FICTION
Kraftgriots
Also in the series (FICTION) Ernest Emenyonu: The Adventures of Ebeleako Ifeoma Nwoye: Endless Search Funmilayo Adegbite: Bonds of Destiny Frank U. Mowah: Eating by the Flesh David Adenaike: The Mystery Child Olu Obafemi: Wheels Babatunde Omobowale: Seasons of Rage Florence Attamah: Melodies of a Dashed Dream Ifeoma Nwoye: Death by Instalments Uche Nwabunike: Forever She Cried Clement Idegwu: Broken Dreams (2000) Vincent Egbuson: Moniseks Country (2001) Vincent Egbuson: A Poet is a Man (2001) Benedict Ibitokun: Sopaisan: Westing Oodua (2002) Vincent Egbuson: Love is not Dead (2002) Tayo Olafioye: Grandma’s Sun (2004) Ikechukwu Kalikwu: The Voice from the Grave (2005) Wale Okediran: The Weaving Looms (2005) Richard Maduku: Arigo Again! (2006) Vincent Egbuson: Womandela (2006), winner 2006 ANA/NDDC Ken Saro-Wiwa prose prize Abubakar Gimba: Trail of Sacrifice (2006) Abubakar Gimba: Innocent Victims (2006) Richard Ovuorho: My Grandfather (2007) Abubakar Gimba: Witnesses to Tears (2007) Abraham Nnadi: Not by Justification (2008) Majovo Amarie: Suspended Destiny (2008) Abimbola Adelakun: Under the Brown Rusted Roofs (2008) Richard Masagbor: Labyrinths of a Beauty (2008) Kayode Animasaun: A Gift for the Corper (2008) Liwhu Betiang: Beneath the Rubble (2009) Vincent Egbuson: Love My Planet (2009), winner 2008 ANA/NDDC Ken SaroWiwa prose prize Richard Maduku: Kokoro Compound (2009) Ted Elemeforo: Child of Destiny (2009) Yahaya Dangana: Blow of Fate (2009) Jonathan E. Ifeanyi: The Campus Genius (2009) Kayode Animasaun: Perambulators (2010) Ozioma Izuora: Dreams Deferred (2010), winner 2009 ANA/NDDC Ken SaroWiwa Prose Prize Victor Akande: A Palace for the Slave (2010) E.L. Agukwe: A Tale of Trioubaz (2011) Chris Okonta: Trampled Rose (2011) Bolade Bamidele: Wits Battle of Awareness (2011) Sam Omatseye: The Crocodile Girl (2011)
FICTION
Ikenna Nwadike
Published by Kraft Books Limited 6A Polytechnic Road, Sango, Ibadan Box 22084, University of Ibadan Post Office Ibadan, Oyo State, Nigeria ! +234(0)803 348 2474, +234(0)805 129 1191 E-mail:
[email protected] www.kraftbookslimited.com © Ikenna Nwadike, 2014
First published 2014 ISBN 978–978–918–217–6 = KRAFTGRIOTS = (A literary imprint of Kraft Books Limited) All Rights Reserved First printing, December 2014
Dedication Engr. Mrs. Grace Akujobi-Emetuche
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In Memoriam Nneomanwereugwu, Ezinne (Mrs.) Anuri Bernardine Nwadike (The Woman-with-the-Bible)
and
Ezinne (Mrs.) Monica Ezeigbo (Mmakwukwu)
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Acknowledgement I wish to thank everyone I have met so far in my life because this novel was crafted entirely from both personal experiences and personal assessment of other people’s experiences. The technicalities in the legal field which were included in this novel were fine-tuned by Barr. Chima Uchendu, Barr. Uche Nwandilibe, and Barr. Amara Uchendu while Dr. Chibuzo Onunkwo partly edited the work. I make special mention of my late parents, Mr. Philip O. Nwadike and Mrs. Anuri Bernardine Nwadike, and my late grandmother, Mrs. Monica Ezeigbo for all they did for me. I greatly value my siblings, six of them, for their unconditional love and support over the long and difficult years. I also appreciate the good relationship I shared with my extended family, with the family of Engr. Mrs. Grace Akujobi-Emetuche, and with friends from all walks of life. I am grateful to a handful of friends who contributed fistfuls of hard-earned money to help me cover the cost of publication. On the brighter side, the difficulty to raise funds quickly – which sometimes felt frustrating – availed me of the opportunity to update and integrate certain current issues which would have been missed had I published the novel earlier. The delay made the work more meaningful to history. I also thank the leadership and members of the Discipulos Misioneros de Cristo (Missionary Disciples of Christ) Congregation just taking roots in Nigeria, especially the Nigerian group, for their support. They are committed to letting their mission and vision effloresce over the face of Nigeria, Africa, and the entire world.
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Author’s Note This is a work of fiction despite the occasional resemblance it has with certain names, places, and events. Ever since I wrote “The Gospel Robber” as article 247 in an earlier work, The Oracle of the Wiseman (2010), I knew it had the potential to be developed into a novel and a film. This I did between 2010 and 2014 – writing the novel and the first draft of a movie script – although I gave the project only a tiny fraction of this period since most of it was devoted to other research interests. The last major insertion in this novel was the first paragraph which, like some current issues from 2014 that I made reference to, came after I began a post-graduate diploma course in English and Literary Studies at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka in 2014. The final draft of this novel, after a series of previous “final” drafts since 2012, was again considered completed on 23 May 2014 although the newest first paragraph was inserted the next day between noon and 11:00 p.m. Indeed, a work is never safe or free from its writer until it is in the hands of a publisher.
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Chapter One 7:00 a.m. Monday February 25 2013.
It hung heavily over Austen’s mind that something momentous would happen later that morning. Yet, he could not fathom what that could exactly be. The intuition reminded him of the feeling he always had to see the clouds hurriedly changing from whitishgrey to dark, the wind picking up speed and beginning to howl, yet never knowing at what point exactly the first drop of a rainstorm would squeeze free from the clouds and collapse on his head out in the streets. Deciding to let events play themselves out, he chose to turn his mind to other things. The day had dawned like every other day in February. A light rain the previous night had left the weather rejuvenated and breezy that morning in contrast with the usual unfriendliness of the harmattan season. However, the dusty, cold, and dry wind characteristic of the harmattan was already hassling the weather’s fringes like a lion prowling to reclaim a lost territory from a predatory intruder. Out in the open, the carefree wind gently caressed every uncovered part of the body. Between the middle of March and early April, the harmattan was predestined to lose its territory to the rainy season, as trees and foliage begin to frolic under the caress of the wind while birds sang in their different voices in appreciation of the wonders of nature, and most importantly, in thanksgiving to nature’s Creator. Austen, who had celebrated his 25th birthday exactly the previous two weeks, was already in the streets in a business section 9
of Amaego, a densely populated city thirty-seven kilometres from his home town Umuezeanoruo. Umuezeanoruo was one of the popular cities in south-eastern Nigeria. The southeast is the geographical territory of the Igbos, a very prominent tribe among the over 250 tribes that populated Nigeria. Amaego also shared boundaries with Eziama Obaire city, another commercial city whose growth was conspicuously facilitated by conurbation with three towns, Isu, Nkwerre and Orlu. Orlu was a burgeoning industrial town and shared boundaries with Umuezeanoruo. It was just 7:00 a.m and people were still getting out of their houses to join the rush hour traffic of vehicles and pedestrians. A taxi drove past and Austen thought it looked like the taxi he had alighted from a few minutes ago. He watched as the car turned a corner and disappeared out of sight. Austen, fully clad in clergyman’s attire, was dressed in a black long-sleeved Roman collar shirt and over it a sea-blue two-piece suit, black socks and black shoes. Added to his handsome face, fair complexion and 6.3 feet height, he looked just elegant, meriting a couple of furtive glances from some passers-by. The only filibuster to the elegance was that at close range, passers-by surprisingly realized with wide eyes and arched eyebrows that none of the clothes had been recently ironed. However, the rumpled cloths did not bother Austen one bit as he continued trekking, a Bible in his right hand. He never doubted that anyone who came within sight would take him for what he appeared to be: a clergyman armed with a Bible. It also spiked his self-confidence that almost everyone who came his way greeted him, addressing him as a pastor. Just then, a woman, with a kid dressed for school, emerged from a nearby house into the street. They were ten paces away. With a pious smile on her face, the woman, Gado, short, fat and fair-skinned, decided to initiate a conversation. “Good morning, Pastor.” As she noticed the clergyman breaking his stride in response to her greeting, she gently tapped her child on the head. The kid, Agatha, nodded in affirmation that she clearly understood the signal. “Good morning, Pastor,” Agatha promptly threw in. Her voice was shrill but melodious. She began to look the pastor over. 10
Thereafter, she fixed her eyes on his face not bothered that the man simply kept his gaze on her mother. She noticed he was about to say something to her mother. “Good morning all,” Austen replied with a friendly smile, not forgetting to include a blessing, “and may God bless you both.” Then, he turned his face downwards to look at the kid. She was robust and fair-skinned. He waved at the kid who in turn waved back. It pleased him that the kid began to hop with joy but in pace with her mother who kept walking towards him. As Gado came closer, her face slowly creased with worry suggesting she had a pressing matter on her mind. “Pastor, please permit me this request,” she started in unsure tones. Taking a deep breath, she grimaced lightly, throwing up both palms upwards in a sign of resignation to God. “My name is Gado and this,” she was rubbing the girl’s head gently, “is Agatha, my kid.” She paused, her face creasing with despair. “I need God to answer my prayers and grant me a divine favour. I was diagnosed of a heart defect three years ago and doctors said it was serious and needed surgery. They recommended a certain hospital in India. I’m from a poor family and married to a poor man whereas the surgery needs millions.” Gado took a deep breath. “Although I received some assistance from some relatives and friends, it wasn’t sufficient for the trip. I opted for alternative therapy from some herbal medical practitioners and have been taking herbal medicines since the past two years. Earlier, that gave me some relief but last month, I started feeling rather unwell. I went back to a doctor and after a battery of tests and scanning, he told me the heart condition hasn’t been cured,” her voice quivered with suppressed tears, “but although it hasn’t become worse, it’s rather on the verge of deterioration if I don’t go in for surgery soonest.” Gado heaved a sigh of despair. “Where do I get the money? You see, it’s only God that can cure me now. I need a miracle … and now is the best time. I have been fasting and praying for this miracle … my family has been praying … my friends too. That’s my request, pastor.” “Oh! So sorry to hear this sad story.” Austen smiled encouragingly. “Everything may look frustrating but our Lord 11
tells us in the Gospels that we should not let our hearts be troubled but to trust in God and to trust in him too. He is a miracle working God. So, child of God, don’t let this minor problem undermine your faith or spiritual life. The devil cannot overcome thee. No sickness, physical or spiritual can overcome thee for the Lord tells us, ‘I shall be with you, yes, until the end of time.’ You see, you have nothing to worry about, my dear. Your heart defect will disappear the same way it appeared in the mighty name of Je-eesus.” “Ame-e-en!” mother and daughter chorused. Gado did not let it bother her that she had visited a good number of pastors and prayer groups all promising a miracle but failing in the end. “The Lord is good,” Austen said, satisfaction brimming all over his face. He was visibly elated at the opportunity to minister like a clergyman. “All the time,” the girl cut in before her mother could respond. “All the time,” the woman added. Austen released an audibly deep groan, creating the impression that some divine power just descended on him. Eyes tight shut in prayer, he threw a clenched right hand into the air while the left hand clasped the Bible to his chest. On impulse, the woman quickly dragged her kid down as both hurriedly knelt at his feet, palms clasped together and eyes closed in fervent prayer. Austen decided to raise his voice a decibel higher, to create an authoritative tone. “He never fails … a faithful God, Alpha and Omega. In his name every knee shall bow, every tongue must confess, every sickness must bow to his power.” And then, elongating the words for emphasis, he cried out, “Re-e-eceiv-v-ve your healing in the mighty name of Jesus.” “Ame-e-en!” Mother and daughter chorused. They all were oblivious of the scene they had just created there on the sidewalk as passers-by kept glancing their way. The traffic of motorists and pedestrians close by was steadily increasing as the morning wore on. “In his name every sickness shall bow … every heart defect … every power of the darkness … witches and wizards … every poverty.” Austen was already rhythmically stamping his right foot on the ground in confirmation of every phrase, and his face 12
contorting in prayerful emotion. “Ame-e-en.” Mother and daughter sounded so sure the long expected miracle would happen right that instant. Nothing. Then, Gado found herself relishing a strong desire to experience some divine intervention in a very spectacular way. By then, Austen had resorted to mouthing the remaining prayers, lips moving rapidly but no sound emerging. He was also thinking fast and weighing his options. I’d better wrap this up and get going. He was not ready for what happened next. There was a sudden thud and his eyes snapped open with alarm. He saw the woman writhing like a snake on the dirty ground and just beginning to mumble incoherently. Austen stared catatonically, losing track of time and space. The scream of the kid was what snapped him back to reality and it was then he could hear some noise as some passersby came hurrying to the spot, their voices exuding everything from excitement to mumbled prayers. Can you stand the heat, ma-a-a-n – because this is it! Before the fastest spectator could get any closer, Austen upped his prayers to an exorcism. Again, his voice was firm but louder. “Devil, I command you … depart from her, exit from this child of God … depa-a-arr-r-r-t in the mighty name of Je-e-e-sus!” “Ame-e-e-en!” The vociferous response indicated about five people had gathered. Austen remembered to begin thrusting his Bible high into the air to emphasize every new stream of command. “I order you … depa-a-a-a-art in the name of Je-e-e-sus.” He added a loud thumping of his right foot on the ground. It felt encouraging and he continued the action, alternating between thrusting the Bible high and thumping his foot. His peripheral consciousness took note of people milling about, a few chuckling at what was unfolding. Spectators were beginning to take vantage positions around the pastor, the kid and the woman who had transformed her ground movements from snaky to a roll-around in a deranged fashion. That triggered a woman to launch a stream of prayers, as loud as it was ferocious, but letting the pastor’s voice dominate. A man took the cue and fired prayers in support. It was clearly a three-pronged attack on the city of Satan, and the casualties, 13
besides tearing both Satan itself and its fortress apart, included witches and wizards and the whole array of forces of darkness, not excluding their human cohorts. And from all indications, they were winning the war as the initial intensity of the rollaround began to fluctuate. Austen could not be bothered with how long he had sustained the breathtaking exorcism, shuffling his vocabulary and general phraseology around, the focus being to squeeze the devil out of the woman. He was happy he had remembered, at some point during his prayers, to describe the evil spirit as the spirit of heart defect. However, the thought was also unsettling because success in driving the evil spirit away would imply the woman has been healed of the heart defect, and he was not sure whether it was a miracle God was willing to perform at that moment in history. But I can’t envy those pastors who resort to magic or occultism just to perform miracles. Besides, there can be no medical evaluation right here to confirm whether the defect has been corrected or not. Therefore, no one can hold me on that! He felt empowered. Seconds later, he saw an opportunity and seized it. I must ease myself out of this dilemma. Pausing to catch his breath, he stooped towards the woman, listened closely, and realized she was mumbling something that sounded like a name or names. Austen stood up, cast his eyes around and was not surprised that the number of spectators had increased so fast. He could guess it was a crowd thirty-two strong. Like an emperor, he asked, “Does anyone know this woman? She’s calling a name. Does anyone know if it’s the name of a member of her extended family or a neighbour? Indeed the agents of darkness must be ferreted out from the midst of the children of light.” “Prai-ai-aise the Lo-o-ord!” It was a man from the crowd calling attention to himself. “Alleluia!” Austen replied, turning to look at the man. “I know the woman … I mean, I know her village but I don’t really know her house or family members. So I wouldn’t know who owns the name she’s calling.” Again, Austen cast a glance around and thereafter, settled his 14
eyes on the woman, happy that the roll-around was completely over. She was trying to sit up on the ground, gently pulling her confused kid towards her and drying the kid’s tears with her right palm after first hastily wiping dirt off the palm on her clothes. “Ok. Since you’re the only one who seems to know her, you have to lead her home and …” “Prai-ai-aise the Lo-o-ord!” No one had expected an intervention from the woman. Gado was already waving her right arm heavenwards in thanks to God for the deliverance. “I’m very grateful to you, man of God, and to you all, brothers and sisters in the Lord.” She paused for breath, apparently worn out from the prolonged ground movements. “But I’m fine, pastor. I can take care of myself. You don’t need to bother about getting me home.” She rose from the ground, pulling her kid up too, and beginning to feel embarrassed under the scrutiny of dozens of questioning eyes. Lucky me that no one here really knows me. Otherwise, how would I cope with a stigma like this, especially as some people would still nurse doubts whether I’m pure enough to socialize with them again. “Well, if you insist, child of God.” Just then, Austen’s eyes picked out a man looking at his wristwatch, the man’s face contorting like someone who had just realized he had wasted his time over something inconsequential whereas he had an exam or a board meeting to attend. “In that case, I will be on my way.” Austen did not forget to add a valedictory blessing. Thrusting both hands into the air, the Bible still in his right hand, he turned around 3600 as he prayed aloud, “And may God abide by all of you, sending his abundant blessings on you and your families in the mighty name of Je-e-e-sus.” “Amen!” The chorus from the crowd exuded admiration and appreciation. As they saw the pastor heading towards a section of the crowd, the people there stepped aside to let him through. As Austen began to walk through, he saw a young man, a university student probably, hurrying towards the crowd and looking dismayed like someone who was late to a spectacular event. Austen overheard the young man asking, “What happened here? What did I miss?” 15
“Oh, an exorcism,” someone replied from the crowd. “Ok. That must be the woman over there, right?” “Yea.” “How well did the pastor do?” A pause, then, “After all, it’s common knowledge that some ministers carry out their ministry – praying, healing and exorcizing – in ways that Jesus would frown at if he were to attend any of those sessions. He doesn’t attend them anyway, I presume.” Austen caught his breath, slowing his pace so as to get the response before he was out of earshot. He had already left the crowd behind and was close to the road. “Well, can’t say … but I’m certain that pastor was genuine, a true man of God.” Austen quickened his pace, not willing to overhear more. Shortly, he turned a street corner and stepping into Ezemenaha Street, breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly, his head began to shake uncontrollably. He halted and quickly used both hands to clasp his head until the violence stopped. Visibly embarrassed, he walked away from the questioning glances of some passersby, eyes that told him he was insane. Thereafter, he opened the Bible and still walking, began to shuffle through the pages at random and to preach along the street. He was preaching all right but his voice was so low no one could clearly hear whatever he was saying especially as the speech was full of phrases and unfinished sentences. “Rich people … have money … Church people … going to Church … donate money … to our priest … sick people, hungry people, homeless people … catered for by our priest. Money … money … money. Rich people … have money … Church people … going to Church … donate money … to our priest … sick people, hungry people, homeless people … catered for by our priest. Money … money … money.” Engrossed with his preaching and with a Bible open before him, Austen could not realize some passers-by were beginning to glance at him like a deranged man albeit a pastor. Still walking on the pedestrian walkway, Austen kept repeating his speech word for word. Occasionally, his head shook uncontrollably and whenever that happened, he stopped walking, clasped the Bible 16
between his knees and used both hands to grip the head until the shaking stopped. Later on, walking further along the street, Austen looked ahead and caught sight of the imposing form of the Nedu Phoenix Bank, popularly called the NPB. Situated in a strategic corner of the Ezemenaha Street, the NPB’s captivating architectural design, choice of colours and landscaping made it stand out like a fault in a skyline of mediocrity. Every other building around there paled in elegance. In the big cities spread out across the country, the NPB had rigorously maintained the same architectural design and colours, a factor that became a trademark for the bank. By physical appearance, the bank looked like a gigantic simple prism consisting of a front-view in the dimensions of an equilateral triangle, the top point two-storey high. In bigger cities, they were higher than that. It was eleven-storey high at the national headquarters, Abuja and nine-storey high in Owerri, the Imo State capital. From the top point of the equilateral triangle, there was an architectural structural extension that ran like a slanted pillar from that top point to the ground level. In general, the prism-like dimensions of the bank emboweled enough interior space that was effectively partitioned into as many banking halls, offices and other accessory rooms as were needed. Rumour had it that the architect who originally developed the design was a theologian and had espoused a theory that a simple prism represented total Reality with each point of the equilateral triangle representing the Three Persons in the Trinitarian God (Father, Son, Holy Spirit) while the fourth point represented Externality (the universe). In other words, a simple prism was the basic symbol of the inner connections between God and the universe, so the prismatic theology taught. The sight of the imposing NPB made Austen unconsciously increase his pace. As he came close to the low perimeter fence of the bank, his face lit up with a smile. He realized that the NPB was exactly like another branch of the NPB he used to watch across the street from where he lived in Umuezeanoruo. He continued his walk, intending to go past the bank but it was as if something about the bank was strongly resisting that and rather 17
pulling him back to the bank like a magnet. He stopped in his tracks, turned and walked back to the bank heading for the pedestrian gates. There were a handful of clients already using the gate. Motorists were using the bigger gates. As Austen walked through the pedestrian gate into the premises, he threw a casual glance at four armed police officers around the gates and three unarmed security guards around the premises. He headed for the doors of the bank, taking note that one door was marked “Welcome” while the other was marked “Goodbye.” In stride, Austen began to use his right hand to rhythmically pat the Bible in his left palm. Arriving at the entrance door of the bank, which was fitted with a security system and manned by a guard in uniform, he joined a queue of six clients. When it finally came to his turn, he walked through the door and entered the bank. Inside the bank, Austen walked to a free corner and standing, meticulously cast his eyes around, like a spy on a reconnaissance mission. He was pleased with the interior décor of the bank, as much business-like as it was homely. Some bank staff and clients nearby took him for a pastor who had some banking to do. However, rather than the composed countenance he had come in with, Austen began to grow nervous, and that worried him. That was because he would never then continue his preaching inside the bank. Shortly, a frown set on his face. Still standing where he was, Austen closed his eyes like someone in prayer, lips rapidly moving inaudibly. A couple of clients threw questioning glances at him. When Austen opened his eyes two minutes later, his eyes twinkled as a flickering idea dragged a smile over his face. Suddenly, his calm composure and self-confidence were back, much like a guru who had just experienced a flash of divine inspiration. At a gentleman’s pace, Austen began to walk towards the exit door. When he arrived there seconds later, he pressed the service button by the door. The door opened as the reinforced glass separated and glided into the wall. He walked through. Having emerged out into the bank premises, Austen stepped aside from the door and meticulously cast a glance around the premises. Two guards clad in black trousers and sky blue shirts 18
with a white stripe running down both sides of the shirts and trousers and black berets on their heads, were busy at the gates controlling the traffic of vehicles and pedestrians. Just another busy day for them, Austin mused. It was only then he noticed that the sun was just beginning to assert itself, vehemently assaulting the cool weather, mementos of the light rain the previous night. Moving his eyes away from the gates, Austen caught sight of a rather small building some distance away. It was attached to a corner of the perimeter fence. The room had a lot of ventilation slits in the walls, enough vents for the din that was storming out from within, occasionally oscillating in pitch. Obviously, a huge stand-by generator was fully operational since the national electricity grid once more failed to meet up with expectations. Austen picked up his pace and headed towards the engine room, oblivious that a security guard at the gate had just picked interest in his movements. The security guard watched as the pastor disappeared behind a corner. Is he going to a private corner to pray? He tried to recall the condition of that corner of the bank’s premises so as to predict whether the pastor would find it conducive for prayer. Well, unless he has a way of turning deaf for a moment because the din from the generator there would surely be very distracting. He also recalled there were three pieces of rag that had been washed and spread on a flower hedge to dry in the sun. There!- another source of distraction! But then, an idea bobbed up in his mind and the security guard smiled at the thought that the flowers around there, well trimmed and in bloom, could however override every distracting factor and lift the pastor’s spirits towards heaven. He decided to walk over and request the pastor to pray for him, at least for a raise in salary. Taking care of five children and a nagging wife were draining his income, which the bank management set at the national minimum wage, since he was uneducated. Before he could rise from his chair in the cubicle, he saw the pastor emerge back into view, his face indicating a mind set on something. Wao! Pastor looks serious about something. I’d better delay meeting him ‘til he’s through with whatever he’s returning into the bank for. However, the security guard was certain there was 19
something else different about the pastor as he watched him head for the entrance door to join the queue. Oh yea! His Bible. Probably left it somewhere safe so as to pick it up on his way out. The security guard shrugged noncommittally. But again, wao!- his stomach looks a little bigger! May be I didn’t notice it the first time. Just then, he saw Austen glance at him on impulse just before he halted and turned to stand behind the last person in the queue, an elderly man. It dawned on Austen that he had thrown a look at the security guard on impulse. Anyway, I’m certain the success of my mission today will depend on a lot of factors, including that security guard. Absentmindedly, he briefly caressed the bulge on his stomach under his jacket and when it was his turn, re-entered the bank. Inside the bank, as Austen emerged from the door, he fixed his eyes on the very spot in the corner of the banking hall where he was earlier. He was glad it had not been taken. When he arrived back at the spot, standing, he once again reconnoitred the bank, taking note of the position of three unarmed security guards, the bank staff and clients. Quite expectedly, everyone was engrossed with his or her affairs. Only a few noticed him and mumbled or nodded a greeting towards him. Each time, he just smiled, nodded or mumbled something back. A big fancy quartz clock hanging on a wall a few feet away from him said 9:05 a.m. Satisfied with his recon, he took a deep breath and in confident steps marched to the centre of the banking hall. “No one gets hurt if no one disobeys.” Austen’s voice was sharp, authoritarian and loud, slashing the serene atmosphere within the bank. Except for a few bank staff and clients still too engrossed with their financial dealings, everyone else was forced to turn towards the voice. They wanted to see the source so as to confirm whether the voice actually carried the incandescent threat triggering off cold shivers through their spines. Relishing how he had suddenly become the cynosure, Austen quickly moved to another corner of the hall that offered him a panoramic view of the entire bank. “No one gets hurt if no one disobeys,” Austen repeated as loud as ever, a menacing grin on 20
his face. Every activity in the bank came to a sudden halt. The silence was deafening. Wao! Don’t I now feel like a film star called out for an Oscar award! At the thought, a condescending smile lit up his face. Austen threw a hasty glance around and was secretly amused that some faces still maintained a dominant expression of confusion rather than terror. Apparently, many of the people were so benumbed as to immediately make sense out of what was happening, seeing as those commands came from a pastor. Austen frowned his face and shrugged noncommittally. He was just not interested in their confusion. He was more worried about what else he could say or do. “I hate to repeat myself and won’t like to stammer.” He paused for effect, “That means, you listen and listen good … for your own good.” The voice was studded with menace. “Is this a robbery?” And after a brief pause that looked like an eternity, he added in a deceptively carefree voice, “Well, your guess is as good as mine. Everyone already knows what’s going down here right this minute.” Gasps and subdued screams began to reverberate around the banking hall. Austen quickly unbuttoned his jacket, opened the flaps wide and while slowly turning around for everyone to have a brief look at the contraption strapped between his chest and stomach, he exclaimed in a threatening voice, “Hei! Hei! Hei!” That immediately slammed some quiet back over the hall. “What’s this ugly-looking device strapped on my stomach? A bomb?” He shrugged in a carefree manner, eyes scanning the crowd. “Quite a very good guess.” More gasps and subdued screams emanated from corners of the hall. Although he then let the flaps fall back, the contraption was still partly visible under the jacket. What a memorable day this is going to be for all of us, Austen mused as he noticed some bank staff and clients upstairs rushing to the balcony to find out whatever was unfolding down in the banking hall. It was also then that Austen realized some people were beginning to make moves to get to their mobile phones. He knew he had to stop that. A distress call would be a game changer, he thought with apprehension. “No one,” he hollered, throwing his right hand out with the 21
index finger briefly pointing at everyone in turn as he did a quick 3600 turn, “I repeat, no one makes any move to signal the police or to call anyone outside.” And noticing some guards surreptitiously making to reach for mobile phones or weapons, he quickly added in a warning tone, “or to draw a weapon.” Then, suddenly standing akimbo and his voice as mean as ever, he added, “Or there will be a big bomb explosion right here right now at the first sight of a police officer within this premises.” He paused for effect while scanning the petrified crowd, his eyes daring anyone to revolt. Convinced he had everyone under control, he shouted in a commanding voice, “Now, staff and clients upstairs, line up on the balcony and you have ten seconds. Don’t make me come up there to ferret you out because I just might detonate the bomb down here instead.” There was a momentary rustle as a few more staff and clients emerged from offices and sought spaces on the balcony railing. Austen was pleased but his face showed malevolence. “Now, Mr. Security Guard over there by the doors, I need you to lock the two doors right now. I don’t want any other client entering the bank for now. Let them queue up outside. When the time is right, I will signal you to open the door. Good a thing the glass panels on the doors don’t allow those outside to see what’s going on inside.” He watched as the security guard quickly locked the doors and returned to his former position. He knew many people held their breaths in fear. “I presume each of you would rather want to be alive by the time I am done here and out of the bank. If I have your full cooperation, there won’t be any bomb explosion. It’s a promise. You will all get back to your lovely families and … life goes on. Sure it always does. Now, do I have your cooperation?” Austen already knew that the response from the befuddled audience would be a resonating “Yes”. However, what he did not know was that the response would be immediately followed by a mix of terrified gasps and suppressed whimpers. That rather unsettled him but he quickly got over it, looking around menacingly once again. A richly dressed woman standing where she was earlier being attended to by a cashier 22
piling wads of notes on the counter for her muttered aloud, “Je-e-e-sus m-o-o!” At that distinct cry of “My Jesus!” an elderly man nearby squealed a call to God: “Chi-i-i-ne-e-eke-e!” To decisively end such pious distractions, for a moment Austen glared at the two culprits, put a right index finger vertically across his lips and used the left hand to gently tap three times on the contraption under his jacket. “This device,” he announced conspiratorially and in low tones, “is so sensitive to sound that I always choose to speak in low tones.” He shrugged and added, “All I have to do is scream and gbuaaa! – a big fiery explosion and we’re dead, barbecue dead, all of us, in seconds.” The effect was as he had expected. His captives were chocking from the tense silence that ensued. “One more thing. The bomb is also wired to my heart. Once the sensor picks up a significant change in my heartbeat, for instance if I happen to get shot and begin to die and my heartbeat decreases, or if I happen to catch sight of the police arriving to arrest me and my heartbeat increases, it all ends the same way – a big, fiery explosion.” Austen took a deep breath and like an evangelist delivering a sermon, said, “So, my dear brothers and sisters, today, you’re your brother’s or sister’s keeper, as the Bible exhorts. If you love your neighbour, watch him or her closely. Stop and report any attempt to signal the police or anyone outside and you will be rewarded with a life after here, having precluded a bomb explosion.” With a mischievous smile cavorting on his lips, Austen cast his eyes around, bemused that everyone was watching him with concentration, probably monitoring his breathing just to make sure nothing was getting him pissed off and close to detonating the bomb. Throwing a supercilious glance around, Austen spotted two members of the youth corps, a male and a female, standing together. Apparently, they were on the mandatory six months national service programme after graduating from the university and were prone to a surge of secret pleasure to hear people address them informally as youth corpers. Nothing could ever make their day worse than the whirlpool of a bank heist just beginning to unfold and capped with a bomb threat. 23
Austen fixed his gaze on the youth corpers and that made them jittery. “Corper shun!” Austen hailed, gesticulating in salute towards them, “Ajuwaya!” Apparently in a half-hearted bid to mellow their nervousness, Austin added in a soothing voice, “One love, guys. I was once like you corpers … four years ago. But today,” he said shrugging noncommittally, “you seem to have something I need to borrow. If you don’t mind, I need your cap, man,” he said arching his eyebrows towards the young man, then doing the same at his partner, “and I need your wide-rimmed sunglasses, lady.” Casually, he motioned them to step forward. “You see, I need to look more like it … a bandit in action. Comes with the territory. At the moment, I happen to look too … plain, you feel me? I wouldn’t appreciate any of you,” he said scanning the faces of the crowd, “recognizing me any day in public when I finish at this bank.” Both youth corpers began to surrender those items in a hurry. The male corper removed his cap, collected the sunglasses from the female corper, placed the sunglasses inside the cap and flung the package across the tiled floor. It glided towards Austen’s feet, halting a few inches from his toes. Austen crouched and very gently picked up the package as if careful not to detonate the bomb by mistake. He could hear some people heaving sighs of relief when he successfully stood up once more. Holding the cap in his left hand, Austin used the right hand to pick up and put the sunglasses on his face and later the cap on his head. He pulled out a piece of rag from the right inner pocket of his jacket and strapped it around the buccal area, a few inches under the nose. He did a left half-turn and began to admire the disguise on a mirror-like window panel. The narcissism was cut short as two male bank clients in a corner of the hall began to mutter something in low tones. Austen made a sharp right half-turn and glared at the offenders. “Silence!” he barked. He waited a moment as if to allow the echo to sink deep into everyone’s ears. “This,” Austen said while emphatically gesticulating at the bulge on his stomach and then around the banking hall, “is not a game and not game over yet. That means no one, and I repeat, 24
no one has any liberty to chat away with someone else. That would be an unwelcome distraction that would certainly piss me off. I can’t guarantee your safety when my anger shoots up beyond the threshold. So, eyes on the ball!” Austin swallowed hard, visibly fighting to keep down his anger. Austen’s head began to shake uncontrollably, which triggered a mixture of surprise and dread among the crowd. Many watched with trepidation as Austen used both hands to hold his head, his face contorting in pain until, moments later, the shaking stopped. They saw him begin to scan their faces as if to read their minds concerning what they had just seen. That made some of them believe the bandit just put on an act to see how they would react. Austen took a deep breath. “Alright, everyone upstairs … come downstairs … right this minute. No one wants to delay me because that could get me so pissed off … no, not me but my bomb.” He took a deep breath. “In addition, all bank staff down here should move out of their booths and come around to join the clients here in the open. Now move!” As bank staff and clients hurried to implement the command, a young woman standing behind an elderly woman quickly grabbed her two kids and pulled them closer to her body as palpable terror began to rapidly crystallize in the bank. Some staff and clients piled up at the foot of the staircase. Austen sensed that some subdued murmurs might begin to break out in some corners of the hall. He knew he had to nip that in the bud. He decided to cut in with some rhetorical questions delivered in very harsh tones. “There is no one here who does not believe that this BBB… Big Bad Bomb… is enough caution against any carefree chitchat and noise, is there?” He paused for a moment and added, “I thought as much.” In a swift motion, he moved the flaps of his jacket aside while turning around for everyone to have a another brief look at the contraption on his chest. There was a pause that looked like eternity. “A BBB? They always work every time … everywhere.” Austen wanted to smile but thought better of it. Then it happened. A low scream caught everyone unawares as it tore through the heavy silence like a tornado ripping through a quiet rural community. People froze, and then heads impulsively 25
