on his head. There was none on his, but something was different about the head.

He sat on the bench and gave her a half smile, something she never believed would squeeze out, and then, he stretched hand for a shake. His palm reminded her of his story of serving in the armed forces.

His handshake with Jide ended with Jide shaking his head. “You are not looking good, Rick, you’re not,” Jide said, and added some Yoruba words.

“What did you expect? No one is supposed to look good after spending a month in jail.”

“I thought you paid for a better treatment.”

“That’s what they call it, but it’s nothing near good. I share the bed with mosquitoes and all nameless insects. I’m locked with them the whole day. I find it difficult to sleep. I’m in a jail, and that thought alone doesn’t let me sleep. I’m tired, Jide. I’m tired of this place, and I want to get out.”

Innocence bared on every hair that protruded from his skin, it was enough for the police to see, for the judge to see.
He pointed eyes to her and left them there.

The words of innocence etched on the small black circle of his eyes shown like the leaf on the Canadian flag. He was not guilty.

“I didn’t do it, Lauren. All you must have read in the newspaper is untrue. I didn’t do any of those.”

If the judge were here, if she heard those words, there would be no need for another court session.

“I know you’re innocent. Jide explained all to me and I believe him.”

He nodded, nodded as though her belief would change a thing. She wished her belief would change a thing.

“How’s Erneto?” he asked Jide.
Jide lowered lids. Richard’s lids followed. Their gazes pointed to the desk.

“Erneto’s not good.” Jide touched his nose end. “The donations to the children hospitals have been suspended.”

Richard’s eyes remained on the desk, nothing small as a blink found its way through. He fingered his upper lip and raised head to Jide. “Since when?”

“Some weeks after you found yourself here.” Jide returned gaze to the desk.

“Last week we had a massive drop. I had to suspend the donations to the hospitals. It was the only way we could save.”

“Continue with the donations. Continue with them. If it means a decline in salaries then let that happen. If the workers complain, lay them off. Anything you do, make sure the donations to the hospitals continue.”
Jide pressed his forehead with a palm.

The palm covered half of his eyes and his nose top. “What you are saying could have a bad end.”

The tips of Richard’s skull bones fought for a way out. Lauren wished the whole business talk would halt. Richard didn’t need it.

“Is there anything that isn’t bad in all that’s going on?” he said. “Whether the donations are stopped or not, Erneto would be having a loss.”

“You would get out of here, Rick, and when you do, everyone would know what transpired, things would go back to being good. But for now, let us do what we can.”

The voices of the officers outside the window stressed her ears. Richard directed eyes to her. She couldn’t remove gaze, not with the way he penetrated her.

“You are a Christian, Lauren.”

She didn’t know if that was a question or a statement. But yes, she was a Christian, the daughter of a knight, and that wouldn’t get him out of jail.

“I’m a Christian,” she said, and ended her reply there.

“You remember your words of balancing both worlds?”

Those weren’t her words, but her father’s. She couldn’t remember saying them to Richard or to anyone, but disputing would do no favour. “I remember,” she said, and awaited his next words.

“Maybe this is my pay for doing that.”

She searched for a word that could stop whatever he was thinking. None. Only her dad could find such words.

Only he could find words that would convince Richard that this might not be God’s punishment, but some unforeseen, encountered ordeal.

Richard looked to Jide. “Don’t stop the donations.” He pressed hands against the table and rose. “Send my greetings to your dad, Lauren.”

Painful thing her dad did not believe in his innocence.

He patted Jide’s shoulder and sauntered out of the room. Jide eyes glued to him until he faded.

An officer approached, tapping his nightstick, and staring at her. He led them out of the room.
They exited through a door opposite to that which they entered.

The exit gave her a fair view of the cells. Most of the inmates clung themselves to the rusted railings, probably due to the overcrowding.

She tried believing those in remand might have better cells, but it wasn’t true, they share same hole with the sentenced. She imagined the better prison Richard had bargained for. How much could it be better?

They headed to the Toyota and Jide controlled the steering. They drove out of the police premises.

The splash of brown waters against the car sides helped in curbing the prevailing silence. It splashed on both sides of the car, on the two worlds of the car.

“What about two worlds?” Jide spoke with a cracked voice, or cracked words.

She twirled to him. “Sorry?”

“You just muttered those. Two worlds. What about it?”

The space between her lips had never been too wide to let words escape. She prayed no other words than those should have ever found its way out.

The words her thoughts formed could be so delicate, and most should not be heard by him. “It’s my father’s phrase.”

