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#


Lauren walked between Jide and her dad. They assisted her in carrying her bag to the gate. Her dad dropped the luggage and raked a hand through her braid. “I’d miss you, hon. Try visiting during the holidays.”

“I will.”

He did his bear hug and kissed the top of her head, shuffled fingers in her braid and nuzzled.

She turned to Jide and folded herself into his arms. He pressed her head to his chest. She sniffed for his inner scent, not the cologne, but the God-given one. She inhaled and stored enough in her brains, enough to last her in Switzerland.

“Send my greetings to your mum,” he said, “if she still remembers me. Tell her I would love her to see her daughter again.”

She gave him the best smile she could achieve. “I would call, send letters, emails, any means of contact.”

“Please do.” He kissed her braid. She wished she were tall enough to do same. She needed not be. She kissed his shoulder, the highest her lips could go.

On her next visit to the country, she could be taller.

“Goodbye,” she told her dad and jacked up her luggage.

“Odeboh,” she said to Jide, and caused a widening of his lips.

“It’s Od’abo,” Jide said. “Irin ajo ada o.”

“Huh? What’s that one?”

“It’s ‘have a good trip.’”

“Thank you. Od’abo,” she tried again and knew she got the dialect. She walked past the gate, waved the men and headed for the plane.

From her small view, she watched the men. They talked and strolled alongside.

The doors closed. She fixed her seatbelts and plugged in her earphones. The plane shuddered, ran and flew up, up, up.

#


The warder budged out of the entrance and Bakare wheeled himself into the room. He had shaven his sideburn and left only a goatee. He pushed the wooden chair away and fixed his wheels in place.

“It’s nice of you visiting.” His voice seemed to have come from the thinnest folds of his vocal cords.

“How’s your condition?” she asked.

“Which of them? My stay in jail or my legs?”

To which was she actually referring?

“How are your legs?”

“It’s useless asking about them. They can’t get better.”

She directed to the legs and again, wondered why anyone would want to crush them. “Thank you for testifying in court?”

He rolled backwards and veered to the window, pointing eyes to the louvres.

“Don’t thank me. It wasn’t a favour.”

“You revealed the truth. It’s worth thanking for.”

“So which do you prefer? Seeing me here or seeing your Richard?”

“I wouldn’t want any one of you in jail.”
Bakare huffed. “I’m a criminal. I sold drugs. I deserve being in jail, right?”
She remained silent.

“What feud did you have with Ezinne?” she asked.

He gave the window more eyes and spoke to them. “Did she tell you I have a feud with her?”

“There must be a feud before she can attempt killing you.”

“Ezinne is a murderer. I’m not her first victim. She has killed two others before me.”

He did not seem joking, for he was not smirking, smiling, or carrying any form of complacency.

“Who did she kill?”

“She killed my children.”

Bakare was the least man to qualify as a father, and even Ezinne did not fit a child killer.

“You had children?”

“She killed them.”

“Why would she kill your children, and why would she want to kill you?”
Bakare wheeled away from the window, allowing in a small stream of light, and progressed to her front. Even after the air from the window, sweat lines lined his neck.

“I dated Ezinne in her university days. I got her pregnant and deserted. She aborted the children and in the process lost her womb. She blames me for her loss, and that must have prompted her to want to put a bullet in my head. The woman tried to kill me even after killing my children.”

“That’s it. That’s your sin. You deserted her. Why did you do that?”

“I’m not proud of it, but it was the only choice. I wasn’t equipped enough to be a father. Ezinne’s parents would have willingly catered for those children. I knew that, that was why I left. Every sensible girl would give those children to her parents, not murdering them.

“I never knew she lost her womb, she told me the moment before she shot me. I wonder how much hatred she must have for me.”

Abbe watched him, watched the way his lips moved, and the way his eyes blinked. She was engaged to him, engaged to a man who abandoned his children.

“A man who abandons a pregnant woman isn’t the type to be proud of.”

“Not only abandoning. I denied the children. There were twins. She told me that. I’m a bad man, right?”

“You did a bad thing, a very bad thing.”

“Yes, I did. I’m lucky the bullet didn’t meet me in the head. I’d have been in hell, a hell worse than this.”

Little perfect twins. Their image slunk into her brains. She imagined a doctor’s blade tearing them into pieces. She channelled the gory image out of her head. “How long will you be in jail?”

“If the Judge has mercy, I may be spending three years.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

“Then I would say seven. Hard drugs dealings are very punishable.” He began rattling fingers on the table and slowly died down the rattling.

“I’m sorry I didn’t inform you of the drug business. You weren’t the type that would clap for such.”

The pores occupying his face had all closed, gathering some sweat at his brow, harbouring seriousness. Maybe sorriness. Heavens knew he had to be sorry.

She fixed on the table. “What about our…” She lifted head to him. “You kept your end of the bargain.”

A smirk surfaced in the midst of all that happened on his face. “So it’s time to keep yours.”

“How long do you think you would await trial?”

“I’m not awaiting trial. I’m awaiting sentencing.”

She sniffed and rubbed her sweaty palms on her blouse. “What about my end?”

“You want to get married to me?” He cocked head.

“Do I have any other choice? You proposed to me and I said yes.”

“It was a bargain, and everyone is supposed to keep his end.” He paused, and the pause became long. “I didn’t keep my end.”

“You did. You testified in court.”

“If I’m remembering clearly, the words of the bargain say I come to court and testify. I was never in court.”

The air streaming into the room doubled and faded the sweats living in her skin.

“So what are you saying?”

“My words determine what I do. I would appreciate you come visit me regularly in jail. And I would prefer you come visit with a husband.”

She thought of the words to say, the right words. She thought of saying a ‘thank you;’ that was not the right word.
“I wish you good luck.”

“Good luck doesn’t exist. It’s an abstract phenomenon.”

“I pray it comes to exist, ’cause you would need it.” She rose and turned to the door.

His voice emerged from behind. “You would come see me in jail, wouldn’t you?”

She turned to him and nodded.

“Next time, try not to bargain with your future.” He began wheeling himself.
She gave him another nod and made it through the door.

CHAPTER 31





Erneto Aives had not changed much. Lauren scanned the parking lot for Jide’s Toyota. It stood firm at his car space. Richard’s parking space was without the Honda.

She stepped into the reception and did a gesture to the clerk and other familiar staffs. Most of them glued fingers to their laptops, with peculiar smiles round their lips as though born with it.

She headed to Jide’s office and met his secretary. The woman did not wear button-ups but a V-neck that defined her bustline. She sipped something steamy, reading a piece of paper that covered the lower of her face. She dropped the paper on the table.

“Laura…” She smiled.

“It’s Lauren,” Lauren corrected, and did well to return the lady’s smile.

“Yes, Lauren. It’s nice seeing you again.”

“Same here.” She moved away from the door. “Is Jide in?”

“No, he’s at the cafeteria, but he’d be here any minute from now. You can sit and wait.”

“Thank you. I would leave.” She turned to the door.

The café was almost empty. She did a quick scan. Jide was at a table by the wall, alone, dealing with something resembling fried potatoes. She ambled to him.

Their eyes met, and his lips spread and formed something resembling a smile. It was a smile. When last did his face carried that? His cheeks pierced into dimples. Full dimples. She prayed they remained forever.

She settled on the chair and watched his dimples merge with the remaining of his skin. “I really missed seeing those holes at your cheeks.”