turned towards the voice, hoping for one last angry, reproachful look at the culprit before being barbecued in a bomb explosion. It was comforting to many as their eyes fell on a beautiful girl half-hidden by a pillar who obviously could no longer contain the psychological trauma. Everyone was convinced that it was a suicide scream, and of course, with a lot of collateral damage as they awaited an imminent explosion. Seconds passed, it was like an eternity as the scream melted into fitful sobs. The girl was unaware she held everyone’s attention because she had covered her eyes with both palms while rivulets of tears coursed across her face. It was only then that everyone gasped as the truth struck them: they were still alive! Violently, heads were hurled back at Austen, eyes buzzing with questions and faces unfurling with gratitude to God. It dawned on them that while the girl had gone screaming and endangering their lives, Austen had altruistically thrust a swift hand under the jacket to deter the bomb from exploding, and he was just in time. That was the impression Austen let them get as he stood hunched over, his right hand under his jacket, and his breath suspended with apparent fright. He relished the suspense he engendered in his hostages as he began to withdraw his hand as gingerly as he could. Finally, he brought the hand out, straightened himself, and then looked at the girl, cold rage oozing out of his eyes. He started to pace towards her like a lion going for the kill. “O-o-o-o-oh my Go-o-o-od! Is this how I will die?” The girl began to push backwards in retreat but was stopped by a pillar. “What kind of day is this?” Her voice trembled as she feared the worst. “Why am I so unlucky … again?” she murmured under her breath. Suddenly, she decided to put up a fight before the bandit probably shot her in the head. “How could a pastor be robbing a bank … and with a bomb?” Austen froze in his tracks. The girl hurriedly wiped the tears off her eyes and stared at Austen with surprise. She glanced around and realized that everyone else was staring at Austen. It dawned on her that something she had said was holding back her execution. Again, she began to sob with fear as the bandit’s eyes bored into her face. A woman next to her pulled her close 26
and gave her a tight hug. It was not immediately clear whether the hug was to shield her from those malicious eyes or to offer her a last human comfort before she was ripped apart by a volley of bullets or by whatever other weapon was concealed under the bandit’s jacket besides the BBB. The girl stifled her sobs and sunk her face deep between the breasts of the woman. In the dead silence that followed, one could hear the drop of a pin. Everyone waited in suspense, eyes riveted on the bandit, dreading the consequences of the reckless girl’s bravado. Austen was thinking fast, still at the spot. I ought to make an example of this girl. A slap won’t do, as I earlier intended. Do I order someone to beat her up or do I do that myself? Austen was not convinced and that made his face contort with anger even more. Eyes on the ball, mate! Don’t let this trifle derail your train. You’re almost there. Shortly, Austen’s face began to ease up in a smile. “Sweetheart, you asked a question.” Austen began to pace around, secretly amused that the girl unilaterally considered his calm tone as an olive branch. He watched the girl immediately pull her face out of woman’s chest and beam an apologetic smile at him. “I will grant you the privilege of getting an answer from me. And that’s because,” Austen said shrugging noncommittally and arching his eyebrows, “you remind me of my sister. Wao! What a temper she has … and a little sprinkling of logorrhoea, you bet.” Austen laughed. All of a sudden, before anyone could consider the possibility of joining him, his laughter turned into a growl. “Otherwise I would have made sure you are tortured and killed right now just for that question. And that goes for anyone who would dare me next.” Austen paused, letting the threat grip the minds of his audience. “About my answer to your question,” he scowled, “what’s the difference?” Easing the scowl a little and beginning to pace around and gesticulate like a defense lawyer intent on swaying legal opinion to his side, he added, “A clergyman dressed like a robber and a robber dressed like a clergyman, what’s the difference? I don’t see any, Sweetheart.” He did not bother to look at the girl for confirmation because from the glee on his 27
face, he was making it clear to everyone that he had won the debate by a stroke of genius. Austen stopped pacing around. Eyes on the ball, mate, he reproached himself, get your head back in the game. The glee melted into a malevolent countenance. “Could some gentleman or lady be kind enough to remind us the usual routine when a robbery is in progress?” His voice was so cold and detached that it sent a chill down the spine of many people. The immediate response was a heavy silence. “Well,” Austen said offhandedly, “to save you from sweating it out, here is the universal policy: everyone lies face down. Do I make myself clear?” It was more a warning than a deliberation. Suddenly, his head began to shake and he began to mutter insanely, staggering a little. That lasted a minute as he successfully clamped both palms on his head to calm it. Seconds after that, he stopped muttering and resumed his pacing though silent. The interference of the girl’s scream and the apparent though lucky lack of retaliation from the armed bandit instigated some rebellious thoughts in a security guard. The security guard took a bet with himself that the bandit was not keen about detonating the bomb no matter the level of provocation, probably not until he had achieved what he came for, either to loot the bank or to demand for the release of some terrorists in a prison somewhere in the country. Since he was not armed while armed police officers where outside oblivious of the terror unfolding inside, he decided to take a surprise leap on the bandit, wrestle him to the ground and disarm him in the process. The security guard began to count the bandit’s steps as he kept pacing around, willing him to come just close enough to where he stood and once the bandit had his back to him, to launch a surprise attack from the rear. He had seen a couple of that in Hollywood films but refused to think about how disastrous such bravado sometimes turned out. He was unaware that he had begun to breathe heavily, drawing the attention of an elderly man beside him. The elderly man threw him a casual look intending to quickly return his gaze to the bandit. However, something in the deadpan 28
seriousness on the security guard’s face and the feline concentration with which the guard’s eyes followed every movement of the bandit, made him very alarmed. I came here to collect my pension and I demand to leave here with it. He patted his trouser pocket reassuring himself the money was there. Pension arrears of two years ago since the government doesn’t pay on schedule. He knew he was lucky to have collected the money before the bandit showed up. Whatever this bandit does in this bank, those in authority will always find a way to restore the savings of clients, at least from the money being looted across the nation on a daily basis from various top offices. The pensioner nudged the security guard. When the guard turned to look at him a little annoyed with the distraction, the pensioner delivered a warning in undertones. “Officer, don’t try anything. You’re a hero but we don’t want you showing that off here. Let the bandit do whatever he wants. All of us must leave here alive not dead.” The security guard wanted to make a response but the words got stuck in his throat as Austen turned to look in their direction. That was the end of the Hollywood-inspired solo rescue mission. He was not certain whether to thank the elderly man for deterring him from the unprofessional plot or to castigate him. Austen briefly looked at the elderly man, unsure whether he really heard a voice or whether it was an illusion from his malady. Thereafter, he glared at the crowd staring at him with confusion and alarm. That was all the stimulus they needed to immediately begin scrambling for space on the tiled floor. It felt a little cold from the air-conditioning in the bank. Shortly, everyone lay face down on the cold tiled floor. Austen knew none of his hostages saw him purse his lips and then shrug noncommittally as he scanned the mass of bodies on the floor before him. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he knew he almost sounded like a Master of Ceremony, “permit me to keep standing. I seem to have some pressing matters on my mind while you choose to lie down. Good for you, good for all.” Austen watched as a handsome kid squirmed under the tight clasp of his mother intending to raise his head and look around. 29
The mother quickly gave him a light slap on the head and the boy promptly ended the adventure. “I am totally opposed to violence and have no desire to threaten any life here or to shed any blood.” Austen knew he did not sound convincing enough and that his hostages were rather saying all the best prayers they knew to get God to keep him from setting off the bomb. “Most people do not like to pay attention to me.” Austen laughed but the laughter sounded insane. “They say I talk crazy … and do crazy things … like an insane man. They think I am nuts and wouldn’t do anything I asked them to do.” He hissed in dismay. “But all of you here have proved to be a different breed. I’m so impressed.” He chuckled happily. “All this while, you have shown a strong desire to give me your full attention and heed my commands.” Austen cast eyes around to see the few people making minor body movements in appreciation of his general commendation. The intervening silence was shortly replaced by a bout of headshaking. His face contorted in pain and eyes squeezing tight shut as he quickly clasped his head with both palms. The violence lasted a little longer, leaving him staggering for a moment. When it stopped and Austen opened his eyes, he scanned the crowd and saw just one head up. The little boy whose mother had put him on a short leash from looking up had managed to get rid of his mother. Austen waved at him and tried a smile but that could not convince the kid that what he just saw was inconsequential. The boy held his gaze until Austen became irritated and waved him to keep his face down. The kid pouted at Austen before gluing his face back to the floor. Austen chuckled. Austen decided to pick up his speech. “Everyone here has given me an undivided attention. Good for you, good for all.” He paused. “And since that’s exactly what I need just everyone to do, there are some security guards … three of them … some armed police officer … I’m sure four of them … in addition to a handful of clients still outside. How can I get them inside so they too can pay full attention to me and heed my commands?” It was obviously a call for suggestions. The question hung over the hostages like a blanket of frosty air. Silence, not even a body movement. Austen felt he had every 30
right to feel irritated by that and decided to try another tactics. He really needed their inputs. “I asked, how can I get them all inside so that a bomb doesn’t explode while I’m trying to get them inside all by myself?” As subdued murmurs and uncoordinated body movements took over the floor, he chuckled. “I thought as much.” Shortly, the male youth corper who earlier had surrendered his cap coughed for attention. Shouting from a corner of the hall where he lay face down, he said, “Let one of the security guards here go out and call them in. He should also lock the entrance gate.” He paused but added as an afterthought, “Better still, let him use his handset and call one of the security guards outside, you know, telling him that all guards, police, and clients outside should enter the bank immediately. That’s a lot easier and faster, I’m sure.” He breathed deeply to calm his nerves. “Wao!” Austen exclaimed with a sharp clap of his hands. He was looking at the corper. “That was just good thinking, Mr. –” “Livinus,” the Corper threw in, pleased with himself as a thought flashed across his mind. To be in the good books of a terrorist means you have less risks of being a victim when he decides to get violent on individuals. He might even return my cap. “Thanks, Livinus.” Austen turned away from the corper. “Ok. You over there by the pillar … the security guard … you may stand up now and make the call. May we know your name?” “Dennis,” the security guard promptly replied, still face down on the floor. “It’s Dennis, Sir.” “Alright, Dennis. Get up and make the call.” Austen watched with amusement as the dark-skinned security guard scurried into a standing position in an apparent bid to win approval for being quick for his one hundred and ten kilogram weight. The guard dug a hand into his right trouser pocket and brought out a cheap Techno phone. Austen giggled at the embarrassment the guard felt on realizing that his hands were shaking with fear and torpedoing his façade of efficiency to dial a number. Austen kept watching as the guard retyped the number three times before he could get it right. When the guard looked up at Austen for a final “Go!” order before pressing dial, Austen cut in, “Hold on, please. Now, how 31
are you going to convey that simple message across?” Dennis was aware that the bandit was watching him closely and would be disappointed if he did not say something useful. “Yea, it’s about getting them to lock the gates and of course redirecting incoming clients to another branch of the NPB while those clients already queued up outside the entrance door enter the bank along with the security guards and police.” Austen knew the security guard was thinking hard and fast. “That was exactly a question. You didn’t need to repeat or rephrase my question before proffering a suggestion.” Dennis wiped some sweat off his face with the back of a damp palm. “I … I … will tell them to …” he coughed as he had begun to choke on his words. He took a deep breath and felt better. A fat left palm angrily swiped at an imaginary fly as if the fly was totally responsible for his predicament. The menacing look on the face of the bandit was all he needed to resume his speech and be more coherent. “I will tell the security guard that the branch manager has just ordered them to lock the gates and get everyone within the premises inside the bank hall and they too should come in.” He paused for breath, relieved that his grey matter was finally up and running. “They must hang a sign outside to redirect clients to another branch.” Dennis’ face lit up and he beamed a confident smile at the bandit. Choke on this, Bandit Pastor, I could still reason coherently! The thought became a secret source of confidence. “We have a sign that fully serves that purpose. It says in bold letters, ‘THIS BRANCH IS TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO SOME TECHNICAL FAULTS. PLEASE TRY THE NEXT BRANCH. THANKS. MANAGEMENT.’” “My goodness!” Austen exclaimed with happiness. He nodded with appreciation at Dennis who unfortunately misunderstood the gesture and plunging his mobile phone back into the trouser pocket, dived back down on the floor. Amused, Austen said, “Banks always have good signs. That surely clinches it.” A subdued murmur began to break out from various corners of the banking hall. Austen decided to mercilessly quell the insurrection. “Directing incoming clients away from the bank ipso facto brings the number 32
of victims of a potential bomb explosion to a minimum. You feel me?” There was immediate quiet. “Yea, that’s what I thought.” Some people don’t cooperate unless with threats! Austen mused sadly. “One more thing.” Austen let their minds wander with suspense. “You see, I’m doing my best to avoid an unwarranted bomb explosion here. I get the feeling that calling in both the security guards and the police officers at the same time will make some of them ask questions and thereafter raise suspicions. So, here is the modus operandi. First of all, make a phone call to one of the police officers telling him in a casual voice, I repeat, casual voice, that the manager wants them to come in briefly and collect a bonus, a birthday bonus for each of them as he celebrated his birthday just yesterday. And he wants to hand it over personally to each of them. OK?” “Yes Sir!” Dennis’ voice could hardly conceal the disappointment at having lost an opportunity to raise suspicions among the police and security guards. “Thereafter, when they have come in to join all of us here, then you call in the security guards in a similar fashion but telling them the manager has demanded for an impromptu security meeting, that they should lead clients into the bank while one of them locks the gates and hangs a diversion sign outside. OK?” “Yes Sir!” “Now, Dennis, you need to get up …” Dennis was already off the floor and on his feet before Austen could complete the sentence with “again”. “Wao! You really can be fast … despite the weight.” Austen nodded at Dennis with admiration in his eyes. “OK. You haven’t made the call yet, remember?” Dennis nodded apologetically, fingering the bulge of a handset in his trouser pocket. “Meanwhile, I suggest some formalities.” Austen paused for thought. “I need three bank staff to return to their posts here in the hall and three clients pretending to be carrying out banking services with them, two others standing in queue behind. Do not, I repeat, do not look at the police officers or security guards as they troop in. That could disturb my heartbeat and trigger off the BBB.” He paused to let the warning sink in. 33
“Mr. Dennis and I will be in a corner of the hall monitoring everything and chatting in low tones. But the rest of you should quietly move into the public convenience room over there behind me. It’s clean enough, I’m sure, and roomy. You won’t find it inconveniencing.” There was a flurry of movements by the hostages and a discordant chatter. As everyone rather opted for the public convenience room, Austen had to directly pick out the bank staff and clients he needed and placed them into position. When the door of the convenience room was shut behind the last person in, Austen took Dennis to a corner and smiled encouragingly at him. “Now make the call … and make it snappy.” Austen watched as Dennis hurriedly retrieved the phone and began to dial a number. “Don’t try using any coded language to warn them about all this,” Austen warned waving his right hand around the hall and gingerly tapping on the contraption on his chest. Dennis took a deep breath in a bid to steady his shaky hands. As if on cue, the bandit’s head began to shake uncontrollably, forcing Dennis to halt whatever he was doing. However, rather than dread the thought of the violence causing a significant change in the bandit’s heartbeat, Dennis was happy that its suddenness helped steady his shaky hands. He sighed and watched as the bandit used both hands to hold his head, his face contorting in pain until the shaking stopped. Shortly, as the bandit turned to look at him again, Dennis peered at the number on the screen of his mobile phone and satisfied, pressed the dial button. He held the phone close to his left ear, holding his breath until a police officer picked the call. “Sir, the manager asked me to tell you and the other police officers to come in right away because he has a special bonus package he wants to hand over to each of you personally. He celebrated his birthday just yesterday.” Dennis cut the call, sweating from the effort and looking at the bandit for approval. While the bandit was nodding his head in appreciation, Dennis was rather hoping that the content of the message and the sudden way he cut the call would unsettle the police officer, make him 34
confer with his partners, and then one of them would call the manager for confirmation. Wao! Call the manager? That’s a long shot. It’s a chain of commands thing, he mused ruefully. Austen walked over to a door and peering through the door made of reinforced glass, began to nod affirmatively. “I can see the police officers coming towards the hall,” Austen announced, his voice barely hiding the excitement. Quickly, he stepped aside to a corner, a vantage point from where to surprise the police officers with a sudden appearance from the rear. “Now, Dennis, as each of them comes in, motion him to wait near you, explaining that all four of them have to gather before you can take them up to the manager’s office. I will be watching. Thereafter, I will come up and introduce my BBB. OK?” “Yes Sir!” Just then, the entrance door slid away and the first police officer entered. Austen was glad the security guard did even better than he had expected, huddling all four police officers in a corner, and embellishing the charade with a light chatter about the weather and some funny life stories. None of the police officers took more than a perfunctory interest as a clergyman walked closer. Austen halted just paces away, out of reach of any sudden leap on him. “Officers!” The severity of the voice shocked the police officers, leaving them staring at the ill-mannered clergyman. They did not have time to exchange glances with each other as the clergyman again held their attention the way he deftly parted the flaps of his jacket and revealed a contraption under them. “Permit me to introduce this explosive device strapped on my body. It is a BBB, a big, bad, bomb and it’s wired to my heart.” Each police officer suddenly went for his AK-47, pointing the muzzle at Austen. “Once the sensor picks up a significant change in my heartbeat,” Austen continued undaunted, “for instance, if I happen to get shot and begin to die and my heartbeat decreases, or if I happen to catch sight of more police officers arriving to arrest me and my heartbeat increases, it all ends the same way … in a big, fiery explosion. In addition, the sensor is sensitive to sound. Any screaming by me or anyone will also trigger it off.” 35
It was only then that the police officers began to exchange questioning glances with one other. Unable to resolve the matter with a low chatter among themselves, they threw a questioning glance at the security guard. Dennis merely nodded in confirmation. Nevertheless, the police officers did not look eager to surrender, and the silence was charged with tension as the seconds ticked by. Finally, one of them, the most senior officer, began to ease up on his combat posture and the other three followed suit. Austen effectively concealed his joy that the encounter would not go beyond that. “Now, would you kindly drop your guns right there at your feet and then step over there, where those clients are standing in a queue?” Austen stepped out of their path, again out of range of a sudden leap on him. He watched as the officers reluctantly disarmed, dropped their guns and moved over as ordered. Austen then motioned the bank staff and clients used in the charade to remain in their spots. “Dennis, now call in the security guards. Make it snappy.” “Yes Sir!” Dennis quickly dialled a number. Just as he put the mobile phone to his left ear, someone picked the call. “Listen. Manager has just ordered that he wants to see all of us right now in his office for a serious security meeting along with the police officers. So, get the others to lead every client within the premises into the bank while you lock the gates and hang a diversion sign outside, the one that says, ‘THIS BRANCH IS TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO SOME TECHNICAL FAULTS. PLEASE TRY THE NEXT BRANCH. THANKS. MANAGEMENT.’ Don’t keep him waiting.” Dennis cut the call, plunging the handset back into his trouser pocket while looking at the bandit for commendation. A couple of rhythmic nods from the bandit and he felt safe. “Great! That just seals it. Good for you, good for all.” Austen walked back to his vantage spot and minutes later, watched as clients and security guards began to emerge from the entrance door into the banking hall. The clients arriving went over to join the queue, oblivious of what was happening, just as Dennis was huddling the security guards in a corner. When the last person entered, a security guard, Austen made another appearance to introduce his bomb to the new arrivals. 36
“Ladies and Gentleman, those just arriving, everyone here, including the police officers, has confirmed that what is strapped on my body,” Austen parted the flaps of his jacket, “is a BBB, a big, bad, bomb.” He heard some people gasp with terror. “It’s wired to my heart. Once the sensor picks up a significant change in my heartbeat, for instance, if someone shoots me and my heartbeat begins to decrease, or if I catch sight of more police officers arriving on the scene, and my heartbeat increases, it all ends the same way -– gbuaaam! – a big explosion. The sensor is also sensitive to sound. Anyone screaming will trigger it off.” The uneasy silence that followed was deafening though Austen found it very encouraging. Things are really falling into place. “OK. All bank staff used in the charade, thanks. Come around and join the rest. Dennis, go to the public convenience room and lead the others back here.” The command was hurriedly executed. Minutes later, the entire hall was filled with hostages as well as with discordant chatter. Suddenly, his head began to shake violently. Quickly, he clasped his left hand on his head to steady it while his right hand dove under his jacket at the contraption underneath, his face creasing in a painful frown. Moments later, the violence stopped. Austen scanned the faces gaping at him, their eyes a mixture of confusion and terror. He was pleased that shoving a hand under his jacket made the hostages believe he was making sure the bomb did not explode by mistake. Time to re-establish control, Austen thought to himself. “Ladies and gentlemen, this looks like some big time robbery. Sure it is.” Austen’s tone was pretentiously cordial. “But here is my promise. Everyone here will leave this bank alive not dead… you will get home to your beloved families. Good for you, good for all. But of course, that depends on how willing each of you is to cooperate with me.” He was certain the hostages did not miss the undertones of naked threat. “Do we have an agreement?” After a five second chaos of voices and body movements, “I thought as much,” Austen concluded. “Just for the records,” his voice was again pretentiously cordial, “I am totally opposed to violence in any form. And I take it on mutual trust that no one here would dare provoke me to violence contrary to my peaceful intentions here in this bank.” 37
Austen growled at a woman who was about to cry. She promptly wiped her tears, sniffling instead. “I understand this may be a first robbery experience for many of you. I’m learning on the job too,” he chuckled. “But I’m confident we all know the usual routine during a robbery … no noise, no attempt to alert anyone outside, and everyone lies face down on the floor.” Austen paused, letting his words sink. “Now, do that!” The voice was menacing enough. That left all the hostages scrambling for space on the cold, tiled floor. Silence hung heavily like damp air. Austen began to pace around. “About this device strapped on my body, how dangerous is it?” He sighed like someone in deep thought. “I’m not too certain of the magnitude out there but what I’m sure of is that it will reduce this magnificent bank to rubbles within seconds.” He chuckled insanely. “Or better still, compare it with how dangerous the Holy Bible is to an increasingly godless modern society where many among the rich grow richer through insensitive business methods and politics that make the poor poorer. Of course, some rich folk are just goodhearted. God bless them. For the rest, they have not the least or not enough sympathy for the frustrating plights of the innumerable poor around them.” Austen sighed with disdain and stopped pacing around. He felt reassured that from the body movements of his hostages, they were beginning to understand that he was not a run of the mill thief or another suicidal terrorist. Yea, I’m not a terrorist with a list of demands but an unorthodox politician with a moral manifesto. Austen paused for breath, enough time to articulate his speech. “And what is more? No one wants to take these … megalomaniacs up on human rights violations because it is these same rich folk that populate and control our courts and governments. How unjust, how inhuman!” Austen knew his tone had become aggressive and it was making his hostages more nervous. “If wishes were horses, beggars would not have a chance to ride. All the horses would be sold off by some rich people, except the sick ones of course. They are for barbecue.” He sighed. “That’s plain diabolical.” Austen felt like an orator bent on mesmerizing his audience. “That last part … about wishes and selling off the horses, I read 38
that up. A quotation from a book, The Wiseman.” He began pacing around again. “A pre-Armageddon situation where the rich steal from the poor, what do you call that, eh? Somebody tell me, what do you call that?’ “Kleptomania.” The voice was youthful and male. Austen spun on his heels towards the corner from where the voice had emerged. All he could see was a mass of prostrate bodies. “Kleptomania it is. I’m so proud of you, brother. I’m happy I’m not the only one who has noticed the worsening decay in the global society. In Nigeria, corruption and bad governance are bursting at the seams.” He laughed with scorn. “Kleptomania it is, fellow citizens.” He paused for thought. “I quote. ‘National resources you divvy among the few in your privy / The media say it’s democracy but all we see is kleptocracy.’ Has any of you read that poem, ‘Growing Old’?” “Ye-e-es!” The chorus came from ten voices or thereabouts. “I’m impressed. Kleptocracy! – exactly the root of the intractable economic and political crises periodically twinkling on many nations across the globe like stars on a dark night. And of course, with kleptomania setting the pace, human civilization would remain implicitly aggressive and exploitative although explicitly preaching peace, unity and sharing of benefits.” Austen decided to stop pacing around, standing a few paces away from the crowd like a teacher in front of a classroom of students. “I quote again from The Wiseman.” He paused for attention. “Here it is: ‘Kleptomania is an anti-social psychological condition. It demands professional attention. Hurry! We must send a team of psychologists and psychiatrists to those nations and multi-national corporations that steal wherever they go!’ End of quote.” Austen was secretly happy when some hostages who could no longer contain their emotions began to chuckle or to make varied body movements in open support. Rather than hush them, he heaved a sigh of resentment and spat loudly on the floor in a show of indignation for all kleptomaniacs. “You want more proofs? OK. Try this. Which category of people cause a majority of our problems in Nigeria as it is in other nations of the world, the rich or the poor?” 39
As shouts of “The rich!” began to reverberate within the hall, Austen felt an upsurge of excitement overload his nervous system. His head began to shake uncontrollably, his face twisting in pain. He used both hands to bring it under control. I’m getting worked up. Eyes on the ball, mate! “The rich,” he added cackling, “and that’s how many of them want to continue running the world. Not many of them have enough conscience to empathize with the poor.” Austen coughed. “Back to the object on my chest. Will it explode if someone was foolish enough to shoot at me?” He let the question hang in the air, complementing the silence that had once again settled like a thick fog over his hostages. After a pause that looked like eternity, he added, “Or, why am I all alone in this banditry? Your guess is good enough for you. But we all know that a suicidal man armed with a bomb wouldn’t anymore need the coordinated services of a robbery gang and it makes the option of negotiating with the police totally irrelevant if the bandit is determined to get all he wanted without any police interference.” Austen sensed some people begin to breathe after having held their breath for so long. Beginning to caress the bulge on his body, he continued, “This device on me is … better than any common state-of-the-art bomb. It couldn’t even be detected by the sophisticated surveillance system in this bank … well, assuming there is one here that even works!” He chuckled insanely. Suddenly, Austen burst into laughter as something popped up in his mind. “It was funny …,” he said, choking with laughter, “that obscene … insolent security joke the federal government hoisted on us citizens not long ago.” He paused to catch his breath and slam a tether on the laughter. “Right there in Abuja, they used an over-priced contract to get a local and a foreign company to install closed circuit television cameras and other surveillance equipment around major parts of Abuja city. Till date, citizens are yet to hear that any of those security gadgets helped the police track down one criminal. Meanwhile, serious crimes and deadly violence continue to occur randomly in parts of the city. And we have to ask, are all those gadgets even working … for all the billions of naira spent on 40
that security project?” He began to chuckle insanely, happy to have elicited laughter in some of his captives. Suddenly, Austen became silent. “Wao! Why didn’t I think of this earlier?” He knew his audience wanted to hear more, at least since that meant there was no danger of the bomb detonating any time soon, hence increasing their hopes for a rescue. “Where we have urgent need of CCTVs are in the offices of many of our executives and not in the streets. If we have them in the streets, we might only occasionally catch a criminal. But in their offices – ma-a-a-an! – we’ll net them by the tons!” Again, parts of the prostrate crowd began to laugh or murmur and to make body movements in support. Austen’s head began to shake and while he fought to calm it with both hands, he began muttering gibberish like an insane man. His hostages thought he was acting out in ridicule of the government. The insane muttering stopped moments after the head-shaking ceased. Austen looked around. Eyes on the ball, mate! “Here is the deal. This innocent looking device on my body cannot suddenly explode if the branch manager here happens to identify himself right now. Mr. Bank Manager?” A hand reluctantly shot up in a corner of the hall accompanied by, “That would be me!” in a frightened voice. Austen turned towards the voice. It was a tall, fair-skinned man in a nice fitting grey three-piece suit who lay in sight near a table. “Oh, good,” Austen exclaimed, happy with the quick selfsurrender. “Stand up. And your name is?” “Chigbo, Sir.” As he began to stand up, he added, “I’m the Branch Manager ... earlier prostrate on the floor before you … and now obediently standing before you. My kid’s birthday is tonight, the last born … and I’m scheduled to attend it.” Chigbo was fidgeting terribly. Austen took some long seconds to peer at the bank manager in an unsuccessful attempt to read the mind and know whether the man was just trying to be funny, which ought to infuriate him, or openly begging for his life and that of others, which ought to keep him non-violent. He decided it was a plea for mercy. “You are such a nice man, Chigbo. You will be home early for your kid’s birthday … if only you would be kind enough,” Austen 41
threw out his right hand to point at two bags he sighted somewhere behind a cashier’s desk, “to fill those two bags with money, high denomination notes preferably.” The bank manager said a loud “OK!” as he hurriedly leapt over two bodies in front of him heading towards the two bags. Just before the banker reached the bags, Austen said as if in a confidential whisper, “When you fill those bags with money, I want you to be doing that from free choice in a way that proves you do not need anyone compelling you with a gun or bomb. Would you then do me this favour of handing over some money … as much as you can … out of sympathy for people in need? I’ve in mind a multitude of impoverished people that just two bags of money could help a lot.” Chigbo turned and facing the bandit, replied in a tone like a witness taking an oath during a court proceeding, “It is my free decision. I do not need the threat of a gun or a bomb.” Austen suddenly clapped with happiness. “Get to it, then. The faster you do that the earlier you will be home for your kid’s birthday.” Chigbo began to turn back to pick up the bags but was frozen in motion when he saw the bandit’s head suddenly begin to shake and the bandit muttering insanely as well as fighting back with both palms to stop the head-shaking. Chigbo’s countenance became an untidy mixture of confusion and alarm. As Austen brought the head-shaking under control, he saw the banker staring at him and barked, “Get to it!” That effectively left the banker grabbing the two bags in a hurry ready to head into the vault. “One more thing,” Austen added in a voice suffused with threat. “As you go into the vault, I won’t be accompanying you. A suicidal robber armed with a BBB does not worry about a branch manager trying to be a hero by secretly tipping off the police … because when the bomb explodes, the banker explodes too, as do the police and everyone else within range.” Chigbo fast-tracked to an inner door marked, “Authorized Personnel Only,” opening and disappearing behind it. Austen walked to a wall and leaned on it, preferring to let the ensuing silence keep the unfolding events in his favour. A child began to cry and the mother quickly hushed her. Yet, another kid took that 42
as a cue and squealed from hunger. His father, his face still pinned to the floor, momentarily groped for the boy’s mouth and locating it, clamped a coarse palm over the kid’s mouth. Silence returned. Not easing out from the wall, Austen said with some regret, “It’s just that I am very poor. Otherwise I would have bought some biscuits, chocolate candies and ice cream packs for all the kids here. I don’t want them getting stressed out over nothing really.” Silence returned. Within minutes, Chigbo emerged through the door, his attempts to quick-walk again pointedly hampered by the two heavy bags on his shoulders. As he began to approach, he saw the bandit use a left hand to signal him to drop the bags some feet away from him. Having dropped the bags there, an impatient nod from Austen left the banker turning to locate his spot. The man went over and lay prostrate once more. Austen walked over to the bags and kneeling on his right knee, unzipped them. He ran a hand through the notes in each bag and smile of satisfaction lit up his face. They were all high denomination notes and no counterfeits. He scanned the hostages and no one was surreptitiously peering at him. Thereafter, Austen zipped the bags up, stood and again cast a glance around. He noticed a surveillance camera in a corner of the hall but shrugging noncommittally, ignored it. “Who was the security guard that locked the entrance gates?” Austen’s voice sliced through the silence like a sharp knife through soft butter. “Can I have the key? Now, if you don’t mind.” Austen saw a hand shoot up at the peripheries of his vision. He turned towards it. It was the security guard who had come in last. Austen watched with amusement as the dark, skinny security guard dipped a hand in his right trouser pocket, still face down, and brought out a single key hanging on a fancy key holder. “Good. Throw it over here. You may look up to see where I am.” The security guard heaved a sigh of relief, raised his head inches off the floor and aimed the key at Austen’s feet. It was a good throw as the key landed just at the tip of Austen’s left toe. Austen picked it up. A nod of appreciation from Austen and the security man quickly shoved his face down on the floor again. Austen 43
looked at his suit and in a deft motion buttoned it up like a man dressing up and set to step out into the world for the day’s tasks. “I’m not claustrophobic or something,” Austen said as if inviting his hostages to a merry chat, “but it’s kind of too crowded in here. Not good for my health. I need to step out to get some air. But you may remain here … face down preferably … since any attempt to look up or to stalk me could rather trigger a violent response from the big, bad bomb.” On impulse, he glanced on a wall clock just as it struck 10:03 a.m. Mission accomplished – return to base! Austen chuckled. None of the hostages noticed Austen untie the rag across his mouth and put it back inside an inner right jacket pocket. He also removed the cap and sunglasses, holding them in his right hand. Then, he hauled both bags off the floor, one in each hand. Thereafter, convinced that his mission in the bank had been fully accomplished, he moved to the exit door noiselessly, pressed the service button and slipped outside. As they had become used to brief intervals of silence from their captor, it would take the bank staff and clients another fifteen minutes to confirm with heads still down and a mixture of relief and dismay that the bandit had long abandoned them. More importantly, they wanted to give him enough time to escape rather than impetuously raise their heads earlier and risk a bomb explosion. As Austen emerged through the door into the bank premises, not halting in his steps he cast a glance around. The deserted environment was very welcome. The sign had been effectively diverting clients away to another branch of the bank. Austen walked up to the pedestrian gate, inserted the security key and unlocked it. He stepped through, dropped the bags on the ground and closed the gate without locking it, leaving the key in the keyhole. Next, he walked over to a dustbin five feet away and dropped the cap and the sunglasses inside it, as well as the rag in his shirt pocket. Then, he returned, picked up the bags, one in each hand and walked away.