“I first heard them from you. Some time ago, you were telling Rick something about balancing both worlds in a conversation that involved three of us.”

“And what did we talk about?”

“I can’t remember. What does the statement mean?”

“It’s what my dad always says. You cannot balance the world and Christianity. They are immiscible, unbalanceable.”

He twirled hands round the steering as though her words were old news. It was old news, everyone knew it. The splash of muddy waters against the Toyota’s sides overtook the conversation.

“Why would Rick think his situation might be a punishment for balancing both worlds?” she asked. Jide’s lips remained glued to themselves.

His lips moved. His words came out at its pace. “Sometimes situations change thinking.”

Yes, situations change thinking, maybe it was a little different for those bounded within the black walls of a prison. Or not so different.

They entered a road edged with drainages, a road with no splashes, no noises. They got to her house in same atmosphere. He parked front of her gate.

“Thank you,” she muttered and wondered if the right thing to do was to open the door, or anything but that. Sometimes the wrong things had to be done. She opened the door.

“Have this.” His voice came from behind.

She turned to him. He held a wrapped package. His eyes locked hers. She directed at the package.

“It’s a birthday present,” he said.

“A—” There was no need saying a word.

She received the package. “Thank you.”
He returned to the steering.
The Toyota zoomed off. Its white skin survived the muddy covering.

She unwrapped the package. It was a novel with a plane front, bearing only its title, “Tick, Tick,” written in bold blue.

She opened the first page. Her name was carved on it as though she was the author.

Her birthday present for the year was a “Tick, Tick.” From a black man. Not a bad present.

CHAPTER 24





Abbe pressed her head against the pillow. It was few weeks to the trial, and no good word from the lawyer, or from anybody, not even her mum.

“Everything would be all right, odiamenmen,” her mum spoke Esan.

Her years in Kaduna did no harm to her tongue. “Wowo, wowo, go and eat.”

Abbe rose from the bed and staggered to the kitchen. Her mum retied the wrapper round her waist and scurried after her, uttering words of “everything would be all right.”

Abbe opened the refrigerator and brought out a loaf of bread and a can of butter. She carried them to the dining table.

“Eze ró, I prepared rice,” her mum said.

“I should set it on the dining for you.” She attempted going for a pot.

“Bread is okay.” Abbe wandered to the dining.

Her mum sat opposite her and continued with her unending words.

“The man is a big man, he has the money to fight the case to the end, you should not kill yourself worrying too much,” she said, as though she was not aware he had been fighting it all along and yet would soon be facing the judge at trial.

“Mama, you don’t expect me to sit and pretend I’m okay when a man is behind bars partly because of me.”

“But what can you do, eh? There is nothing you can do.”

“I can worry, let me worry.”

Mama stood up and adjusted her wrapper. “You know what worry can do to your health. It would worsen it.”

Abbe downed a gulp of the cold tea. “My urges are the last thing I worry about right now. That man is the one who worry about my urges. I cannot afford him sleeping in jail. Mama, please help me think of what to do instead of telling me not to worry.”

“I can’t stand seeing you like this,” mama said with a lowered voice.

Abbe tried loosening her face. Her mother deserved a better look to prevent any worries, for the woman need not worry for her health sake.

“Mama, odiamenmen, don’t worry about me. I can’t pretend everything is okay, but I’d try not to be overwhelmed by the situation.”

“You are. The whole thing has swallowed you. You don’t care anymore about your illness. When last did you take your antidepressants? I’ve been in this house with you, your urges have completely taken over you, you have to lay off some of the load and attend to your health.”

Abbe dropped her bread on the plate.

“It’s not the antidepressants or the medicines that kills the urges, it’s not them,” she said.

“I don’t want to think about my health. The more I think about it, the more I fall prey to it. I’m sorry to have you see me like this. I know my worries affect you, too, and I’m really sorry about it. I wish I could do anything.”

“You can’t do anything but depend on God. Osenebra is whom you should leave the case to.”

If that’s what she could do, then that’s doing nothing. “Thank you,” she said. “I would love to return to bed.”

Mama uttered no more words, but loads of them hid between her lips. Abbe rose and made for her room. She closed the door and hoped for nothing resembling a knock.

There was no knock, no words of “everything would be all right,” and no lies of “everything would be okay.”

A knock came. She closed eyes and listened to the door’s squeak. Footsteps loomed nearer and ceased at her side. Mama’s touch ran from her shoulder to her spine and back to her shoulder.