“You are the only one who tells me I have them.” He forked a chip and bit a tip of it.

She considered that a compliment, whatever way he meant it. “I can see work is going fine.”

“We’re recovering. Things are better. I’m glad you came seeing me. I was actually bored with paperwork and needed a chat.”

“You’re happy, Jide. I’m happy you are. You were so drenched up by situations around that I thought you might never smile again.”

His eyes widened, and mirrored her as clear as her bedroom mirror.

“It’s the potatoes, you should try them,” he said.

“I actually thought you were going to say I’m the cause. That’s what gentlemen say when ladies tell them something like that.”

“Forgive me. I’ve always been green in that area.”

“You sure are.”

He set his glass to his mouth and downed in some water. “How’s school?”
Of all the questions in the world, he could ask her only that. Indeed, he was green in that area. “I’m no more a student of Newfield.”

Every fragment of cheer in his face disappeared. “Why? What do you mean?”

“I’m leaving the country.”

“To Canada?” His angled head to the other side.

“No. Switzerland.”

He nodded slowly, slow enough for her to read every one of the nods. He would miss her. He would surely miss her.

“They have better education there,” he said.

“Why am I just figuring it out?”

“When are you leaving?”

“The coming Monday.”

“That’s good. Go be with your mum.” He forked a slice of potato and dipped it into the sauce. After cutting a small bite, he laid the remainder on the plate.

“You’ve lost appetite?”

“No. I never really liked potatoes. What about we try something, something more African?”

Good idea. She smiled. “Yes… I’m hungry.”

He raised a hand to the waitress. She arrived and presented the menu to him.

“Which would you like?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “You’re the born African.”

He chuckled and pointed out something on the menu. The waitress obliged and left the table.

“Pounded Yam and vegetable soup,” he said.

“Provided you eat it with me.”

“You’d love it.”

She cracked a chuckle. “Sure. During the week my dad and I drove to Delta, Edo state and Port Harcourt. I refused leaving the country without knowing other places than Lagos. I also went to the museum at Lekki. Nigeria has heritage.”

“Thanks for talking good of my country. You finally got your tour. Thanks to dad.”

“I would miss him,” she said, and thought of her dad. “I would miss Nigeria, even if some of its citizens can be jerks, especially the students.”

“The jerks, the students, they would all miss you. Everyone one who had come in contact with you would miss you.”

“Including you?”

He chuckled. “I top the chart.”

“Good to hear. Anytime you think of leaving the sands of Africa, always think of Switzerland.”

“Sure.” He fingered the corner of an eye.

“Richard didn’t come to work?”

“He’s been through a lot. He’s taking a week break.”

“My dad’s company should do well to return all Erneto’s stolen customers.”

“You should help me tell him that.”

The waitress arrived and set the table. She filled the table with different plates containing different things that would all go into her mouth.

“If I eat all these, I doubt I would be able to pass through the door.”

“That’s the idea.” Jide picked a fork and forked out a morsel.

She frowned. “I thought Africa culture permits using hands,” she said and then, whispered, “there are not so many people here.”

Jide widened eyes and chuckled. He called the waitress for a bowl of water.

They washed hands and did it the African way. What if mum appeared and saw her dunking a morsel into a soup with bare hands? Mum wasn’t here. Just Jide. Only Jide.

“Good,” she said. “Real Good.” She picked a beef and cut off a huge chunk of flesh. Teeth were so much sharper than knives.

Jide’s larynx protruded as he swallowed.
She touched hers. If same thing happened to hers, her throat might explode.

He clenched the beef with his teeth and tore out its skin as though he was killing it the second time. It was good, very good.

Jide Echem was one of the exceptional blacks in the country—a neutral. And that was why she loved him.

She cut in another morsel and dunked it into the soup.

#


Ezinne drove with the police into the station. Her time had come to suffer for her own deeds. This was her wage for murdering her twins. Maybe it would finally free her of their hunts and moans.
She followed the police into the interrogation room and gave them the answers to their questions. Yes, she shot Bakare Damijo.

She wished he died and would shoot him again if given the chance. She told the police she was the only one and there was no accomplice.

No one else should suffer for her sin. She gave the police her wrists, and they joined them with a handcuff. A chain round her wrist was better than having one round her whole self.

She was taken to a cell housing two female inmates. Their clothes were tattered and hair tangled. They were not different from her, except hers was internal.

She stepped into the cell and edged to a corner of it. It was not different from the large edifice she lived in. A prison was a prison. What she needed could be a smaller one.

This was her wage, not for the attempted murder against Bakare Damijo, but the murder against her babies, and after it all, she would gain her freedom.

#


Her ladyship assumed bench. Richard fixed at her and imagined the next words her lips would form, words that would either destroy everything, or maybe, arrange everything as it ought to be. She remained silent as though she knew he watched her and waited for her to speak.
She transferred eyes to him and rested them there. Richard wished he could interpret that.

She removed eyes from him and gave them to the court. “A verdict has been reached.” She focused on Richard. “Will the defendant now rise.”

Richard rose and tried to look straight at her. He prayed. He prayed like never before.

Her ladyship began. “To the charge of attempted murder placed against the defendant, the defendant is found not guilty by reason of clear and convincing evidences of innocence.”

For the first time since it all began, Richard earnestly smiled. He looked up and spoke. He spoke a thank you. God heard. Yes, God heard. He gave his lawyer a long hug and muttered a thank you. No one could have done it better.

No one.

He felt a touch at his shoulder and twisted head. It was the white girl, now white as before, carrying a white smile.

“Jail would have been hell,” she muttered in his arms.

“Order, order.” Her Ladyship struck her gavel against her desk. The noise did not die down. The police brought out their nightsticks and tried restoring order.
Her ladyship spoke amidst the noise.

“The resolution would take place May 8th. The court stands adjourned.”

Richard hugged Jide. “You’re the best. Thank you, thank you so much.” They patted each other’s backs.

Abbe was by him, her scent so calling that it became physical. He smothered her and reached for the tempos of her heart. She was right in his arms, bounded within them, and would be in them again, and again.

“Thank you, Abbe,” he whispered. “Can you please wait a while before heading home?”
She bobbed head on his shoulders.

“I would love a little talk,” he said.
Erneto’s staffs approached and congratulated, they shook, they hugged, and they beamed. The soldiers saluted.

People kept coming and hugging.
The police led Ezinne out of the courtroom. She followed them diligently.

Richard watched her walk through the door and wondered what drove her to her actions. What possessed her to hold a gun, point it to someone and pull the trigger?

Jide offered Richard a ride home, and on Richard’s declination, entered his Toyota and zoomed off. His tyres swept dust into the air, some of them clinging to Richard’s trousers. Late harmattan dusts.

Abbe stepped out from the courtroom and walked towards Richard, her cornrows binder glittering. She carried a faint smile at her lip’s edge. Faint as it was, it stretched to every bit of her face, and even to the surrounding air.

“I’m glad you’re out,” she said on getting to Richard.

“I didn’t get out all by myself.” He held her palm. “How about a walk? Then I hire a taxi to take you home?”

“It’s okay.”

They strolled out of the court premises and got a full dose of the Sahara wind. It blasted them and transferred dusts to their shoes.

“The harmattan waited for your freedom,” she said.

He clasped her hand and clasped tighter, felt the liquid squeezing from her palms.
“I wonder how I would have passed through all without you.”