44
10:08 a.m. Monday February 25 2013.
Some distance away from the bank, he stopped, dropped both bags at his feet and flagged down a taxi. When the taxi pulled up, before the driver could emerge from the car to help with the baggage, Austen had already opened a rear passenger door, threw in both bags and followed them inside. With a patronizing smile, he courteously motioned the driver to get back to his seat. I’d rather these bags stayed close to me than the driver make me throw them into the boot. Austen was happy when the dark, stoutlybuilt driver swallowed an objection rising within him and resumed his seat behind the wheel. The driver still felt like he had something to say. As his passenger made movements to settle himself more comfortably on the seat, the driver turned his neck around to look at the man dressed in full clerical attire. He decided that from the unpolished appearance, lugging two heavy bags and waiting for public transportation, it was more likely the man was a Pentecostal pastor than a Catholic priest. “Good morning Pastor. I’m Odaudu. I didn’t get a chance to greet before you hurried me back into the car.” He laughed. “Good morning, child of God.” Austen was happy he had become a religious minister once more. “Sorry about that. I was in such a hurry. Need to get somewhere ASAP.” He felt encouraged when the driver turned his neck around to look at the steering wheel. Get going, man! “You must be travelling out of town then.” It was more like a conclusion than a question. Odaudu took a careful glance at the side mirror to check the traffic coming from behind. “Where to?” “Orlu. That’s some distance but thank God not out of the country … don’t mind my big bags!” Austen chuckled. “You would need an aeroplane and tickets to get out of the country, not my car.” Both men laughed while the driver eased the car back into the busy morning traffic. “OK. That would be just #400. But since you are a pastor, I won’t be charging you. That’s a first, anyway. All I need from you is prayer. Always pray that I will succeed in life and make plenty money. I need it, 45
terribly.” “I’m impressed. And thanks a lot. Have great faith. God has begun to answer your prayers even as we speak.” “Amen-o-o-o!” Odaudu looked at the colourful rosary suspended on the rear-view mirror and did the Sign of the Cross by using all fingers except the thumb, but mainly the forefinger and middle finger to tap gently on the forehead and in rhythmic fashion tap gently on the mid-chest, then on the left shoulder and finally on the right shoulder. It reminded him of the Cross on which the Lord Jesus Christ died to bring salvation to the world. Just then, an insight blinked in Odaudu’s mind, as if for the first time ever. The Catholic Church is the only Christian Church that can trace its roots directly to Jesus Christ through the Apostles. Every other Christian group came later in history from the secessionist endeavours of human beings whether or not inspired by God. He smiled and wanted to ask the pastor about his denomination but decided against it. The pastor might bore him down with sermons in an effort to convert him to his denomination. “When I saw you standing by the roadside in front of those houses some distance away from the NPB,” the taxi driver remarked, “I just knew I have to pick you for a free ride if you happened to flag me down.” “A free ride,” Austen echoed pensively, “when you actually labour everyday just to make some money. I didn’t miss the irony there, neither did God. That’s faith in action. May your days be blessed, Sir.” “Amen.” Odaudu’s voice exuded confidence that God would shower the expected blessings soon enough. Austen’s head began to shake uncontrollably. His face contorted as pain surged through his spine making a landing somewhere inside his skull. As he hurriedly lifted both hands to grab his head, an arm flashed across the rear-view mirror, which caught the driver’s attention. Odaudu angled his head for a better look through the rear-view mirror. Seconds later, the head-shaking stopped and the pain eased out of Austen’s face. Bewilderment was fully etched on the driver’s face. Just as the driver opened his mouth to say something, his jaws were left hanging open as a stream of inaudible mutterings by 46
the pastor cut him short. The driver had to swerve to avoid hitting a car in front. That caused him to pay more attention to the traffic. Still flustered by the fleeting events unfolding back there in his car, Odaudu clamped his jaws close and glanced at the rearview mirror. He was certain something was insane about the stream of mutterings flowing out of the pastor’s mouth but decided to pen it down to speaking in tongues. Two minutes later, he could not hear the babbling again. He glanced at the rear-view mirror and realized that a moody countenance had settled on the pastor. The driver decided the pastor might be in deep prayer and better left alone. Odaudu found the silence rather comforting as he needed time to think again about how to get funds to send his first son to the UK in his quest for job and money. The son had been on his nerves for over a year ever since he started pushing to go abroad. That I need some money, much of it, ASAP, doesn’t make me change my free-ride policy for this pastor. He glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw the pastor’s face brightening up, eyes riveted somewhere ahead. That prompted the driver to become interested. Odaudu looked ahead to where the pastor’s eyes might be focused and could only see a line of houses, cars and people out in the street, nothing out of the ordinary. To confirm, he glanced again at the rear-view mirror and saw the pastor hurriedly dipping a hand into one of the bags. Within seconds, the pastor was holding a wad of crisp #1000 notes, eyes again riveted at a particular spot as the taxi drew closer to it. Looking ahead, Odaudu caught sight of a beggar sitting on the curb and half-hidden from view as pedestrians and cars passed in front of him. Just before he could begin to wonder what the pastor’s excitement was all about, the taxi was already close to the beggar. With the corners of his eyes, the driver saw a wad of #1000 notes jet out through the window and land at the feet of the beggar. Swerving to avoid collision with a car in front, Odaudu looked at the side mirror and saw the beggar frozen with surprise at the huge amount of money suddenly at his feet. Seconds later, the beggar reached forward, grabbed the money and began to stare 47
at the car from where the money had come. A handful of people were staring too. Soon, a couple of cars behind hid the beggar and people from view. It was only then that the driver could glance at the rear-view mirror again. What just happened? Odaudu could not hide the confusion in his eyes as he saw the pastor dig out another wad of notes from the bag and hold it in his hand ready to throw it out whenever he decided. Odaudu flicked on a car trafficator light and turned right at a road intersection. Some eight minutes later, all he saw was the silhouette of a wad of notes hurtling out through a window. He did not bother to look at the beneficiary by the roadside. He knew the ritual would repeat for as long as they were on the road. Oh my God! What an irony … giving this rich and generous pastor a free ride when I need so much money so soon … and he is throwing all the money away at roadside beggars! Thereafter, with sirens blaring and lights flashing, five police cars and an ambulance came rushing past them from the opposite direction. Cars and pedestrians hurriedly moved aside to let them through. No one wants the embarrassment of a public beating by the police just for being too slow to move aside! Odaudu shook his head sadly. Looks like there’s been a bank robbery or something. The noisy convoy turned a corner and soon the sight and sounds were lost too. The driver realized that the muttering pastor had become quiet. They were just entering Orlu. Odaudu glanced at the rear-view mirror intending to ask the pastor where he would like him to pull over. He saw the pastor watching the fleeting scenery closely, apparently watching out for where he would alight. A stone’s throw from a road intersection, the driver heard the pastor clear his throat and begin to zip up the bag that had been open. “OK. Pull over just before the traffic lights, please.” Austen was smiling, happy that the long trip was finally over. They were in Amaise city. When the driver pulled over, Austen alighted and pulling the two bags out dropped them by his feet. He waved at the driver to hold on. The driver remained behind the wheel predicting that the pastor wanted a little time to come over and thank him for 48
the free ride. Thereafter, Austen stooped, dipping his right hand into one of the bags. As he straightened up again, a wad of crisp #1000 notes was clasped in the palm. Before Odaudu could even raise an eyebrow in question, Austen threw the money through the window and it landed with a soft thud on the driver’s laps. “Wao!” “Thanks for the free ride. May your days be blessed.” Odaudu wanted to say something more but rather seemed embarrassingly lost for words. Like a robot, he picked up the money and held it up to eye level as if to ascertain whether it was real or he was just dreaming. “Wao!” he exclaimed again while looking at the pastor who was already walking back to his bags. “This must be exactly #100,000. My God! What a miracle! You’ve just changed my destiny-o-o, pastor! Tha-a-ank you-o-o so much!” He did the Sign of the Cross very piously and murmured a short prayer. “To God be the glory,” Austen replied. “You gave me a free ride. The money is not in payment but a donation. Alright, see you sometime.” He stooped, lifted the bags off the ground, turned around and walked some paces away from the taxi. He began to watch the traffic for an opportunity to cross the road. He did not want to trek to a footbridge a stone’s throw away or to a zebra crossing close by. I need some privacy. I don’t need the crowd at that zebra crossing. With his peripheral vision, Austen saw the driver hurriedly open a pigeonhole and throw the money in, making sure he locked it properly. “To God be the glory.” Odaudu was loud enough. An idea suddenly flashed across his mind. He did a quick mental calculation. “Wao! That must be #300,000 or thereabouts.” “What?” Austen replied over his shoulders. Why don’t you just drive off and let me be! He did not turn around to face the driver. That might unfortunately encourage the driver to prolong a discussion he did not want. “The money you donated to those lucky roadside beggars. #300,000. Added to mine, that’s #400,000 you’ve just spent. Indeed, God has used you to touch some lives today and change frustrating destinies.” Oh God! What do I do to get this man off my back? Austen paused for a
49
while deep in thought. Shortly, he turned his head to look at the driver. “Sleep on this quotation. It is from one of my favourite books, The Oracle of the Wiseman. It says, ‘When events that could have been avoided rather come upon you with blinding fury, humiliating and confusing your future, never forget this: destiny is more scared you might move a finger and change it! Now, move that finger!’ Sleep on that quotation. Do we have a deal?”
“Sure we do.” “Bye then!” Austen was already stepping into the road relieved that a small opportunity had opened up. He took the crossing in quick steps, hauling the heavy bags along. He overheard the driver whistling a Christian song as he eased his car back into the traffic. Seconds later, he lost wafts of the driver’s whistling. When Austen arrived at the other side of the road, he walked on and a short distance later disappeared behind a street corner in the direction of Amaano city.
4:21 p.m. Monday February 25 2013.
Austen continued trekking along the streets, encumbered by two heavy bags of money, one in each hand. His once quick and confident pace had whittled down to a slow and uncertain gait due to fatigue. Earlier, he had good reasons to break his long distance trip five times, two times to catch his breath and take a rest and three times to bring the head-shaking and inaudible mutterings under control. All he could eat were a couple of sausages and a can of cold malt bought from an under-aged hawker buzzing between cars caught in a traffic jam. I still have some strength left and I don’t stop till either I get home or drop dead! Austen smiled at the thought and that seemed to work like an energy booster. Austen also felt comforted that the intensity of the sun was reducing as the evening crept on. Keep walking! It took another hour before he realized he had just crossed a city boundary into 50
Umuezeanoruo city, his birthplace. He followed some backstreets and later arrived near the perimeter fence of the only Catholic Church close to the border between Umuezeanoruo and Orlu. There were five other Catholic parishes in other parts of Umuezeanoruo but Austen’s parish was popular from the philanthropic ministry of a Catholic priest dedicated to the care of the sick and the poor. Austen moved to a hidden corner of the perimeter fence and threw both bags over the wall. Thereafter, he stepped back some paces, sprinted and jumped, both palms clamping the top part of the wall. He pulled himself up and jumped into the church premises. He was relieved that no one had seen him. Just then, the bell for Angelus began to toll, six far-echoing strokes following each other out of the impressive tower like runners in a relay race. It was 6:00 p.m. Austen pulled himself up from the crouching posture in which he had landed from the jump. He wanted to say the prayers at Angelus but realized he did not have clear memories about it again. Instead, he cast his eyes around the church premises. His gaze finally settled on the brightly lit magnificent Church building some good distance away. For a moment, he stood transfixed as liturgical music began to flow into his ears. Mass was just getting underway immediately after the Angelus. Suddenly, Austen’s head began to shake and while he fought to calm it with both palms, he began to mutter. “Our priest … in the church for Holy Mass … parishioners in the church … Holy Mass … everyone in the church … Mass … Mass. I will go to the church … Mass … Mass.” Minutes later, both the head-shaking and muttering stopped. Austen set out, both bags on the shoulders, keeping close to the far walls of the church premises. On impulse, he re-directed his steps towards a Marian Grotto some good distance away in another section of the premises. Shortly, he arrived at the Marian Grotto, breathed a sigh of relief and dropped both bags at his feet. Turning around, he took a moment to scan the entire church premises. Austen smiled as he was visibly impressed by the scenic environment. He was more enthralled by the Marian Grotto. A hedge of hibiscus flowers cut low and flaunting attractive red 51
and yellow petals marked out a heart-shaped space at the centre of which was a life-size statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The sculptor really had the talent and inspiration, Austen mused, but unfortunately, history wouldn’t be favouring him as it did Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. Austen could not stop admiring the statue. Sculpted out of white marble, the statue looked clad in a silky white robe and a bluish sash around the waist. An expansive silky shawl that covered the head except the face flowed down to the legs partly covering the feet. On its head sat a marble crown. A ring of gilded metal stuffed with twelve tiny blinking lights was superimposed on the topside of the marble crown while twelve stars rose like turrets around the gilded metal. The arms of the statue were outstretched, the head slightly angled to the left, the lips and cheeks drawn out in heavenly smile. The sculptor’s ingenuity left the triple impression of a woman throwing out her arms in a welcoming embrace, at prayer, and gesturing an exhortation. The Marian statue stood under a compact structure of three pillars and a roof. The roof was made of reinforced luminescent plastic and sat like a crown on the pillars. Each pillar was made from concrete and emblazoned with twelve small gilded metal flowers. The pillars were erected in spots that marked out an equilateral triangle both at the base and on the roof. A fancy woodwork doubling as a railing that kept hands away from the statue and a kneeler walled the statue in. It was low enough to serve as an armrest for devotees who desired to kneel in prayer. Another round of head-shaking priced Austen out of his reverie. After getting it under control, his eyes caught sight of a donation box standing close to one of the pillars. The donation box consisted of four slim wooden legs supporting an enclosed compartment and equipped with a lock. On the box was written in bold white letters: PLEASE MAKE YOUR ANONYMOUS DONATIONS HERE. Austen hunched forward, lifted both bags off the ground, walked over to the donation box and dropped one bag on either side of the wooden legs of the box. Thereafter, he stood upright again, made the Sign of the Cross and paused in silent prayer, 52
eyes tightly shut. Twenty seconds later, Austen opened his eyes, took two steps backwards to gain a vantage position and from there made a visual assessment of the bags he had just dropped near the donation box. Shaking his head from side to side five times, he muttered his disapproval at the way the bags lay by the donation box. “No! No! No!” he chuckled insanely. “Not like this … not like that.” His face set like someone in deep thought. Seconds later, he brightened up. “Two bags … two sets of money … one box. No! No! No! Two bags … one set … one money … one box … one box. Yes! Yes! Yes!” He paused again. That was when soft voices and songs drifted into his ears. He did a half-turn and looked towards the Church. Since it was already getting dark, the big generator had been switched on and it lit up the entire church premises. However, umbrella trees planted in some sections of the perimeter fence eclipsed the light from bulbs and left those sections dimly lit and shadowy. Austen began to walk away from the Marian Grotto, picking up a track along the shadowy perimeter fence. Walking with renewed vigour, Austen headed for a small wooden shack in another corner of the church premises. On arriving at the door of the shack, gently he pushed it open and entered. Moments later, he emerged with a big brown carriage bag, popularly known as “Ghana-Must-Go.” It flashed across his mind that it had been rumoured some Ghanaians used that type of bag to haul away their belongings and hurriedly leave Nigeria when there once was a diplomatic row between both countries on matters of immigration. Retracing his steps by the far walls of the premises, Austen walked back to the donation box. There, he knelt by the box, pulled both bags of money towards him, unzipped them and began to empty all the money into the bag. Having put all the money into the big bag, he pushed the big bag back until it squeezed snugly between the four wooden legs of the box. Just as he withdrew both hands from the bag, he murmured, “One bag … one money … one box. Yes! Yes! Yes!” Then, standing upright, Austen unbuttoned his jacket to relieve himself of the bulge under it. Parting the flaps of the jacket, he 53
took a few seconds admiring his handiwork. He had used a piece of rag to cover up his Bible and tie it between his chest and stomach, ending it with a strong knot on the left side of his rib cage. He smiled, relishing the memories of all he had done at the bank, so easily and so fruitfully. A bird chirped from a tree nearby, snapping him back to reality. With deft hands, he untied the rag around the Bible, dropped the Bible gently on the ground, threw the rag into one of the two empty bags from the bank, grabbed the two bags, walked a few paces closer to the perimeter fence, and threw both bags over it. Pleased, he chuckled, his face radiant. “Two bags … over the wall … tonight … people pass near the wall … tonight … people carry two bags … rag … tonight … bags will disappear … disappear. Thieves steal … two bags … two bags … one rag.” He walked back. Once again, his head began to shake uncontrollably. He quickly used both hands to hold the head, his face contorting in pain until the shaking stopped. Then, he took two steps backwards and from that vantage position admired the placement of the bag against the backdrop of the Marian Grotto like an artist admiring the effect of a new object he had introduced in a scenery sketched out on a canvas. Nodding his head four times with satisfaction, Austen repeated, “One bag … one money … one box … one bag … one money … one box.” He picked the Bible off the ground, dusted it and used his right hand to clasp it close to his chest piously. Then, he walked over to the kneeler. Gently, he dropped the Bible on the kneeler, knelt down, eyes shut tight, made the Sign of the Cross and began to mutter a prayer. Minutes later, he made another Sign of the Cross, opened his eyes and sighed. Standing up, he picked up the Bible, clasped it to his chest piously, turned around and streamed his eyes across the premises to the Church building. “Our priest … in the Church … Holy Mass … parishioners in the Church … Holy Mass … everyone in the Church … Holy Mass … Holy Mass. I will go to the Church … Holy Mass.” Austen did a half-turn and still clasping the Bible close to his chest, walked by the shadowy fence back to the wooden shack. Just as he arrived at the door, the head-shaking repeated briefly and he used his left hand to calm it. Thereafter, he pushed the door open with his 54
right foot and entered. Five minutes later, Austen emerged from the shack clad in torn and dirty clothes. For a moment, he stood outside the door gazing at the church in the distance. “Our priest … in the church … Holy Mass … everyone in the church … Holy Mass … Mass. Me … going for Holy Mass … Mass… Mass.” As the next waft of liturgical music glided across to him, he set out and headed straight for the church. It did not bother him that he had left the door of the shack open. As Austen came close to the church, it pleased him that the liturgical music had proportionally unfurled its melody and lyrics in full for him to appreciate, unlike when he got only wafts some distance away. Some feet away from the doors of the church, Austen halted in his steps, paused in thought and began pacing around. Seconds later, he began muttering inaudibly too. He was oblivious of a handful of people standing outside by the doors because they were late for Holy Mass. It did not bother him that those people merely cast a glance in his direction and took no further notice of him. They were all accustomed to the sight of the insane man perambulating.
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Chapter Two 8:30 p.m. Monday February 25 2013.
Just after the Holy Mass in the parish Church, ten people headed for the Marian Grotto to pray. They were walking apart from each other except for three women who were walking together and chatting in low voices. Kingsley, the first man to arrive at the Marian Grotto, realized that a woman was already there kneeling and praying the rosary. He did not feel any surprise since the woman was known for always being the first at the Marian Grotto. Kingsley, dark-skinned, brought out a rosary from a shirt pocket and knelt on the kneeler a couple of paces away from the woman. His tallness and potbelly always denied him the usual agility with which other devotees knelt as they began to arrive, taking choice spots around the Marian statue. As Kingsley started making the Sign of the Cross, he took the liberty of a quick visual scan around the Grotto area. It was then that he spotted a big brown carriage bag squeezed under the donation box. The bag stood out like a red light blinking on a GPS screen. Kingsley completed the Sign of the Cross but rather than commence a prayer, he tenderly re-pocketed the rosary, stood up slowly and went over to the donation box. There, he paused for a moment and then getting into a squatting posture, pulled the bag out. He unzipped it and as he parted the top flaps and looked inside, a mixture of shock and surprise crystallized on his face. He stood up and did a quick scan of the people praying at the Grotto. He heaved a sigh of relief that everyone was rather too 56
engrossed with prayers to pay him any attention. Leaving the bag partly open, he walked over to a man praying in another section of the Grotto and whispered in his ears. Magnus was initially chagrined that someone had the audacity to distract him from his prayers. It was not until the contents of the whisper came through that he began to appreciate the distraction. Thereupon, Magnus, ebony black and stoutly built, suspended his prayers with a hurried Sign of the Cross and stood up, a puzzled look on his face. Both men walked over to the bag. They were unperturbed that a few questioning glances were coming their way. At the donation box, Kingsley stepped aside for Magnus to hunch forward for a peep inside the bag. When Magnus straightened up again, the puzzle had metamorphosed into a mixture of joy and shock. That was the expression Kingsley saw when Magnus turned to look at him dumbfounded. Promptly, Kingsley simultaneously creased his face and shrugged to indicate he had no answers to his unasked questions. With a conspiratorial nod from Magnus, Kingsley stepped forward and squatting, zipped the bag up. Magnus came close and each man picked up one of the two handles of the big bag. Lifting the bag between them, they began to walk away from the Marian Grotto. Kingsley was glad that his stature provided enough muscles to carry the heavy bag with some ease as he noticed how Magnus was less encumbered in his steps. Apparently too dumbfounded to chat, they headed in the direction of the rectory. The rectory, a well-designed one-storey building with its own perimeter fencing, was located in the eastern section of the church premises. Walking through the gates, the men arrived at the door of the house. Magnus delivered two taps on the wooden door and both waited in silence, the bag still off the ground. Seconds later, Magnus leaned forward to knock again, three loud taps this time. Just as his knuckles lifted off the door after the third tap, a boyish voice shouted from inside the house, “Coming!” Five seconds later, the door swung half-open to reveal a faircomplexioned, plump boy of average height standing before them. 57
“Good evening, Sirs. Welcome. May I help you?” “Good evening, my son,” Kingsley replied. He just remembered that the boy was the parish priest’s nephew, furthering his education in a secondary school nearby and doubling as a househelp. “How are you, Uche?” Before the boy could pull in a breath and respond, Kingsley cut in, “Can we see the parish priest? It’s kind of urgent – very.” “OK. Sorry I took your time in getting the door.” Uche looked apologetic. “You could have used the door bell. I would have heard earlier.” “Oh,” Magnus said like someone waking up from a daydream, “I guess I was too engrossed by something to remember there’s a doorbell. Next time.” He smiled at the boy. “The parish priest, son.” Uche looked at the bag and at both men in turn as if administering a visual polygraph. Then, he stepped aside while pulling the door wide open and gesticulating a free passage for the guests to come in and be seated. As he watched the men walk in, Uche announced, “Fr. Ahamefule just came in from the evening Mass and has gone upstairs to his room. I will let him know you are here.” “Thanks,” Magnus chipped in, halting in his steps, which forced his partner to stop too. He nodded towards a nearby threein-one sofa and they promptly sat down, dropping the bag on the floor between them. Magnus looked like someone who wanted to say something more and that kept the boy rooted where he was. Magnus took some time moving his eyes around to examine the interior décor of the parlour, paying more attention to the lovely drapery and sofas. He looked pleased. “It is urgent, boy … but we are not in that kind of hurry,” he added with a shrug, “in case Fr. Ahamefule needed more time to rest.” “Alright, Sir.” The boy glanced at Kingsley who seemed deep in thought, turned and walked away briskly, disappearing behind an inner door. Kingsley leaned forward and picked up a newspaper from a side stool. He was happy it was a current edition of The Shooting Star. As he spread the pages out and began to read, he did not 58
notice Magnus straining his neck to read from the paper too. When he made to flip a page, it was then he noticed Magnus. Thereupon, Kingsley wanted to bring the paper closer but realized that Magnus was already retracting his neck due to the exertion on the muscles. Kingsley smiled sympathetically while Magnus picked up an album from a side stool and began looking through with obvious apathy. Five minutes later, the priest walked in through the same door his nephew had used. “Welcome … Welcome,” Fr. Ahamefule said very amiably as he moved towards the men for a handshake. “Sorry I took your time. I was tidying up.” Kingsley and Magnus were already on their feet. Their faces were radiant with happiness as they watched the tall, sporty, fairskinned and handsome priest approach them in long strides. Magnus cleared his throat. “We should be apologizing instead, Father, for intruding on your private time.” “Too late for that,” Fr. Ahamefule said with a friendly smile, “I already did.” Kingsley watched as the priest began to shake hands with Magnus. When it was his turn, Kingsley clasped the macho hands of the priest a little longer and looking into his eyes said, “Anyway, we won’t be taking much of your time, Father. Something just came up. You need to sit down for the news.” He released the priest’s hand as the priest nodded in affirmation. Fr. Ahamefule courteously motioned them to have their seats again while he moved across to sit on a sofa opposite the men. A low centre table of hardwood and reinforced glass was between him and the visitors as if riveted to the floor. Facing the two men, Fr. Ahamefule scanned their faces in turn, his eyes full of anticipation. “I hope all is well? How are you two doing anyway?” “We are fine … except for hunger.” Magnus giggled to suppress an upcoming laughter. “Oh! – and it must be a unique type of hunger,” Fr. Ahamefule quickly chipped in while throwing his hands out in the direction of the floor, his palms open and shoulders hunched upwards. “Must be a different species of hunger. Or does that happen to be the same type of hunger afflicting millions of Nigerians on a daily basis and under worsening conditions?” 59
The entire room resounded with boisterous laughter from the three men. Minutes later, the priest cast his eyes around and they finally settled on the big brown carriage bag on the floor between the men. “Good news or bad news? I prefer good news coming first … and if possible, every time.” “Who doesn’t, Father?” Kingsley cut in with a big smile adorning his face. “You must have guessed right. The news is about this bag here … a big bag of money … a lot of money.” “What bag of money?” A mixture of apprehension and inquisitiveness had clearly oozed out of the priest’s voice. “What’s this all about?” “The Lord is good!” Magnus was pointedly ignoring the concern in the priest’s question. “All the time!” Kingsley wanted the priest to mellow his emotions rather than get worked up. “All the time!” “The Lord is good!” Magnus responded, happy that the pious interjections had pulled a blanket over the priest’s anxiety. “Indeed, God is ve-e-ery good-o-o! He has answered our prayers. May his mighty name be praised. God works in surprising ways. As the Holy Bible teaches, ‘Everything works unto good for those who love the Lord.’ It’s just a miracle! And as the Bible also says, ‘In everything give glory to God.’” “Gentlemen,” Fr. Ahamefule interrupted with mock disapproval etched on his face, “thanks for that impromptu Bible course. Now, if you don’t mind, tell me whatever good news it is. I believe your Bible also says something about sharing good news with people, doesn’t it?” He was taken unawares when both men burst into a loud laughter. Fr. Ahamefule added in a reproachful voice, “You’re just keeping it to yourself and killing me with anticipation.” “OK!” Kingsley exclaimed with a smile while throwing up his hands in a show of surrender. He brought his hands down and cleared his throat. “We went to the Marian Grotto to pray after the Holy Mass … as some of us usually do before going home. Just as I started my prayers, the Spirit of God pushed me to look in the direction of the donation box. I did so … and found this bag under the donation box. I wanted to ignore it but the feeling was just too strong. So, I suspended my prayers and went over. I pulled the bag out, unzipped it and lo! So much money.” He ended 60
the speech with a sharp clap of the hands. “Money … money … money,” Magnus threw in as if on cue. “And all that from an anonymous donor. Kingsley dragged me to the bag and we immediately carried it over here … to you. End of story.” Fixing his eyes on the priest, Magnus added in a merry voice, “The Lord always provides for his people, as the Holy Bible repeatedly assures us. And now it is happening in our time … right before us.” Apparently speechless and wanting to confirm things for himself, Fr. Ahamefule looked at the bag for a few seconds and then gestured to have it brought over to him. Kingsley and Magnus carried it to him, dropping it at his feet. As they returned to their seats, the priest leaned forward, unzipped the bag and parting the top flaps looked inside. “Money!” Fr. Ahamefule muttered, his voice barely loud enough. He thrust his right hand into the bag and rummaging through, added, “high denomination … #1,000 notes.” A cough from one of the men drew him into conversation mood again. “Must be about #10m,” he said matter-of-factly while looking from one man to the other. “The greatest understatement of the year!” Kingsley screamed in low tones. “Must be #20m, give or take #5m. I’m a banker. So, I know how many millions in naira, dollars or Euros that could fit into a bag like that.” Silence fell upon them, each man cruising through a labyrinth of thoughts. Shortly, the priest looked up, his eyes moving from one man to the other. Flinging his right hand in an arc from the bag to the centre table, he gestured the two men to carry the bag to the table and empty the contents on it. They stood awaiting further instructions from the priest. “Let me get my counting machine,” Fr. Ahamefule said getting up, eyes glued to the money. “It’s just too much to count manually and quickly.” He turned and began walking towards the inner door. “Add a piece of paper and a pen,” Magnus threw in just before the priest disappeared behind the door. “We may need to write something down,” he added for the benefit of Kingsley. Both men returned to their seats and to their private thoughts. The ensuing 61
silence was compromised only by the subdued drone of a standby generator. The noise stimulated Magnus to resurface from his thoughts. The national electric power grid is never efficient, thanks to a corrupt management! He shook his head sadly. Four minutes later, the curtains parted and Fr. Ahamefule walked back in, the men snapping to upright sitting postures. He was carrying a portable counter on the open left palm while the left hand held three sheets of paper and three pens. When he arrived at the table, he hunched and used his right arm to gently shove some wads of #1000 notes aside to create some space and then dropped the three items in his hands on it. The two men approached, standing on either side of the priest. Fr. Ahamefule gestured towards a side stool and as both men grabbed a side stool each, he pulled one close. Thereafter, taking seating positions around the table, each man began to rhythmically pick up wads of notes, pull the notes free from the band, stick the notes into the counter and re-wad the notes after counting. In silence, each man took turns at the counter while the other two were busy re-wadding or writing on a sheet of paper. The only sound, whose persistence was very welcome, was the periodic hum of the counter interspersed with the rustle of notes being pulled off the counter and fresh ones stuck into it. Twenty-five minutes later, they were done, a little tired from the physical and mental stress but the air-conditioning in the room had effectively kept the sweat away. As Kingsley and Magnus yawned and stretched out their arms, Fr. Ahamefule picked up the sheets of paper and creasing his face, did a mental calculation from the total amount on each paper. Satisfied, he looked at the men in turn, his face flaunting a boyish grin. “#19.6m. Wao!” He clapped enthusiastically. The enthusiasm went viral as both men found themselves giggling and clapping a little louder than the priest. “Wao! Wao! Wao!” Fr. Ahamefule repeatedly exclaimed, apparently at a loss for words. The clapping died down as the priest began to sweep wads of money back into the carriage bag. The men leaned over the table to help. It was over in no time and simultaneously, each man went back to his former seat and sat down, collapsing on 62
the backrest of the sofa. Fr. Ahamefule sighed with happiness. “That’s huge! Never seen a day like this.” “And an anonymous donation.” Magnus was nodding his head in bewilderment. “Could rather be a group of friends,” Kingsley suggested. “Otherwise, what individual could do that in these hard times?” There was silence as different thoughts coursed through their minds. Shortly, Fr. Ahamefule remarked, “We always celebrate Mass for our donors, big and small alike. May their days be superabundantly blessed by the gracious Lord.” “Amen!” both men chorused. Magnus leaned forward, eyes fixed on the priest, a smile on his lips. “That’s how God surprises people like you, Fr. Ahamefule,” he said with admiration, “who show great commitment in their pastoral ministry. You know, apart from celebrating the liturgy and the sacraments coupled with administrative affairs, you have devoted so much time and resources taking care of the sick and needy these past three years you have been in this parish.” “It’s been a wonder to all of us in this parish,” Kingsley added in support, leaning forward too and eyes fixed on the priest, “how you have been effectively using meagre resources … including personal resources, to shelter, feed and clothe the innumerable poor who keep coming to you for assistance, including some victims of last year’s flood disaster.” Magnus knew they could not expect any immediate response from the priest, who, in times like that, would just keep looking and listening to the compliments. “That’s why everyone loves you, Fr. Ahamefule … Catholics, non-Catholics, traditionalists too … even some outside this parish.” He paused, glancing at Kingsley who had been intermittently nodding in support. “Wasn’t it just last month we carried out a seven-day prayer program, praying God to intervene and help us raise money … enough money … at this year’s thanksgiving harvest and bazaar in December?” “Yea,” Kingsley exclaimed in affirmation, “that’s correct. But we have always been praying” and gesturing towards the bag of money, “for a miracle like this.” Fr. Ahamefule chuckled. As the men smiled in response, falling 63
back on the backrest of their seats, Fr. Ahamefule said, “Our God is a God of surprises.” Then, grimacing, he added, “But you are getting it wrong, folks. It’s not me working, never was, but God working through me. I’m just an instrument in his benevolent hands.” He paused, his eyes brightening up as he glanced at the men in turn. “It is funny,” Fr. Ahamefule said with a smile, “but I’m already mentally working out how this money would be divided up to finance the various projects we have.” He paused to allow the change in topic to sink in. “It’s just an idea yet but I will be bringing it up at the next general meeting of the parish council, the finance committee and the project committee. You never know, someone else may have a better suggestion how this money could be used.” “Well, can we have the pleasure of hearing about the idea first?” Magnus was full of anticipation. “A bigger percentage of the money,” Fr. Ahamefule replied, “will be marked out to purchase enough hectares of land somewhere in town and to build hostels on them to carter for the homeless, the sick and hungry … including that young man afflicted by insanity, Austen. They would all be relocated to the hostels as soon as construction was over. A smaller percentage will provide scholarship for a handful of indigent kids and youths. About Austen, we will use a fraction to pay for further professional psychiatric treatment for him, as soon as the family approves. These are projects I’ve been dreaming about all these years.” He heaved a sigh of relief. “This bag of money here,” Magnus chipped in waving towards the bag of money and mischief in his eyes, “says you have just lost the right to dream some more.” Then, in the melodramatic voice of an actor on stage, he added, “Dream no more for I –” as he repeatedly pointed at the bag, “– am the fulfilment of your dreams.” He thumped on his chest like a gorilla. The ensuing laughter lasted a little longer than anticipated. As soon as he could throw a leash on his laughter, Magnus confessed, “Kudos to me! I was once a member of the dramatic society back in secondary school.” He paused to let them get serious again. “Father, that’s a very good idea. With this #19.6m and the savings the parish already has for such projects, they will 64
all be completed within the next four to six months. All those needy people will then be relocated. It’s a good thing Austen’s insanity isn’t the violent type as he could live with the others, as he’s been doing.” “Yea! We thank God for that.” Kingsley’s smiley face suddenly became gloomy. “Austen? Oh, his story is quite pathetic. His mother? Always at the Grotto praying … praying for her son … to the Blessed Virgin. God will not disappoint her. He never fails when we put all our faith in him … while we also do our human best.” Magnus nodded repeatedly. “She’s strong in prayer. She was there at the Grotto when we saw the bag. Always the first to arrive and last to leave. Funny that some people call her , ‘The Woman-with-the-Bible.’ Always carrying a Bible no matter where and when. She’s among the most active members of the parish, an active member of a handful of pious societies and groups.” “Always at morning Mass,” Kingsley cut in, “and never late. Occasionally sweeps the Church after Mass and does few other chores.” “More importantly, she’s good to everyone, including the few who wrongly dislike her for their personal reasons. Encourages everyone to spirituality. A saintly woman, no doubt.” Magnus sounded conclusive on that point. “I know her very well. Who doesn’t?” Fr. Ahamefule looked at the men in turn, admiration etched on his face. “She once whispered to me that she wants to be a saint. I felt inspired. Often comes around to help me carter for the needy people. Does a lot of charity work on her own too. All she ever wants to do in life is the will of God.” He paused as different thoughts cruised through their minds. “You’re right on that point,” Kingsley threw in, glancing from the priest to Magnus. “People seem to have different versions of Austen’s story.” Fr. Ahamefule pursed his lips with dissatisfaction. “Different people, different versions. But it’s not a case of demonic possession as a good number of people unfortunately seem to believe. I’ve investigated that.” “You’re right, Father,” Magnus said adjusting himself on the 65
seat for comfort. “I know the family very well. The young man is a university graduate … mechanical engineering … Second Class Upper. With his degree, he could not get any job anywhere, no matter how hard he tried. And as the family is poor and some other siblings still in school, they couldn’t afford for him to go for his Masters right away.” “So unfortunate but that’s a widespread predicament,” Kingsley said matter-of-factly. “A lot of youths suffer the same.” “Yea!” Magnus sighed. “During the four years Austen was searching for a job, he met some bad friends. Next thing, drugs! He just wasn’t ready when he went into drugs all of a sudden.” “And ended up with a mental illness,” Fr. Ahamefule concluded in a sympathetic voice. “Quite a regrettable thing! When that happened, his mother brought her to me crying. I prayed for him. Later on, after some discussions with the family and the parish council, we sent him off to a psychiatric hospital. I paid the bill. It is very encouraging he’s out now and well-behaved, relatively speaking.” His face had already brightened up. “And just like his mother, the young man shows great interest in Church programs.” Kingsley sounded happy. “Yea!” Fr. Ahamefule exclaimed. “Always comes around when Holy Mass is underway … although he stops outside the doors and keeps pacing around until Mass is over. I gave him a Bible some time ago. I hear he tries to preach to people with that … even though he just mumbles and no one understands whatever he is saying.” He chuckled. Kingsley was already laughing. “But you are not the only preacher around here, Father!” In between fits of laughter he managed to add, “Austen preaches to us too, and maybe a little better … except we hardly hear a word.” That shoved Magnus and the priest into another round of laughter. Shortly, Kingsley stifled his laughter. “Our prayers for the young man will not be in vain. Spending six months in a mental institution did him a lot of good … as he’s been having more lucid moments since he was released. But these past few weeks, I’ve been noticing some changes … as if he’s on the verge of a relapse … less lucid moments.” “Yea and that doesn’t look good.” Fr. Ahamefule looked very 66
worried. “I pray he doesn’t suffer a relapse … by God’s grace.” Magnus shook his head sadly. “I’ve noticed that too. May just be a passing phase. God won’t permit a relapse. Once the hostels are built, Austen will be relocated. The serene environment and further psychiatric attention would surely help his mental convalescence.” He paused, a pensive mood over him. “That’s a miracle, you know, how all this money came exactly when we needed it most.” “Never seen a miracle like this. All to the greater glory of God.” On impulse, Fr. Ahamefule glanced at a fancy quartz clock hanging on a hook in a corner of the wall. 10:32 p.m already! he mused. “Well, well, friends, time to get home to your families. But as soon as you leave, I will hurry into my private Chapel and celebrate another Mass … a Mass of Thanksgiving for this miracle at the most opportune time. In fact, if you keep sitting here a second longer, I will abandon you and rush into the Chapel.” He chuckled. “We’ll go home, Father,” Kingsley was already laughing, “as you’re politely shoving us out of your house.” He was happy when Magnus and the priest also started laughing. “But I … we will pass by the Marian Grotto for a few words of appreciation to our Blessed Mother Mary and to God.” Magnus tried to stifle his laughter but ended up choking for breath. “That’s right! We will make a pit stop there even though God already knows we greatly appreciate this miracle. Omniscience. Thanks for your time, Father. We now take our leave.” Magnus rose from the seat and Kingsley stood too but they did not make a move towards the door. Fr. Ahamefule glanced at them in turn. “That’s the second good news I’ve been waiting for ever since two of you stepped into my house.” He smiled mischievously and rose from his seat. He was happy that made Kingsley and Magnus nearly laugh out loud. “And please, inform the parish council chairman, the finance committee chairman and the project committee chairman that I am requesting an emergency meeting … with all the members in attendance.” Just as a thought flashed across the priest’s mind, he added, “When can we have the meeting? Hmm!” he sighed as 67
his face creased in thought. Seconds later, he brightened up. “OK. Tomorrow at 4:00 p.m.” Magnus cleared his throat. “OK. Father. I’m in the project committee. I will pass the information across.” “And I will inform the parish council chairman. I’m the treasurer of the finance committee … more by reason of my profession as a banker. That also means,” Kingsley added coyly while repeatedly pointing at the bag of money, “that this #19.6m will be banked in my bank and not in any other. After all, I discovered the money first, didn’t I?” As Magnus chuckled, Fr. Ahamefule pursed his lips in mock dismay and replied, “Please enlighten us. And you’re quoting from the Federal Constitution of Nigeria or from the international statutes of banking? I just fail to see where that logic comes from.” Their carefree laughter rebounded off the walls. “Please don’t bother again … don’t bother informing the chairmen. I will call them on the phone … and all the members.” “In fact,” Magnus threw in, cheery eyes on the priest, “I was about to ask whether you lost your handset or something? Asking us to inform the chairmen when you could easily make phone calls. Or have you sold it off just to make some money, you know, hard hit as you’ve been with hardships?” As Magnus and Kingsley burst out laughing, they began to move towards the door. Fr. Ahamefule fought so hard not to give credence to the jest by not laughing but failed. As he tried to stifle it, the laughter turned into a cough. That became a signal for the other men to diminish their laughter and wait for him to recover. When the priest was calm again, all three men shook hands and hugged each other in turn. Their eyes, vigorous handshakes and tight hugs communicated their joy and best wishes. Thereafter, Fr. Ahamefule walked them to the door. When his guests left, he locked the door. He felt a wet sensation at the corners of both eyes. When he touched them in turn with the right forefinger, each touch felt a little wet. He pulled out a white handkerchief from a right trouser pocket and dabbed his eyes. Thereafter, he walked towards the inner door and later disappeared behind the embroidered curtains.