“The truth would surface,” she said. “The devil doesn’t always win.”
The woman stood and made for the door.

Abbe half-opened her eyes and watched the door close. She drew her lids together and allowed the darkness in them to be the only thing she saw.
It was not the only thing she saw.

She saw Richard in the small witness box, his hairs all spiked out, and his cheeks all blackened. She saw the judge reading from a pad, about to declare the verdict.

She saw an image of herself at the middle of the courtroom. She opened eyes and rose from the bed. She picked her jacket and strode out of the room.

In the sitting room, mama lay on the sofa with hands folded across her chest, puffing out the top of her breasts from her oversized body.

“Bu wa ki lu? Where are you going?” The woman rose.

“I’m going to Bakare’s house.” She buttoned her jacket.

“To go do what?”

“To talk to him.”

“He has just been discharged. I’m not sure he would want a talk.”

“He would have to talk.” She picked her purse from the couch’s arm.

“I would drive you there. I will not take time in re-dressing.”

“You should not go out for unnecessary reasons. I thought psychiatrists always say that.”

“This is necessary.” She hurried to her room.

#


Mama stopped her Volkswagen front of the white building. Abbe stepped out and strode to the gate. She peeped through an aperture and scanned for anything that would certify the house belonged to Bakare. His Chevrolet cleared any doubt.

She passed her hand through the aperture and opened the gate. A frightening silence welcomed her. His house was much less than his orchard.

Not one cherry tree lived in it, but a fruitless star fruit tree shrivelled at a corner. Red sands dominated the ground, reddening the building’s base.

She advanced to the building and pressed the doorbell. Silence answered. It answered again on her second press.

She walked to the front window and slid it open, shifted the curtains and gained a half view of his sitting room. She saw him. He was wheeling himself to the door. A wheelchair didn’t fit him, as a gun didn’t fit his hands.

The door crackled and opened. Their gaze hit and she tried a half-smile. It didn’t work.

It didn’t add to the length of his lips. He stood at the entrance, fixed to her, as though she was a stranger.
She aimed at his legs. “I’m sorry for your legs.”

He wheeled away from the entrance.
“You have a nice house.” She stepped into the sitting room.

“It belongs to my late grandma.”

The big board painting of him stood at her front, the one she painted. It looked finer on his wall that it was at the gallery. The painting of twins hung above it. Little perfect twins.

“How’s your health?” She sat on an armchair.

“I’m beginning to adapt to the wheels.”

His voice didn’t find a match in her brain. A totally different voice that must have come from the thickest fold of his vocal cords.

“Make yourself comfortable.” He wheeled to the dining and opened the refrigerator.

“I won’t be taking anything.”

“Why? Don’t worry, I can stretch for a drink.” His stretched hand met a bottle of Malta Guinness on the second compartment of the fridge. The bottle opener on the dining table didn’t need long arms.

“So you finally decided to come to my place,” he said and wheeled back to the sitting room, holding a bottle and an opener.

“It’s painful you met me in this state.” He looked at his toes and set the malt on a stool beside her.

As he pulled off the bottle’s cover, foam bubbled out from the drink, which finally settled into liquid and dripped down the sides of the bottle.

“I’m sorry for your legs.”

“Everybody would be sorry.” He stared at her. “Why are you here?”

“I heard you’ve been discharged. I thought of paying a visit.”
His lips stretched into something near a smile. “We always see at my orchard. You never come to my house.”

“That’s because events always led to the orchard.”

His overgrown goatee stretched like elastic wires as he fondled it. “What about my proposal?”

She stopped pouring the malt into the mug, leaving the bottle tilted. “I’ve decided. My answer is yes. I would marry you, Bakare.” She continued pouring and stopped when foam was about escaping.

A smirk she had never seen in him stretched halfway his lips, an unreadable smirk. “I love you, Abbe, you should always know that.” A pause happened and his smirk disappeared. “I love the gap in your teeth.”

Her jaw grew heavy, almost falling to the floor. “It’s likewise,” she said, happy at herself that she could speak.

He rolled himself to the television and turned it on. “So tell me, what are the things you’ve been hearing?”

“I was hoping to hear all from you. What I’ve heard doesn’t matter.” Her mug showed her reflection, stretched across its sphere. She lifted her mug and sipped.

“They matter, because they are all true.”

She dropped her mug. Some drops of liquid in it jumped off as it landed on the table. “You actually testified that you were shot by the defendant?”