“You never would have passed through anything if not me.”

He stopped moving and rested a hand on her shoulder. She gazed at the sands.

“I’m glad I did,” he said. “I don’t regret any bit of it.”

She remained silent, staring at the sands that almost swallowed her tiny legs.

“That’s because you’re out. Jail is never enjoyable. You sure hated the mosquitoes, the bad meals, the false accusation.”

“Yes, I hated those, but when I weighed the gains to the losses, I saw things didn’t end up so bad.”

“And what are the gains?” She looked to him.

“This, us, you and me.”

The wind moaned and breathed upon them. Her face muddled and halved itself. Her head lowered. He no more saw her eyes but the lids covering them.

“What is it, Abbe?”

She raised eyes to him. Her darkened lids pointed straight to him. “I just thank God you’re out of that place.”

Those were the only words she said. She was supposed to say more. She was supposed to tell him the feeling was not a one-way thing. It was something mutual. They both knew it.

“We can make this work, we’ve already started,” he said. “Let’s just try. I believe that is how it should be.”

“I’m engaged, Richard.”

A huge thunder struck in his brains. He heard the words right and they came from her. Not from anyone else. From her. “Y-You’re engaged?”
She nodded.

“Engaged? When? To who?”

She stared at him and did not reply.

Every of her finger was bare, with nothing resembling a ring. “You’re lying. You aren’t engaged.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think I would lie to you? After everything? It’s no lie. I am.”

“Where’s the ring.”

“There’s no ring, there was no time to put on a ring.”

He allowed some air into his head, forced them into his head. “Since when?”

“For some time now.”

“So everything at the station was what? A pretence?”

“No, no. I swear, it was no pretence. I—”

Her voice cracked and ceased. “I have to go. I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“Is it the victim, Bakare?”

She did no reply, did no nod, did no headshake.

“It’s him, right? He is the one.” Richard looked to the sands. “I’d wait. I’d wait and wait for you to gain back your senses.”

He looked into her. “You don’t belong with him, he is a cri—he’s not for you. You belong with me. I discovered that long ago. It’s you and I, not you and any other man. I pray you realize that sooner.”

The sands flew to her feet. She shook head and walked away.

CHAPTER 30





Her Ladyship called the prosecuting attorney for his closing argument.


The attorney marched to the podium and began by telling the court how much he valued life and a criminal had to be taken from the streets for the sake of those treading upon it, for the sake of those in the courtroom, sitting and listening to him. He mentioned how so many elitist figures beat the hand of the law.

They commit crimes and go free, and some bargain and return to the streets. It shouldn’t be encouraged. No one is above the law. Everyone must suffer for his actions.

He pointed out the evidences that deemed Richard guilty, dwelling on the firearms found with him on the scene and the agreement of his pistol to the bullet found in the victim. That should be convincing enough, he said.

A bleeding man was found shot and another was found with a gun, what else was needed to prove the later guilty. He faced the judge and repeated his words. What else was needed to prove the defendant guilty?

He treated the victim’s testimony of being shot by Ezinne Fayemi, and how it contradicted his initial testimony of being shot by the defendant.

Something must have made the victim go against his initial testimony, it might be he was contacted and threatened, no one knew. The first testimonies were always the truth.

The prosecutor pleaded for Her Ladyship to see the validity of the evidences that shouts the defendant’s guiltiness. Releasing a criminal to the street would do the citizens no good, would do the nation no good. He ended there and made for his seat.

Richard had his head bowed the whole time. His worse sight was to see the prosecutor’s lips move as the man called him a criminal.

He raised head when the speech ended and wished the ground opened and swallowed the prosecutor as he treaded on it to his seat.

Her Ladyship called Mr Victor for his closing argument. Mr Victor strode to the podium and acknowledged the court before apologizing for his client’s attempt to take laws into his hands.

His client never should have drove to the crime scene with a mind of shooting someone. It was a very poignant act that shouldn’t be encouraged.

But sometimes, friendship led people to do unspeakable things, and that should not land one in jail. Trying to be a good friend was a good thing.

Her Ladyship should try to see beyond the evidences brought against the defendant, as they were all results of him being at the wrong place the wrong time. The defendant had no reason to murder someone.

The lawyer spoke of the victim’s testimony. It was a clear and true exculpatory evidence. He must have said the wrong things in his first testimony due to his ability to reason straight and the disturbance the interrogators caused him.

A suffering patient would say anything to make his interrogators spare some peace.

The theory of him being contacted or threatened was not valid since the doctor said no visitation was allowed the whole time the victim stayed in hospital.

The victim’s testimony was true and should be considered. Why would he give a false testimony and include crimes he committed? It was not logical, not rational.

He spoke on the evidence of the phone conversation between Richard and Abbe. Phones did not lie. The phone evidences were clear and convincing.

He told Her Ladyship how innocent Richard was, an innocent man who had spent months in jail for trying to be a good friend. A day should not be added to those months.

It was better not to let an innocent man rot in jail than to acquit a guilty man. He left the court with that and stalked out of the podium.

Richard pressed palms together. His lawyer just created the first fleck of hope. Richard hoped the closing had an effect on Her Ladyship. All of it would be useless if it had none.

His Lawyer posed on his seat. Richard gave him a tap at his lap. Nine Hundred thousand was not a waste.

Her Ladyship called for a two-hour recess. The verdict would be declared when the court resumed at 3:30.

Richard did not leave his seat, but remained with his lawyer and welcomed his mates from the barracks.

They promised to get him out, no matter the judge’s verdict. A soldier couldn’t stay in jail. Richard managed to sneak few smiles to them.

pami90:
vonn,com finish wetin u start oo

Lol.
The tortoise kept quiet when he was thrown into a pit. He only started shouting and cursing when he was about to be rescued.
My dear, day never end nah

Skimpledawg:
The salient points in d story are rily mind blowing.....


Vonn, coman finish it o.... My throat too long.

I heard a cup of salt will shorten it

CHAPTER 29





Abbe chopped the beefs into suitable sizes and poured them into the boiling water. She rotated the cooker’s regulator and placed a cover on the pot.

Her mum stuffed the tomatoes into a blender and plugged its wire to the wall socket. The tomatoes churned and brought with it squashing noises.

“You’re going to marry that criminal,” her mum said in Esan.

Abbe pretended as though the noise from the blender and her distance from her mum prevented her from hearing.
Her mum asked again with an upped voice.

Abbe glanced at her. “I don’t know, mama, and I wouldn’t like to talk about it.”

“You have to. It’s your future.” She turned off the switch, poured some water into the blender and continued with her blending.

“Come help me wash the remaining tomatoes,” she said, definitely to stay close and avoid the shouting.

Abbe washed her hands in the sink and fetched water into a bowl. She sat on a stool by her mum and transferred the tomatoes to the bowl.

“I wouldn’t let you near that man, Mé wa kha, you heard his testimony in court, he is a criminal.”

She scrapped the sticky dirt at the head of a tomato. “What can I do? Right now, the only thing on my mind is Rick’s freedom. That’s the only thing I want to think of.”

Mama picked up the washed tomatoes and stuffed them in the blender. “Your Richard would be free, he has a good lawyer, and the victim testified the truth, what—”

“That helped, but the state also has strong evidences. They strongly believe Richard committed the crime and they have evidences that point directly.”

Mama opened the blender. A splash of the bloody red semi-liquid landed on her nose.