68
5:27 a.m. Tuesday July 23 2013.
As Austen stepped out of his room into the open air, he did not miss the feeling that, like a hangover after a wild time in a nightclub, an air of festivity still hung around the premises of the Añuri Home of the Needy in Umuezeanoruo. The feeling was still strong even though it was exactly the previous three weeks that a commissioning ceremony had been held for the Añuri Home, as it came to be fondly called. He found it very comforting that he and some other inmates were already living in the Añuri Home shortly before the day of commissioning. It had been quite an impressive day on the day of commissioning with the Metropolitan Bishop of Orlu Archdiocese cutting the ribbon in the company of two other bishops and dozens of clergy and religious. The state governor had attended in tow of the Eziama Obaire Local Government chairman and a handful of political leaders. The Añuri Home was a set of hostels consisting of four threestorey buildings facing each other, two on either side, with a neatly cut lawn between them. To the north of the hostels a bungalow of five offices, which was the administrative block, stood elegantly and a short distance from it, a well designed moderately-sized chapel rose in rival elegance. To the south of the hostels a singlestorey block of flats, the staff quarters, dominated the horizon. Further away from the hostels, a quarter of the entire premises was taken up by a football field and a basketball court. The Añuri Home catered for one hundred and twenty needy people, living singly or with their families. A volunteer professional staff of fourteen dispensed free feeding and medical treatments while a chaplain provided spiritual services. The beauty and serenity of the environment often enticed Austen to stand outside his door at sunset to watch the persistent glimmer of rays as the reddish sun dived behind tree tops some distance away from the hostel opposite him, the rays cutting through the tree branches across their paths. Whenever it was breezy, the pines that rose above the perimeter fence would begin to whistle while hundreds of birds of different hues nestling on 69
trees around the premises chirped in choir. Austen always believed he was an aesthete. What fascinated Austen with sunrise was the quiet glow of the sea-blue, golden-yellow, sandy-brown and milk-white paints alternated artistically on the walls of the hostels and on the perimeter fence. Since the gloss paints were still fresh on the walls, at night they glistened under the rays of fancy electric bulbs mounted around the premises. There was something about the entrance gates of the Añuri Home that seemed to have suddenly ripped Austen out of contemplation as his eyes became riveted on them. The two big black iron gates stood like a uniform rectangle inscribed within an equilateral triangle. The two reclining sides of the triangle were pillars made of concrete while the base was ordinary concrete flooring. A third pillar of concrete inclined away from the top of the equilateral triangle digging into ground level some distance away from the triangle’s base, thus giving the entire pillar structure the shape of a simple prism. The smaller right angled triangles on both sides of the big gates were fitted one with a small pedestrian gate while the other was walled up as a side of the security man’s house, with a small window looking out. Incoming vehicles took the gate to the left, which opened into a tarred motorway lined with neatly trimmed flowers, while outgoing vehicles took the gate to the right. The distant bark of a dog somewhere outside the perimeter fence snapped Austen back to consciousness. Dropping his head a little, he looked himself over. He was dressed in a clean wellironed red polo shirt and black shorts, with a pair of black sandals on his feet. He smiled at the thought that it would be just another nice day. Suddenly, his head began to shake uncontrollably, his face contorting in pain. He tried to use both hands to calm it but the shaking just continued, mocking his futile efforts. He began to stagger, tripping on a foot and nearly falling. When he hurriedly recovered his balance, head still shaking and hands on either side of the head, on impulse he ambled towards the gates. When he arrived there, the pedestrian gate was already unlocked and from the splashy sounds emanating from the security man’s room, 70
he was taking a bath. Austen staggered through the gate into the street. He hardly noticed that there was no one out in the street. He staggered along, hands clasping his head as it continued to shake. Like a drunkard, he kept wobbling in and out of the road, an oncoming vehicle missing him by inches but the curses did not miss. No other car came by. Some distance away, he turned a street corner and the Añuri Home disappeared from sight behind him. He felt helpless as his feet kept walking forward like a preset robot. That triggered him to begin muttering inaudibly, complaining to no one in particular that he felt like a ship lost at sea. Minutes later, the head-shaking stopped, pain easing off his face and he freed his hands. However, the muttering continued just as did the purposeless walk. Ten minutes later, he turned another street corner and saw two headlights coming his way. He started flagging the car down. It was a taxi but it just zoomed past, Austen peering at the shadowy figure of two passengers in it. He ambled on and three minutes later, another taxi came his way. He flagged it down. The taxi pulled up and Austen yanked a passenger door open and entered, making himself comfortable on the seat. He did not notice the driver scrutinizing him through the rear-view mirror. “Good morning, Sir. Where to?” The driver’s voice was formal. “Good morning, Sir. Where to?” Austen was clearly mimicking the driver. He chuckled. When he looked up at the rear-view mirror, their eyes met. “Amaego.” “That’s #1000,” the driver announced with a frown. “OK. Get us going then.” The driver eased the car back into the road. Glancing at the rear-view mirror again, he saw the man on the backseat dip his right hand into a trouser pocket and pull out a pile of rumpled notes. He could not fight off feeling suspicious. What have I walked into this morning? – he mused with anxiety. Austen rummaged through the rough pile and selected a #1000 note, pushed the rest back into his pocket and leaning forward, dropped the note on the vacant seat beside the driver. “That’s #1000.” He was mimicking the driver again. He leaned on the 71
backrest and began to watch the neighbourhood fly past. He was oblivious whether the driver was picking the money up right away or not. After a moment of private thoughts, the driver reluctantly leaned across, eyes still on the road. He picked the money up and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. For a moment, a smile faintly lit up his face at the thought that the weird passenger behind had just paid sufficiently from the over-charge to cover both the normal fare and the unwarranted insult of mimicry. Glancing at the rear-view mirror again, the driver was surprised that his passenger was already asleep. That nudged his anxiety up a notch. Thereupon, all he wanted was to get to the destination soon enough and drop the passenger off, whoever he was. An hour later, the car stopped moving. The sudden halt in motion rudely roused Austen from sleep. Opening his eyes, he peered first at the driver and meeting his eyes, which were full of loathing for him, turned his eyes away to the surroundings. It was then he realized they were already somewhere in Amaego and the driver was obviously impatiently waiting for him to get out of the car. Hurriedly rubbing sleep off his eyes, he alighted from the car and gently closing the door, stood on the sidewalk. He did not see the taxi drive off as his attention was immediately gripped by a man from across the road yelling on the phone to someone who had stirred his ire that morning. Austen saw the irate man hunch his obese hulk to enter a taxi. Seconds later, the taxi drove off. Austen shrugged noncommittally and walked away, picking up pace and cutting through different streets. As Austen kept walking, forty-five minutes later, neither he nor anyone else realized he was just aimlessly walking from street to street, occasionally repeating a street already walked. When early pangs of hunger made him remember he had taken no breakfast that morning, he decreased his pace. Shortly, when he languidly walked into a street he seemed to recognize from a nebulous memory, he read a shop signboard nearby. Under the advertisement, the sign also said “Ezemenaha Street, Amaego”. He felt a powerful surge of joy that practically drove the 72
upcoming hunger away. Ambling a little further, he came upon a branch of the Nedu Phoenix Bank. Austen had no memory of ever robbing the bank.
10:39 a.m. Tuesday July 23 2013.
As Austen approached the Nedu Phoenix Bank, which was across the road, he was enthralled by the NPB’s distinctive architectural design, its aura of magnificence exuding a magnetic pull on him that made his legs hurry towards it. It did not surprise him then that there was a continuous traffic of clients in and out of the bank. It was already working hours and the bank was in full swing. All these people might soon take up every space in the bank. I need to hurry! He smiled at the thought. As Austen got close to the bank, he started thinking about the best spot to stop and watch the flow of vehicles so he could run across to the other side of the road where the bank was located. However, before he could stop, a feeling of dread came over him, forcing him to walk on rather than cross over to the bank. Austen succumbed to it and began to walk past. Theatrically, the magnetic pull of the bank just intensified, forcing him to stop and retrace his steps, backpedalling rather than turning around. Just before he could stop to watch the traffic, once again he succumbed to the dread and marched off. Few paces out, he began to retrace his steps, once again in reverse motion. Austen began to mutter out of frustration, oblivious of a handful of people who had begun to keenly watch the unfolding drama. He cast his eyes down to his feet, apparently wondering why they were walking him backwards rather than forwards. Just then, his head began to shake, making him stagger a little. Recovering his balance and after calming the head with both hands, he ambled into the road. A jeep screeched loudly and swerved to avoid running him over. Other vehicles took the cue 73
and hurriedly decelerated to a stop, some drivers hurling curses at him. When Austen crossed over, he headed for the gates of the bank. Austen arrived at the perimeter fence of the bank and went over to join some clients walking into the bank premises through the pedestrian gate. Four armed police officers perfunctorily glanced at him but took no further interest. Once inside the premises, Austen walked over to the entrance door of the bank passing two unarmed security guards on the way. He halted behind the queue just as a girl walked up behind him to become the eight in the queue. When it was his turn, he pressed the service button. Within seconds, the door slid open and he entered the bank. Emerging from the door, Austen stepped aside to a corner of the banking hall and leaning on a wall, looked around methodically. It did not surprise him that there were many clients queued up for a turn at the counter in spite of the good number of bank staff. Just then, a broad feeling of uneasiness swooped down on him. He knew there was something about the bank that connected him with it but could not pinpoint what it was exactly. Thereupon, he tried raking through his brain for any cues or memories that might help him discover what it was. Apparently in protest over the overdrive of mental exertion, his head began to shake uncontrollably, leaving him staggering off the walls. Quickly, he used both hands to clasp his head, his face contorting in pain. He recovered his balance and brought the head under control but rather began to mutter aloud. Austen had created a scene. A couple of clients threw questioning glances at him and moved some paces away. He had also attracted the attention of a security guard in another corner of the banking hall and who was already walking towards him, scrutinizing him from afar. The security man was indignant that a client was disrupting banking services by creating a scene on his watch. He increased his pace, the target just then ending the muttering and beginning to chuckle insanely instead. The security man also felt embarrassed as some clients threw questioning glances at him. 74
How did an insane man get through the gates and security personnel outside? Someone could get fired just for this, he mused sadly. When Austen stopped chuckling and glancing around, saw the security guard advancing, he began to scurry across intending to join the queue nearest to him. The security guard moved faster and cut him off, standing in his way. Standing close to each other, the security guard tried a conversation but Austen began to mutter inaudibly in response. That left some clients and staff laughing, which increased the security guard’s indignation and embarrassment. As soon as Austen’s head began to shake as if on cue, the security guard used his left hand to grab Austen’s right hand and walking ahead, began to tow him out. More eyes turned to watch the developing scene along with a few giggles. A few paces out, Austen gave a strong jerk on his right arm in a surprise manoeuvre that freed him from his captor. However, rather than head for the exit door, he scurried to another corner of the hall. Standing with his back to the wall, rebellion was etched on his face. It was then that he noticed another security guard hurrying over from another corner of the hall to assist his partner. When the second guard arrived, his partner lurched forward gripping Austen’s right hand again while the second guard quickly frisked him. Some clients and staff suspended services and turned to watch, a hub of animated chatter beginning to take over the hall. Apparently in a defiant response to the frisking, Austen freed his arm with another powerful tug and hurriedly sat on the floor, muttering aloud as if in complaint about the impolite treatment from the security guards. The giggling and chatter around them upped a notch. None of the onlookers was prepared when Austen’s head began to shake violently, leaving him clutching his head with both hands and moaning in pain. Much to their relief, the sudden downturn lasted barely three minutes. At that, the second guard took three steps backwards and squinting, took a long hard look at Austen. His eyes lit up with a flash of recognition, his mouth agape. Surreptitiously, he gestured his partner to keep watch over Austen while he walked away in quick strides into a cashier’s booth. He whispered into the cashier’s ears and then pressed an 75
alarm button hidden out of sight. It was a silent alarm that when triggered did not wail within the bank premises but at a regional police headquarters twenty-one kilometres away. Content with that security move, the security guard walked away, galloped up the stairs and panting, headed for the branch manager’s office. At the door, he delivered four sharp knocks, and after a grumpy “Come in!” from inside, pushed the door open and entered. Looking ahead, he saw the branch manager, Chigbo, sitting at a thick mahogany table, obviously engrossed with something he was typing on a laptop and apparently not in the mood for any distraction. I just have to get straight to the point. Three paces form the desk, the security guard snapped to attention like a soldier on parade. He waited for a signal to speak. A cursory glance from the branch manager was all he needed. “Sir, we have a situation downstairs.” The security guard was not surprised that Chigbo continued typing, daring him not to distract him with anything inconsequential. “We have apprehended the suspect who robbed this bank six months ago, carting away #20m in broad daylight.” He saw the branch manager suddenly hold his breath and look up, a mixture of anxiety and alarm clouding his face. Oh my God! Let this overreactive man not escalate this into a crisis! The security guard waited, breathing heavily. “Sorry, did I get you clearly, Dennis?” Chigbo slammed his laptop shut and was on his feet in seconds, eyes fixed on the security guard. “The terrorist who invaded my bank … with a bomb … is that the one?” “Yes Sir!” Dennis was bristling with confidence. “We got him … finally.” “He’s back to rob and bomb my bank?” There was palpable tremor in the voice and obviously he was not expecting an answer. Chigbo peeped over the shoulders of the security guard to make sure his door was shut. It did not bother him that his staff knew he was hypertensive. He was already palpitating at the news. What rather bothered him was whether he would get lucky again to get out of the bank alive and may be witness the next birthday of any of his kids. 76
“Sir, I also mentioned we have apprehended the robber. We subdued him and my partner is keeping watch over him down in the hall. He is a captive.” Chigbo did not hear that. The avalanche of ideas and images that flooded his mind, all of them with different degrees of horror, made him oblivious of whatever else the security guard was saying. Sweat was beginning to drench the shirt under the suit despite the air-conditioning in the room. Dennis realized he needed to do something to recapture the branch manager’s attention and probably rescue him from sinking into the abyss where he was dithering around the periphery. He stamped his feet hard on the floor, loud enough to startle Chigbo. “Sir, I said we have subdued the suspect. He is a captive and harmless.” Chigbo still had a faraway look in his eyes, too disoriented to know what to say next. On impulse, he hurried out from his desk while waving the security guard towards the door. The security guard led the way and both men left the office. Shortly, they stopped out on the balcony. Leaning against the waist-high balustrade of aluminium interspersed with reinforced glass, Dennis directed Chigbo’s gaze with a finger. Squinting, Chigbo took a long hard look at a man sitting on the floor, a security guard by his side. He was jolted back to consciousness when he saw the man’s head suddenly begin to shake violently and a stream of mutterings emanate from the lips. Chigbo threw a questioning glance at the security guard by his side, and getting a noncommittal shrug, swung his eyes back downstairs to the captive. His fears were aggravated when he saw the man quickly raise both hands to his head as if to clamp it down from an imminent explosion. Could this be how this terrorist planned to set off a bomb… with a series of headshaking manoeuvers? Chigbo felt a sudden chill run down his spine, rendering his legs too weak to move even an inch. He stood rooted where he was, against his will. A stream of itchy sweat began to cascade down his face. He craved for the tablets in the top drawer of his office desk. Just then, Chigbo watched the captive look up at the balcony 77
and for six seconds that looked like six centuries, their eyes met. Then it hit him like a bolt of lightning. The sudden awareness of the identity of the terrorist made him gasp and stagger a little. He did not notice the security guard by his side staring at him. Chigbo recovered his balance and took a deep breath. “Oh my God! That’s him surely,” his voice barely above a whisper, “a terrorist nephew who invaded this bank six months ago … armed with a live bomb. What audacity to come back!” “Did I hear you say … nephew, Sir? You know him?” “Where do I know the guy from?” Chigbo paraphrased, turning aside to face the security guard. “That’s my brother’s son, Austen.” There was some hatred in the voice. “That’s your nephew then … and that’s just unbelievable.” Dennis was having a hard time synthesizing the information. He turned to stare at the captive in search of any signs of facial resemblance. Seconds later, he brought his eyes back to the branch manager. Chigbo looked maliciously happy. Waving the eyes of the security guard back towards the captive, he declared in solemn tones, “Behold that good-for-nothing Austen!” He turned aside to look at Dennis who seemed rather engrossed with the sight of the captive. “I always suspected he was into drugs but didn’t know he was also an armed robber … a terrorist? That caps it all. That family –” he grinned with disgust, “– what a composite disgrace they all are!” He stepped away from the balcony, out of sight from anyone downstairs. “I need to take more drastic measures against his mother and the rest of his siblings. When they lost their dad, my brother, irresponsibility sky-rocketed while responsibility nosedived.” It was only then Dennis got the insight he needed to synthesize all the information. He nodded as he recalled a gossip among the staff about a chilly family vendetta between Chigbo’s family and his late brother’s. Has it gone this far? He glanced at the captive wondering whether he was justified to have interfered with Austen’s course of action against his enemy. Sadness welled up within him as he turned to look at the bank manager. “Sir, why would he be after you, then?” 78
Chigbo was pacing around with a supercilious air about him. “Oh, I get the point now.” His voice was full of mockery at the captive. “This scoundrel of a nephew had the audacity to rob my bank in revenge for taking over a plot of land from his family. I didn’t recognize him then as he had hid behind a mask. So cowardly! And he’s back to my bank.” Chigbo began to thump on his chest for emphasis, “He surely will be getting enough jail term for this, I swear.” A door creaked and he turned to see two bank staff standing by the doors of their offices and eavesdropping. Chigbo impatiently waved them back inside. To slam a tether on the tirade and machination, Dennis chipped in, “Sir, sorry it’s your nephew but whatever destruction he is planning has been effectively contained … although he’s actually unarmed. What’s your advice?” Chigbo leaned over the balcony and looked downstairs, hurriedly looking around. “Do I get the impression, Dennis, that you don’t really comprehend the gravity of this situation, making light of it as you sound?” “Sorry, Sir. I didn’t intend that.” Dennis was bowed low in a plea. Chigbo paused, frowning his face in deep thought. “Could this be another robbery plot?” Sweat was just beginning to form on his face. “It is a possibility, you know. I know this boy. He can be deadly when aggrieved.” He fixed his eyes on the captive who was rather busy looking at his feet as he sat on the floor and mumbling away. Chigbo felt a blip in his mind. “Or … has he come to … assassinate me?” There was a noticeable tremor in the voice. He turned to face the security guard. “That’s a possibility, isn’t it?” It sounded more like a dreaded conclusion than a question. “Chine-e-e-ke-e-e! And he has seen me – exposed on the balcony.” Chigbo quickly stepped away from the balcony, out of sight from anyone downstairs. “Oh, where can I hide? Under the table? Where?” In a swift motion, Chigbo lunged for the security guard’s right hand and pulled him away from the balcony. “Dennis, this is an automatic promotion,” he was panting, “bigger salary, the whole works.” He cast a furtive glance around and later settled his eyes 79
on the security guard standing before him. “I commission you as my bodyguard effective from now – until the police arrive. I have to get the police on the phone right away.” “Yes Sir!” Dennis was secretly amused but decided to make the most of the moment. Like a professional bodyguard, he swiftly moved into the space between his client and the balcony, his near obese hulk shielding the banker from the telescopic sights or deadly bullets of any sniper lurking anywhere downstairs. Chigbo found that very comforting. “But are you sure he’s not carrying a bomb … on a suicide mission to assassinate me … garnished with enough collateral damage?” He was peeping over the shoulders of the bodyguard. “No Sir! There’s no bomb on him or anywhere around here and he has been subdued.” Dennis knew that becoming a bodyguard to Chigbo would require him to protect his boss from his own fears more than from enemy bullets. “Eureka – that’s it!” Chigbo exclaimed. Pulling Dennis aside to a corner, he said in a conspiratorial voice, “You need to think like these criminals before you can anticipate their next moves,” and suddenly hitting a clenched right fist on an open left palm, “and trap them into a checkmate.” He paused to let his words sink in. “You’ve subdued him,” he said matter-of-factly, “only because he allowed you to subdue him. Don’t you see that?” This bodyguard would be very lucky I didn’t fire him the moment the police arrived here, low IQ and all! Chigbo was watching the bodyguard closely as if monitoring the thoughts fleeting in the man’s mind. The bodyguard only shrugged noncommittally. Chigbo frowned at the thought that he most probably had to educate the man before he could be as effective as he needed him to be. “Bodyguard, that’s the ploy … or part of it. The entire fuss of arresting him could be the only decoy needed for his partner to be somewhere else within the premises hauling out a more horrible bomb.” He stepped away from the bodyguard. “Think, man,” he drawled, “think outside the box.” Casting a worried glance at his Rolex wristwatch, Chigbo added ruefully, “Time may be running out on all of us as the timer on the bomb continues to tick.” Chigbo cautiously walked over to the balcony, letting a pillar 80
hide him from view from anyone downstairs. He peeped at Austen. “Is it Boko Haram?” he asked in a low voice, “Al Qaeda? Hezbollah?” He cast a look at the bodyguard and almost immediately returned it back to Austen. “Oh, I get it. You don’t even know what I’m talking about. Oh, what a horrible day! You just have no idea what we might be having on our hands. Mr. Bodyguard, I really must get the police here ASAP. Consider yourself fired as my bodyguard … but keep your job as a security guard … effective the moment the police arrive here. No severance package, of course.” Again cautiously, Chigbo walked away from the balcony and hurried into his office, bolting the door behind him. Just as Dennis began to walk away heading downstairs, he paused mid-step as the bank manager’s voice floated out full of apologies, “Pardon my attitude! Just that I’m stressed up.” Dennis smiled. I would since I want to keep my security job. But bodyguard? You can’t be more nuts than that, Chigbo! “It’s OK, Sir,” Dennis replied. “I’m going downstairs to keep things under control until the police arrive.” A thought blinked in his mind and he had to clamp a palm over his mouth to keep from laughing. He was powerless at the thought that the banker might already be hiding under his desk or digging a bunker with his wellmanicured fingernails! Dennis made a u-turn and stopped at the bank manager’s door. “Austen, your nephew,” he said in a reassuring voice, “is not armed, Sir, and without any accomplice.” He was looking at the bolted door. “We frisked him thoroughly. Not even a toy gun and he’s totally … insane.” He heard the sound of hardwood roughly scratching the tiled floor, diffident footfalls followed and seconds later, the door swung open. Chigbo’s face was clouded with perspiration. He tried to peep over the shoulders of the security guard but could not see much except the doors and walls of other offices. “Well,” he said in a magisterial voice while wiping his face with an immaculate white handkerchief pulled out from a left trouser pocket, “if you are so certain he has no gun on him and is without accomplices, that’s OK. But that in no way rules out the possibility he might have planted a bomb somewhere, rigged to explode when he wants. 81
That’s a worst case scenario but I feel more comfortable working with that.” Chigbo swallowed hard. “And that’s what I want you to work with … and it’s an order, Dennis.” He squinted at the security guard. “Now, if I give orders for the entire bank to be evacuated right this minute, the terrorist would see through it and gbuaaam! – we will never make it to the doors. Mercilessly roasted, barbecued … all of us.” Chigbo began to dab his face again as a stream of perspiration ran into his eyes, increasing his discomfort with the peppery sensation. “OK. Since you’ve already triggered the silent alarm in addition to the call I’ve just made to the police, the police would be arriving here in the next,” and looking at his Rolex, “five minutes.” He was happy at the satisfaction exuding from the security guard’s eyes. “You will go downstairs to assist Segun, your partner. No one should harass the suspect again … or attempt to hustle him out. But if he attempts to leave the bank, stop him … even if you have to use force.” He saw the security guard nodding in affirmation. “The police will be here soon to take over.” Chigbo snickered. “The high profile armed robbery investigation they said they have been carrying out for the past few months and which the bank has been paying hugely for … ancillary funding, they had told us … ends today … solved by the bank staff themselves. What a bad day!” Pouting, he added, “Or does this look like a good day to you, Dennis?” Dennis suppressed the laughter trying to rise to the surface. “Please, Sir, don’t make me laugh.” Dennis eased way from the wall, his eyes full of mirth. “I have a terrorist to keep under close watch and that’s not an easy job. If you don’t mind, Sir, can I go now, Sir?” He turned his eyes away from the banker and looked towards the balcony. “Aren’t you the one rather tempting me to laugh, Mr. Dennis?” He paused as Dennis returned his eyes to him. He knew Dennis would not feel offended. “Surely, you have very easily subdued a most-wanted terrorist. No sweat. But where were you, bravado and all, that fateful day when this same terrorist forced me to lie face down on the floor as everyone else, including you, and 82
forcing me to tell a lie in public that I was not afraid of his bomb while handing over #20m? And wasn’t it you who had to lie to trick some police and security staff to enter the bank and join us on the floor?” “Sir, I beg to differ.” Dennis already had a response ready. He had anticipated such a question since the robbery incident. “That was a highly volatile situation,” he said shrugging. “Nonetheless, I remember plotting a solo rescue mission but an elderly man stopped me before I could make a move.” He grinned as memories flooded his mind. “Thereafter, I devised another counter-offensive but then the bandit must have read my mind and upped his antics, denying me the opportunity. Again, I did a quick statistical and strategic analysis of the situation but realized it was better to play along than initiate a counter-attack. The high risk of a bomb explosion ruled out further attempts. “ Chigbo chuckled. “You mean you had the chance, just one shot, a golden opportunity and you let an old man stop you?” He looked heavenwards, pretending to pray aloud, “God, would you hold it against me if I sack this man right now?” When he returned his eyes to the man, they were full of mirth. “Sounds more like an excuse, Dennis. But we all were happy walking away with our lives after the ordeal.” Chigbo paused. “Go down, put Austen under close watch. Convince clients to ignore him and continue with their bank services. I need to make another call to the police. They are taking too long in arriving. This time, it’s to the state police headquarters.” “Ok, Sir!” Dennis heaved a sigh of relief, made a half-turn and started hurrying downstairs. Chigbo bolted the door again and gingerly pulled out a Samsung Galaxy IV note from a shirt pocket. He dialled a number. On the second attempt, someone picked the call. “Hello! Mr. Police Commissioner. This is an SOS. I repeat, this is an SOS originating from my bank here in Amaego city. We have identified and trapped the terrorist who robbed our bank six months ago with a bomb. He’s right here in the bank. We don’t know whether he came in with another bomb or where he might have planted one. His accomplice could be any of the innocent-looking clients here. I fully advice you send a bomb squad along with dozens of police 83
officers, in case this turns into a hostage situation or a guerrilla war. But warn your men that the branch manager must not be hit either by friendly or enemy fire. I’m monitoring the situation from my office upstairs. You may want to bring some big mattresses too, you know, just in case I need to escape by jumping out the window. This is an SOS. I repeat, this is an SOS. Over and out.” He cut the call. Yea, I’d rather cut the call – and won’t pick if they call back – than listen to questions that would only delay the response time. I might be barbecued already before they arrive. Absent-mindedly, Chigbo dabbed his brow with his handkerchief and plunged it back into his shirt pocket. In uncertain steps, he went over to his chair and sat down, his mind too chaotic to do anymore office work. He began to wait.