“I believe the defendant is the Richard found at the orchard with a gun, the manager of that quarry industry.”

“Yes, and he has been in jail for two months, partially because of your testimony.”

The TV’s volume increased. It displayed Nollywood actors chattering with loud voices.

“No, not because of my testimony. He’s in jail because he was found with firearms at a crime scene.”

“But your testimony would render him guilty.”

He reversed to her and tapered eyes at her. “What makes you believe he isn’t guilty? You were not at the scene. You don’t know who made me like this.”

“Richard didn’t shoot you.”

“Then who did?”

The twins on the painting opposite her frowned; their faces no more shone as when she first painted them.

They frowned at her for painting them, for creating them to live in same home with a… They deserved better. “I wasn’t at the scene. You were.”

“That’s another method of saying you don’t know who shot me and who didn’t.”

“What were you doing at the orchard?”

“What did your Richard say he saw me doing?”

The foaming brown liquid released bubbles that multiplied themselves and died same instant. “He said he believes you were engaging in a crime deal.”

Fixed at the television, he tuned to a channel of some white men playing ice hockey. “His conviction is true.”

The liquid in her throat solidified into a huge lump and hit her stomach with a thud. “You were engaged in a crime deal?”

“Yes.” He reduced the TV’s volume and reversed to her. “I’m a heroin dealer.”

A blow surged up through her. The liquid in her stomach almost found a passage through her mouth. “Bakare. P-Please don’t joke.”

“Most people can’t differentiate when I’m joking or not.” He wheeled closer to her. “So I just tell them if I am or not.”

The black of his eyes morphed into a lump of coal, burning in a river of turpentine. “I’m not joking. But don’t be afraid, I’m a drug dealer, a businessman, not a killer.”

He was not a killer; she could leave unhurt. She tried to speak to the frightening air. “So it’s true. You were engaging in a crime deal at the orchard.”

“All your friend, Richard, told you is true.”

“He told me one more thing—the person who shot you was a woman.”

He wheezed in air. “The Richard is right. His wife shot me.”

Ezinne… How possible? Abbe’s lids closed and when they opened, Bakare had wheeled to her direct front.

“You see,” he began, “I’m not the only one who did unexpected things.” He smirked and then coughed.

“Why did you lie to the police Richard shot you?”

“To save myself. If the police find out I were involved in a heroin deal, I would be thrown into jail. Would you like that?”

Yes, she would. She would like every flesh of his soul thrown into jail.

“I know you would.” A new smirk found its way through his lips.

“Why did Ezinne shoot you?” She tried some sombreness if that would wipe his smugness.

He rolled himself back. “I can’t tell you everything. If I do, you probably wouldn’t come here again, and I wouldn’t like that. When next you come, I would tell you.”

She held her mug and poured all the liquid in her mouth. “Come testify in court, Bakare. Come say the truth.”

“Now, you’ve said your reason for coming.”

“Will you come to court and testify?”

“Yes, I would testify. I am witnessing, but the question you should be asking is whose side?”

Her organs churned and burned from within. Every liquid in her functioned as fuel. “You are testifying for the state?”

He turned to the television. “The state met me first.”

“But if you testify for them, you won’t be saying the truth.”

“Truth is an abstract phenomenon. It doesn’t exist.”

She bowed head and fixed at the cerulean rug. “You proposed to me, Bakare, and I said yes. You said we could work, I believed you, I held on to that. Is this how—”

“What relationship do you have with this Richard, anyway?”

“He is a friend. I called him to the orchard to help save you.”

He huffed. “Funny. Now you’re calling on me to help save him.” Every act of cheer or his smirk in his face turned into solemnity, like when she first met him, the real him. “Why did you agree to my proposal?”

“Because I believe we could work.”

“No. Because you want me to help you save this Richard.”
She folded her arms into each other.

“When you received my call at the orchard, my mind was already made up. I wanted to see you and talk.”

“No Abbe. This is a bargain. You came here to bargain with me.”

His words rang in her, rang and dwelt in her. She studied and weighed every of it.

“If that’s how it should be.”

“If I keep my end by coming to court and testify, would you keep yours?”

She shut her brains and refused to think.
“Yes, Bakare. I would.” Her heavy legs remained stuck to the floor, waiting for him to say something, something that might do a tiny good. Nothing came from his lips. She dropped the heft of her legs and began for the door.

“You can drive?” His voice rang from behind. “I’d need a drive to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry I can’t.” She strode over the door and closed it.