She wiped it off with the edge of her wrapper and continued with her blending. She didn’t talk for a while. Abbe wished the whole cooking could go like that, but it was not possible.

“What about the woman whom the victim claimed shot him? What would be done to her?”

“She’s roaming free. The police don’t believe Bakare’s testimony. They refused to follow up on it.”

“Why?” The wrinkles in mama’s face clustered. “You mean they didn’t arrest that woman?”

“The last time I saw her, she was a free woman.”

“What if she runs and the police find her guilty?”

“I don’t know what they’d do.” She scraped the skin of a tomato.
The woman gazed at her blender.

“That man, Bakare,” mama muttered,

“he would be imprisoned if Richard is set free.”

“I know.”

“Are you willing to get married to a prisoner?”
She dropped a tomato. “I don’t know.”

“The man testified because of the hope you gave him, the hope of getting married to him. You bargained with him.”

She remained silent. There was nothing to say.

Mama raised head to her. “You’ve tried seeing him since after he testified?”

“No.” She rubbed the fruit’s red flesh. “I don’t know what to do. He proposed to me and I said a yes. The bargain was the only hope, and I don’t regret it.”

Mama shook head ruefully. “Bakare’s testimony is the only speck of hope I have that Richard might not be spending eternity in that hell.”

She focused on the tomatoes reddening the water. “He testified with his freedom at stake, kept his end of the bargain, and now what do I do?” She sniffed.

“You should never have agreed to his proposal.”

“Then I would watch a man sentenced to jail on my head.”

“If Richard was sentenced to jail, he would certainly come out. You know how it goes for elites like him; they don’t stay in there for long.”

“That rule didn’t seem to be followed. He was locked for months without bail. If the police could lock him up, then they could do anything. Be him an elite or not.”

Mama poured the remaining tomatoes into the blender and let the machine do the rest. “You’d have to do something. You bargained with your future. If you heed to that bargain, your future would be at risk.” She looked at her as if saying be warned.

“What’s there in marrying a man, a man who walked to you and proposed?”

“It’s something that affects the whole of one’s life. If you can put your life on the line, think of your children, my grandchildren. When you marry a man, you must bear him children. And a child has his father’s blood. A father’s path must affect his child.”

Abbe braced palms and rested jaw on them. “What if he has changed? What if he can change? He wouldn’t be spending long in prison since he brought himself in.”

“Your life is too big to rest it on a pile of what ifs. He proposed to you as a criminal, and you never knew. You would never know if he changes or not. Even if he tells you he has. Your dad and I have stayed this long because I didn’t make this mistake you’re about making.”

The beef pot’s cover began trembling. Abbe rose for it. She sprinkled in some salt and lowered the cooker’s temperature.

She returned to her mum and continued with the tomatoes. Her mum focused on her blending and attempted no talk.

Abbe enjoyed the quiet. It was much better than arguing whom to marry and whom not to.

She held the crucifix of her rosary and did a little prayer. The ending shouldn’t be so bad.

#


Abbe sucked in a long breath. She would soon be called out to witness. She prayed she uttered the right words. Her eyes met Ezinne’s, they was half-closed, pointing from a distance. The once full face had narrowed into a thin line.

Mr Victor called Abbe into the witness box. She breathed into her palms and stood. She found her mum’s face among the spectators. The woman nodded.

Abbe walked to the witness box. Richard sat a small distance from her. He did not look at her. She entered the box and faced the lawyer.

“Are you Miss Abbe Ivie Oboh?” Mr Victor asked.

“I am.”

“Your house address, please?”

“18th street, Olodi, Lagos State.”

“Have you ever heard of the name ‘Bakare Damijo’?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen him in person?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any relationship with him?”

She thought of the right words to say.

“He is a friend.”

“How close is the friendship?”

“We’re close friends.”

“Would you want to see any of your close friends hurt?”

“No.”

“And would you do anything within your power to thwart that?”

“Yes.”

“On August 17th, 2:57 P.M., did you make a phone call to this Bakare Damijo?”

“I did.”

“And what did you two talk about?”
She lowered gaze from the lawyer to the edge of the wooden box. “I phoned to know of his wellbeing. With the way he sounded, I suspected something to be wrong, something that might be threatening to him.”

“What way did he sound?

“He was whispering, and elements of fear mixed with his voice.”

“And what did you do on noticing that?”

“I figured out his location and thought of sending the police there. I called Mr Richard for the police emergency number.”

“Did Bakare Damijo tell you his location himself?”

“No, I figured it out, I could hear wind moans and trees rustle, so I figured it would be his orchard. I’ve been to the orchard several times.”

“When you phoned Mr Richard, what did you two discuss?”

“He gave me the police number and demanded for Bakare’s location.”

“Did he tell you why he demanded for the location?”

“He said he wanted to send another police team there in case those I called were not fast enough. I believed him because he served in the armed forces. I thought police dealings to be part of his knowledge and he might help in some way.”

“And did he help?”

She stared at the lawyer and searched an answer in his face. His face was blank.

“Did he help?” he asked again.

“I never would have wanted him to drive to the scene, I prefer he left the police do their job.” She wondered if that was the right reply.

“If Mr Richard never arrived at the scene, do you believe the true felons would probably never have been seen?”

“Objection.” The prosecuting attorney stood up and faced the judge. “My Lady, that is a compound question. There is an assertion of falsity of someone else being the felon.”

“Overruled. The defence had not assumed anyone the felon. Mr Victor, you might please continue.”

“Thank you, My Lady.” He returned to Abbe. “Miss Oboh, do you believe that without Mr Richard’s presence at the scene, the true felons would never have been seen.”

“I believe so.”

The lawyer walked to his desks and carried two phones from his clerk. He returned to the podium and showed the judge. “My Lady, if it pleases the court, the defence would like to introduce these mobile phones showing the date and times of calls into evidence. If they are any doubts on the calls of Miss Abbe, her phone can be checked to clear the doubts.”
The bailiff received the phones.

“Any objections to the introduction of these phones into evidence?” Her Ladyship asked the prosecuting attorney.

“No objections,” the attorney said.

“You may continue, Mr Victor.”

“I’m done. I have no further questions.”

The judge scribbled on her pad and looked at the prosecuting attorney. “Any cross examination?”

“I’d be asking some questions.” The prosecuting attorney adjusted his suit and rose. He stalked to the podium and pierced eyes into Abbe’s. She removed hers and returned them to him on remembering Mr Victor words to always keep head straight.

“Miss Oboh, who exactly is Mr Richard to you?”

“He is a friend.”

“What about Mr Bakare Damijo?”

“A friend.”

The prosecuting attorney scrawled something down. “How long have you known Mr Bakare?”

“For some months. I would say four.”

“For the number of months before this all began, did you ever suspect Mr Bakare to be involved in a criminal activity?”

“No.”

“And do you suspect him now?”

“With the things on ground, I believe he was somehow involved in some criminal activities.”

“And what things are on ground?”
She stared at the Prosecutor. He cocked head and stared back at her.

“The whole case,” she said. “With the hearings of the case so far, I’ve been able to gather he could have had hands in some crimes, and he himself testified to be involved in a heroin deal.”

“Or would it be more suitable to say you believe he was involved in a criminal activity because your other friend, Mr Richard, said so?”

“Objection!” Mr Victor saved her. “Mr Momoh is deliberately trying to force words on the witness.”