11:21 a.m. Tuesday July 23 2013.
Having used encouraging words and gestures to get bank staff and clients to resume normal duties, Dennis went over to rejoin his partner, Segun, to keep watch over the captive. Before he came closer, he motioned Segun to step towards him. That was when he whispered something into Segun’s ears. Segun’s eyes grew wide with disbelief and angling his head, took a more critical look at Austen. The news that Austen was the bank manager’s nephew surely was a startling one, worse still, an armed robber and insane. Both men returned to Austen, standing by either side of the captive. Clients hardly paid attention to them again. A minute later, Dennis caught the eyes of Segun and first pointing at himself, Segun raised a questioning eyebrow just as Dennis further pointed at the doors. In a flash of understanding, Segun nodded two times in affirmation. Dennis stepped away, moved across the banking hall and positioned himself between the two doors of the bank. Both doors were three feet apart. It was clear that his new mission was to block an escape by the 84
captive should he make a run for the door. It was very comforting that the captive rather seemed oblivious of whatever they were scheming. Austen just kept muttering inaudibly. Two minutes later, Austen heaved a sigh and began to stand up. Segun, a few paces away, threw a questioning look at Dennis. Austen gave a low growl and that halted Segun as he made to move in closer. Dennis, still standing by the doors, shook his head signalling Segun not to engage. Segun felt relieved. A physical tussle with an insane man in a bank could get ugly and scare clients away. They both watched as Austen began to kick his legs out to free them from cramps. Thereafter, Austen resorted to leaning against the wall and casting his eyes around. Both security guards heaved sighs of relief. However, that was short-lived because Austen gave another low growl and walked out of the spot apparently intending to perambulate within the banking hall. He put on the airs of a tourist admiring the architectural and decorative beauty of the hall. Segun could only tag along a few paces behind him. Dennis knew that once the tourism happened to take Austen towards the exit door, he would have to truncate it. As if to confirm his fears, Austen later turned and noticing the two doors as if for the first time, headed towards the exit door. In response, Dennis theatrically threw both legs apart, freezing his hulk in a hunched position like a Japanese sumo wrestler about to engage a rival charging towards him. Just then, wafts of the intimidating wail of police sirens began to build up, compromising the serene ambience in the bank. Dennis was happy but it did not show on his face. He was rather concentrating on the threat from Austen heading towards him. At the first waft of sirens, a look of bewilderment settled on Austen’s face. It slowly gave way to a patronizing smile and undaunted, he kept walking forward, pointedly ignoring the security guard in combat stance by the doors. As he drew closer, looking over the shoulders of the security guard, he saw police cars screeching into positions around the bank. Austen stopped at the exit door just beside the security guard who had already relaxed from his combat mode ever since the police arrived like a swarm of bees swooping down on a flower’s 85
nectar. Once again, bewilderment settled on Austen’s face. He kept looking outside through the glass panel of the exit door. Thereafter, he turned and looked around. Some bank staff and clients were beginning to huddle together in small groups away from him, a low buzz of chatter mingling with the persistent wail of sirens. Austen turned around to continue peeping. More police cars were screeching to a stop outside the gates of the bank while, in quick movements, dozens of police officers began to surround the bank, taking vantage positions behind their cars and a couple of snipers on balconies and rooftops facing the bank. Only one police car and a bomb disposal vehicle drove in through the gates, parking in spots almost hidden from the direct view of the two bank doors. Two police officers and the driver spilled out in fluid movements, running and taking vantage positions by the two doors, crouched and ready for action, weapons drawn. Simultaneously, three bomb squad officers in full gears swiftly emerged from their operation van and ran around to the side of the vehicle shielded from direct view of the bank. They did not want to give the enemy any good opportunity to shoot at them. It took them just a few moments to realize with obvious relief that there were no immediate enemy fire. Two of the officers were with some expensive looking bomb disposal equipment while the third officer held two fierce-looking dogs on leashes. The driver joined them there, taking over one of the dogs. A few words from their commander coupled with some frantic gesticulations at various corners of the bank premises and all four officers hurried away in a crouching position. Farther out, seven police officers were hurriedly erecting police lines around the bank as onlookers began to gather, stopping them behind the police lines. Some reporters also turned up in their vehicles, quickly setting up equipment for a live coverage. Finally, the police commissioner, dropping on the hood of his car a pair of binoculars he had used to reconnoitre the bank premises, snapped his right thumb and middle finger together and at that sound, a police officer handed him a megaphone. “Let the officers know that no one is to engage unless by my order.” 86
“Yes Sir!” The police officer stepped aside and began to speaking into a headset. This doesn’t look like a hostage situation that requires a negotiation. The Police Commissioner hollered into the megaphone, “You have two minutes to surrender yourself.” His voice was clearly commanding, hiding the inner feeling of fear that intelligence had reported forty-five potential hostages inside the bank. “Come out with your hands behind your head. You are surrounded. I repeat, you are surrounded. If you rather wish to talk to a negotiator or a lawyer, we get you one.” God, please don’t let this turn ugly, he prayed silently. This would be my first in my entire career, threading through a dicey situation like this! The police commissioner waited in silence. He knew all eyes were glued at the bank doors, police officers and spectators alike. It was as if time had stopped as everyone held his or her breath high strung with anticipation. He overheard some reporters talking in front of television cameras. The police commissioner hauled the megaphone to his mouth again. “You have one minute to surrender yourself. Come out with your hands behind your head. You are surrounded. I repeat, you are surrounded.” He whooshed the binoculars back over his eyes. He could still monitor some of the forty-five people inside the bank but what rather baffled him was that none looked like a bandit – Unless he is hiding somewhere out of sight. It was then he paid a closer attention to a lone figure standing directly behind an exit door away from everyone else except two security guards a few paces behind him. The police commissioner was not prepared for what happened next. Like a thunder bolt, he saw the lone man’s head begin to shake violently and making him stagger a little. The man recovered his balance just as he used both hands to clasp his head in a vice-like grip, his face contorting in pain. Meanwhile, the two security guards just kept on looking at the distressed man, an uninterested expression on their faces. None of the bank staff and clients made any move to help. The police commissioner dropped the binoculars from his eyes as a thought flashed across his mind. There surely must be something wrong with that scene, he muttered under his breath. 87
Watching the lone figure again through the binoculars, the police commissioner realized that the head-shaking had stopped, the painful expression had disappeared but the man’s lips were moving randomly. The lone man is muttering to himself, he must be insane! The police commissioner dropped the binoculars again. For a moment, a series of confused emotions coursed through him. He felt relieved like a scientist who had just stumbled on an important historical discovery as well as like a businessman just realizing he had wasted his time over a deal that was worth nothing. I just have to see more and make some sense out of all this! He hauled the binoculars back to his face, keeping his eyes riveted on the insane man. He watched as the insane man turned around and cast a questioning look at everyone else inside the bank. The inaudible mutterings had stopped. The number of people in the banking hall began to increase as the police commissioner saw some staff and clients hurrying down a staircase to join those in the banking hall. The police commissioner returned his gaze to the insane man. He realized that the insane man was about to say something. Austen drew closer to the exit door and took a deep breath. He had the air of someone about to make an important announcement. “Pardon me, officer … pardon me … me,” Austen hollered. “No armed robber here … robber … robber. People here are not thieves … thieves and I’m not a thief … a criminal … a thief. People are gathered together like friends … friends … except me ... alone.” A minor cough truncated the speech. The police commissioner seized that pause to yell back, “You have 30 seconds to surrender yourself. Come out with your hands behind your head. You are surrounded. I repeat, you are surrounded.” He dropped the binoculars on the hood of his car and waited like everyone else, eyes fixed on the bank doors. For a second time, Austen turned around and cast a questioning glance at all the staff and clients, wondering why the police officer was sticking to his assumption that there was an armed robber in the bank. Shrugging, he took a deep breath and addressed the crowd of staff and clients. “Police officers … looking for an armed robber … here. If you are an armed robber … armed robber … please raise your right hand … right hand.” 88
As Austen subsequently began to scan for a right hand that might go up, some staff and clients began to giggle or laugh at the irony of it all. Austen was unperturbed by the apparent mockery as he looked like someone who had something more important to handle. Shortly, he turned back to the exit door. “I have searched and investigated ... interrogated ... them,” Austen shouted behind the glass panelled door, “no hand up … no hand up … no armed robber here … here. Therefore, we’re free to go now … to go now … I’m free … free … to go home … home.” Suddenly, there was a loud crack as a sniper bullet ripped reinforced glass apart and drilled through some wood panels, minimally decelerating in flight towards Austen’s head. It missed, bequeathing a mini-second of barely audible swishing sound inches from Austen’s left ear and thumped into the hard concrete on the wall opposite. All hell was let loose. It was a riot of movements as people dove on the floor, some falling on others but fighting to bury themselves beneath other bodies. Kids and some women began to wail or pray while some men either pleaded aloud for their safety or cursed the police. They were confident the police officers must have seen and heard all that. The police commissioner could not believe the scene he had just witnessed through the binoculars clamped over his eyes. He felt a sudden surge of anxiety, fear, and as the truth dawned on him, outright anger. That was a sniper shot and I didn’t authorize that! He was livid with rage. Scanning the crowd on the floor, he was relieved no one was hurt but he could not be so sure. He dropped the binoculars and grabbed the megaphone. “Cease fire! Cease fire! I repeat, cease fire!” His eyes were roving around his police officers in various combat positions around the bank. “Whoever took that shot, I want him here on the double. I didn’t order anyone to engage.” The severity in the voice was enough indication of what would follow next. The police commissioner resumed scanning the crowd in the bank through the binoculars. If there’s a terrorist in that bank, he could start executing innocent civilians in retaliation. I need to stop that. I pray an apology will do. “Everyone in the bank, that was an accidental discharge. I apologize for that. I repeat, that was an accidental discharge. You may resume your normal positions, 89
stand up and feel relaxed. It won’t happen again, I promise.” If only I could get my hands on whoever nearly turned this into a nightmare! He was happy to see some bank staff and clients begin to rise from the floor, though reluctantly. “Sir, reporting as commanded.” The police commissioner pulled the binoculars away from his eyes and glared at the offending officer frozen at attention a few feet from him. “You took the shot, directly disobeying my order not to engage except authorized by me?” “That was a terrorist in action, Sir.” The police officer’s face was as impassive as his voice. He took a deep breath. “I got a clear sight on him, and as I was not issued a headset with which I could have communicated with you for orders, I seized that golden opportunity and took the shot.” “You saw a terrorist in that bank?” “Yes sir.” He paused for thought. “The terrorist could be linked far beyond Boko Haram to Al Qaeda when we’re still grappling with the monstrosity of the northern BKH boys. Besides, that those BKH boys recently abducted two hundred and seventy-six Chibok schoolgirls remains an internationally embarrassing situation to the Nigerian government and security forces, and the #BringBackOurGirls# pressure group has kept to its pledge to keep the wound bleeding.” “And then, without my authorization, you took the shot?” “Yes Sir – to preclude being blamed for letting that opportunity slip by, and consequently abetting the loss of hundreds of lives and property in his future terrorist attacks.” “You took the chance because you had not been issued a headset, right?” “Yes Sir!” The police officer’s face was beginning to thaw with apprehension. “Would you by any means need a headset for me to tell you that you’re fired?” “No Sir. I apologize, Sir,” the voice cracked with fear. “A panel will investigate your actions and mete out apposite punishment. Dismissed.” “Yes Sir.” There was a final plea in the voice. Thereafter, the police officer walked away. 90
The police commissioner swung his face around, hauled the binoculars to his face and resumed monitoring the events inside the bank. He noticed that the crowd had prudently moved away from where the bullet had whacked into the wall but still feeling apprehensive with everything taking place around them, and keeping some distance between them and the same lone figure. Just then, the lone figure began to pace around. The police commissioner kept him within sight. “I’m going out now … out,” Austen shouted to the crowd. Then, he turned towards the door, shouting to no one in particular, “I’m coming out … out now … coming … out … out.” The binoculars still over his eyes, it took the police commissioner a few seconds more before it dawned on him that the man was actually about to come outside. He watched as the man arrived at the exit door and extended his right hand to press the service button. The door began to slide open. The police commissioner held his breath. Quickly, he dropped the binoculars on the car and rapped into an intercom strapped on his left shoulder, “Team A, target on the move. He is unarmed. E.T.A: seven seconds. Prepare to intercept. No shooting. I repeat, no shooting. Teams B and C, remain on standby.” Re-launching the binoculars over his eyes, he was just in time to see the lone figure stepping through the exit door.
11:45 a.m. Tuesday July 23 2013.
As Austen emerged outside, he was for a moment caught offguard to see so many people thronged around the bank’s premises, hundreds of eyes riveted on him coupled with a sudden burst of loud and excited chatter. He was unprepared as two police officers lurking out of sight by either side of the door swooped down on him, forcing him to the ground like in a rugby game. One of the police officers materialized a pair of handcuffs from somewhere and pulling Austen’s hands behind him as he 91
lay on the ground snapped the handcuffs on his wrists. Three more police officers arrived to help but the two arresting officers shook their heads indicating they did not need the extra help. Pulling Austen up, they hurried him away. When they reached a waiting police car, they shoved him into a backseat but just before the door was slammed shut, the police commissioner arrived. Stooping, the police commissioner fixed a steely gaze on Austen and seconds later opened his mouth to say something. However, before he could utter a word, Austen’s head began to shake violently. His face contorted in pain which apparently was made worse by the handcuffs. Unable to use his hands to calm the violence, Austen began to moan in agony, muttering aloud and sometimes hitting or rolling his head against the backrest of the driver’s seat. Blatant dismay and annoyance took turns on the police commissioner’s face. It took two minutes before the violence ended and calm returned to Austen’s face, eyes closed. The police commissioner straightened himself and turned to face the two arresting officers. I have seen enough! “But that’s a … a totally insane man!” He was almost yelling. “Or you show me some evidence,” he rasped, pointing repeatedly at the prisoner, “that this isn’t an insane man? And I mean right now!” Anger blazed in his eyes, which left the junior officers squirming. “Is this a joke or something? Somebody talk to me!” He was clearly yelling as his eyes bored through the skulls of the junior officers probing their grey matters for answers. He did not notice that a handful of other police officers attracted to the scene had begun to move out of range of his temper. “But Sir,” Mike, the officer nearest to him began but did not know what else to say. Mike coughed but realized that the commissioner was apparently impatiently waiting for him to complete his speech. “Sorry Sir … we were acting on orders … your orders.” He looked at his partners but none was of any help. They were conveniently staring at the bank, as if all the answers were hidden somewhere behind the walls. “I know you were acting on my orders, Mike,” the police commissioner retorted, his voice high-pitched. “I haven’t denied 92
that, have I?” He expected no response. “What I am rather saying is that … this is a very mad man we have put in handcuffs … in front of all these civilians … and the press… and I brought an entire police force in combat mode just to arrest a single unarmed crazy man.” He was seething with rage. “Hmm!” It sounded like the menacing growl of a lion. “I do hope the bank management will make good their claim that this insane man had effectively used a bomb in a daring bank heist few months ago. Otherwise,” the police commissioner was pointing a threatening finger at the bank, “if the bank management make me look stupid to the press, they won’t get away with it … not for a fiasco as embarrassing as this. Quote me on that.” Mike coughed again and got the attention of the irate commissioner. “The prisoner is both a terrorist and a thief, Sir … seeing as he used a bomb for the bank heist.” He paused for breath. “Someone mentioned that the bank has surveillance footage of the robbery. And that was #20m he carted away in broad daylight. That he is an insane man does not make him less a terrorist or a thief.” Mike hoped he was being helpful. “That’s for the judges to decide, Mike.” The anger was reluctantly disappearing from the voice. “But I repeat my warning. If the bank management give the press an unwarranted opportunity to doodle me like a fool for bringing an entire combat force to arrest one unarmed insane man on mere suspicions of improper conduct when I should be tracking down thieves and real terrorists, stamping out Boko Haram with its anarchist viciousness, sadism and massacring of civilians who have no grudge against them except for the killing of the same masses, then I would have to bring down my full weight on the staff of this bank. It surely would be a very bone-crushing experience for each of them, you bet.” “Sorry Sir.” Mike decided he had said enough. He turned to look at some of his partners. “I’m scheduled to retire next year and have been at my best all these years to make sure I retire with enough honour, medals and a fat retirement package. A bank management can’t carelessly destroy my entire career all in one day. Never!” 93
Thereafter, the police commissioner stooped for another scrutinizing look at the prisoner who just sat quiet in the car, muttering to himself as if complaining about the handcuffs. “Inform the bank management that the suspect has been arrested and will be put in custody right away. Get the duty officers to secure every evidence related to the alleged crime and to begin tidying things up with a legal team. I’m sure legal proceedings would have to commence without any delay. Time to return to base. Signal the officers here.” “Yes Sir!” Mike was glad the nightmare was finally ending. He watched as the commissioner stormed towards his car. Turning to look around, Mike realized from the flurry of movements that the police officers and bomb squad had already understood the signal to pack up and go home.
9:04 a.m. Wednesday July 24 2013.
Fr. Ahamefule was sitting at a table in his office. He knew that though the clouds were heavy, it would not rain. From the sound of wind rushing past his windows, he understood that high up in the skies a strong wind was tearing through the darkening cloud clusters and erasing every chance of even a slight shower. He was happy because the rain would have been inconveniencing to his programs for the day. He was also happy with the couple who sat on chairs facing him. They were obviously gaining a lot from the spiritual counselling he was giving them. Fr. Ahamefule took a deep breath, stretched a right hand across the table, picked up an empty glass cup and poured some water from a container of bottled water into the glass cup. Then, slowly, he raised the cup to his lips and drank. As he dropped the glass cup, half-empty, he cleared his throat in a way signifying he would soon resume talking. He felt encouraged that the couple had a habit of nodding at intervals in affirmation of all he was saying. “Sorry for that 94
interruption,” he chipped in apologetically while pointing at the glass cup. The couple chuckled. “Now, let’s look at this all important issue. There is so much sadness in this world that we should do nothing but increase the love all day, all lifetime.” He waited for his words to sink into his audience. “I always use these scriptural references when preaching at a wedding Mass.” Fr. Ahamefule paused for effect, his eyes shuttling back and forth from the man to the woman. Both looked transfixed with his ideas. “Love means self-sacrifice. ‘God is Love,’ as Holy Bible says. And what is this love? What does it mean? About that, the Bible further says, ‘For God so loved the world that he sent his only Son –’ and that means God readily sacrificed what he cherished most, and doing all this because of the love he has for the world. What about this son he sacrificed by sending into the world to suffer and die for us? What’s the love there, the self-sacrifice?” The couple knew the question did not require a response from any of them except to keep listening. The woman, Helen, adjusted herself for comfort on the chair. Her husband, Charles, took that as a cue to pull in some air having realized he had been holding his breath. Shuttling his eyes between them once more, the priest paused to let his words sink in and enough time for him to articulate his next stream of words. “About that, the Bible says, ‘What greater love can a man have than to lay down his life for his friends?’” As Fr. Ahamefule’s glance just fell on the woman, he said, “Get the point here, my dear.” He paused. “Love is nothing but self-sacrifice. The opposite of love, you might say, is hatred but it is actually selfishness. Alright, look at this scenario.” He hunched forward on his chair, eyes darting from the man to the woman. “A couple, working class, and everyday each arrives back home at a different time after the day’s work. One day it happens that there’s just one plate of food left in the house. Let’s assume the man gets home first. He goes to the kitchen, sees the single plate of food and tells himself, ‘I’m very tired and hungry. But I will leave this food for my wife. When she gets home, let her eat first. If there’s anything left after she’s eaten to her satisfaction, then I eat.’” 95
For a moment that looked like an eternity, the priest fixed his gaze on Charles. But just before Charles could begin to feel uncomfortable, the priest pulled his gaze away. “The same kind of thought comes to the woman if she gets home first,” he continued as his gaze settled on Helen. He adjusted himself to relax better on the backrest of his chair, his eyes beginning to shuttle between the couple. “That’s love, that’s self-sacrifice. That’s thinking of another person before oneself, about what one can do to take care of the other person, even if it entails sacrificing one’s personal comfort. The opposite is very clear.” He shook his head negatively, stopping for a breath. He was happy the couple was eager for more. “A scenario where the man comes home first and says, ‘I’m very tired and hungry and it’s only one plate of food. I have to eat first. Anything left over will be for my wife. She may not even be as hungry as I am.’ The same thought comes to the woman if she gets home first. In this scenario, each person is scheming to take care of him or herself first even at the expense of the other person.” Fr. Ahamefule pursed his lips in disgust. “That’s selfishness, pure and total,” he shook his head with sadness, “and there can be no love there. Selfishness destroys every iota of love that could be existing between a couple or group of people. And when all the love is gone, the next quarrel would be about separation or divorce, and it’s always the kids who suffer most from marital disintegration. If among a group of people, the next quarrel would be about schism, secession or independence.” At this, Charles cut in for clarifications. “But Father, about the true nature of love. Using the same scenario of a single plate of food, I was thinking that love would rather mean that the person who gets home first divides the plate of food equally, eating half and leaving half for the spouse.” Helen took the cue. “Yea, that’s what I thought too, and that’s quite obvious. By dividing the food equally, no one cheats the other and everyone is satisfied with whatever is due or merited.” She was pleased she was sharing the same viewpoint with her husband. Fr. Ahamefule nodded rhythmically five times as if in affirmation of their point of view, a smile slicing his face from 96
cheek to cheek. The couple waited with anticipation. Suddenly, he began to shake his head indicating disapproval. That threw the couple off-balance and they realized he had just pulled their legs. “My dear, dividing the food equally so that each person gets whatever is due or merited? But that’s just distributive justice.” He shrugged. “That’s not love. There is no justice in love. Quote me on that, anytime, anywhere. In the self-sacrifice which is both the heart and body of love, there is injustice. Sacrificing one’s welfare for the sake of another person is doing injustice to oneself, not justice. That’s because you won’t be getting whatever is your due or merit. My dear, anytime you realize you are willing to give up that symbolic single plate of food for the sake of another person when you rather need it, right there have you begun to love.” Silence. The couple was speechless. Charles noticed contentment on the priest’s face, happy that his words had sunk in. Charles pulled in some air. “Wao! That insight was … just unexpected! What great thoughts, Father. An oracle of wisdom you are! All reality and no fiction. So much to thank you for.” He cast a glance at his wife who was so wrapped in thought she didn’t realize she was staring at the priest. “Helen and I can’t thank you enough for helping us resolve our marital problems.” “God will be thanking you even much more than you deserve.” Helen was a little flustered as she took her eyes away from the priest. “We promise we won’t be repeating past mistakes again.” Charles sounded confident. “And no new ones,” Helen added turning to smile at her husband. “The Lord is your strength.” Fr. Ahamefule sounded very reassuring. Helen smiled at the priest. “Father, you prayed for us before we began the counselling but please never stop praying for us especially when celebrating Holy Mass. No prayer is as powerful as the Holy Mass. We need divine assistance always.” “Come to think of it,” Charles cut in, regret oozing from his eyes. “We nearly broke up our family over nothing but selfishness. Now it all looks so … childish.” He looked at his wife who merely 97
chuckled. “About family break-ups,” Fr. Ahamefule threw in, “I may just have something you need to chew the cud on when you get home. It’s a quotation from a book, The Oracle of the Wiseman and I memorized the passage. It says, ‘When a hurricane rampages through a city, it is called a natural disaster; the government declares a state of emergency and sets out to assist the victims. An epidemic mows down a population and there is an international coalition to counter it. An oppressive regime exterminates a tribal population and the international community tries the culprits for genocide and crimes against humanity. But most Western marriages go into overdrive shortly after wedding and end in divorce, an embarrassment that must not be copied by Africans. However, governments around the world hesitate to declare the high rate of divorce a social disaster. Don’t they know that the disintegration of the family is the disintegration of the society? Doesn’t everyone know that when we keep producing disoriented citizens from disoriented families, the outcome is a disoriented society?’ End of quote.” “That’s a thunderbolt!” Charles did not know what else to say. “I need a copy of that book, Father.” Helen was already looking at a bookshelf in a corner of the office, running a quick scan with her eyes. “Where can I get it?” There was plea in her voice.ñ “Oh!” Fr. Ahamefule did not look surprised at the request. “You will find copies in standard bookshops around the country. I had two but gave one out to someone, Austen, the young man afflicted by insanity. You surely know him, don’t you?” In response, the couple nodded in unison. “I once saw Austen reading The Wiseman while muttering and pacing around. I was impressed. I came closer and looked over his shoulders. The pages were all soiled, some so soiled you couldn’t again make out what was on it. I gave him a new copy of The Wiseman as well as The Oracle of the Wiseman. I believe he’s taking better care of those books now.” “You had such great books, Father, and you gave them away to … an insane man?” Charles sounded clearly incredulous. “But, Charles, tell me,” Fr. Ahamefule said hunching towards him, “who stands in greater need of wisdom, an insane man 98
who by that is considered foolish or a sane man who by that is considered already wise?” He held Charles’ gaze. Helen knew her husband could have no answer to the rhetorical question. “We will get a copy from somewhere, Father.” She chuckled at her husband who merely smiled in defeat. “Thanks again, Father,” Charles said looking towards the door. “There are some people waiting for a turn for counselling. We rather not delay them any further. See you some other time, Father.” He started to rise from his chair. Fr. Ahamefule nodded with understanding. “To God be the glory. May your days be blessed.” Simultaneously, Fr. Ahamefule and Helen rose from their seats. Still standing at his desk, he shook hands with the couple. Thereafter, the couple hugged each other tenderly and began to move towards the door, the man leading the way. In stride, the woman turned her neck and with a cheery smile waved at the priest. Before the priest could wave back, she disappeared behind the curtains and three seconds later, a man stepped in, two different folded newspapers in his left hand. He was the parish council chairman. The parish council chairman was visibly radiant with happiness as he sauntered across the office towards the priest who was still standing at his desk. When he reached the priest’s desk, both men leaned forward and shook hands, beaming with smiles. “Good morning, Father,” he said. “Good to see you.” “Good to see you too, Philip. Good morning.” Waving him to a chair, Fr. Ahamefule said, “Have a seat.” And chuckling mischievously, he chipped in, “or you rather prefer to stand, wanting what you ate this morning, as heavy a meal as it always is, to digest under the force of gravity.” “In that case,” Philip replied, moving towards a chair, “I will be taking my seat right away. I just might collapse under force of gravity since I didn’t have any breakfast.” He sat down. “Oh, dear! Is it now that bad? Your wife once again heaping embargoes on your feeding and not condoning even a breakfast, is it?” He was choking with laughter. “Oh, I get it … again you had refused to sit with her and harmonize income and expenditure from salaries. It’s yours then – the blame.” Contorting with mirth, 99
he slapped both palms on the desk and sat down. Philip wanted to say something to repel the attack but was lost for words. In a show of defeat, he adjusted himself on his seat, arched his eyebrows, pursed his lips and gave a prolonged shrug. His silence helped the priest to recover his composure. Leaning forward, Philip cleared his throat indicating he had something important to say. “I just have to get to it, Father, seeing as it is a very critical matter. Have a look at these two newspapers … the headlines … front page.” He hunched forward and skilfully flung both newspapers on the table. Both landed facing the priest in a reading position. Leaning forward, Fr. Ahamefule read the headlines with a quick scan of the eyes. He fell back on the backrest of his chair, unfettered alarm crystallizing on his face. “What are these papers talking about? The picture – that surely is Austen, isn’t it?” He did not wait for a reply. “I don’t get this. How could the police arrest and detain Austen – an insane man?” “It was a shock the first time I set eyes on those headlines.” “When did this happen? Just unbelievable. Never heard until now.” “Yesterday … just yesterday. The headlines alone tell most of the story. One says, ‘The Insane Arrest’ while the other says, ‘Madness under Arrest’. Other papers have similar … funny versions. The media is awash with news about the police commissioner leading an entire armed combat force to a branch of the Nedu Phoenix Bank to arrest Austen on some hideous allegations that he robbed the same bank of #20m in broad daylight … and with a bomb! Could you believe that? Ever heard anything more crazy? That’s my first, believe me.” “That must be a joke … the joke of the year or something.” Fr. Ahamefule fell silent, lost in thought as he pulled his eyes off the parish council chairman man and focused them on trees out by the window. Moments later, a smile formed on his lips. He did not know when he burst out laughing, almost startling his guest. “A story like that should … should,” he was apparently choking on his words, “make the Gui… Guinness Book of Records. Get the scenario.” He paused for effect, taking a long breath. Fr. Ahamefule was amused by the sense of anticipation that 100
came over his guest. He smiled at Philip. “An unknown insane man saunters into a bank … gets past the entire array of security guards and surveillance systems … and hauls out… hauls out a bomb right there in the middle of the banking hall. The bank staff hurriedly hand over #20m … in full … view of dozens of clients. The insane man throws his bomb back into wherever he hauled it out from and … walks away through the front doors. No guns fired … no hostages taken … not even a physical tussle with security guards. Get to it, please. Get the board of the Guinness Book of Records on the phone. We have a winner here. A sure deal. A perfect hit.” Philip was fighting hard to swallow down the laughter rising to his lips like a volcano. It was late before he realized he could not win. Their boisterous laughter ricocheted off the walls of the office. Philip wanted to chip in something in between the laughter. Getting control of his laughter, he wiped tears off his eyes with the back of his right palm and cleared his throat. He was happy the priest was getting over his own laughter and leaning forward to read through the front pages in a hurry. “Wao!” Philip exclaimed. “That’s the entire story, Father … or most of it … as if you read the papers even before I arrived.” He paused. “You have very good imaginative powers. You should try expanding your literary potentials to film scripts. You could win an Oscar, you never can tell.” He chuckled as the priest smiled in acknowledgement of the compliment. “Alright, Father, what do we do next? Austen is still in custody, you know.” “Of course we must step in to assist Austen. I take care of my own. Something doesn’t smell right about those allegations. We will do all we can to get this murky situation cleared and bring the young man home … back to his family … and to us. What evidence do they have … the bank management? What do we know?” “I got wind of this incident late yesterday evening … on the 9:00 p.m news. You were busy celebrating Mass then, otherwise you wouldn’t have missed it.” Philip paused for a moment. “Early this morning, I went over to the Añuri Home and there it was confirmed that Austen has been missing since yesterday morning. A woman said she saw him leave the premises early yesterday 101
morning rather than sweep the compound as he always did. She thought it was one of those queer habits of his and didn’t put any further interest in it. No one knew he hitchhiked out of town … and how he was able to pay for a taxi.” Fr. Ahamefule merely looked on. Philip knew he was a patient listener and expected no response. “But Austen never returned that night and that was when people started raising eyebrows. That was also when news started filtering in … about a certain insane man robbing a bank in Amaego city and getting arrested by a swarm of heavily armed police officers.” “OK. I’m getting the picture now … the background story. Please continue.” “I wanted to get my hands on some solid information before coming over to see you.” Philip shrugged while arching his eyebrows and pursing his lips. “That was why I had to do some preliminary investigation,” he smiled, “like a private detective, you know.” The priest smiled back. “Yea, I had to go over to the Añuri Home as soon as I was up from bed this morning. From there, I drove out of town to the NPB branch in question. I got to see the manager. In so many words he explained it wasn’t a setup but that Austen did rob the bank of #20m and with a bomb … six months ago. Then, yesterday morning, surprisingly he shows up at the bank – they identified him and called the police.” “What evidence does the bank have … establishing that Austen did rob the bank? That’s all that matters now.” “I posed that verdict wining question to the manager. He replied they have a surveillance system in the bank and –” “That’s all the proof, then – irrefutable evidence. It’s so sad. How could Austen do such a … a crazy thing … being mad and all?” Fr. Ahamefule could not hide his disappointment. “No, Father! Hold on. I’m not through yet.” Philip was in a hurry to say more. “The manager said they have a surveillance system but a faulty one and it hasn’t been functioning for some months now. In other words, there’s practically no surveillance footage of the robbery … no hardcore evidence.” Fr. Ahamefule gasped and was in time to stop his buttocks from lifting-off from the seat as he felt a sudden urge to spring up. With a harried expression on his face, he murmured aloud, 102