Something pinched the flesh of her left palm. The palm was folded into a fist. She opened it. The bottle opener was in it. She tightened fist and threw it over the fence.

She walked to her mum’s car and entered.

“How did it go?” the woman asked.

“Nothing below expectation.”

The woman started the Volkswagen. It shuddered and moved.

#


Abbe watched Richard eat. He ate as though the soup was prepared with unwashed bitterleaf, yet mama and she had taken time to wash it properly. It could be he merely did not like the soup.
Every man in Lagos was supposed to like starch and bitterleaf soup. Perhaps, it was different for those within the walls of a prison, for their tongue must have been altered by the prison’s diet. He dunked a moulded starch into the soup and did a swallow, causing him to squint as though pins were strewn in the morsel.

When done with the meal, he did a small cough, which he cured with a gulp of water.

“Thank you, the meal was good.” He cleaned his hands with a towelled handkerchief. “I last ate this in the army days. Then, we were given sordid bitterleaf. We had no choice but to eat it, or starve.”

“Couldn’t you buy your own food?”

“Camp is like jail. Every food you buy tastes the same, tastes like what the jail serves.”

She placed the plates and utensils in a polybag. “Any news from your lawyer?”

“We talked a day before yesterday on how the trial process would be, there was no new news. The lawyer said you’d be witnessing. Are you okay with that?”

“I wish I could do more. Believe me when I say that.” She looked straight to him, so he would see the believability in her.

“You just fed me, I wouldn’t ask for anything more.”

“There is a lot more to do. I’m sitting in my house, unable to think of anything that’d help, while you are here hurting by the day. I put you behind those bars and I am outside them doing nothi—”

“What can be done? You think if something could be done, I would still be in here? No one could have helped me better than myself. If you want to help, stop blaming yourself.” He bored into her. “You didn’t cause anything.”

She swallowed the hurt arising from her gorge and fixed on her fingers. “I have an idea as to how you feel, I’ve experienced a scratch of it, and I’m sorry you are passing through it.”

“You’ve experienced jail? For what reason?”

“I was once found with a stolen item. The owner saw it fit to report to the police, and they locked me up for three days.”

“I’m sorry your condition led you into such circumstance,” he said as though she was the one to be pitied.

“It was for only three days, it’s nothing compared to how long you’ve stayed here for a crime you didn’t commit.”

“Then who committed it?”
She flicked eyes to him. “You said it was your wife who shot the victim. She committed it.”

“Not just my wife. Everyone in that scene was guilty,” he said. “Including the victim.”

She lowered lids until his voice came up.

“The victim is guilty,” he repeated, as though she did not hear him the first time. “I don’t want you to have any connection with him.”

“He is my partner.”

“Is or was?”

The best thing to do was to remain silent.

His hands moved from the desk into one of her cornrows. “That man is not right for you. He is the worst man for you. I would leave jail, and when I do, I want to be with you.”

Her tongue refused to curve into words. It lay flat and hid between her teeth. He ran his hands through her detached cornrow. “I want to be with you, Abbe,” he said. “I would be out soon.”

Words struggled to come out from within her, words of how much she wanted him out and would do anything to get him out, how much she felt the same way he did, how much she would want to taste those black lips of his.

Before she lost the chance. “My mum sends her greetings,” she said. Those were the only words that could emerge, and they were not useless, they caused a faint stretch of his lips.

“Your mum, I thought she was in far north.”

“She returned from Kaduna on Monday. I told her of the ordeal. She expressed her sympathy and wanted to come here with me, but I insisted on coming alone.”

“I would have loved to see her.”

“You would on my next visit.” She wondered if they were any more visits before the trial.

He slid his hand from her cornrows to her neck and rubbed the scar on her neck. “What caused this?” His once soft hands had hardened, hard enough to give her another scar.

“It was from my accident, the car accident.”

“It must have hurt.” He grazed the mark with a thumb.

“Not very well, the nurse did things that reduced the hurt.”

“I never expected that hospital to have good nurses.”

“Maybe I was just lucky.”

He slid his hand off her neck. She touched the neck and felt a new scar, one caused by his hands that no nurse could remove.

“When you get home, send your greetings to your mum. Tell her I would love to see her someday,” he said.

“I will.”

Power went off and the fans reduced speed. The side windows allowed a fair amount of light which casted on the table and on a half of his shirt. Little air came in. It barely brushed her skin.

“How is your health?” he asked.

“I worry a lot lately, and that affects me.”