“Overruled. Mr Momoh, you should continue.”

“Thank you, My Lady.” He returned to Abbe. “Miss Abbe, you’ve not answered my question.”

“I believe he is involved in a criminal activity because he testified so himself. My personal study also shows there is a huge possibility Mr Bakare could be involved.”

“Did your study not also reveal Mr Richard could be involved?”

“No.”

“So your study favoured one friend as opposed to the other.” He stared at her.

“Miss Abbe, do you think it’s possible to hear background noises of trees rustling and wind whirling through a phone.”

“It’s very possible. I heard them.”

“No one is saying you didn’t, I’m only questioning the possibility.” He paused.

“You claim to have phoned Bakare Damijo, the victim. Are you aware that a thorough search has been done on the crime scene and nothing resembling a phone was found?”

“Maybe someone took it, but I did phone him. I—” She swallowed her remaining words. There was no need defending herself.

“And what someone? Footprints were not found either.”

“Objection.” Mr Victor narrowed eyes at the judge. “The place isn’t a muddy ground. It’s all turfy and grassy. Footprints would be hard to find, and I doubt the police did a thorough search, considering they believe to have found their criminal which they assumed to be my client.”

“Overruled, let the prosecuting attorney finish,” the judge said.

The prosecuting attorney returned to Abbe. “How old are you, miss?”

“I’m twenty seven.”

“Isn’t it new to the ears that a twenty seven year old citizen of the country does not know her zone’s police number?”

“Objection.” Mr Victor rose. “My Lady, It’s not new. Most Nigerians in their graves never knew the police’s number for their lifetime. I’d say most spectators seated here are yet unaware. The Police are not well advertised. The woman should not be blamed.”

“Overruled.” Her Ladyship pointed something close to a scowl at Mr Victor.

“It would help if you could give the state attorney some space in examining the witness.”

The prosecuting attorney turned to the judge. “That’d be all, My Lady.”

“Any redirect, Mr Victor,” the judge asked with a freshened face.

“No, My Lady.”

The judge faced the court and announced the end of the day’s session. The court remained adjourned until the 3rd of March.

More days for Richard in prison.

Abbe left the witness box and returned to her seat. Richard looked at her and gave her a nod.

CHAPTER 28





The courtroom looked smaller, not only the courtroom. Richard glanced at his sides. Everybody looked smaller, even Her Ladyship. She eyed the pad in her hand, riffling as though all was okay, as though there were no hearts on gunpowder.

Everyone looked at her, waiting for her to speak. She looked back at them.

“May the defence call its first witness,” she finally said. Things were better when she kept mute.

Mr Victor stood and strode to the podium. He called Richard into the witness box.

“Your name, please?” the lawyer asked.

“Richard Djebah Fayemi.”

“Where do you live?”

“13th avenue, Lander Close, GRA, Apapa, Lagos.”

“What’s your profession?”

“I’m the CEO of Erneto Aives, a quarry industry.”

“Have you worked or served elsewhere prior to that?”

“I once served as a 2nd lieutenant in the Nigeria armed forces.”

The lawyer tilted head. “What qualifies one to serve as a lieutenant?”

“You have to be well trained, well educated, disciplined and most of all, trustworthy.”

The lawyer jotted down something on his pad. “Mr Richard, where were you August 17th, 3:19 P.M.?”

“I was in my sitting room, sitting on my couch.”

“And what happened next?”

“I received a phone call from an Abbe Oboh.”

“What was the phone call about?”

“She asked for a DPO’s number. She needed the police to save a friend of hers whom she believed was endangered.”

“And did you give it to her?”

“I did.”

The lawyer scribbled on legal pad.

“What led you to the cherry orchard at Burma, Omi Street, the crime scene?”

“My house is closer to it than the nearest police station. I thought I might reach there before the police and salvage the situation, so I picked up my arms and drove to the orchard.”

“And did you reach there before the police?”

“I did.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw two men, one armed, and the other unarmed. Two bags lay on the ground. I never saw their contents. The men engaged in talks which I couldn’t hear.
I maintained my position and watched. I didn’t see any real threat to life, so I thought of letting the police take control. Shortly, a woman appeared at the scene and shot the armed man, which happened to be the friend of the lady who phoned me.

Minutes later, the police arrived. They were late, for those in the orchard had already fled. I was the closest to the scene, and I was armed, which must have led the police to believe I was the shooter and caused them to arrest me.”

“Did you recognize any of those in the orchard?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Which of them?”

“The woman.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Ezinne Fayemi.”

“Is she related to you in any way?”

“She is my wife.”

“Objection!” the prosecuting attorney shouted and stood up. “My Lady, that is a defamatory statement. The defendant is only trying to capitalize on the victim’s made-up testimony.”

“Overruled.” Her Ladyship aimed at the prosecuting attorney. “You would have your occasion to contend the defendant’s statement, but please, let him speak.”

She directed to Mr Victor. “You may continue.”

The lawyer returned to Richard. “From the happenings you saw at the scene, what can you deduce?”

“I would say a crime deal was happening in which the victim, Bakare Damijo, was involved and got himself framed.”

”Mr Richard, how many guns do you keep in your firearm case?”

“Two.”

“Which are?”

“An AKMS assault rifle and a Glock 19 pistol.”

“On your check at August 17th, how many guns did you find?”

“One. The assault rifle.”

“What can you deduce from that?”

“Someone must have taken the Glock.”

“What’s the Glock’s serial number?”

“626409.”

“Where and when did you purchase it?”

“Los Angeles. 2011.”

“Was anything else missing from the case?”

“Some bullets and a silencer.”

“What calibre were the missing bullets?”
“9 mm.”

“Where in your house do you keep your firearm kit?”

“My room’s wardrobe.”

“And how many persons do you live with?”

“One.”

“Who is that?”

“My wife.”

“Does anyone have access to your wardrobe except this your wife?”

“No.”

“Thank you, that’d be all for now.”

Her Ladyship turned to the prosecuting attorney, whose lips vibrated as though the words caged in them couldn’t wait to jump out. “Any cross examination?”

“Yes.” The prosecutor stood and stalked to the podium. He locked eyes with Richard and opened his legal pad.

“Mr Fayemi, I’m Mr Rashid Momoh, the prosecuting attorney, and I’d be asking you some questions. How many years did you serve in the army?”

“Six years.”

“Are you retired?”

“I left when I had to do business.”

“Same thing as saying you are no more in the military, you are now a civilian.”

“Yes.”

“In the military academy, were you taught that civilians are not supposed to take laws in their hands?”

“Yes.”

“Someone who had spent six years in the armed forces is most likely to obey national laws. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“And if he one day choses to disobey, can I say there might be a secret agenda?”

Richard stayed silent, staring at the prosecuting attorney. “There might not always be a secret agenda.”

“You went to a military academy and spent six years serving in the armed forces, you knew the laws well, and you however insisted to go to the crime scene, against the law, most probably with the intention of shooting someone. May I know why?”

“The woman who phoned me is a good friend. Her friend was in danger, I knew I could help, and I decided to help.”

“Was that your secret agenda?”

“It’s not a secret agenda.”

“You’re right. That couldn’t have been your secret agenda. You said you were willing to kill for a woman whom you describe as just a friend, I repeat ‘just a friend.’ First, that is implausible, and if it’s true, it means she was more than just a friend. Am I correct? Was she more than just a friend?” He allowed some silence and stared at Richard. “I would understand one trying to kill for someone more than a friend, which might be the case here, which might be a secret agenda.”