“Did you just say the bank has no surveillance footage of the incident?” “Exactly. The manager regretted it had been on their agenda to replace the faulty system but couldn’t get down to it until the robbery happened. And no reliable forensic fingerprint technology in Nigeria yet, which could have been the alternative.” “How convenient!” The disgust was clear in Fr. Ahamefule’s voice. “First, they accuse an insane man of a premeditated act of terrorism and robbery and then turn around to announce they have no substantiating evidence. That’s enough grounds for a defamation suit.” Fr. Ahamefule swallowed hard while looking out the window. Philip kept his eyes fixed on him. When Fr. Ahamefule brought his eyes back to Philip, anger was just beginning to contort his face. “And they had the audacity … the audacity to get an over-armed police to swoop down on him like a ‘Most Wanted’ criminal and locked away since last night. I’m consoled the press were there on time to cover the breaking news. The bank management and the police will have a lot of explaining to do … to wriggle out of this mess, if ever.” Philip grimaced in support. “Yea, that would be an uphill task. As I kept querying the manager, he conceded that their best shot was testimonies from some bank staff and clients there on the day of robbery. They had seen the robber’s head shake involuntarily a couple of times. That was the major factor they used to identify Austen when he walked into the bank yesterday.” “The head-shaking problem?” Fr. Ahamefule sounded incredulous. “That’s their hard-core evidence – head-shaking?” “I understand your incredulity. After all, Austen is not the only insane man with a head-shaking problem. It could be just anybody … any other crazy man.” “And how could a mere head-shaking problem become the greatest weapon of a prosecuting lawyer?” Fr. Ahamefule wanted answers. “Oh, Father!” Philip chuckled. “Lawyers?” he queried in mock reproach. “Once the pay is right, you can get them to argue any viewpoint – that sharks live on land while tigers live in the ocean.” Fr. Ahamefule felt his anger giving way to mirth. “Then, this will certainly turn out an interesting legal episode.” He paused 103
for thought. “On the day of robbery – six months ago – what did the bank management do about it?” “They called the police to the crime scene … after the alleged robber had long escaped unchallenged with the loot. The police arrived and didn’t find any criminal to arrest. They took statements from witnesses and promised they would smoke the culprit out in no time. Two months and with no reliable clues turning up, the file was stamped inactive and dumped – until yesterday.” “Good that all this murk will be cleared in no time. But come to think of it. What about the bomb? Assuming it was Austen, how did he procure a bomb and where could he have disposed of it?” “That’s the juiciest part of the whole spectacle. How and where – if the bank management still wish to assert that Austen robbed them with a bomb? This really blows the mind.” “Did the police say anything about any bomb … locating and defusing it or something? There was a bomb disposal squad at the bank yesterday … and I guess they were there on the day of robbery.” “Six months ago when called to the crime scene, the police didn’t find any trace of an explosive device. Of course, whoever was the bandit had already vanished into thin air. The best evidence the police could get were recurrent references in statements taken from witnesses that the bandit strapped a bomb over his stomach and kept threatening to detonate it.” Fr. Ahamefule swallowed hard. Squinting, he fixed his eyes on Philip. “Hypothetically, if our insane man here, Austen, was the bandit, then what was it he had strapped over his stomach? It couldn’t have been a real bomb. That’s absolutely beyond his capabilities.” “During my chat with the manager earlier this morning, I mentioned that the Austen we know is mentally incapacitated to acquire a bomb. At that, the manager said that on the day of the robbery, the suspect was seen inside the bank dressed like a clergyman in a black long-sleeved Roman collar shirt and a seablue suit. Everyone thought he was a Pentecostal pastor who had some banking to do.” 104
“You must be kidding me. This is getting more interesting than I thought.” Fr. Ahamefule’s curiosity was piqued. “The pastor was also holding a Holy Bible. However, the pastor didn’t approach any of the bank staff for services. Rather, after a couple of minutes of idling about, he went out. When he came back in, they didn’t see the Bible again but a bulge on his stomach. When he parted the flaps of his jacket, people saw something he repeatedly described as a bomb.” “Interesting.” “One of the security guards, in his statement, mentioned that he recognized the piece of cloth the suspect used to strap the bomb over his stomach and another piece he strapped over his mouth. They were two of the three pieces of rag used in the generator room, washed and left on a flower hedge to dry in the sun. They haven’t found those rags since the robbery. Now, that’s what you call interesting, isn’t it, Father?” “More like … a thriller, very mind-blowing!” Fr. Ahamefule clapped once with excitement. “That means the alleged bomb was just a copy of the Holy Bible strapped over the stomach of an insane man, isn’t it?” In response, Philip fixed his eyes on the priest. He didn’t know when he melted into a boisterous laughter. That left the priest startled for a few moments but the laughter was infectious. Both men enjoyed the irony of the entire story. Moments later, Philip coughed as he struggled to get over the laughter before the priest did. “Austen … just an insane man,” Philip squealed between bouts of laughter, “just one … and … and … it was a crowd of sane people there that day and none was rational enough to realize that the bomb was just a copy of the Bible. How hilarious!” Laughter rocked Philip. “Forgive me, Father but I can’t help myself.” “You bet!” Fr. Ahamefule chuckled. “Those bank staff and clients just couldn’t see through the fog … scared to their bone marrows the first time they heard him mention a bomb … and worse as he kept threatening to detonate it. That surely could get sane people give up their powers of reasoning. Pity.” Fr. Ahamefule shrugged and pursed his lips in a gesture of 105
mock indifference. Thereafter, a mischievous glow came to his eyes. “Come to think of it. Only few Hollywood stars are capable of a one-man bank heist like that … and so rare to be pulled off by an insane man. That was top-notch … Guinness Book of Records standard.” Philip was already nodding in affirmation while tears of mirth flowed from his eyes. He was yet to successfully quench the laughter. He began to wipe off the tears with the back of his left hand. That left patches of tears across his cheeks. “Everything that professional criminals – or these Hollywood stars – would take days and weeks planning and rehearsing just to pull off one successful heist facilitated by state-of-the-art robbery gears was what a single insane man did on mere impulses, armed with a Bible … within an hour and leaving no traces for the police.” “A thriller … action-packed. Has every right to be the headline of every major news media worldwide.” Philip was happy. Fr. Ahamefule smiled. “OK. OK. Back to business. The prosecution has yet to establish that it was none but Austen who robbed the bank as against a likely scenario where Austen just happened to be around when the real robber was on it. Or an impostor pretending to be Austen so that Austen gets arrested while he walks free with the loot. We just have to step in for Austen. He needs us now more than ever. How is he doing … in the cell, do you know?” “In police custody? That was the last place I visited this morning. I’m sure he hasn’t yet comprehended he is under arrest. But he’s doing just fine and never as a criminal but as a media star!” “I thought you were through with your jokes?” Fr. Ahamefule stopped himself from laughing. “Seriously, he’s become a media star.” Philip chuckled. “People intrigued by the news have been trooping to the police station just for a glimpse at the insane man who defied every logic to rob a bank better than career armed robbers. That’s tourism by my standards.” “And some tourists would be asking for autographs, I’m sure,” Fr. Ahamefule chuckled as he added, “including the police.” 106
“Who would begrudge them that?” Philip pulled in a long breath. It helped slam a lid on the laughter rising from within. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Father.” There was mischief in his eyes. He was encouraged that the priest looked on with anticipation. “Granted that armed robbery is a criminal offence, well, right there I spoke with some pride, you know, telling police officers and tourists that I know the suspect very well … and in fact I’m the chairman of the parish council of St. Bernardine’s where he belongs and Fr. Ahamefule, the parish priest, is his chaperon. Right away, reporters hemmed me in for more inside scoop. I even granted an exclusive interview to a cousin who works with a newspaper.” “Oh my God!” Fr. Ahamefule sighed with mock dismay. “You did nothing but incriminate me – a chaperon and all?” “Get a lawyer – a damned good one!” “Thanks.” Fr. Ahamefule shook his head with exasperation. “Go for more interviews. The press must have put your house and office under siege even as we speak. I wonder who’s the media star now – Austen who pulled off an exotic bank heist or a parish council chairman who takes pride in recounting Austen’s biography to anyone who cared to listen?” “Thanks for that vote of confidence.” “Hmmm!” Fr. Ahamefule glanced at his Lobo wristwatch. “But rather than waiting to watch you spewing your stuff on TV on the hourly news or printed in the next edition of the papers, it’s better I go over to the police station … and to the bank.” “OK.” Philip nodded in affirmation, a smile playing on his lips. “I will go with you, Father. I have all day – for this case.” “Of course you have to. Where else would you be going?” Fr. Ahamefule chuckled. “Sadly, that would mean telling all the people out in the waiting room to go home and come back some other time. I can’t see them today. We certainly have something as urgent to attend to.” “I guess so. I will inform Chioma, your secretary, to convey the message to them.” “Thanks but I rather tell the people myself.” Fr. Ahamefule paused for a moment. “We just have to step into this criminal case right away. We will use some of the money left over from the 107
#19.6m anonymous donation and hire the best criminal lawyer in the city.” “A step in the right direction.” Philip was looking out the window. “That’s what we’ve to do. And to push for the case to be taken to court in no time so that we get the young man back home ASAP.” He paused again. “We have to convene an emergency meeting of the parish council … tonight, after working hours … 7:00 p.m.” Philip merely nodded as he brought his eyes back to the priest. He felt the uneasy rush as different thoughts flooded his mind. “We need an emergency meeting to put things in perspective.” “Only God knows the true details of what happened that day and why it even happened. That’s why I will suggest we carry out a three-day prayer program for God to guide the ongoing police investigations and to direct deliberations at the court as legal proceedings. God will take control of everything in the Jesus’ mighty name we pray.” “Amen!” Philip did the Sign of the Cross. Father, time to take my leave.” Simultaneously, both men rose from their seats and after shaking hands in silence, began to move out of the office, Philip leading the way.
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Chapter Three 7:05 a.m. Thursday August 1 2013.
Tsaor, the Attorney General of the Federation, who always preferred to be addressed as the AGF, walked into the master dining room barely noticing a maid in uniform standing aside by the wall and his personal assistant by the door. As an upper class citizen, the AGF owned an impressive house of thirteen rooms right at the heart of Abuja. That was a private residence he built apart from the official residential quarters attached to his portfolio. There were rumours he had a list of other properties in Abuja ranging from entire estates for renting to companies conveniently registered using relatives as fronts. At the table, he pulled a chair out to sit down, his mind focusing on the tasteless wheat bread he always ate to keep his sugar level down. He had to eat alone again because his wife was not back from Paris. She had gone shopping for the wedding of their second daughter, Nkechi, scheduled the following October, a wedding dubbed “The Wedding of the Century”. Nkechi had recently graduated from Oxford University while her spouse, Chimezie, had graduated from Ebonyi State University a year earlier than her and employed as a middle cadre staff in a textile factory in Aba. He was from a poor family but lucky enough to have caught Nkechi’s attention and won her love. Nkechi’s four siblings were in other universities across Europe and already booked their flights back to Nigeria for the wedding. As Tsaor sat down, he felt proud to have sent his kids overseas to study in some Western universities. Well, it’s just a class symbol 109
among the Nigerian elite and across Africa. While his mind relished the thought, he felt a spark of cunning briefly light up his eyes. Yea! We send our kids abroad while the standard of education in Nigerian schools nosedives under our watch while we run the government. Who dare hold me responsible? Tsaor picked up a table flask and poured out some hot water into a teacup. He opened a packet of Lipton Tea and dropped a teabag into the teacup. He heaved a sigh as he mused. No one can reasonably expect me to solve all the world’s problems in one day! Mentally counting off all he had waiting for him in the office for that day, shortly, he decided it was time. Gently, he pulled the teabag out as it dripped wet, dropped it on the saucer and spooned some powdered milk into the teacup. It never occurred to him to add some cubes of sugar because he had never used sugar since ten years and counting. He turned the tea with a teaspoon while his eyes made a perfunctory scan of some newspapers neatly folded and placed within reach. As Tsaor took the teacup to his lips, he used the left hand to pick up a copy of The Shooting Star. He did not know when his fingers lost grip and the teacup fell back on the saucer, some hot liquid spilling on the table. He could only stare in horror at the front page. On it was a picture of a rebellious crowd flaunting placards with diverse inscriptions but the centre shot was a placard that said, “WHO IS INSANE HERE: AUSTEN OR THE ATTORNEY GENERAL?” He dropped the paper like it was a hot object and hurriedly rummaged through the other newspapers in the pile just looking at the headlines. He was afraid he would get a heart attack. His breathing became laboured, perspiration breaking out on his plump face. Finally, Tsaor picked The Shooting Star up again and did a quick reading. He felt his stomach muscles convulsing with pangs of sudden hunger. He flung the newspaper back on the pile, grabbed two slices of wheat bread and gulped everything down with the half-empty cup of tea. He knew the maid and the personal assistant were having a hard time pretending not to notice. I’m sure the domestic staff all heard about the headlines before I was up from bed! It was then he realized that the initial shock was quickly 110
turning into livid rage. Tsaor shot up from the dining table and stomped off, not a word to anyone. As he went past the door, he overheard his personal assistant speaking into a transceiver alerting the chauffeur and the police escort of his approach and cautioning them to be wary of his bad mood. No one wants to be the victim of a transferred aggression. On a very good day, Tsaor would have openly smiled at the efficiency of his staff. Instead, it all sounded like a monstrous conspiracy against him. Just as an aide opened the door and ushered him into the backseat of the latest model Range Rover jeep, his favourite car among a garage of seven cars, he bluntly ignored another pile of newspapers customarily kept on the vacant seat near him. The sudden sound of his Apple phone beginning to ring startled him. He was glad the chauffeur did not notice his unease as the chauffeur was busy resetting the air-conditioning system. I already know who would be calling so soon. He glanced at the name on the screen and with a sigh of fatalism, picked the call. “A very good morning to you, Sir.” Tsaor already knew what was coming. He had always avoided any misunderstandings with the vice-president. He felt the inertia of the car gently throw him backwards as the chauffeur began to drive. “Hello, AGF. Good morning to you too.” Musa, the vicepresident, sounded in a hurry to get to the reason for the call. He had always nursed some misgivings about the loyalty of the Attorney General of the Federation. “Thanks.” Oh, God, by what sad miracle did a wacko’s bank heist suddenly become a top national issue, a political minefield? Tsaor absent-mindedly watched the scenery fly past as the car slowly increased speed. A single heist that has theatrically metamorphosed into an anthem on the lips of civil rights groups and worse still an arsenal in the hands of the opposition party. Tsaor felt anger ripping through his mind like the tornado that tore through Oklahoma in May 2013, leaving scores of people dead and every property in its wild path destroyed. Tsaor paused. “Hello?” He was indicating he was ready for whatever the vice-president had in stock for him. “I saw the newspapers.” Musa sounded irritated. His not 111
bothering to elaborate was ominous and conveyed his deep disenchantment with the turn of events around the AGF. Obviously, he did not need to give a narrative about the rise in demonstrations in some major cities across the nation. The peaceful demonstrations had started in Owerri, the Imo State capital where dozens of youths had taken to the streets with placards demanding the immediate release of an insane man hustled behind bars without any reliable evidence over an alleged armed robbery. The incident had a domino effect as some pressure groups and political parties in other cities across the country took up the battle cry. “What’s your next step?” Musa was impatient for any quick solution to the unfolding crisis. Tsaor was silent. That was exactly the question he dreaded anyone to ask him, at least for the next two hours. That was enough time to get to his office and yank at a handful of allies for an emergency meeting in his office. “I know the situation and have already initiated a counter-offensive.” He did not want to elaborate because he did not have a clear idea how to do that. Traffic that morning seemed unusually heavy, precipitating traffic jams at some major intersections even though traffic lights or traffic wardens were at their best. Occasionally, the police escort would lead the convoy to recklessly barge into the lane of oncoming vehicles, lights and sirens threatening against any protest. “That sounds like damage control,” Musa chipped in. “Don’t let things get worse than they already are. The federal government is hurting from undue pressure from the international community. Your gaffe set off this crisis and it has spiralled into other matters that has nothing to do with you. You take the blame, you take the fall. You might want to know that the party is set to label you a political risk, to put it mildly. You know the consequences.” “I have things under control,” Tsaor retorted. Don’t forget I was the brain, the last call that rigged you and the president into office. Tsaor left the thought frozen in his mind much against a strong desire to yell it into the phone. It was then he realized Musa had already cut the call. He also realized he was sweating 112
profusely under his black double-breasted suit, notwithstanding the air-conditioning. Tsaor decided he did not have much to regret in his thirteenyear career as a politician. He had begun as a Local Government chairman in Benue State, ferociously climbing through the Benue State House of Representatives and the National House of Assembly until he became the Attorney General of the Federation. With a swift mental review, he passed a vote of confidence on himself as a politician of exotic pedigree. He knew he had a very long list of corrupt dealings but like most of his peers, his conscience was too sedated by egoism to bother with the plight of generations ineluctably victimized by bad governance under his watch. Has my Day of Reckoning come, for my misdeeds to haunt me all because of an insane man! His nightmare had begun when he gave a press conference two days after Austen’s arrest during which he declared like a Roman emperor that the federal government has zero tolerance for terrorism and banditry irrespective of whether the criminal was sane or insane and that as the Attorney General of the Federation he would see to it that Austen suffered the full weight of the law. On a very good day, a pronouncement of zero tolerance would have nudged his political status a notch higher. Unfortunately, the opposite was happening. He had failed to draw a line between sane and insane people. What Tsaor considered rather unsettling was that if he failed to successfully scuttle the onslaught from vindictive civil rights groups and opposition parties that had laid siege to the polity ahead of general elections in 2015, his party, the National Democratic Progressive Party (NDPP) was set to cut him loose on charges of insubordination while the federal government would publicly denounce him, distance itself from his pronouncements and then fire him. That would surely mean kicking him down the hill for the rest of his political life. What next step? Four months earlier, the Visionary Political Parties Confederacy (VPPC) had been formed, a merger of six promising political parties set to pull the rug from under the NDPP at the next general elections in 2015. It was an unwieldy development that stimulated a phantasmagorical back and forth movement of some politicians, 113
their supporters, and mobs between the two parties. On the heels of Tsaor’s press debacle, Owelle, an eminent VPPC politician rumoured to be the favoured candidate of the party’s board of trustees for one of the top offices in the federal government, had granted an interview during which he declared that “the NDPP government has left the nation so disoriented and so plundered that even mad people have come to understand that and have taken to the streets in protest, robbing banks along the way! Therefore, there can be no better time to vote the NDPP out of office than now and once out, to keep them out permanently!” Tsaor grimaced. Although he resisted it, his mind recalled how The Political Review magazine once described Owelle as “a man whose achievements in good governance his rivals have found too intimidating to contend with.” He hissed with annoyance and for the umpteenth time glanced at his Rolex wristwatch. Tsaor found it comforting that his convoy would soon arrive at the destination. There must be a way out. People have pulled through worse circumstances. He also found it even more comforting that the NDPP were fighting back with so much determination that the VPPC would never be so sure of winning any office despite all the political fanfare, let alone getting a VPPC contestant to become the next president. However, he was haunted by the awareness that his best chances of redemption within the party lay in the success of the NDPP at the polls. He decided he would get his Media Aide to release a press statement re-interpreting his zero tolerance declaration and asserting he had been quoted out of context. After that, he would give a press conference where he would claim in a vilified voice that he never meant insane people must be prosecuted and punished as thoroughly as sane people. Rather, there were some sane people who claim insanity just to evade prosecution and such people should be brought to book like every other sane criminal. Thus, it would then be for the courts to decide whether Austen was truly insane or another impostor. Tsaor nodded. A smile appeared at the corners of his lips. I’m sure this will get me off the hook. My career would soon rebound to stability, safe from sudden obliteration like the January 28, 1986 Challenger space shuttle disaster that exploded around 11:40 a.m, 114
seventy-three seconds after launch, killing all seven crew members. He shook his head with sadness. As soon as the convoy pulled up, his own car stopping inches from the porch of the three-storey office complex, Tsaor was already out of the car before someone could come around to pull the car door open. Those miscreants, those activists might still fight back by branding my press release as mere political chicanery. He stomped towards the lounge heading for the elevators. As Tsaor sat on a chair, the grandeur of his office made him feel safe from the troubles that waited for him right outside the door. He felt a new surge of power, a capacity to get people do his bidding. He knew it was time to throw out all his tentacles like a belligerent octopus and rope in some assistance from every strategically positioned person within his domain of influence. If push comes to shove, he would use raw threats. It was as bad as that. The AGF grimaced. Of course, I will give a directive that since national interests were being jeopardized by shock waves from the civil unrest, Austen’s case should be given accelerated court attention. He smiled at the thought that there could be no one who wanted the case to be over as badly as he did. As a secretary served him coffee, he realized with some embarrassment that he had been brooding just sitting on his chair. As the secretary left, he leaned forward, pulled a Compaq laptop close, lifted the top and pressed a button. He sat back to watch it boot. I will use a proxy to request the prosecuting lawyer to tank the case so that verdict would be in favour of the accused. He began to feel impatient that the laptop was taking too long to boot. A “not guilty” verdict is as crucial as the NDPP’s last opportunity to win the presidential elections. Tsaor felt his stomach tighten with fear as the enormity of the situation dawned on him. He dreaded the thought that the prosecuting counsel, Suleiman, a Director of Public Prosecution, will not readily play along, given his reputation that once he sank his teeth into any case, he never paused the hailstorm until he got a “guilty” verdict against a defendant. Tsaor regretted it was too late for him to pull some strings and change Suleiman as the prosecuting counsel since he was in 115
dire need of someone he could bribe. He decided he would threaten Suleiman with an investigation by the Nigeria Bar Association or the National Judicial Commission on allegations of “professional irregularities,” as the press would be told. That was always a good scare for high profile lawyers. Again, Tsaor dreaded the thought that Suleiman was the type that did everything by the book. He just has to soft-pedal on this case, at least this once. He began to pat himself in search of his mobile phone. He had a long list of names to call.
11:33 a.m. Friday September 20 2013.
Chigbo looked pleased as he recalled the scenery he had seen while driving into the court premises an hour earlier. The Federal High Court situated in a serene part of Wuse District in the Federal Capital Territory, Abuja, was an imposing building with a beautiful landscape. Occasionally, you could see people posing in front of the building to take pictures. However, the foil for its integrity was a strong rumour that while the contract to build the court never followed due process and was fraudulently billed, the culprits were never arrested and prosecuted, a bad omen for any legal outpost. A voice pierced through his daydream and Chigbo brought his mind back to the moment. It was the second court hearing on Austen’s case and as the manager of the robbed Nedu Phoenix Bank branch, he had been required to stand in the witness box. He focused his eyes on Suleiman, the prosecuting counsel, happy the lawyer was living up to expectations. He took his eyes away and did a brief scan of the courtroom. Across from him was Austen, the accused, sitting at a long table and between two male lawyers who were his defense team. Adjacent to them and sitting at another long table was a female lawyer, Chinwe, Suleiman’s partner. Austen’s parish priest, Fr. Ahamefule, dressed in an immaculate 116
white soutane, was sitting with some spectators in the gallery. Around his waist was a black cincture which ended in tassels that flowed down the side of his left leg. Also sitting with the audience were Mrs. Bernardine and her family, some members of the parish council and scores of parishioners all dressed in black skirts or trousers and white polo shirts on which was boldly written, “JUSTICE? FREE AUSTEN, AN INSANE MAN!” A mobile phone rang. All eyes turned towards the offender. Fr. Ahamefule saw a young girl hurriedly grab her Black Berry phone and stamp a finger on it, shutting it down totally while beaming an apologetic smile at the judge as she glared at her. Fr. Ahamefule turned his gaze on Austen. He felt a surge of sympathy that Austen’s insanity would surely make him unable to comprehend whatever was going on whereas he was the sole reason everyone was gathered there that morning. He doesn’t even join us to laugh at intermittent statements from the prosecuting counsel that came out in a funny way. Fr. Ahamefule turned to look at the prosecuting counsel beginning again to perambulate a short distance from the judge as he picked up his speech after the interruption. “That girl, Your Honour, is not part of my prosecuting team, just in case the defense team tries to argue I hired her to cause an interruption.” Suleiman shrugged feigning indifference as subdued laughter burst out in various corners of the courtroom. The judge, a middle-aged woman, hurriedly suppressed a smile burgeoning on her face, picked up the gavel and rammed it loudly on the bench three times. “I won’t have you, Mr. Prosecuting Counsel or anyone making fun in my court or causing any manner of distraction. That could be considered contempt of court, enough to get you arrested. Henceforth, even if what you have to say has something funny about it, say it without the fun. That’s an order.” “Pardon the oversight, Your Honour. Note taken.” Suleiman was secretly happy he had indirectly heightened the attention of the court on whatever else he had to say. “Alright,” the judge said, “do you wish to cross-examine the witness some more?” Her countenance suggested he rather not. “No, Your Honour. But at this juncture, I wish to present a 117
recap and close my presentation.” Suleiman took a deep breath. Now is the moment, what millions of people watching the live coverage or listening over the radio have been waiting for. I have to give it my best shot. “This whole affair,” he said gesticulating towards Austen and then the bank manager, “looks like a tough legal battle as lawyers on both sides dig deep into facts and figures to prove their cases for or against. However, it is clearly a criminal case and nothing can emasculate the criminal element therein. Assisted by all the sworn testimonies, I have dutifully presented a water-tight argument establishing that the accused carried out the heist under those circumstances earlier mentioned.” Suleiman paused for effect. “Furthermore, although the defense has made repeated references to the downside mental condition of the accused, what this court is gathered here for, what the law is interested in, is the mental condition of the accused while the criminal action was in progress. And it has been sufficiently established that the accused was in full control of his senses during the armed robbery, as evidenced by the effective coordination of his words and actions. That’s just why the bank heist was so successful, a rare feat a completely insane man can never accomplish. Every alleged insanity before and after a crime does not emasculate the criminal weight of banditry carried out with full sanity.” Suleiman paused again to let his words sink in. He was convinced that the priest who kept gazing at him with mixed emotions was probably filled with foreboding. Suleiman felt encouraged that many people considered him worth every penny spent to hire him since they could predict final victory long before the first court session. That explained why his office was always flooded by clients seeking to outbid the other to hire him first, a development that kept his legal assistants on their toes. He relished the thought that many of his peers envied his formidable legal career. Arched eyebrows from the judge indicated it was time to end the pause. Suleiman nodded. “And I wish to remind this honourable court about the basic elements of every criminal case, namely, the taking of property or money from a victim by actual 118
or constructive force, the lack of consent by the victim, and the intent to steal that property or money by the offender. By legal standards, this requires that the criminal uses some force and that such force does not have to be raw or actual but may just be a constructive force.” He paused. “In this wise, no suspect in a criminal case can be acquitted on the assumption that he or she had no material weapon and purportedly did not compel victims to cooperate by the threat or use of any real weapon. On the contrary, and according to the legal definition of armed robbery, by knowingly creating the impression that he had a bomb and by making threatening statements based on that impression, the accused availed himself of a constructive force akin to keeping a finger on the trigger of a gun held to a man’s head or a thumb on the detonator of a real bomb.” From the resultant body movements of sections of the crowd, Suleiman knew he had just gone for the jugular. “Now, in such a scenario,” Suleiman paused again, momentarily fixing his eyes on the judge, “the victim’s free consent has been totally compromised or vitiated. Therefore, the branch manager handing over #20m to the accused did so under duress, persistently traumatized by the possibility of a bomb explosion,” and gesticulating towards Chigbo, “whereas earlier he was planning to be home for his kid’s birthday later in the day.” He nodded for emphasis, “And no doubt, it terrified him that if he refuses to hand over some money and a bomb exploded, many would blame the death of innocent people on him, a yoke he would carry on his conscience the rest of his life – that is, if he happened to cheat death by surviving the bomb blast.” Subdued murmurs from parts of the audience forced another pause in his speech. It was a few seconds before there was quiet again. Suleiman was pleased that even the dismay on the faces of Austen’s supporters showed he was hitting home. He decided to intensify the onslaught. “Additionally, the law can never credit the accused with truly believing that the banker gave him the money voluntarily because the accused could not reasonably believe that every money in a bank belongs to a branch manager who could dispose of it as he or she deems fit.” Suleiman shrugged, 119
arched his eyebrows and pursed his lips in a gesture of utmost disbelief. He did 3600 on the spot ostentatiously for a quick search for dissenting faces. An unclear expression on the face of the judge made him hold his gaze there. “One cannot legally make a gift of property that one does not legally own. Furthermore, whoever the accused gives or shares the stolen money with has to return it because it never belonged to the criminal or the banker and the person has to preclude every suspicion of complicity in crime.” On impulse, Suleiman did a half-turn and directed his gaze at Fr. Ahamefule. The priest held the gaze. Without seeming to concede defeat, seconds later Suleiman pulled his eyes away and locked them on Austen. Austen held the gaze and thereafter began to mutter inaudibly. Suleiman hurriedly backed down as if staring at Austen could jeopardize the watertight case he had painstakingly built. “Not now, ma-a-a-n! No insane mutterings,” he shouted at Austen from the silence of his mind. Suleiman made a furtive glance at the defense counsel wondering if he had noticed his sudden unease. He met an expressionless face from the lawyer. He turned facing the judge. “In this respect, Your Honour,” Suleiman continued, “the accused should be considered guilty of the multiple crimes of terrorism, armed robbery, assault, obtaining property by false pretence or 419 and extortion. Each of these crimes has specific elements proven by the circumstances of the said armed robbery. Section 419 of the Nigerian Criminal Code states in clear terms that, I quote, ‘Any person who by any false pretence, and with intent to defraud, obtains from any other person anything capable of being stolen, or induces any other person to deliver to any person anything capable of being stolen, is guilty of a felony, and is liable to imprisonment for three years.’ And we are gathered here in this courtroom to abide by the stipulations of the Constitution, not to torpedo them.” Suleiman smiled, glad that the audience did not sense the humour in the last statement. Then it dawned on him that the audience, dominated by the priest’s parishioners, was rather wishing him to end the nightmare as they saw the viciousness of his arguments. So sorry. I’m not done yet! Suleiman knew he could 120
not have the luxury of sympathy if he must win the case. “In addition,” Suleiman sighed, “assault is an act that creates apprehension in another person of an imminent harmful or offensive contact. The act consists of a threat of harm accompanied by a possible capability to carry out the threat. The accused clearly created apprehension in the minds of everyone in the bank that he had a real bomb when he never had any. Had his hostages refused to cooperate, whether he could still execute acts of violence against them is open for debate. However, based on the density of malice in his threats, in the absence of a real bomb, it was highly probable he would simply grab any other handy weapon to pull off the armed robbery.” Suleiman paused, took a deep breath and began to pace around. He glanced at the judge who was busy scribbling on a notepad. “Those rhetorical questions the accused was asking while the robbery was in progress are, in the eyes of the Law, only a self-serving, conscious attempt to protect himself from possible criminal charges which, ironically, proves he was aware he was committing a crime. That’s the end, Your Honour.” The ensuing silence was stunning. Suleiman smiled condescendingly. He found the thought very comforting that on a very good day, he would have won a thunderous ovation from the audience. Can’t expect any goodwill from Austen’s fellow parishioners. As Suleiman ambled to his seat, someone began to clap. All eyes turned in that direction as if to quell the irritating interruption. It was Chigbo clapping from the witness box. A warning glance from the judge was all it took to end his lonely ovation. The judge allowed the silence to run on, providing enough time for Suleiman to return to his seat. As Suleiman approached his seat, he saw Chinwe, his legal partner, rising to her feet for a warm handshake. “That’s a wrap, Sir,” Chinwe murmured, hurting a little from the handshake. “Thanks, my dear,” Suleiman whispered while easing up on the handshake. “It’s done and gone, yea, it’s done and gone.” He sat down. Chinwe was secretly amused. You always say this, whatever 121
that means! She sat down. All eyes were on the judge who seemed engrossed with whatever she was scribbling on her notepad. Seconds later, she stopped and for a moment that looked like eternity kept her eyes riveted on the notepad. No one could fathom whether she relished the thought that she kept everyone in suspense as everyone waited for her words. She took time adjusting her spectacles. Grimacing as if suddenly realizing she did not need the spectacles after all, she carefully pulled it off her face and dropped it beside an open file. “With this closing speech by the prosecution,” she finally declared in her imperial tones, “the court is adjourned to two weeks – to make room for the national holiday in-between. I expect a closing speech by the defense counsel at the next session. God be with you all.” On impulse, she glanced at the priest. “And with your spirit,” Fr. Ahamefule murmured. God, please, only you can intervene and save the situation. Everything looks so bleak. But let your will be done. He watched as the judge rose from her seat and began to pick up her file, notepad, and spectacles. A sudden movement caught his attention. It was the court clerk. “Court!” The court clerk was loud enough. Everyone rose. People watched as the judge walked away, disappearing behind an inner door manned by a man in uniform.