“You should not—”

“Don’t tell me not to worry because that isn’t possible. If we were to exchange shoes, you wouldn’t lay on your sitting room couch with a worry-free mind.”

“I was never going to say don’t worry. You must worry, ’cause you feel something for me. I was about saying you shouldn’t let the worry engulf you. I would be out soon. When done atoning for my sins, I would be out.”

Enough assertion surrounded his words. He was sure she felt something for him. And he wasn’t wrong.

“What sins do you atone for?” She asked. “If God jails everyone that sins against him, the whole world would be behind bars.”

“You ‘re not a Christian, you don’t know about God.”

“I know that God don’t jail sinners.” She took her hands to her neck and revealed the rosary round it. “I used to be a Catholic. I stopped being one when I found no reason to be one.”

He stared at her. His nose pointed to her like the Caucasians; that wasn’t its shape at the time she painted his portrait, or she had missed painting the right shape. No, she couldn’t have.

“You used to be a Christian,” he said between a question and a statement.

“Yes.”

“Why did you quit? Because it did no good to you, no good to your health?”

“It did no good to me. Going to church became like a waste of time. Praying became like a waste of words.”

“If you have persevered till this day, there might have been changes.”

“My mum has been a Christian, before and after me. She persevered till this day and yet no changes in her life. The devil still controls her fingers.”

“You’re not your mum. You didn’t take the illness from her. I know as much that kleptomaniac is most likely not inherited.” He picked the rosary on the table and stroked a bead. “Why do you still have this round your neck?”

“I could drop it any time.”

“Wear it.” He stretched it to her. “If you want to help me, then pray for me. Pray God forgives me. Pray He lets me out of this cell.”

She held the rosary and circled it round her neck. “What sins do you think led you here?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just not been right with God.”

He sounded like a derailed priest retracing to the right path. She reached for his face and held his chin to make sure he was still that same Richard and not a catholic priest.

Yes, he was still Richard, except his nose had gone sharp and pointed and his once red lips had gone black. Hers needed to be black too.

She lifted toes, drawing herself to him and joined her lips to his. Now that she had the chance to. He kissed her hard, kissed her as if it was the only good thing the world could offer.

He was still that same Richard and not a priest. And he was right; he had sinned. Getting married to Ezinne was a venial sin.

“I would be out of here,” he muttered.

“And when I’m out, I would be with you.”

She prayed God granted her that chance.

Holding her chin, he fondled her cheeks with his other hand. His pimple stared at her, red and blazing. “I like jail for some reasons,” he said.

There was no reason for anyone to like jail. She opened ears and waited for his next words.

“I get to see you twice a week, I get to eat the meals you cook, I get to know more about your life, and I get to kiss you. Freedom never gave me that.”
She lowered head. “I pray you get out of here.”

“I would, and when I do, I would stop living in two worlds, it would be just one world. It would be you, only you.”

Seriousness mixed with the sweat that filled every pore of his face. She nodded, and wished she could do more than a nod.
He picked the ends of her cornrows.

“How about the flowers at your lawn, how far have they grown?”

“Most have matured into full grown flowers.”

“I knew they would waste no time in growing, the seeds were very viable.”

The door opened and an officer strode inside, clapping hands and shouting that the time had elapsed. Richard ran a thumb round her neck, round her scar, and gave her a kiss at her lips.

He stood and aimed for the door. She watched him go, watched the officer leave with him.

wow!!! started reading this morning and had to follow through!! VONN!! keep it up!! this suspense is killing!!! love it!! good job Ma'am

Love nwantiti......


Abbe making a bargain wt d devil himself.... New twists to d story making it all lovely... I rily feel for Richard

wow, this is.......... Cnt even find the right word to use........ Madam Vonn thanks for sharing this with us and kudos to your friend

There are stories and there are Stories... This one is STRONG... Keep 'em coming, Voon; you're simply awesome...

Whao, enough to make my birthday a beautiful one. Richard and Abbe should be given a chance in life. Happy Birthday to me.

Your friend writes really well, ma'am. Let him know, please. Thanks, too, for wasting probably aeon to share.

Is he on Nairaland?

Thank you vonn, for today's dose, just what I needed to relieve today's stress. GRACIAS

gal10:
wow!!! started reading this morning and had to follow through!! VONN!! keep it up!! this suspense is killing!!! love it!! good job Ma'am

I'm really glad you're enjoying this..

Skimpledawg:
Love nwantiti......


Abbe making a bargain wt d devil himself.... New twists to d story making it all lovely... I rily feel for Richard

My dear!!
What's worse than suffering for a sin you didnt commit.