“Objection!” Mr Victor shouted and sprung up. “The prosecutor is speculating and infringing into my client’s personal life.”

“Sustained,” Her Ladyship said. “Please the court should disregard the state’s last statement.”

The prosecuting attorney continued. “All I’m trying to do is make the court see reasons why the defendant could say a slanderous statement against his wife, it is obvious he was interested in another wo—”

Mr Victor hit the table. “Objection! The prosecuting attorney is veering outside the case. It concerns nobody if my client is interested in another woman or not.”

“Sustained. Mr Momoh, you shouldn’t go into that again.”

“Okay, My Lady.” The prosecuting attorney faced Richard. “You said a pistol was taken from your firearm kit.”

“That’s true.”

“You said you do keep the kit in your wardrobe.”

“That’s true.”

“You said you live only with your wife.”

“That’s true.”

“So it’s either you used the pistol or she did. Since it couldn’t be you, it’s automatically her. Isn’t that what you are saying?”

“I’m saying it’s her because I saw her shoot the victim at the orchard.”

“That’s what you say you saw.” He paused. “Is there a possibility that someone other than your wife could have entered the room you kept your firearm kit?”

Richard remained silent for a while before muttering out words. “I kept the firearm kit in my room. No one enters my room except my wife and me.”

“No one had ever entered your room except your wife and you?” The prosecutor focused on him.

“No one could ever enter my room and open my wardrobe other than my wife.”
The prosecutor dropped gaze to his pad.

“Mr Richard, do you realize than you are indirectly saying your wife took your pistol and shot that man, and do you realize she has a reputation which you are shredding into pieces. Mr Richard, you could be compiling your charges.”

“Objection.” Mr Victor shook his head.

“Is that a threat to my client?”

“I’m not threating your client,” the prosecuting attorney said calmly. “I’m only educating him on the gravity of words spoken in the court.”

“Sustained,” Her Ladyship said. “I don’t think the defendant needs the education.”

“Mr Richard, have you ever housed anybody in your house where you keep your firearm kit?” the prosecutor asked.

“I have.”

“Are you always home with such persons?”

“No.”

“Is it possible for such a person to gain access to your room and wardrobe?”
Richard did a swallow. “My room is always locked when I’m out, except when my wife remains at home.”

“And your wife is a woman. She could be in the kitchen, laundering, or doing one of the many things women do, while this guest of yours could be in the house doing nothing. Can such a thing happen?

“It can.”

“And this guest of yours, can he or she have access to your room when your wife is in the kitchen or someplace other than the room?”

“He can.”

“Thus, it could be anybody who took the Glock pistol, right?”

The question was already answered. All he needed do was say the word. “It’s possible.”

“Or could it be nobody?” He turned to Her Ladyship. “My Lady, that’d be all.” He marched to his seat with a widened face.

“Any redirect, Mr Victor?”

“No.”

Richard made for his seat.

Finally, the story will end tomorrow
I'll drop two chapters today and by the grace of God finish up tomorrow.

Skimpledawg:
Sisi Vonn .... Nor let wetin apun for Warri 8yrs ago apun hia o

Lol....wetin happen?
I want to know

THE END
















Of chapter 27

#


Abbe walked past the gate. The gateman welcomed her without the usual smile that bared his front fawn teeth. He asked after Oga, lifting his djellebah as though preventing its hem from touching the ground. She told him Oga was doing fine, which he rightly understood to be the opposite.

He swore to kill the entire policemen if they inflicted a scratch on Richard and then wished her a happy new year.

On the veranda, Ezinne stretched on a recliner with folded hands, fixed on the mini garden. Her braid dropped on both sides of her head, tapering it into a slender bottle form. She shifted eyes to Abbe and returned them to the garden. The white of her eyes had turned grey.

“Ezinne,” Abbe called.

Ezinne adjusted into sitting and spared some space beside her. She tapped the recliner for Abbe to sit.

“Why did you shoot Bakare?” Abbe asked, watching Ezinne’s lips for its next movement.

Ezinne returned gaze to the lavenders and wilted peonies. “Because it was the suitable thing to do.”

Any response than those would have bettered the remainder of the tragic day. It was true. Ezinne shot Bakare. She let an innocent Richard hurt in jail.

“What did Bakare do to you?”

“I would beg you to help me ask him. Then you tell me what he says.”

“What about Richard?”

Ezinne’s lids dropped. She began sliding fingernails over each other. “Richard would get out of jail when he is done.”

“Done with what?” She pushed head forward to see Ezinne’s full face.

“Richard has been in jail for over four months, likely to extend more than that.”

Ezinne spun to her. “He would soon be out. His tenure would soon be over.”

“Tenure for what?” Abbe wondered if the woman could hear the words evolving from her mouth. “Richard did nothing to warrant a minute in jail.”
Ezinne turned to Abbe and fixed on her.

“Who determines that? Let’s not lie to ourselves.”

“What’s gone into you, Ezinne?”

“Nothing. Everyone only got what they deserved. Including me.”

“You shot a man, and you’re sitting here a free woman. I doubt that is what you deserve. You tried killing a man, and you’re letting an innocent man, your husband, suffer your crimes.”

“I shot a man. You ought to be scared of me. What are you doing here?”

She ought to be scared. Where was the fright? Why did she feel like squashing the bones that lined Ezinne’s neck, instead of being afraid? “I’m scared of you, but that won’t stop me from striving to learn the truth. Why haven’t you told the police what actually happened?”

“You heard Bakare’s testimony in court. He told them everything that happened. It’s painful they refused to follow up on his words. It’s the world’s way of controlling justice. When Richard is done paying for his sins, the truth would unfold. Then my time to pay for my sins would begin.”

“What are you saying? Richard is the most unfitting man for that jail.”

“No one can deceive himself.” She paused. “Or herself.” She turned to Abbe and held gaze with her. “How many times have you had sex with Richard since you knew him?”

Abbe’s breath ceased. Ezinne’s entire words clogged her nostrils. “E…zinne.”

“I’m not holding anything against you.

The world is fair, it gives everyone fair justice, it would deal with you. Bakare is suffering for his deeds. Richard is suffering for his deeds. And you. The demon that controls your fingers is enough suffering for your deeds. Very soon I would be suffering mine.”

Abbe tightened lips and crushed the tiny bones in them. “I wish the police would arrive now and place the handcuffs round your wrists.”

“If wishes came true, you’d long be dead. You’re lucky I inferred your sins late.”

She rose and stared at the woman. “I pray one day you realize the evil you’ve done.”

“I realized that years ago.”

CHAPTER 27





Lauren watched the fishermen struggle with the fishes. The ocean rippled as they casted their nets into it. She rose from her lounger and strolled to the banks.

Few persons learned to swim at a far end, not whites, but black teens, guiding themselves on how to flap legs in the water.

She returned to her lounger and continued watching the fishes struggle in the fishermen’s nets and baskets.

The sands carried a shadow of someone long, holding a lounger, advancing towards her. A man. The shadow stopped moving and the man dug his lounger beside her. It was a harbour engineer she had befriended overtime.

“Today is for the anglers, not the tourists or surfers.” He settled on his lounger. “Why are you on shirts and trousers?”

“I don’t plan on swimming. I only need the air.”

“You’re on vacation?”