8:00 a.m. Saturday September 21 2013.
Chima, a Senior Advocate of Nigeria, emerged from his sea-blue Crosstour saloon car looking very confident. He was happy both his personal assistant and legal aide had arrived earlier and were there to meet him at the car. The three men walked up a short flight of steps towards the door of the press conference hall. In stride, Chima cast his eyes around taking in the aesthetic interior décor of the hall. However, he was more concerned with getting 122
behind the lectern and that was where he headed. Courteously, he nodded a greeting at the reporters who had all looked up as he walked in. Chima took note that the lectern was made of reinforced glass and gilded at the edges. That’s nice. As he took his position behind the lectern and stood facing the press, his personal assistant stepped forward, dropped a jotter and a Samsung Galaxy V note on the lectern and stepped away to join his partner a few paces behind Chima. Chima nodded in appreciation and squinting began to scroll on the touch screen of the electronic device until he got what he wanted. He looked up, a friendly smile lighting up his face. He quickly scanned the reporters sitting on chairs facing him. He saw seven men and five women. Each had an identification tag pinned to the top left corner of the chest. The tag displayed the name of the reporter and the media company. Reporters from each media company sat close to each other, as well as a few poised behind television cameras mounted on tripods or holding ordinary cameras. Chima cleared his throat and that brought all the low chitchat to an end. He sensed that the reporters were very eager to gather in whatever he would let out to them. Chima took a deep breath and glanced first at the jotter and then at the Samsung Galaxy V note. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen of the press. Permit me to go straight to the point. I am Chima, the defense lawyer for the accused, Mr. Austen. I believe you already know that. My defense team and I have been working round the clock to make sure the verdict swings in our favour.” He paused for breath and a hand shot up somewhere in the middle of the hall. He smiled at the interruption to his speech. “Well, I guess I’d rather let your questions guide my speech. Yes?” He nodded towards the hand. It was a male reporter from the BBC. “Looking at the available facts, as determined as you are to win, do you give us the impression that the case is not a difficult one for your team, with a possibility of even losing it?” Chima cleared his throat. “I fully realize that this case is a difficult one, judging by the strategies of the prosecution. From my long and broad experience as a lawyer, this case surely requires 123
a lot of legal finesse. It’s a tough one, no doubt. But without any doubt, I’m confident that we, the defense team, will get through it all with some game changing finesse win the case. I’ve handled a couple of more difficult cases in the past and never lost in any.” Chima paused to let his words sink in. Another hand shot up from the front row. It was a female reporter from Channels Television. Chima smiled when he realized it was Onyinye, his cousin. “Ironically, the prosecution firmly believe they have sufficient evidence and witnesses to guarantee a conviction.” She paused for a smile and added, “What’s your take on that?” Chima smiled, taking a few seconds to articulate a response. “As a matter of fact, the prosecution think they have methodically built up a water-tight case to guarantee a conviction, to have Austen thrown behind bars for as long as the law prescribed. But they can’t sleep on that, not on my watch!” He paused. “Their water-tight case,” Chima continued, beginning to nod for emphasis, “will go down as certainly as the Titanic went down on its maiden voyage in 1912. That was a special sea vessel, 16 water-tight compartments and all, the engineers proudly announcing it was absolutely unsinkable. Always a sad story, the Titanic story.” Chima heaved a sigh of relief and it dawned on him that as he spoke in response to questions, he felt like a burden was being lifted off his shoulders, replaced by serenity of mind. I’ve never felt this way! He saw three hands simultaneously go up, one from the front row and two from the back row. He pointed at a hand from the back row. He could see it was a man from the NTA. Please not about the Titanic! “How much faith do you have in the justice system,” the NTA reporter arched his eyebrows, “in the background of the recent national embarrassment about a Supreme Court judge who was bribed by a top politician and delivered a very prejudiced judgment in his favour?” Chima chuckled as he wondered how that had anything to do with Austen’s case. “That really was a national embarrassment. ‘Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold,’ as the literary genius, Chinua Achebe once wrote though he borrowed it from W. B. 124
Yeats. But I have faith in the judge presiding over Austen’s case. She’s a woman of proven judicial integrity. You can quote me on that. So, sleep tight for if there will be another cause for a national embarrassment, it won’t be from her.” Chima looked surprised as some reporters melted into laughter. He chuckled, shyly bringing his eyes down on his notes. Seconds later, he looked up and caught sight of a hand just going up. He nodded towards it and the laughter died down. A female AIT reporter adjusted herself on her seat. “You were hired by a Catholic priest and his parish council. Do they share this optimism with you, winning the case, I mean? Just yesterday, a member of the parish council granted an interview during which she confessed that they have nothing to do but to intensify prayers seeing as everything already looks gloomy for Austen based on the legal firepower of the prosecution.” “It’s very appropriate for the priest, the parish council, Austen’s family and every man and woman of goodwill to pray at a time like this, intensifying the prayers according to one’s ability. ‘These are the times that try men’s souls,’ as Thomas Paine wrote during the American Civil War of the 18th century. Anyone who takes the liberty to feel frightened that a conviction might be inevitable and followed by a long prison sentence for Austen can reasonably begin to pray or to multiply the prayers. I, too, always pray before and after every court session. Nevertheless, in private discussions, I already have assured the priest, the parish council, and Austen’s family that the signs of the time say God is on our side and victory will be ours.” Chima paused, hoping the questions would begin to trickle to a stop. A hand went up. It was a male Aljazeera reporter sitting in the front row. “But why would a priest directly hire you? What’s his interest in this criminal case, along with his parish council?” “I hinted at that too,” Chima replied with a patronizing smile, “in one of my earlier discussions with the priest and the parish council. Fr. Ahamefule’s response was that Austen, the accused, belongs to his parish and is directly under his care. He runs a humanitarian foundation that shelters, feeds and clothes the innumerable poor who keep coming to him for assistance, including victims of last year’s horrible flood disaster.” 125
Chima paused. “He once confessed to me that he always experienced an inner conflict to see someone in distress, worse still, a large number of people in misery. Always difficult for him to bear with the sight of human suffering, fellow citizens that continue to suffer for the greed and selfishness of some of the political and economic elite, generations immiserated by the litany of corrupt governments ever since independence.” I hope I’m not beginning to sound like an activist! Chima pursed his lips and shrugged with sadness. He knew the reporters expected to hear more. “The priest once told me, and I quote, ‘I don’t change the world standing centre stage. I change the world from backstage.’ That’s the spirit and that explains why he stepped in to assist Austen. Stepping in is now proving to be Austen’s best chance for a fair trial.” Chima paused, sure he had been clear enough on that point. Tilting his head backwards while arching his eyebrows was his signal for another question. Two hands rose. He nodded at a CNN reporter. “Mr. Defense Counsel,” the man leaned forward, “may we know the facts and figures on which you build this great optimism of yours to get a favourable verdict, tough as this legal battle is proving to be?” Chima began to nod rhythmically, his eyes scanning the audience as if mentally evaluating whether the time was ripe to let out a secret. “What you need, just as everyone else, is a brief but comprehensive life story of this young man, Austen. In films, it is called a flashback.” He swallowed hard. “And this, without any risk of exposing and jeopardizing my battle plan to the prosecution, will be the trump card I will be playing at the next court session. My legal team has effectively articulated a précis from detailed investigations we conducted in collaboration with the police, Austen’s family, the priest, and a handful of other people who have some bearing on his life. About this flashback, here’s Austen’s story –”
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Chapter Four 6:00 p.m. Sunday January 9 2011.
Mrs. Bernardine sat in a couch wondering how she could be having a bad day when she had done nothing wrong. How could you be so wicked? What have I done to merit this hatred? She took her eyes off the wall opposite and fixed them on the man who sat in a couch paces away to her left. It was Chigbo, the manager of a branch of the Nedu Phoenix Bank located in Amaego. Mrs. Bernardine sighed noncommittally in an effort to wish away the confrontational mood building up between her and Chigbo. She knew Chigbo was hoping to take advantage of her pacifist character and get what he wanted without breaking a sweat. That was exactly why she decided not to back down in the argument since she was in the right. It was a great source of comfort to her to occasionally pat a copy of the Holy Bible she had on her right lap. That rather irritated Chigbo as he glared at her each time she did that, his eyes brimming with hatred. “About that parcel of land, I have taken it over.” Chigbo’s voice had a note of finality, which rather sounded like a threat. “Just a piece of information. It’s not open for discussions.” Mrs. Bernardine chuckled. It was more like mockery. “But it was just last year you forcefully confiscated three hectares of land from us for no genuine reason. You’re simply unbelievable!” For a moment, she held his gaze but her eyes were soft with pity. “And that’s from the family of your only and late brother. Now you’re again mischievously seizing another plot of land. And –” The sudden glow of aggression in Chigbo’s eyes stifled her next 127
words. “How do you mean – seize?” Chigbo retorted, suddenly leaning forward, set to spring from his seat and attack the woman. It pleased him that she looked scared seeing his face constrict with unveiled anger and hatred. “I’m only gathering up what belongs to me – the only surviving member of our nuclear family … the next of kin to your husband. Not you, not any of your five troublesome children dare stand in my way. And since you keep making references to it, the land I collected last year, I used it as collateral to get a loan from a bank.” Chigbo knew he could stop there but felt an overpowering urge to say more in an effort to scorn the woman. “If you must know, I used part of the loan to send my son to London for his doctorate. The remaining money is what I will use to build a small-scale factory on the plot of land I’ve just collected.” He paused, allowing her to notice he felt proud. “So you see, I’m a man of vision, with ambitions. You and I know you have no valuable plans for that plot of land better than I do. And don’t you dare quarrel with me over that land. You would just be wasting your time and you will regret it. Just a piece of advice and sufficient warning.” Mrs. Bernardine shook her head sadly. You really think God is not taking note of your wickedness and selfishness! “For all your egotistic ambitions, you’re never going to take over that land. The land never belonged to you and my husband never told me he transferred ownership to you.” She patted the Bible affectionately. “Exactly the problem – he never told you before he deserted you and moved on.” Chigbo was deliberately mocking her. “But take that out with him, not with me. And besides, by the rule of law you can’t even lay any claim to that plot of land seeing as you have no supporting documents. You can’t go to court, you dare not. Or to the village elders … most of them dislike you anyway – sanctimonious and all.” Chigbo chuckled, intentionally prolonging it to highlight the mockery. A scornful smile clouded Chigbo’s face as he shook his head. “You couldn’t have forgotten those occasions you were summoned by the elders to the village hall, sometimes late in the evening, 128
defenceless from their barrage of questions and accusations in reaction to your refusal to participate in the community’s offensives against the neighbouring village over a piece of land.” Chigbo’s eyes lit up as he gloated from the memories. “I was part of the plot then,” he creased his face gleefully, “and we won as you were forced into quasi-ostracism.” Mrs. Bernardine felt a sharp pain slice through her heart like a sword. She took a deep breath and cast a long glance at a miniature plastic statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary on an altar set in a corner of the room. Deciding she had talked enough, she turned her eyes on the Bible on her lap and began to pat it rhythmically. She closed her eyes, abandoning Chigbo to wonder whether she was just lost in thought or praying. Chigbo decided to press on, secretly delighted he was winning the battle. “I’ve friends in the Ministry of Lands and Survey. They are currently arranging a Certificate of Occupancy and other relevant documents showing I now have legal rights of ownership over that plot of land.” He paused, expecting a response. He was not surprised none came. “Your late husband, my only brother, was a highly respected man in this community. But since his death, many villagers don’t just like you … carrying on like a saint when you’re not. That’s one queer habit you picked up after his death, this Bible-carrying policy, always holding a Bible like a permanent identity card. No wonder some people call you ‘The Woman-withthe-Bible.’” He spat on the floor, disgust clearly etched on his face. Just then, Mrs. Bernardine arched her eyebrows as a smile took over her face. She turned her head to look at Chigbo, still smiling. Chigbo kept looking at her, waiting for her to speak, no matter how long before she did. Without letting out a word, she picked the Bible up with her right hand, handling it like the most delicate object in the world and hoisted it on the open palm with the elbow digging into her lap. “Oh, Chigbo, you think God is asleep?” The voice cut through the silence like a knife through soft butter. Mrs. Bernardine swallowed hard as conflicting emotions began to well up within her. “Well, I’ve good news for you. God is not asleep, he never does. The Lord is in control.” Bringing the Bible down on her lap, she continued, “I am an educated woman and even if I were an 129
illiterate I can still sue and fight till I win.” She paused, indicating second thoughts. “But I won’t take up that personal fight when I have a far more powerful warrior fighting for me. Kristi b! Eze! Yes, at the right moment, he will manifest himself. “ She paused for breath. “You will see in your life,” the words easing out of her mouth like an ominous prophecy. I can’t cry now and give this wicked man a good reason to gloat! Chigbo knew he had it coming, being threatened with divine intervention and punishment. He did not let that bother him anyway. “I guess this matter is settled then. I get the land. You can live with that, I’m sure.” “It was due to this kind of malicious stress you were giving my husband that gave him high BP and which over the years worsened his diabetes.” Mrs. Bernardine swallowed hard. “Now, he’s dead and you consider it a symbol of victory. God is in control. I may be pacifist but you haven’t won. Never! The battle’s just beginning and it’s between you and my God. I’m just a spectator. The tears my children and I have shed over my husband’s death and over all those avoidable miseries you’ve been causing us over the years … of course, God is alive.” “You sound like God is just yours alone and not ours too.” The mockery was clear in Chigbo’s voice. “You came to my house to tell me with pride how you craftily prised away another plot of land from us, a property I intended to use to facilitate a bright future for my kids. What do you expect? Sue you for an egregious violation of property rights? Or a fight? Never! I’ve just handed over everything to God. God is my attorney and my warrior in battle. The confrontation is between you and almighty God. And I give glory to God that all my children are already adults, some even married. The good Lord is already brightening their future.” Tenderly, she patted the Bible and, taking the man by surprise, closed her eyes in short prayer. That was all it took to infuriate Chigbo. “Pray all you want.” Chigbo was livid with rage. “You’re not the only one who knows how to pray.” What do you mean pitting me against God! “And listen to yourself. Is that a threat? Anyway, I will take my leave and leave you to your pious rants. I have a lot to do – as I will begin developing that plot of land two weeks from today. Better 130
not be found lurking around the land … or any of your kids. You could get arrested for trespassing and detained for as long as I desire. Don’t say you weren’t clearly warned.” Mrs. Bernardine did the Sign of the Cross indicating an end to her prayers. A smile lit up her face as she opened her eyes, turning her head to look at a crucifix hanging on a wall. “What would we be going there to do, Chigbo?” She shrugged noncommittally and turned to look at him, holding the gaze for a few seconds. “Nothing. That plot of land now belongs to God, entirely. So, it’s almighty God you are viciously threatening to stay away from his land or get arrested and detained for as long as you desire. God certainly can’t expect any mercy from you.” She chuckled. “Sorry but I need you to leave my house right this minute, well, unless you’re also scheming to take over my house!” She patted the Bible, her eyes suffused with pity. “Is that a polite way of ordering me out of your house?” He stood up in a hurry, starring down at her, unhappy she had somehow managed to win the psychological warfare. “But I already announced I have to leave you to your pious rants. I have an appointment with my architect. So, you see, I clearly have somewhere important to go. Do you?” He was mocking her. “Oh, for sure,” she cut in. “I do.” “And that’s?” “The Marian Grotto, of course.” Chigbo wanted to say something but the words came out like a deep grunt. Suddenly, he turned and stormed towards the door. He slammed the door behind him, the loud bang even startling him. I will deal with you! It was at that moment that a close encounter he once had with a puff adder stormed his mind. The previous week, Chigbo had gone to reconnoitre the piece of land he was still making up his mind to seize from the widow. The sun was just going down after a hot afternoon. Having trudged through the bushy site and satisfied with what he had seen, he went over to a tree to rest under its shade. He had not yet halted there when he heard a swishy sound some feet away. Startled, he looked and there was a puff adder speeding towards him. He ran all the way out, losing a shoe in flight. He still had scars from bruises on his legs and 131
hands from shrubs in his flight path.
8:00 a.m. Monday March 14 2011.
The ceiling fan was working at half throttle but effectively guaranteed good ventilation in the office. Fr. Ahamefule tried not to worry about all he had for that day as he was sure it would most likely turn out a long day. It was another office day and some parishioners were already arriving to wait their turn to see him for consultation or spiritual counselling. On impulse, he looked at the three windows of the office and noticing from the light movement of the curtains on one of the windows that cool breeze was pushing in from that side, rose from his chair. He walked over and pushed the curtains aside to create free passage for fresh air. A couple of umbrella trees out by the office always guaranteed some cool, refreshing breeze even during the hot harmattan season. He went back to his seat and as soon as he sat at the heavy oak desk, there was a knock on the door. I guess the secretary has now finished with preliminaries with them. “Yes, come right in.” Gently, he pushed the Bible spread out in front of him aside, leaving the centre spot vacant for his hands to rest on it. As he watched the door, a woman entered and a few paces behind her, a young man. “Good morning Father,” Mrs. Bernardine greeted from the door as she walked in, a little surprised the priest was rising from his chair. “Sorry to bother you-o-o this morning.” She smiled deferentially. “I know how busy you can be. The Lord is your strength. That’s why I made haste to be the first to your office today.” She was standing paces from the office desk, a Bible under her left armpit. Fr. Ahamefule was happy to see her. “Good morning, Ma.” His smile was very welcoming. “And may your days be blessed. Please have your seats.” He glanced at the young man by her side while waving at some vacant seats. “Is that the young man we’ve been 132
talking about?” “Yes Father,” she replied as she sat in a settee closer to the desk. She turned to watch the young man move to a seat further away from the desk. “That’s Austen, my third son.” She paused for a moment, apparently to articulate her speech. “He was studying at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. After graduation, he did his youth service in Lagos. That’s why you haven’t been seeing him around. And he’s been travelling around in search of a job since the past two years. Just came around to spend some time at home.” She paused, looking her son over thoughtfully. Austen met her eyes and looked away at a window wondering whether his mother was just admiring him or looking for something to complain about. Fair-complexioned, tall and wellbuilt, he was handsome. He wore a pair of black trousers and a sea-blue long-sleeved shirt, with a black belt around his waist and a pair of black shoes on his feet. God! – How did I allow mum to bring me here? What in this world could she expect me to discuss with a priest? He was glad the smile on his face belied his dismay. His mother’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Whenever he’s home,” Mrs. Bernardine continued, looking at the priest, “he always attends Sunday Masses and participates in Church programs, some of them anyway.” She smiled at Austen. “But I’d rather say he isn’t yet a committed Catholic. That’s why he hasn’t attracted your attention in the midst of all the youths of this parish. Every committed child of God shines out among peers.” Mrs. Bernardine was not too sure the smile that had just increased on the priest’s face was in her favour. Oh, Father! Don’t begin telling me I’m being too demanding! “For instance, Father, if you don’t mind, ask him when last he went to confession? Or received Holy Communion?” She threw both hands out in a show of vindication. “I keep counselling him … and his siblings about the sacraments, about building up a solid spiritual life above every other preoccupation in this world. They never listen, not always anyway.” Mrs. Bernardine paused for breath. She knew the priest was not in a hurry to make a response. She glanced at Austen. His countenance showed an unwillingness to be drawn into 133
arguments on spiritual matters. “Father, Satan is a liar,” she declared in a tone of defiance, patting the Bible resting on her right lap. “Satan can never overcome my children. They belong to God. In fact, Father, that’s why I dragged him here. You have to talk to him seriously … and pray for him. He needs our prayers … to overcome the distractions of this world … and so that he doesn’t let the wickedness of his uncle, Chigbo, make him lose focus or become frustrated. But God is in control. Kristi b! Eze!” She sighed, nodded towards the priest, indicating she was through. Fr. Ahamefule let the smile on his face begin to disappear, replaced by a look of seriousness. For a moment he fixed his eyes on Austen as if to fathom what was going on in his mind. “Austen, I know your mum very well. She’s among the pillars of this parish, formidable in spirituality. Well, a gut feeling tells me she expects so much from you kids,” a glimmer in Austen’s eyes urged him on, “probably too demanding – but don’t miss her point. It’s all about improving your personal spirituality.” He smiled as Austen pulled his eyes away, looking out the window instead. Fr. Ahamefule felt some empathy for Austen. Not easy growing up under parents with a high reputation in the society. He was unhappy there was no soft landing for what he still had to tell him. Fr. Ahamefule smiled reassuringly. “There’s no one in this parish, not even children, kids that she gathered together as a pious society of her own, who does not know your mum, ‘MadamLet-Us-Pray,’ as some of her students call her.” He chuckled and was happy Austen smiled and both found it more amusing when Mrs. Bernardine feigned a reproachful frown. Fr. Ahamefule took a deep breath. “Not that she’s rich or among the biggest donors in the parish. All her enviable reputation stem just from her commitment to spirituality, her strong faith in God. All she ever desires to do in life is the Will of God, a lifelong desire for holiness.” He paused as Mrs. Bernardine shifted on her seat apparently uncomfortable with the encomium. “Of course, that’s what every human being should be preoccupied with, not with the vanities of this world. We’re aware you’ve been making serious efforts in spirituality but there’s ample room for improvement.” He paused, eyes fixed on Austen, silently 134
prodding him for a response. Austen brought his eyes around and looked at the priest and at his mother in turn. The smile playing on his lips was a façade for the rebellion in his mind. There’s nothing new being said here. I’ve heard this so many times and so boring. Oh, God! When we are done here, I hope mum won’t be dragging me along for a pit stop at the Marian Grotto. Could be twenty decades of the rosary this time! Austen was glad none of them could read his mind. “Thanks so much for the spiritual counsel, Father. I will continue to do my best, as mum expects me to.” He shrugged noncommittally. “Actually, I’ve examined myself and found no spiritual problem I should be worried about. It’s just mum who sees those problems and is so convinced she’s right when there may be none.” “Austen!” Mrs. Bernardine’s voice was a characteristic mix of cooing and chiding. “This bo-o-oy!” She laughed, looking at him and at the priest in turn. “Oh, you think I see ghosts, eh?” She was looking at Austen, her eyes soft with humour. “Doesn’t that rather prove you are spiritually blind and I have to be your eyes to see where you step?” Convinced she sensed surrender in Austen, she added, “You see-e-e! I was right. I won!” She clapped for herself and that left them laughing. Fr. Ahamefule was the first to get over the laughter. “Austen, your mum tells me you’re a graduate in mechanical engineering, Second Class Upper. I’m impressed, very. It’s your type that this country needs … reliable and responsible youths. That also explains why you need God on your side … divine blessings and graces. You just can’t do it alone – to battle the array of personal imperfections, negative social factors and diabolic forces.” He was encouraged that Austen was nodding in affirmation. Mrs. Bernardine looked wrapped in silent prayers. A thought flashed across Fr. Ahamefule’s mind. He heaved a sigh of worry. “About that malicious uncle of yours, Chigbo, well, a couple of months ago I called him to my office. After all the long discussions and counselling, he never turned a new leaf. Most people around here know him. It’s so sad.” There was sympathy in his eyes as he turned to look at Mrs. Bernardine. “We will continue praying, Madam. Let God take control of the situation. One with God is majority, remember? God does not 135
abandon his children, never does.” Mrs. Bernardine heaved a sigh of resignation to the will of God. “The Lord did wonderful things for his people in the past, as we see in the Bible. It won’t come to my turn and then he changes. He never fails in battle, no matter how tough and how long.” Silence took over the office. Fr. Ahamefule looked on as Mrs. Bernardine began to pat the Bible on her lap. He looked up and met Austen’s gaze. “Anything you want to say?” Austen gave a boyish smile. “Oh, none Father.” He glanced at his Omega wristwatch, methodically calling for an end to the discussions. “I’ve heard all and really appreciate. Otito diri Jeso!” “Na ndu ebebe!” Both the priest and the woman chorused. “Thanks so much, Father,” Mrs. Bernardine chipped in. “We will leave you to attend to other people,” and glancing at Austen, added, “and just go over to the Marian Grotto for rosary.” She smiled as dismay quickly clouded Austen’s face. “Father, see how disappointed he is just because I mentioned the rosary? Exactly what I’ve been complaining about and he says I’m seeing ghosts.” “Yea, I see that too,” Fr. Ahamefule chipped in, throwing a stern look at Austen. Austen smiled apologetically. “Could you imagine that a couple of times when I told him to follow me to the Marian Grotto to pray the rosary for God to open the doors of good fortune to him, you know, for a good job, a good wife and so on, his response is always that the Holy Masses he attends are enough prayer since the Holy Mass is the highest form of prayer. What kind of theology is that, Father?” Fr. Ahamefule lost the inner battle. As his laughter exploded, he saw through misty eyes that he had taken the woman by surprise, leaving her gaping at him. He saw a smile beginning to creep over her face but she had to stamp it out by feigning victimization. “Alright, Father, I see you’ve taken sides with him, haven’t you?” Mrs. Bernardine allowed a smile to come through. “Of course, you people can’t use that theology to stop me from going to the Marian Grotto as often as God wants. I pray for everyone.” She cast a questioning look at Austen. “When we pray the rosary at home, sometimes you fall asleep midway. Now, what other theology supports that?” 136
Fr. Ahamefule had already stopped laughing. “Don’t get me wrong, Ma,” he threw an apologetic look at the woman. “I can’t support Austen on that but … it’s so funny the way he hoists some trends of theology to support his opinions, as you said.” He chuckled, turning his eyes on Austen. “Well, Austen, a word is enough for the wise. Now, show some maturity by making the right decisions … decisions that will better your life spiritually and socially.” He paused for breath. “Austen, do not be among the problems of this world; we have too many of them. Rather be among the solutions, and they are too few.” He decided to add a warning. “Do not act naughty as that could worsen the vicissitudes of your mum and siblings. Your dad was a great man. God rest his soul. He left you with a motivation to be even greater.” “OK, Father!” Austen felt tears at the edges of his eyes. He never stopped mourning the loss of his dad so early in life. Fr. Ahamefule was encouraged by the glint of sorrow in Austen’s eyes. “Look around and see families living through diverse problems … couples haunted by separation or divorce … children incapacitated by poverty. Mostly, the causative factors, apart from poverty-related issues, include deleterious behaviours by one or more family members.” He paused to allow his words sink in. “When you’re close to God,” he continued, “it’s a lot easier for the blessings and graces of God to get to you. But when you’re far away, even though God is ready to grant you those blessings and graces, it won’t again be that easy.” He turned to look at the woman. She was already nodding in affirmation. Fr. Ahamefule rose from his seat and picked up a Holy Water sprinkler on the desk. “Now, your mum earlier requested I pray for you, didn’t she?” He was not expecting a response but got a grunt from him. He walked over to a corner of the office and picked up a gold-coloured stole from a fancy hangar on the wall. “I will do that but at the Marian Grotto. I won’t be long there as I will leave you two there and return to attend to other parishioners waiting to see me. So, let’s get going.” Oh my God! Austen shrugged in resignation. “I’m up for that. I was never against going there.” He smiled at his mother like a truant child. “Mummy, we did fifteen decades of the rosary last 137
time. I believe it would just be simple prayers this time, Father?” He threw a supplicatory look at the priest. Fr. Ahamefule chuckled. “I will let mum decide that when we get there.” “Oh my God!” Austen shot up from his chair, mock alarm in his eyes. “It’s twenty decades then. Please let’s get going. The earlier the better.” He was out of the office heading towards the Marian Grotto before the priest and the woman could end their laughter and follow him.
10:25 a.m. Tuesday May 8 2012.