Olaitan3784:
wow, this is.......... Cnt even find the right word to use........ Madam Vonn thanks for sharing this with us and kudos to your friend

There is love in sharing, and I dont want to be stingy

princessadeola:
Whao, enough to make my birthday a beautiful one. Richard and Abbe should be given a chance in life. Happy Birthday to me.

Awww...and you didnt inform me until now.
Anyways, Happy Birthday luv!!!!!
How was it?

vonn:
Awww...and you didnt inform me until now. Anyways, Happy Birthday luv!!!!! How was it?

well i enjoyed myself. Thanks

OluwabuqqyYOLO:
Your friend writes really well, ma'am. Let him know, please. Thanks, too, for wasting probably aeon to share.

Is he on Nairaland?

Thanks dear... I'll let him know..
Btw, he's not on NL
Happy Sunday

Hello everyone....
Hope you all enjoyed this....
Its finally coming to an end.

Happy Sunday!!!!!

CHAPTER 25





Lauren helped her dad with his briefcase. The gardener shouldered the bag of rice from the boot, swelling his muscles, and strode into the house. Her dad picked up remaining cartons of foodstuffs and closed the boot.

“Hope your day wasn’t too boring,” her dad said. “I wonder what it’s like living in this house alone. You stayed indoors all day?”

“I watched the TV. It helped in cutting the boredom.”

“You don’t have friends around that you would go visit?” dad said as they entered the sitting room. “Or you’ve still not well adapted. I never knew you for adapting slowly.” He positioned the cartons beside the wall.

“I didn’t say I was bored,” she said.

“How was work?” she asked, to stop him from talking further.

“Work gets finer by the day.” He settled on the sofa she was formerly seated.
Why wouldn’t it be finer when it was competition free? Lauren thought, and wished her dad heard her thoughts.

She set the briefcase on an armchair and started for the kitchen. “I should go set the dining.”

The gardener carried the cartons of foodstuffs into the kitchen and marched out.

Lauren was opening the microwave when her dad’s voice rang from the sitting room.

“I got a call from your lecturer today. He said lectures have fully commenced. When are you returning to school?”

“Next week.”

“Make it earlier,” he commanded, the type she could not refuse. “You bought a new book. What is this one about? It says ‘Tick, Tick.’”

“It’s a novel.”

“I know that. I was asking what the novel was about,” he said. “I thought only mum bought these for you, I never knew you also went to the bookshop to purchase for yourself.”

“I didn’t buy it. It was a gift.” She set the plates on the tray and headed to the dining table.

“A gift? Who gives a novel as a gift?” He rested the book on the chair’s arm.

“Mr Jide.”

“Jide.” He rose, hung his suit round the chair’s backrest and swaggered to the dining. “Why would he give you a gift?”

“It was a birthday present.”

His eyes pushed into their sockets. “I thought you said no birthday celebration this year and no presents.”

“A Canadian doesn’t get presents from a black man everyday. It would be rude refusing one.”

Dad blessed the food and dished the rice into a plate. “I never knew you and Mr Jide were so close that he would think of giving you a birthday present.”

She sat adjacent to her dad. “I like the man.”

“What’s so special about him?” He mouthed in a spoonful and looked to her for an answer.

She shrugged. “He’s likeable.”

“You are right. He was very likeable, until I discovered he was friend to a criminal. And you know what is said about birdies of same feathers.”

“Richard Fayemi is no criminal. I would say it as many times as I have to.”

Dad gulped down a glass of water. “His trial is near. You would hear what the judge has to say.”

“The judge might judge wrongly. A jury trial would probably have seen his innocence.”

“And if I happen to find myself among the jurors, he is either found guilty or the jury gets hung, even if it takes me to be the only opposition. The evidences are so glaring, I can’t vote for an acquittal with such evidences.”

She allowed some calm before voicing out. Her next words needed to sink into her dad’s brain. “If it were a jury trial, you wouldn’t be among the jurors, you’re white.” She rose. “I should go continue with my book.”

“I’m white, but I’m a citizen.”

“It takes more than that, and you know it. No one would appoint a white juror in a black man’s land when the defendant is not white.”

“It’s whites that are known for racism, and not the other way round.”

She returned to sitting and nudged towards her dad. “That’s not racism. It’s the normal. There are not so many whites here. You don’t expect the few to fill a position such as a juror.”

“I don’t think I can agree with you on that.”