“No. Newfield is still in session.”

He lowered hands and picked some of the fine sands, and then, funnelled them through a folded hand. “No lectures today?”

“There is.”

“You’re missing lectures for Tarkwa bay.”

“Today is my first.”

The sands on his palm sprinkled as he dusted them off. “There shouldn’t be a second.”

“Why aren’t you at the harbour?”

“I thought I could use some of the air here, I’d return there any second.” He picked another of the sands and funnelled them to the ground.

A trader holding a carriage of snacks and other things wheeled to her and tried cajoling her into buying some doughnuts. She refused, and the trader left with a bad face, making her wish she had bought some, or even one.

“There’s nothing the traders don’t hawk here. That one had sachet alcohols in his carriage, and little children might be tempted to buy.”

His phone beeped. He fished it out from his denim pocket and looked at its screen. “I’m needed for a small job at the harbour. I’d be back.”

“Wait.” She stopped him from moving.

“I would need a walk to the harbour.” She rose and stretched herself.

“You’ve ever been to the lighthouse?” she asked.

“Yes, sometimes after vigorous workings, I would go there to rid myself of the noise the beach offers.”

“I heard the surroundings is very rural and contains a few of the nation’s monuments.”

“Yes. You can call it a village. When I first began working in the harbour, I use to visit there to see some of the country’s monuments. That was years ago. I doubt if those artefacts are still present. Presently, not much happens there, and the stress of boating yourself to it is not much encouraging.”

They walked to the berth. Some harbour men crowned in blue helmets unloaded moored container vessels. The engineer discussed cranes and cargo sheds with a white-helmeted black man, having an oil whiff.

They leaned by a ledge protruding from a cargo shed and watched the men crane out containers.

“How is working in a midst of blacks like?” she asked.

He wobbled head as though confused of the words to voice out. “Initially it seems perverse, especially when you’ve not lived amongst them before, as it was in my case, but after a number of years, you’ll understand there are like any other American, interesting people with black skins.”

“How many years did it take you to understand that?”

“Not as long as I thought or as anyone would think.”

He shouted to a man and strode to the berth. He pointed fingers at different places and did more shouting before returning to the ledge.

“How’s Newfield?” he asked, staring at the busy men.

“Newfield is good.”

“There should be a good number of whites there.”

“Not really.”

“Aren’t they white lecturers?”

“A fair number.”

“That’s expected. I used to know a white lecturer based there.”

A white man walked to them. He hailed to her and then began a talk with the engineer. They talked navigational channels and wharves. The engineer dug hands into a pocket and brought out a white sheet, wrote on it and handed to the colleague.

“I figure an okay number of whites work here,” she said.

“Yes, mostly as engineers, and few as motormen. The work here needs some expertise that the locals haven’t fully mastered. Newfield teaches a course on this, Marine and Harbour Engineering. Very soon a majority of the locals would have gained enough expertise.”

She sat on the ledge and lifted a knee up.

“I’d return soon,” the engineer said and headed to the berth, where he stepped into a moored ship.

Some men began transferring sacks to the cargo sheds. Those who walked past her smiled at her. Returning the smiles wasn’t very easy, but she tried to.

The engineer stepped out from the ship, now wearing a white helmet like most men around him. He advanced to her side and pointed to the jutted tower.

“There is the lighthouse.”

“I wonder what could be in it.”

“The only things in it are the little openings of its walls. It’s as empty as hell.” He lifted himself onto the ledge, now whiffing of oils.

The prosecuting attorney began. “The next witness is the victim of the case, Mr Bakare Damijo. He would be testifying from his domain. The state had ensured he is free from any sort of pressure or anything that would prevent effective examination.”

The technicians finished with their set-up and the victim, on a wheelchair, showed on the screen. He squeezed his jaw with his hand, waiting for the prosecuting attorney to begin.

The prosecuting attorney turned to the screen.

“May you state your name, please.”

“Bakare Damijo.” His bass boomed from the side speakers.

“Address?”

“22, Meji Street, Lagos Mainland.”

“What’s your occupation?”

“I run a computer store.”

The prosecuting attorney glanced at his legal pad. “Does the orchard at Burma Street belong to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any issues with it, like a dispute with the land or something else?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Are you in any dispute whatsoever with anyone?”

“None that I can remember.”

“Where were you on the 17th of August, 3 P.M.?”

“I was at my orchard.”

“Were you there alone?”

“There might have been some persons around.”

“And who are they?”

“I don’t know all of them.”

“Can you say the names of those you could recognize?”

“As at 3 P.M., all I saw a man standing on my turf.”

The folds that were almost formed at the lawyer’s cheeks relaxed. “And what was the man doing?”

“He was standing, gawking at his phone.”

“And who was this man?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“If you see the man anywhere, would you be able to recognize him?”

“I would. I have a good memory.”

The prosecuting attorney fished into the leaves of his pad and brought out a photo of Richard. “Is this the man?”

“No, it isn’t.”

The prosecutor brow furrowed and relaxed as he began speaking. “Did anything suspicious of a crime happen in the orchard?”

“Yes. The man I saw had a bag that I believe contained some money. He was about to sell something to someone, something that couldn’t be sold in the open.”

The prosecutor fixed on his legal pad and scribbled. He raised head to Bakare.

“And what happened next? Did the man you saw eventually sell anything to anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see the second party?”

“I didn’t see him.”

The prosecutor walked nearer to the screen as though the victim was present physically. “But you just said he sold an item to someone. How would you know that if you didn’t see the second party?”

Bakare formed a smirk. “There was no mirror. I couldn’t have seen myself.”
Murmurs arose in the courtroom. Her Ladyship shouted for order and struck her gavel.

“Mr Damijo, do you understand you are in court, testifying under affirmation, and before the judge? Your words have to be the truth and nothing but that. False witnessing is perjury, and that is a felony with grave consequences.”

“Thanks for the clarification.”

“Mr Damijo, what business were you involved in at the orchard.”

“A heroin deal.”

Noise filled the courtroom, people engaged in side talks. Mr Victor pointed eyes to the victim as though they controlled the victim’s words. Richard used braced palms to cover the lower half of his face, with eyes fixed on the screen. Her Ladyship rapped her gavel and signalled the officers to maintain order.

The prosecuting attorney moved closer to the screen, and the furrows at his brow multiplied. “What did you say?”

“A heroin deal.”

“Mr Damijo, I would repeat. Perjury is a felony very punishable by law.”

“I’ve committed no perjury.”

“Mr Damijo, were they anyone else in the orchard except you and this your supposed dealer?”

“Yes.”

“Can you state the name?”

“Ezinne Fayemi. She appeared at a later time.”

Murmurs grew in the courtroom. The officers hovered around with their nightsticks.

“Are you sure about that?”

He carried a smug face. “I’m sure as I am of the fact I never would be able to walk again.”

The prosecutor pinched the bridge of his nose and returned to his legal pad. “Mr Damijo, did you see who shot you at the orchard?”

“I did.”

“Can you give the court the name?”

“Ezinne Fayemi.”

Whispers erupted in every corner of the court. Half of the spectators’ eyes spun to Ezinne. Her countenance was not altered. It was as though nothing was said against her. Her Ladyship hit the gavel on the table. “Anyone caught chattering would be reprimanded,” she said, and order was established.

The prosecuting attorney turned to Her Ladyship. “My Lady, I establish my witness as unfavourable and would request the leave of the court to cross-examine.”

