A Story by Dike Chiedozié

NOTICE: This story is created from equal parts of fiction and real events. The characters are based on real people.
You, the reader, would have to decide for yourself what’s real, and what’s not.

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Court attachment: one-half of the compulsory “externship” program undertaken by law students in the Nigerian Law School just before their infamous bar-finals; is definitely not a walk in the park. At least not for me, since I have to wake up early in the morning and commute all the way to Wuse Zone 2 from Gwarimpa, in the green-and-white jalopies everyone else calls “cab” —we have a name for those in Lagos, and it’s “kabu-kabu”; in the front seat with my long legs up to my chin, if I’m lucky, and if not, in the back sandwiched alongside three other bodies.

And then usually when I arrive the High Court at Wuse Zone 2, which is actually the boys’ quarters —a last minute appendage, probably intended originally as utility rooms —to the Magistrate Court Complex next door, it’s to find that there is no space! The entire room —for what little room it actually has —is full, crowded with litigants, witnesses, journalists from NAN (News Agency of Nigeria), counsel, soon-to-be convicts, their prison-issue chaperones, and of course, the aspirants to the bar who are easily marked out by the newness of their suits —oh, and the fact that they don’t wear wigs and gowns, yet. And then I’d go through the motions of asking around if someone can “shift small” —for which I might as well ask the ladies to reduce their body mass by force of will, and the guys to asphyxiate their nuts —but I do it anyway, and most times I find just enough room to squeeze in. If not I go around the court complex(?), looking for some rundown swivel chair that no longer has a back, or anything at all I can sit down on (doing so comfortably is not in question here) and when I find a booby-trap to perch on, I return to court and take pride of place in the only spot that might not have been taken over: the tight 90 degree spot at the very rear of the court, behind the gallery, beside the air-conditioner. By now you should think my troubles are over; well, think again.

I usually get to court by a few minutes past nine or closer to ten than nine sometimes, and my time of arrival usually determines if I get to be a part of the few minutes of routine group conversation going amongst my colleagues before court sits at ten —or so soon thereafter; spanning everything from law to the “Dorobucci” fad, memes — “Diaris God ooo!” —and what good movies are showing at the cinemas. I usually look forward to these group discussions —about stuff other than Corporate Law for a change —not only because I have warmed to these colleagues of mine, some of whom, sadly, I might never see after our run in this post-stamp of a court, but also because as a writer I like to watch people, to pick on their nuances and imagine from them what their stories are; and having pieced together my version of those stories, create alternate realities for each of them or a combination of them in my imagination where I can source texture for the characters in my stories when I need to.

On the day in question —five days ago, actually —I arrived relatively early to court at about 9:20 AM —which ordinarily should have given me thirty to forty minutes of gist time —but as Sod’s Law would have it, so did the Judge. Hardly had I sat down when suddenly there came the report of three muffled intermittent raps against wood, followed simultaneously by the Court Clerk —who always speaks like she has tonsillitis —screeching “Court!”; and in came Justice V. Okpo with his raven-black robe, wig perched on his head like a bird’s nest, spectacles nestled precariously like though they were protesting their placement and didn’t feel at home hanging off the bridge of his nose.

He did his funny, half-hearted bow, which used to crack me up in the first week of court attachment, but which like everything else with the externship program now annoys me; and we all reciprocated, lawyers and students alike, then sat. Mrs. Tonsillitis stood up and announced the first case, and with her tiny, inaudible voice began another week-long nightmare.

The first thing to know about Justice Okpo is that he was a lecturer at the Nigerian Law School, and you know what they say about teachers: once a teacher always a teacher. His courtroom is more than that, a lecture hall —he counsels counsel, directs witnesses and students alike; to the effect that proceedings are dragged out and wind too long. In a nutshell, he goes on and on, and while there are moments when he proves that behind the deadpan expression and the dead-fish eyes is a man with an acerbic sense of humour (and a short fuse that spurs hilarious outbursts) there aren’t enough of those moments to make me forget that the other courts would have wound up for the day before he gets to the second case on an eleven-case cause-list.

Justice Okpo’s court usually rises i.e closes for the day at about three in the afternoon —two, if we are lucky —and in the five-hour margin in-between are a lot of moments that can make a person question his sanity. I was having one of those moments on the day in question, five days ago, when sitting in court I was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to scream, and hurl something across the room at the Judge where he sat on The Bench. I remember wondering if the suddenness of the attack would shut him up, and decided it most likely wouldn’t. With this certitude, I figured it would be best to take the high road: a much-needed break, and so rising, I gave a cursory bow and exited the court; walking away from all the droning and harebrained advocacy, out into the bright afternoon where the sun in sharp contrast to the air-conditioned courtroom was scorching, and refreshing —jolt-me-back-to-consciousness refreshing.

