The Head of John the Baptist: A Short Story

A few weeks ago, I was gulping down a cold bottle of big stout with a plate of 'Nkwobi' when my phone vibrated like the tail of a scorpion. Behold, it was the DPO.

"Inspector Say-the-Truth, where are you?" the throaty voice of the DPO blarred from the other end of the phone. "Where are you, Say-the-Truth?" And without waiting for a response, the big man told me to report at the station immediately and ended the call abruptly.
"Say-the-Truth," the DPO rose to his feet, placing both hands on his table, as soon as I entered into his office. "A signal came from the Force Headquarters some hours ago to the effect that I should deplore my men to carry out stop and search on the Ogoni Express Way." At once, I knew the DPO wanted me to lead the stop and search squad. And my guess was right.
"Say-the-Truth, my Oga continued, "ritualists want to overrun this town and I will never allow it. And I know that you will never allow it too. You must have read in the papers some days ago the gory story of a Unilag 'Olosho' whose eyes and private parts were plucked out like mangoes some suspected ritualists. That 'Olosho' could have been your sister. She could have been my daughter, too. Enough is enough. This madness must stop."

I shook my head and felt my pocket whether my pistol was still there.
"Now, I want you to mobilize your men starting from tomorrow," the DPO took his seat and adjusted himself. "Comb the express ways; comb the cars and every corner of this city. We must apprehend all the ritualists in this town. You may now take your leave."
"Say-the-Truth," the DPO whispered, as I turned to leave, "I want you to say the truth in this matter like you have always done in every matter."
"Yes sir".


For three days and nights after my meeting with the DPO, my boys and I, Ak-47 trapped between our sweaty armpits, stood in the scorching sun, stood on the Ogoni express way, stop and search on ransom, suspicion-arousing vehicles. But we found nothing. Nothing. No traces of ritualists on the road.

On the evening of the third day, Corporal Musa who had a reputation for smoking gum and drinking rum and eating " Goro" came to me and said, in a strong Hausa accent, "Oga Walaitalai I no go see any ritual people for here because them already know say I dey here wan catch us."
"Shut up, and go back to work," I yelled. Musa was losing patience because my presence would not allow them collect 'raba' from the motorists but I didn't care. On the fourth day, Musa would pee in his trousers from his own discovery.

On the evening of the fourth day of our stop and search, I was sitting under the shade of a dwarf iroko tree, soft wind curling round and round my head, when Musa screamed, "Oga Say-the-Truth where I dey? Where I dey? Come see wetin I dey see with my 'korokoro eyes'. At once I rose to my feet, grabbed my rifle and walked as fast as I could to where Musa and eight of my men stood, confused.

When I got very close I saw a motionless white jeep with the inscription " clergy " written on it in bold red letters. An elderly man clad in long, flowing white agbada knelt before my boys swearing by Jerusalem, by Nigeria and then by the head of the president. He was sweating and stammering. My boys had not opened their mouth before I knew that the man was in a big mess.

"Oga Say-the-Truth," Sergeant Obinna saluted me. I stared at Obinna whose stomach looked like ten juicy water melons merged into one, the results of drinking too much beer. "We see human head inside this man boot."
"What! What nonsense?" I screamed, noticing that Musa who made the discovery, as I would learn later, had wet his trousers. The next moment I was led to the boot of the white jeep and there, just there, inside the comfort of a black bag was the black head of an unknown man. The head was big and fresh; the owner of the head must have lost it some hours ago. Anyway, it was now too late to return the head to the owner, so I asked the clergy, the custodian of the fresh human head, from where he plucked it.
"Mr. Man, where did you find this human head in your custody? Whose head is it?" Musa felt his own head, as if the head in question belonged to him. "Answer me now,".
"It is the head of John the Baptist," the clergyman stuttered, "I am on my way to Jerusalem to return it."

I did not believe my ears, "which John the Baptist are you talking about?" Said I in disbelief.
"The same John the Baptist who was beheaded in the book of...."
"Shut up," I left a hefty slap on the tribal marked face of the clergy and ordered my boys to handcuff him.. "I will ensure that you are prosecuted and sent to jail. You bloody ritualist."

However, before my boys and I got to the office, a call had come from above instructing the DPO to immediately free the suspect without any documentation whatsoever on the crime diary. Afterwards, the DPO blamed me for being incompetent and being unable to identify properly the head of John the Baptist. "What kind of Christian are you?"

Two days later, my deployment letter came from above. The reader would have guessed where I was posted. I was to report at Chibok with immediate effect. "Inspector Say-the-Truth, you can now say the truth as it is to Boko Haram," the DPO at Chibok taunted while receiving me.



David Ademule is a student of crime and society; he lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets.

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John The Baptist Head Indeed,