“Mr Momoh, before I can grant you a leave to cross-examine, you must present me with a valid reason.”

“Yes, My Lady.” He fixed on his legal pad and flipped its pages backwards. “On the first questioning of the witness at 29th of August, 2:16 P.M., he admitted he was shot by the defendant as opposed to his present statement. He thus made a contradicting statement.”

“Is there anything to confirm your claim except the record on your book?”

“I didn’t do the questioning alone. I was with Inspector Babarinsa. You can verify from him.”

Her Ladyship turned to an officer on uniform.

“Mr Momoh is right, My Lady,” the inspector said.

“You may proceed with your cross-examination,” Her Ladyship told the prosecutor.

The prosecutor directed at Bakare. “On the 29th of August, were you questioned by me and a fellow officer?”

“I was,” Bakare said. “On a sick bed.”

“And whom did you say shot you?”

“The defendant.”

“And I believe you meant Richard Fayemi?”

“That’s right.”

“Now, why the contradicting statement?”

“I was on a sickbed. I would say anything to make the interrogators give me some peace. They were aggravating my headache.”

The prosecutor’s eyes dug into its socket. “Mr Damijo, do you have anything to back your claims?”

“I don’t.”

The prosecutor fixed on his legal pad. He closed the pad and raised head to Bakare. “That’d be all.”

“Mr Victor, any cross examination?” Her Ladyship asked.

“No, My Lady.”

“Thank you,” she said as though Mr Victor did her a favour, and Bakare disappeared from the screen. “Does the state have any more witnesses?”

“No, My Lady. The state rests its case.”
Her Ladyship faced the spectators. “The court stands adjourned until 10 A.M. February 9th. The defendant is to remain in police custody. I will have the prosecuting and defending attorneys in my chambers.” She rose and walked into her chambers.

Noise exploded in the courtroom like air gushing from a loosened balloon.

Mr Victor tapped Richard’s back. “It seems God is on our side.”

For the first time, Richard believed that. Nothing else could make the victim testify the truth.

“I’m needed in Her Ladyship’s chambers.” The lawyer rose and started for the chambers.

The prosecuting attorney and other suited men marched forward.

CHAPTER 26





The prosecuting attorney, Mr Rashid Momoh, did a brief and short opening statement as though he needed not waste words. Her ladyship called Mr Victor for his opening. The lawyer marched to the podium.

He began by announcing Richard to be a very respectable man in the society who had no reason to commit murder.

The lawyer stressed on Richard’s army background, citing he was expected to have firearms, and that no one would want to implicate himself by using registered weapons to commit murder.

He pleaded for Her Ladyship to reason beyond the evidences, as no man would accuse himself on purpose as to use such glaring evidences, and ended his statement there.

Her ladyship scribbled on her pad and called the state to call its first witness.

The prosecuting attorney climbed the podium and called out a Bayo Yetunde, the man who handcuffed Richard at the crime scene.

The prosecuting attorney helped the witness in introducing himself and examined him. He guided him in testifying Richard to be the one found in the crime scene with an assault rifle and some ammunition. The prosecuting attorney asked other ritual questions before letting go the witness.

Her Ladyship asked the defence for a cross-examination. Mr Victor uttered a no.

Her Ladyship asked for a second witness and the prosecuting attorney brought out a pathologist who testified that the cause of the victim’s injuries was the bullets found in him.

Mr Victor did no cross-examination.

The state called in its third witness, the FCID’s ballistician. Richard’s heart tore as the expert strode to the podium, holding a file.

“May you state your name,” the prosecuting attorney began.

“Mr Christopher Imem.”

“Address, please?”

“19, Beuno quarters, Calabar, Cross River.”

“What is your profession?”

“I’m a ballistician.”

“And where did you study that?”

“Daldymyr West Ukrainian National University.”

“Have you been certified in your field?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hold any degree in the field?”

“Yes. A masters’”

The prosecutor angled head. “What does someone of your profession do?”

“We deal with the science of firearms and projectiles.”

“Have you witness in trials before?”

“Yes.”

“Can you say a number?”

“I’ve witnessed in thirteen trials.”
The prosecuting attorney directed to Her Ladyship.

“My Lady, the state wish to present Mr Christopher Imem, a Ballistician, to witness as an expert in the field of Ballistics.”

Her Ladyship faced Mr Victor. “Any examination of the witness?”

“No,” Mr Victor said.

“Mr Momoh, you may continue.”

“Have you studied the crime scene?” the prosecuting attorney asked the ballistician.

“Yes, I have.”

“And were you able to recover anything?”

“No.”

“Were you given the bullet found in the victim?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you do to it?”

“The forensics sent it to a crime lab in Kentucky, USA, to find a match.”

“Are the results out?”

“Yes.”

“What are the results?”

He opened the file in his hand and stuck eyes to it. “The results said that the 9 mm bullet was from a registered Glock 19 pistol with serial number 626409.

The pistol was purchased by the person of Richard Fayemi in the year 2011.” He thumbed through several photos and explained some charts.

Going further, he explained the gunpowder found in the victim’s wound entrance and the clear muzzle imprint.

The shot was taken point-blank.

“Mr Imem, what is your final opinion?”

“My final opinion is that the bullet recovered from Bakare Damijo’s lumbar bone was shot from a Glock 19 belonging to and purchased by Richard Fayemi.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

Her Ladyship directed to Mr Victor.

“Any cross examination?”

“Yes, My Lady.” He adjusted his suspenders to fit his flat belly and marched to the podium.

“Mr Christopher, what does ballistics involve?”

“It involves the study of firearms and projectiles.”

“Does it involve pointing out who shot a gun?”

“With calculations and additional information from investigations, it can help in point out who shot a gun.”

“Does your Ballistics result state that the Glock pistol which produced the bullet was shot by Richard Fayemi?”

“No, but it clearly states that the pistol belonged to Mr Fayemi.”

“If I carry that same Glock pistol and shoot at someone, would it give same result?”

The ballistician aimed at the file in his hand and his ears twitched. “Yes.”

“So is there any possibility that the Glock was shot by someone other than Mr Fayemi?”

“That could happen.”

“Thank you. That’d be all.” He strode to his seat.

“Any redirect?” Her ladyship asked the prosecuting attorney.

“No, My Lady.”

“May the state call its next witness.”

The prosecuting attorney stalked to the podium. “My lady, the next witness would be speaking through a video link because of his inability to be here in person due to some health issues.”

Her Ladyship looked at Mr Victor. “Any objections to the witness testifying through a video link?”

“The defence has no objections to that,” Mr Victor said.
He offered Richard a glass of water.

“You should drink this.”
Richard received the glass and tried a sip. The liquid singed his taste buds.

“What wrong have I done this man that he would place a murder on my head? His testimony would go far in weakening our chances.”

His lawyer gave no reply. His eyes were as blank as his pad on his desk.

Something hovered around his face, something that did not resemble confidence.

Noise arose in the courtroom. Her Ladyship hit the gavel against her table and the noise subsided. The officers helped in controlling the remainder.

Some technicians set up a screen and some electronic equipment at the front of the court.

Sorry guys for backing off......
Okay, I'm less busy now... Lemme do something

Happy Birthday Sire!!

#


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.

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.

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

Happy Sunday!!!!!

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

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?

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

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.

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..

#


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.

#


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.

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.

#


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.