I found Jabbar and Dubem —both colleagues of mine —outside with a trio of uniformed young men in branded grey tees and black trousers (whose job description at the court is still something I’m yet to figure out: housekeeping or security?) And they were talking about Nigerian celebrities —mostly musicians —when I stepped up and joined the band of fellow truants and their new-found friends. Clearly, one of the housekeeping/security men was an artiste, or at least thought he was. He was boyish and looked sixteen, but I realised he was probably a lot older; when he spoke, it was with the conviction of hope, and the misty eyes of a dreamer as he recounted an event, which he had attended, organised for ABJ youths by the First Lady Dame Patience Jonathan a.k.a Mama Peace, at which KCee “Limpopo,” Terry G a.k.a “Akpako Master” and several other Nigerian artistes had been in attendance.

I ordinarily might not have been very attentive to Mr. Aspiring Artiste’s story —of how a girl in stilettos tried to use him as a launching ramp in order to get to Mr. “Limpopo” —but I’d been treated to a particularly boring and INFURIATING dose of Judge Okpo’s court: two very confused lawyers for whom I think a commission of inquiry should be set up, to determine exactly how they graduated Law School; and in my state of mind then, even the story of a cripple watching paint dry would probably have been interesting. That was why it ticked me off that Dubem kept interrupting with his jokes that were usually only funny because they weren’t.

He managed to make a funny joke that afternoon however, about his smartphone not being “all that smart.” Ok, it wasn’t very funny but at least it made me laugh —Kumbaya! Then again, it could just have been for the same reason I was listening to a story about a youth rally like it was expo to bar finals.

Irrespective, Dubem’s constant chip-ins saw to it that we didn’t stick on one topic for too long, flitting from one to another and seeing none to a conclusive end. Surprisingly, we all seemed to be getting a kick out of it, milking all the talk for all the humour it was worth. We started out talking about celebrities and then suddenly, with all the warning of a terrorist suicide-bombing, we were talking about a dead body that another one of our colleagues, Enkay, had seen lying curbside on the way to court, and about which she informed all the students in court on her arrival. I was probably still brushing my teeth at the time.

‘…She said the girl was lying on the ground, lifeless.’ It was Jabbar talking.

‘Where was that?’ I asked, curious.

‘Where was what?’

‘Where did Enkay say she saw the body?’

‘Somewhere around Kado Estate’—

‘Kado? That’s very close to where I stay in Gwarimpa. I even passed there this morning’ I said. ‘Didn’t notice anything unusual.’

‘Oh well’ Jabbar gave out non-committally and shrugged.

‘Did Enkay say what the dead girl was wearing?’ Dubem asked, and I did a double-take, impressed. That was a very good question.

‘A very short show-back gown’ Jabbar replied suggestively.

‘Ah-han!’ chimed Dubem victoriously. ‘I talk am! If you been talk say she cover up well na there I for shock. I no know sha, but she for be all these ashi dem, or runs girl wey run jam something wey pass am…’

Someone said something in acquiescence, but I wasn’t really listening. Something was nagging at me; tugging at the periphery of my consciousness, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it was.

‘Na wa o!’ Mr. Artiste Wannabe exclaimed, doing a good job of looking distraught at the death of a random girl he’ll never know. “E fit be ritual wey dem carry am do o.’

‘Wetin Enkay talk?’ Dubem asked, turning to Jabbar. ‘Dem been cut anything commot from the girl body?’

‘I no know o. But Enkay said the girl’s boobies were intact.’

I remember wondering how long Enkay had looked at the corpse to recall that the dead girl’s breasts hadn’t been excised, thinking also how funny Jabbar sounded when he spoke Pidgin English, and that just like me he couldn’t sustain a conversation in Pidgin for long. I was going to say something about this when it hit me, what it was I was trying to remember.

I moved away from Jabbar and the rest of them, rooting for my phone as I did, thinking to myself how I had a really wild imagination. The dead, faceless girl was to me at that point potential short story material for my blog —the very blog you’re reading now. Or at least that’s what I told myself. I wasn’t looking for trouble, not really, and I didn’t imagine as I scrolled through my BBM chat list, that I had stumbled upon something terrible, and worse than that, deadly. If anyone had told me as I searched and found the BBM contact icon for Walter —a friend, fellow writer and blogger that I would find myself in a life and death situation as a result of the BBM broadcast message Walter had sent me that morning, the link that I was then clicking for the second time that day, standing only a few feet away from a court of law where justice and law purportedly converge; I would have told them they had an even more avid imagination than me —and that is hardly a compliment.
READ THE COMPLETE STORY HERE: https://dkstan28390./2014/06/07/disturbia-a-s-a-r-t-production/