“I’m right. This is not our land.”

His face thinned and his cheekbones jutted out. “Don’t say that, it can be anyone’s land. We’re nationalized, I work here, you school here. Yes, we’re Canadians, but we’re also Nigerians.”

“We’re whites, dad. We were born whites, and it’s a good thing.” She fingered a speck off her nails. “It’s better than being black.”

Her dad fixed his gaze on her. “You’re taking this personal.”

“I’m not taking anything personal. I’m just revealing the truth. We’re Canadians in Nigeria. There is no way we can be seen like Nigerians. It’s either people look at us as aliens or they would just want to sneer and ask, “What are you doing in my country? You have a better one, you should be there.’”

“You’re speaking from your own view. The difference is only colour. No skin is superior or inferior to the other.”

“No dad,” she said. “The world knows racism is absent in Africa, but everyone loves his skin more than the other. No one is neutral. A white can’t be like everyone else in a black country.”

“You’re wrong, hon.”

“I’m not. How many black men would want to wed a white? It doesn’t happen, they say white women are pompous, impudent, territorial, and all sorts of words.
Why? Because the women aren’t blacks. I hear it from people, from classmates and schoolmates.” She rose.

“I should go continue with my novel.”

She eased into the sitting room and stretched on the sofa. She continued with her “Tick, Tick.”

“It’s everywhere, even in Canada,” her dad said from the dining. “Everyone surely loves his skin than the other. Or I would say majority, I might be an exception. I don’t see anything wrong in getting married to a black lady.”

“There are no exceptions.” She crossed legs and focused on her book.

vonn:
Thanks dear... I'll let him know.. Btw, he's not on NL Happy Sunday

Okay. God bless.

#


The thought of a trial made Richard think the worst. What if he was found guilty? What if his lawyer lost to the prosecutor? He rested gaze on Mr Victor and asked him those.

The lawyer assured him he wouldn’t be found guilty and would leave the court a freeman by the end of the trial. Richard asked again, and this time he didn’t need assurances, he needed answers.

An appeal, the lawyer said. They would be an appeal and the case would be fought till the end.

Richard breathed in the heavy air the conference room offered. He could be found guilty and might be spending more days in hellhole. An appeal might be done. What happens after the appeal. The lawyer had no answer for that.

“Isn’t there a tangible evidence? Isn’t there someone that saw my wife at the scene, shooting that man?” An urge so pushed him to strike the table. “There have to be.”

“The case is to prove your innocence and not your wife’s guilt.”

“If she’s guilty, then I’m innocent. It’s either one of us. I can’t be suffering for another man’s crime.”

“There’s nothing to prove she was involved. Your words aren’t enough, I doubt the court would consider them. Putting forth claims against her could sound slanderous, but I’m working, I’m working hard to find evidences that’d would prove your innocence, and possibly her guilt. Interrogators questioned her, searched your house and her shop, but didn’t find anything helpful.”

The lawyer zipped his bag open and brought out a sheet. “This is a list of the state’s possible cross exams. I wrote good replies.”

Richard browsed through the questions and studied the replies. They were nothing more than what he had expected. “I can handle this.”

“Don’t forget to always look at the attorney in his eyes, for that erases fear, try not to stutter or hook between words. Her Ladyship should be able to hear your words clear enough. She is not a young woman, so don’t expect her hearing to be perfect.”

That didn’t sound too hard. “What about Abbe, you think she would be able to witness without a break or something like that?”

“I talked to her, I lectured her. She would,” the lawyer said. “The best way to overcome the cross-exams is to remember you’re the innocent one, so you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re saying no lies. Your words are the truth, so there’s no need to fear.”

Richard nodded. He was the innocent one, why was he locked up like a criminal.

Please tell me abbe recorded that conversation with d stupid ex. .. That's our only salvation...

Nice story VONN. Just wish d updates will neva stop

I just had 2 read d whole episodes& comment 2dy.dis is wonderful.kip it up,i lyk d romance,crime& law plot.i also hope she recorded d convo wit bakare.pls update soon,if u cant,i undastand.tnx a lot& kudos

gal10:
Please tell me abbe recorded that conversation with d stupid ex. .. That's our only salvation...

Ai swear ehh, dts d only help o.....

Hw come u spilled my mind?

gal10:
Please tell me abbe recorded that conversation with d stupid ex. .. That's our only salvation...

Probably... That's the only way out, otherwise...

Hmmm, what a nice writeup,its been interesting and fantastic so far,keep up the good work ma'am