Austen was on the bed watching a Hollywood film. He sat with his back against the wall and a pillow snuggled between the back of his neck and the wall. On impulse, he cast a glance around the room. A wardrobe was in a corner and adjacent to a mediumsized bookshelf. The floor was covered with an orange-coloured rug imprinted with yellow petals of a hibiscus flower. The walls were covered in sea-blue emulsion paint while the window drapes were golden-yellow. In another corner facing the bed were a twenty-one inch Sonny television set and a video machine, both of them sitting on a stand as well as a rack of DVD films nearby. The sharp crack of a gunshot brought Austen’s attention back to the film. An armed man dropped dead as two more shots followed. It was a police sniper taking shots at a gang of thieves in the middle of a bank heist which had tuned into a hostage situation. I guess the bandits will start executing hostages in retaliation. Eyes glued to the television, rapt in attention, he dreaded missing any word or action. Shortly, Austen heard a knock on his door but decided to ignore it. Another knock and the door was pushed open. A bit irritated at the intrusion, he glanced at the door and saw his mother walking in, a Bible in her right hand. Na wao! Reluctantly, he picked up a remote control, put the film on pause, and turned 138
to look at his mother. Mrs. Bernardine was already at the centre of the room. “How are you, my dear?” she cooed looking down at him. “Still watching a film?” There was mild reproach in the voice. “Is it another film or the same one I saw you watching two hours ago?” “Em … em … not that one. It’s a new one. I bought it yesterday, a blockbuster.” I hope this doesn’t turn into a debate that would make me end my film time this morning “I’ve nothing else to do this morning … and afternoon … but to keep myself busy with films.” “But that’s not a Christian film you are watching,” she began in protest, turning to look at the television screen. “And not even Nollywood,” she added, bringing her eyes back to him. “But mu-u-ummy,” Austen threw his hands out towards the floor and eyes at the ceiling in mock dismay, “you already know that Hollywood action films are my thing … and bank heist top on the list. The thrills, the high adrenaline manoeuvres, state-ofthe-art robbery gears, cutting-edge surveillance technology, heavy firepower, the decisive IQ contests between police and criminals. You feel me?” The boyish grin on his face was aimed at winning his mother over. Mrs. Bernardine responded with a look that said she had no idea about what he was talking about. She shifted her weight on her feet, indicating she was patiently waiting for him to begin saying something more sensible. Austen knew he had to try harder. “Christian films are good but that’s limited to my spiritual hours. Nollywood is doing great but let them give us something different for a change. The monotony there is so boring!” He paused seeing his mother arch her eyebrows in question. “And do they have to introduce magic, witchcraft and exorcism in many of their films?” He saw the eyebrows tightening with more questions. “Alright, mum, after this film, I take a break. Happy?” He knew the debate was still on. Oh, mu-u-um! Just let me finish this film! “But that’s exactly how you spent the whole of yesterday – on films – and you’ve been doing that for some days.” She sounded incredulous, her beautiful face beginning to be tainted with dismay. “Sometimes you get me confused. I’m a teacher and 139
dutiful on my job. It’s holiday time now and I will be retiring in two years’ time. Yet, you don’t see me wasting time on frivolities. I have better things to do. That’s the point, child.” Austen shrugged noncommittally, pulling his eyes away from his mother back to the television screen. He felt the weight of the remote control clenched between the fingers of his right hand. No, mummy! I don’t want you getting annoyed over this. He was certain his mother had sensed his difficulty from a sense of guilt to look up directly into her eyes again. Mrs. Bernardine took a few paces and sat beside him on the bed. Gently placing the Bible on her laps, she stretched a hand to a vacant spot near her and straightened out the creased bedcover around there. Thereafter, she carried the Bible over to that spot. “What about getting a job … or don’t you care again?” She did not expect a reply. “You have occasionally hinted at marrying a wife and starting a family in the next few years. And you surely need a good job for that, as you say, sufficient income to cater for your family.” She paused to try a new direction. “Have you made any fresh contacts with people who could help you get a job anywhere?” “Mummy – em ... em – I don’t know how to say this but I’ve become tired of it all.” Austen felt the frustration beginning to creep into his feelings. He was glad that enabled him to look at his mother straight in the eyes again. “I’ve been hunting for a job since – how long? Four good years!” Disappointment was embossed on his voice. “It’s been so long that I’m beginning to think I need to take a break, you know, to re-organize my perspectives. That’s part of what I’m doing now, watching films. You may not understand but films always ease up the undue stress on my mind.” He smiled at his mother. She simply looked on, opting to let him free the bottled up emotions. Austen grimaced. “I’ve been on this job hunting every week, every month – already four years and counting – for someone with a B.Sc., Second Class Upper. I missed First Class just by the decimals.” He shook his head sadly. “So, dear mum, fatigue has set in, and that’s natural. And I know it will wear itself out in no time. Just don’t worry yourself over this. I will resume the job hunting very soon.” 140
“Alright, but Baby Boy, don’t sound like it’s just you. Millions of other youths are experiencing similar setbacks. What I’m not certain about is many of them deciding to take a break just watching action films.” She chuckled, intending to draw a smile out of him. She was glad to see his eyes brighten humour although the face retained the frown. “If you miss one day on job hunt, that could be the day you miss the job you’re looking for. But God forbid! You just have to return and intensify the hunting. God is in control!” Austen smiled. I always throw you off-guard how I re-interpret reality. “Mum, it’s more like, I miss one day of job hunting, I’m missing wasting another day but rather saving up for the big day on which that job would turn up for me. That’s why a time out could be so opportune.” “OK o-o!” Mrs. Bernardine muttered in surrender. “You and your philosophy.” She smiled at him, pride exuding from her eyes. “I have faith this job will be turning up very soon. Kristi b! Eze! I’ve been praying the rosary and some psalms for you … and for all of us. God bless you … and us too. We will succeed in Jesus’ name.” “Ame-e-en!” Austen’s voice was suffused with hope. He did not know when he suddenly drifted away to private thoughts. A cough from his mother brought him back and he also realized he had been staring at the crucifix hanging on the wall opposite him. A grimace had re-appeared on his face. “It’s just that … some of the privileged people don’t care enough to let us, the less privileged, acquire the opportunities to prove our mettle and achieve something worthwhile in life.” He hissed. Austen was sure his mother had sensed the anger just beginning to well up within him. I know you’ve always warned me about my hot temper but this is an exemption. “Imagine millions of youths go job-hunting year in year out and never land good jobs because the elderly generation limit employment to only relatives and close friends. Yet, the same elderly generation turn around to yell that youths hold the destiny of the nation, the future of the society. I guess that’s just so – silly.” “Austen!” “Crap! But that’s total crap, mum. Give me the liberty to call it 141
the generation hoax.” “Don’t like you getting so worked up over this – again.” “The problem is not me, mum.” He was seething, oblivious of his mother’s counsel. “It’s rather some of the political and economic elite sitting tight on their jobs and even lobbying to raise the retirement age so they can stay longer beyond their prime – when millions of youths all in their prime are roaming just outside the doors of those offices waiting for vacancies.” His voice was rising in pitch. “Where else would job vacancies materialize from? Somebody tell me.” He spat on the floor, eyes livid with rage. “You need to calm down. It’s not your fault and you’re taking this matter too personal.” She leaned forward and began to caress his head, a smile on her lips. “What injustice!” Austen pulled his head away slowly but firmly. “Somebody really has to take this matter too personal before something could be done about it. The problem lingers like an incurable disease because enough people haven’t taken it personal as I’ve done.” He swallowed hard, struggling to catch his breath. He felt like storming out of the room but did not want that to upset his mother. “Alright,” Austen continued, visibly trying to mellow his temper, “my friend’s sister, Chinonye, has been idling away at home since three months because the Academic Staff Union of Universities and the federal government haven’t reached a compromise yet for an increase in salaries and other allowances requested by ASUU, in the background of the stupendous pay checks and bonuses these politicians appropriate for themselves, even upgrading them occasionally.” He took a deep breath. “What’s the consequence? Students who have nothing to do with ASUU’s incomes and politicians’ pay checks are driven out of the classrooms because of strike. Yet, some politicians and lecturers have their kids in good schools abroad and are insensitive to the plight of students from lessprivileged families who are always the victims.” Austen looked at his mother. She merely pursed her lips and arched her eyebrows, holding his gaze. Austen was not clear what the gesture meant but he knew she felt his pain. “One sure way 142
to force a compromise and end the strike,” his voice was rising in pitch again, “is for these less-privileged students to mobilize in their thousands, get to the venue of the next talks between ASUU and the federal government and lay siege to the entire building, a siege without arms. No one goes in, no one goes out for as many hours and days as it will take to force a compromise and end the strike. Otherwise, it’s a no deal due to the divisive interests of both parties.” Mrs. Bernardine chuckled. “That sounds like another stuff you borrowed from foreign films, isn’t it? What’s the title of the film?” She was hoping to deflect attention to something less infuriating. Austen smiled at her, indicating it was a failed attempt. “Come to think of it, mum.” He paused, piquing her curiosity. “When some of the elite say Nigeria is one and must remain one rather than break up into smaller independent regions, the recurrent calls for secession, it’s not because they are patriots but just to safeguard their properties and statuses as guaranteed by the current one Nigeria status quo.” In silence, Mrs. Bernardine began to rhythmically pat the Bible by her side. Realizing her son had suddenly stopped talking, his eyes fixed on her expectantly, she felt an inner pressure to say something but the words could not form. Almighty God, what would you have me tell my son for all these thoughts turbulent in his mind? She rose from the bed, walked a few paces away and settled her eyes on the crucifix hanging on the wall. I serve no other God but you. Help my son! But I know you’re already doing that. Thank you Jesus! Austen was watching his mother closely. He sensed she was gearing up to say something concerning spirituality, likely to query him why he had not erected a private prayer altar yet somewhere in his room. He decided on a pre-emptive strike to prevent the interrogation. “Isn’t this a matter for the human rights courts, mum, how the minority rich and powerful sustain the unfair status quo by keeping the majority of humanity poor and powerless?” He hissed loud and long, his face softening with a smile as he saw his mother arching her eyebrows in protest. “God, why don’t the rich and powerful,” Austen said in a voice full of disgust, “just pack up and go home to enjoy their bank 143
savings, diverse properties, retirement and severance packages and leave some vacancies for us the disadvantaged population to fill in? None of them is the only individual suitable for the office he or she occupies at the moment, not even the president. Equally efficient replacements abound.” He paused for breath. Mrs. Bernardine decided to cut in before he could continue. “It’s me you’re talking to, Austen,” she said in mock protest, a smile on her face, “and I don’t happen to be the president of Nigeria or of any country in the world. So, don’t take it out on me.” Her laughter was an open invitation to Austen. Austen chuckled. “Yea, and you’re not the chief judge of the International Criminal Court.” He melted into laughter and was glad it felt exhilarating. “I know … I know,” he was chocking, “but I have to start from somewhere and that’s from you.” He paused. “After all, you’re among the parenting generation of this confused nation and I don’t remember begging you to give birth to me at this time.” He shrugged and pursed his lips in mock defiance. Mrs. Bernardine squinted, ready to repel the attack. “How come then that all your life you’ve been doing your best to prove how glad you are that I brought you in at this time?” A smile of victory lit up her face as she decided not to give him an opportunity to respond. “You see, I win!” She began to clap for herself in an obvious effort to drown his voice. Austen’s mouth hung open for some time as he waited in vain for the clapping to subside, intending to launch another offensive. “OK. OK. You win.” And the clapping ended as abruptly as it had begun. “Happy you know I always win in such arguments.” She beamed a smile at him. “You only manipulate the process. Mummy, you rig the voting.” A thought flashed across his mind. “But on this issue, you can’t win. I always win, remember?” “What issue?” Oh, not again! “Human rights abuses by some of the elite.” “OK. And what would you have me do?” She shrugged noncommittally. “Well, except to pray and I’ve been doing that, doing my best.” 144
Austen was secretly happy he tactically stopped his mother from derailing the debate. “There’s a book I borrowed from a friend, The Wiseman, a great book, I must confess. Here’s a quotation for you, a quotation my friends and I have etched on our minds like a carved word on a marble statue.” He paused. “Here it is: ‘Our rich people, set the poor and oppressed person free! Human dignity or self-esteem does not lie in the size of bank accounts and assets. Hoard no more but be generous! The rich must renounce part of their wealth for the benefit of the poor. The poor must renounce part of their poverty for the benefit of the rich. Poverty already has its line. Wealth also must have its line beyond which no person should be wealthier; otherwise it becomes a crime against humanity. Our rich folk, all right, it’s mission accomplished and it’s time up. Return to base! Stop whatever you are doing, vacate all offices. Return to base and line up for medals. Let the poor get into those offices and we begin a new cycle. The earth goes round; the wealth should go round!’ That’s it.” Austen paused, his eyes filled with anticipation. Mrs. Bernardine paced around a little and stopped in the middle of the room, her face a mixture of unasked questions and admiration. She glanced at Austen and on impulse turned to look at the bookshelf in a corner of the room. She kept her eyes there although she did not even know what to look for there. Apparently, she was lost for words. “Mummy!” Mrs. Bernardine turned around to look at her son, a smile on her face. She arched her eyebrows in question. “Good. I’m glad you got the point there.” He paused. “It’s just that I’m … I’m tired of it all. I just want to –” “I don’t like the sound of that.” Her voice was stern. “Looks like frustration and you shouldn’t allow difficult times to frustrate you, my dear. God is in control. Don’t ever forget that, no matter how bleak the future looks. Never turns out as bad as that.” “But four years of fruitless job hunting qualifies as frustrating, mummy.” He squinted at the woman. “Just remembered something – wasn’t it few days ago you informed me that Uncle Chigbo has seized another plot of land? What were you thinking, mum, hiding that information from us since last year? We could 145
have roughed things up for him until he surrenders and stops bothering us.” His voice was laden with resentment. “Sic vis pacem para bellum – If you want peace prepare for war.” Mrs. Bernardine missed a heartbeat. That’s exactly what I don’t want! She found it encouraging that Austen began to avoid her eyes, a clear sign of guilt over his outburst. “I’m happy you already feel guilty,” she said smiling. “Always keep your hot temper in check, son.” “Thanks,” Austen threw in disinterestedly. He paused and swallowed hard. “Our poverty has just become worse. I was hoping we would sell that plot of land use part of the money to fund my Master’s degree programme, seeing as the option of getting a job has been very unsuccessful. Mummy, I’m just not happy o!” “You expected me to have told you, eh,” Mrs. Bernardine responded in a soothing voice, “when you’re still as hot tempered as this?” She chuckled and went back to sit on the bed, dropping the Bible on her left lap. “You’re my son o!” she cooed. “Anyway, I didn’t want this matter spiralling out of hand. That’s why I don’t tell you kids things like that because I know how you people would react. A situation like this,” she shrugged, “just hand it over to God. The battle is his. All we need do is to be strong in prayer, our faith as firm as ever. God can work miracles anytime. Prayer is the key, boy.” “Mu-u-ummy!” There was a veneer of impatience in the voice. “Don’t be telling me to be strong in prayer as if I’m a heathen in need of conversion. You know I’m not.” The frown on his face began to be scuttled by a glint in his eyes and a burgeoning smile. “Besides, who among your kids would dare?” He laughed, taking the woman by surprise. “I take that as a compliment.” She found it more convenient to join in the laughter. Moments later, Austen brought his laughter under control. “Check this out – ‘I don’t have problems praying but with the possibility that my prayers may not be answered and the lapse of time before they are answered. I don’t have problems believing in miracles but with whether one would ever come my way and the time lapse.’ Wao!” He paused. “That was from The Wiseman.” 146
Mrs. Bernardine squinted at him. “And just what was that about?” She knew she had better questions than that. Austen rose from the bed and after a few steps stood facing his mother. His countenance showed defiance as he looked directly at her. “You’re always talking about prayer – as if prayer is the one and only thing we could do about the world’s numerous problems.” He had the poise of a university don about to demolish a theory. “Human response is also central to both the origin and solution of the world’s problems. Pray, and that’s important, but also do your best in human efforts.” He paused for breath. Suddenly deciding against giving his mother a chance to respond, he added, “Here’s another quotation from The Wiseman.” He paused. “Here it comes: ‘God may not want to help you by miracles; he may do so through human action. He may not value all prayers but prefers those that dispose you towards practical action. God may not help by your web of theories but by the enduring simplicity of human praxis. Ideologies remain stillborn or useless until ultimately implemented in revolutionary projects. The preaching ministry of Christ ultimately resolved itself in the revolutionary sacrifice on the Cross.’ You see the point there?” He quickly added, “I thought as much,” knowing he would never get a response. However, the smile on his face indicated he was already feeling victorious. “My God! What won’t I hear from you today? Where did you get that – quotation?” “The Oracle of the Wiseman. Both books are over there on the shelf; well, just in case you want to read up.” He added with a broad smile, “That would just be #500.” He was laughing as his mother’s face constricted in question. “Service charge. I know you can afford that. Sorry, when was the last time the government paid salaries to you teachers? Three months ago? Four? And besides, who –” A sharp knock on the door forced Austen to cut his joke short. Before he could turn around to look in the direction of the door, somebody already turned the knob and pushed the door open. Austen and his mother waited expectantly to see who would emerge. It was Peter, Austen’s friend. “Austen-o-o-o my man! How are –” The figure of Mrs. 147
Bernardine standing in the room was all it took to cut Peter’s juvenile greeting short. For a moment, he was frozen in stride, his breathing suddenly suspended as he assessed the situation he just walked into. “Good morning Ma. Em … em … sorry, I was …” he was fumbling for words, “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I did –” The words ran dry in his mouth. “Good morning.” Mrs. Bernardine was trying to maintain an expressionless face despite the uncouth interruption. She cast a questioning glance from Peter to Austen and back to Peter. The silence felt like eternity. Austen decided to feign ignorance of his mother’s unspoken displeasure. “Wao! What a good day to step out.” He moved across the room to his wardrobe in search of clean clothes. “Peter, can I have a word with my son?” It was an order. Surprise left Peter’s jaws hanging open, as if he had just lost control of the limbs that should be carrying him out of the room. He was still standing where he had been, his eyes earnestly beckoning his friend for help. Austen stopped shuffling through the rack of clothes and turned around to look at his friend. “Dude,” he said, his face exuding surprise that his friend was not already moving out, “Mummy means you step outside for a moment.” Mischief began to glitter in his eyes. “I understand you’re a school drop-out but are you a retard too?” Austen burst into a jeering laughter as he turned his eyes back to the wardrobe. Peter grimaced at the sudden attack. He shifted his weight on his left leg, his brain going into overdrive as neurotransmitters were shot across synapses in a quest for revenge. “Colossal mugu! You see your life?” Peter was pointing methodically at the television set and video machine. “The best job you could get with your Second Class Upper degree is film-watching mania when your peers are getting real jobs outside your door.” Peter shrugged with mock disdain. “Your family wasted a fortune sending you to school, you bet.” He squinted at Austen who had turned to look at him. “You surely need a real job, don’t you?” He paused, the calm before a storm. “Good! I need a secretary. Apply in person along with relevant credentials.” He gave a sharp clap. “Dude, you’re hired. Begin work – right now, 148
Mr. Secretary.” Austen suddenly dashed towards Peter stopping inches from him and going into a combat posture. The performance triggered a riotous laughter and they began circling each other like boxers parrying for a chance to step in hard and fast for an upper-cut. It pleased them more that Mrs. Bernardine broke into a soft smile. Moments later, they stopped circling, glaring at each other with mock menace. “Idiot!” Peter turned and headed for the door, some pride in his steps. “Mutant!” Austen began to return to the wardrobe. “Already running? If not for mummy I would have finished you right here. Try me again, you will see.” He chuckled as Peter pulled the door shut behind him. Mrs. Bernardine turned towards Austen, the smile easing out of her face. “I thought I’ve warned you repeatedly about that boy?” Austen had just begun to pull out a shirt from a hanger. He glanced at his mother, opened his mouth to say something but at the last minute decided against that. He turned back to the wardrobe. Mrs. Bernardine knew it would be another of those tense moments. It’s my God-giving responsibility to keep talking even when you don’t listen. God would hold it against me if I stop. “Auuste-en!” It was a mixture of dismay and reproach. “That boy is a drug-dealer,” her voice was low but stern, “and there are witnesses … including the police that have locked him up a couple of times. Why still keep him as a friend? To learn drug addiction or armed robbery?” in a swift motion, she stuck the Bible under her left armpit and threw both hands out towards him, the palms tuned up in a show of plea. “Austen, don’t break my heart-o-o!” “But mummy,” Austen turned towards her, his mind shuttling around for a reliable response, “Peter has been my childhood friend. That he’s into drugs does not mean I support that or wish to learn it. I caution him about that – always. By continuing to associate with him, I can change him. I haven’t lost hope he will learn some good habits from me. “Yea, yea,” Mrs. Bernardine was thinking hard and fast, “he 149
can learn from you. Now tell me, exactly what good habits has he learnt after all these years and yet a drug addict and a convict?” She paused to let the question sink in. “I pray for him but do not end up like him. I’ve called him aside a couple of times but apparently he didn’t heed my advice.” Austen knew he had no defense and was already feeling guilty. An idea flashed across his mind. “Just one more for you – ‘What defines a man is not how he falls but how he rises. It takes more to rise than to keep standing; that’s why many people prefer to keep standing.’ So apt and motivational, isn’t it?” He did not expect a response. “That was from The Oracle of the Wiseman,” he added with a smile. “Peter is really not as bad as you fear, mum. He’s going to change.” Mrs. Bernardine knew she had a lot of things to say in response but decided silence would make more meaning to her son than words. Thereafter, she heaved a sigh, her countenance showing resignation to the will of God. She cast one last look around the room after a long pause and walked out. She knew her dramatic exit would bother Austen a little. Austen caught himself absent-mindedly staring at his cloths as his mind cruised through a labyrinth of thoughts. The sound and sight of Peter re-entering the room was what snapped him back to reality. “Give me a minute. Won’t take long to get dressed.” Peter realized instinctively that it was one of those periods he was required to be silent so that his friend could have more time for some private thoughts. Every argumentative encounter between mother and son rarely ends on a happy note. He walked over to the DVD rack and began to rummage through Austen’s film collections. Austen and foreign films! He started whistling a song to himself. “I’m almost done.” Austen was just buttoning up a marooncoloured long-sleeved shirt which he wore over a pair of black trousers. He smiled as he saw his friend watching him as he began to tuck the shirt in and thereafter put a black leather belt around his waist. Later, he put a pair of black sandals on his feet. “OK. It’s a go!” He paused. “Where’re the guys?” Austen hurled a questioning glance at Peter. “They must be at the joint by now.” Peter glanced at his 150
wristwatch, threw a look at Austen and began to move towards the door. Austen surely knows how to dress good, as handsome as ever! “Do you have my package?” “Of course I do.” Peter paused. “Edward called me on the phone just before he and Donatus headed for the joint. We called your line a couple of times this morning but failed to get through. I had to come over to check on you.” Austen shrugged, beginning to follow his friend to the door. “Sorry … my phone’s been off – the battery’s down. No electricity light yesterday, so I couldn’t charge my handset. Mummy didn’t give me money to buy some fuel for the generator.” Peter was stepping through the door. “The government hasn’t paid their salaries, I guess, and there’s a huge backlog of unpaid salaries from previous months.” Austen heaved a sigh of dismay. “Yea, I know. The politicians don’t pay teachers well and on time but make sure their own salaries and other allowances are released on time, even upping the amount occasionally.” He tuned to pull the door shut. “Equal citizens, equal rights my foot.” Peter was clearly indignant. “Let’s go, man.”
4:00 p.m. Wednesday June 20 2012.
It was another normal day, a day to get high on drugs. And on every normal day, they had a fixed pattern of arrival, Edward and Donatus arriving first and shortly after that, Austen and Peter would arrive. As Peter walked in through the central doorpost of the uncompleted building, Austen a few paces behind, he cast a look around. He was fascinated. They had apparently walked into a spacious parlour. This will be a great mansion when all the work and furnishing are done! He turned his neck to look at Austen. Austen nodded, in tacit agreement about the architectural 151
expertise of the house. A moan in a corner of the room attracted their attention. They turned towards the sound. Edward and Donatus were squatting on the sandy floor some paces from each other taking cocaine. Edward had a small thin tube inserted into his nostrils and was inhaling some white powder he had spread on a piece of paper. Donatus was just pulling out a syringe from his veins after injecting the drug into his body. He had tied a tiny surgical tube around his left hand to force his veins to the surface. Peter’s heart skipped a beat. The sight of Edward and Donatus in a state of drugged euphoria rather upset him. These guys have been high for long! “Hei! Hei! Hei!” Peter shouted, halting in the middle of the room. “Look at these guys-o-o!” There was clear irritation in his voice. He cast a glance at Austen who stood a few paces to his left. He dipped his right hand into a trouser pocket and pulling a wrapped package out, threw it at Austen. Austen thrust his left hand forward and caught the package as it flew across to him. He pursed his lips and shrugged noncommittally as he looked at Edward and Donatus in turn. “That’s bad news, man.” It was clear that Edward and Donatus were oblivious of their arrival. Peter glared at Edward and then walked over to stand in front of him. “Isn’t that the ntu I bought with my own money, Eddy … hard earned money, eh? That’s what you’re already consuming without the courtesy of waiting for me to take the first pull?” He paused for breath. “You’re buying the next one … unless you want a fight.” Austen knew Edward was not even listening. He was a bit startled when Peter suddenly lunged forward, pulled the tube free from Edward’s nose and gave him a shove. Austen chortled to see Peter begin a race against time to get high. As Edward crumbled to the floor from the shove, Peter swiftly sat on the sandy floor next to the crumbled figure and with his back to the wall, gathered the rest of the cocaine on a piece of paper spread across his laps. Thereafter, he hunched over and began snorting the powdery substance. A thought flashed across Austen’s mind. He turned and looking at Peter, suddenly felt lonely. He was the only one still on his feet, 152
still on Planet Earth. He smiled. Time to get down to business! Nodding four times with satisfaction, Austen announced, “Guys, I’m so happy we moved out of the last hideout and came here – after the police trailed us there. Hmm! God saved us that day o! Otherwise, prison!” While he did not expect any response from his friends, Austen was glad to hear Peter grunt. He decided to keep talking because of the reverse motivational effect. I could use some encouraging words to go through with what I have in mind today! With both hands, he unwrapped the package in his hand, revealing a black smoking gear, some cocaine powder, some methamphetamine pellets and an inhaler tube. Thrilled at what he had in mind for that evening, Austen continued his monologue. “I already told you guys I will do the Weri’s combo today … just as you did last week, Peter. How you handled it was very encouraging. Today is my day – a trip to the Green Planet.” Austen was certain his friends were listening in from whatever nebulous galactic system they were orbiting. He cast a hurried look around, found a suitable corner and walked over there. He pulled out a blue handkerchief from the left trouser pocket, spread it on the sandy floor and sat on it. Thereafter, he pulled out a piece of folded paper from his shirt pocket, spread it on the floor in front of him, poured the cocaine and methamphetamine on it and placed both the inhaler tube and smoking gear beside them. Austen took a deep breath and rubbed his palms together. With a boyish smile adorning his face, he rolled up his sleeves, hunched forward and began to inhale the cocaine powder through the tube. When he had sucked in the last of the white powder and already feeling like an astronaut cruising through hyperspace, he dropped some methamphetamine pellets into the smoking gear and relaxing his back on the wall, began to pull in the smoke, a godfather grin on his face, eyes tight shut. Austen began to feel unreal like a daring alien unfortunately shipwrecked on an unknown planet. In no time he felt himself begin to shake his head in defiance of some cosmic forces threatening to overpower him and cast him out of their galactic domain. Shortly, the feelings of defiance became so strong that 153
his head took up the battle independently of the will as it soon began to shake uncontrollably. Austen decided his head was just shaking off those presumptuous cosmic forces so he could reign over a world of bliss. However, as the headshaking became rather too violent for comfort, lazily Austen raised his left hand and began to caress his head like a mother caressing the head of a sobbing kid. It was then he realized that the smoking gear had become loose between his lips and about to fall off. Rolling his lips inwards, he sucked it back in and resumed smoking, in faster puffs this time. Moments later, the head-shaking stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Before Austen could feel the next draft of methamphetamine course through him, his head went into another fit of violent shaking. He felt the smoking gear ripped from his lips and flung across the floor, landing with a soft thud on the sandy floor. The violence intensified, jerking Austen off the wall. He fell on his side and began to twist and turn on the dirt, spasms of pain slicing through his spine at random intervals. The seizure rolled him to a corner. He hit his head against a pillar and lost consciousness. The sound from Austen’s head hitting against a pillar made Donatus stir. Opening his eyes, he felt numb to the world and confused like an astronaut just back to Planet Earth and suddenly realizing he was in another Time. Squinting, he looked around. Everything looked strange and nothing seemed to interest him. With great effort, he stood up, at first shaky on his feet. Recognizing a window nearby, he decided to walk over for a better look at the world. En route, his vision still blurry, he accidentally tripped over Edward who lay prostrate somewhere across his path. Edward grumbled. He strongly wanted to remain in his nebulous world but the sharp pain in his fingers where Donatus had stepped on them hacked him back to the real world. He opened his eyes and took a look at his fingers, splaying them for better examination. Satisfied there was no damage to the skin and bones, he turned to look at the offender. He wanted to say something rebuking to the figure paces away from him but the words just could not form in his mind. He gave up on the effort 154
and decided to get up instead. Heaving sighs of weariness, he staggered to his feet. He was glad Donatus thrust a hand forward to stop him from collapsing on the dirt again. “Thank you, man.” Edward was staring at his legs to find out why they felt too rickety to carry his bulk. “Anytime.” Donatus too was looking at his friend’s legs. When their eyes met later, they smiled at each other and simultaneously turned to look around. They needed to remember where they were. That was when it hit them. They saw two figures sprawled on the floor paces from each other and on closer inspection discovered it was Austen and Peter. That they were noticing them for the first time when both were already high on drugs and prostrate on the dirt threw Edward and Donatus into a merry laughter. Unable to put some reins on their laughter, they began to move towards an adjoining room, Donatus leading the way. Walking away from the scene was the inhibitor they needed. The laughter slowly turned into coughing and seconds later, faded away. Along the way, Donatus tramped on something and from the squashing noise, they knew it was an empty can of beer before they had time to look at it. A glance around the room and they realized it was a master bedroom under construction, with lots of empty cans of beer strewn all over the floor. Edward and Donatus exchanged meaningful glances and were in tacit agreement that another group must be using the same house as their hideout. The air there felt damp with an unclear smell. They felt they needed to get to the nearest windowsill for some fresh air. Before Edward and Donatus could step towards a window, another exchange of meaningful glances and for the fun of it, they started jumping on the cans, the tramping as noisy as their boisterous laughter. They were happy there were lots of cans, which meant a longer period of frolicking. The noise was loud enough to waft throughout the entire building, a sufficient homing signal for Peter to begin drifting out of an ethereal existence. He opened his eyes, looked around and took some seconds to understand where he was. Reluctantly, he forced himself up on his feet and wobbled towards the next 155
room where the noise was coming from. He saw two people childishly trampling empty cans. It took him some more seconds to realize it was Edward and Donatus. On impulse, he decided to join in the frolic and the noise increased in decibel. Shortly, Edward began to pant from exhaustion and ended his foray. “I’m out, guys. Stamina is gone. I could use some food right now.” “I’m famished.” Donatus was glad most of the cans had been trampled flat. He stepped to an untouched empty can and with one stomp signalled he was done with the exercise. “We need to leave.” He looked at his friends for support. “That’s what I was thinking.” Peter was still stomping around, not satisfied he had had enough fun. Five empty cans later, he too felt short of breath. Breathing hard, he began to move towards a window. Donatus and Edward followed. On getting to the window, Peter, wanting to sit on the windowsill, tried to hop on it. He missed. Edward and Donatus went over and leaned on the wall on either sides of the window, a vantage point to watch the unfolding drama. Peter tried a second time and missed, which triggered a derisive laughter from his friends. As Peter readied for a third attempt, he had a hunch to look past the window deep into the bush behind it. He stiffened. He heard his friends gasp with anxiety as they picked up the signal. I’m sure I saw some shadowy movements! “Shhh!” It was a low whisper wrapped in fear. Peter slowly thrust his head outside the window and threw quick glances at both ends of the house partly covered with bush. “The tiger is stalking the prey!” That was the code when the police was hot on their trail. “Where?” Donatus was looking over Peter’s shoulders just as Edward was doing. “Over there,” Peter said pointing directly ahead. “I hope it’s not the cocaine messing with my sights but worst case scenario is it’s the police and that’s what we have to work with. And we can’t hang around just to investigate.” “It’s exit time then. Now!” Edward was not expecting his voice to sound so commanding. The threat level necessitates immediate reaction anyway! 156
Dread of being arrested by the police proved the most potent antidote to the lingering feeling of hangover from the drugs. Then it hit them. Austen was not up yet. Simultaneously, they all turned to look in the direction of the adjoining room. Exchanging meaningful glances, they briskly walked into the room, pointedly avoiding all the crushed cans scattered across their paths. Austen lay prostrate on the dirt, his face turned away from view. Peter hurried over and hunching forward shoved Austen three times to rouse him from sleep. Edward and Donatus were already moving to the central door in quick strides where they would wait anxiously for Peter and Austen to join them. Peter grunted in complaint as Austen failed to snap awake. He gave another set of shoves, rougher this time. Before he could grunt in complaint again, he heard Edward hiss with irritation. Squatting, Peter decided to turn Austen over to a supine position. At look at Austen’s face and utter shock suddenly crystallized on his face. “What’s that?” Trepidation had made Donatus’ question sound like a squeal. Peter was still groping for words when he sensed Donatus and Edward hurry across the room to squat on either side of him. The ensuing silence was a palpably uncomfortable one. Peter picked Austen’s left wrist up and felt the pulse. Thereafter, he put his ears on Austen’s chest. “Yes?” Edward was clearly demanding a positive answer. “He’s in a coma.” Peter paused. “Wao! We are finished.” A glance at his friends and he knew none had anything encouraging to say. The silence was ominous. He shrugged, overwhelmed with regret. He got up, eyes still fixed on Austen’s body. “He did the Weri’s combo when his brain wasn’t strong enough.” He shook his head sadly, glancing at Edward and Donatus as they began to stand up, terror in their eyes. “I know I did the combo last week and it was cool but he shouldn’t have presumed he’s as tough as me. Wao! He has finished us.” “Austen went into drugs too fast, too deep.” Edward was shaking his head with regret. “I kept telling him to go slow, he never listened.” He paused. “What next?” Edward wanted a solution. 157
Peter pursed his lips while his eyebrows arched. “It might be the police out there,” he nodded towards the window, “but we surely can’t leave him here for them to scoop up. We would inevitably be netted and docked with him.” “All for one, one for all!” Donatus paused for thought. “We have to carry him with us. He might even snap out of it before we get far.” Edward knew that was wishful thinking. “We’re not too certain it’s the police out there. If it’s them we cannot outrun them logging Austen between us. So, I suggest we get him out of coma first. That will brighten our chances of slipping through the police net and that’s very important.” “But this joint,” Peter said waving his left hand around, “isn’t a hospital where we can commandeer a defibrillator and shock him back to consciousness.” “But are we even sure it’s a coma? Could be catatonia or something else.” Donatus looked at his friends for comments. “Coma or catatonia,” Peter cut in impatiently, “we just have to improvise and that’s right now. Any suggestions?” “We could jolt him back to consciousness.” Edward was glad a solution was at least blinking at the end of the tunnel. “Yea,” Donatus threw in scratching his head for ideas. “What about … a jolt of sharp pain through his spine? Intense pain could effectively re-activate a nervous system on the brink of a shut-down.” Peter was nodding. “I agree with that.” He looked at Edward for an opinion. Edward shrugged noncommittally. “If you’re sure it would save us from this mess rather than worsen it, I’m in.” He looked at Peter and Donatus in turn. “What would the sharp pain be then?” “That question was just on my lips.” Peter creased his face, deep in thought. “Let’s go for something handy.” He paused for thought, knowing his friends were expecting to hear more. An idea made his eyes light up. “A blistering slap. What about a blistering slap? That could be it!” Edward and Donatus looked at each other. On cue, they hurriedly knelt by either side of Austen’s head, lifting it off the floor and positioning the left cheek for Peter. Peter threw his right 158
hand aside and delivered a very loud slap. Austen stirred but remained in his position. Three more slaps later, each one louder than the previous, Austen snapped fully awake. Edward and Donatus carefully dropped Austen’s head back on the floor and got up, their eyes lit up with excitement. Peter heaved a sigh of relief and got up, pleased like a surgeon after a successful surgery. I’ve just stumbled on a momentous medical discovery: slap therapy as a certified cure to some of the ailments bedevilling humanity! Stepping aside, he joined his friends as they stood watching Austen go through the stages of migration from unreality to reality. Peter found it quite amusing but silently willed Austen to hurry up with it. Austen rubbed both cheeks with his palms while wondering why they hurt so much. Before he could turn his eyes around towards some human sounds nearby, his head began to shake. He willed his head to stop but just as it struck him that he had no control over it, a sharp pain coursed through his entire body. As his face began to contort with pain, sweat started oozing from the pores of his skin. Am I dead … or just dying? Austen clamped his eyes shut and oblivious that his friends were watching helplessly, he used both hands to hold his head until the shaking stopped. He felt wet all over his body as perspiration continued to soak his cloths. Shortly, when he removed his hands and opened his eyes, he saw three people standing by him but failed to recognize any of them. Determined to find out what was going on, he began to talk but he was not aware his words rolled out like the meaningless mutterings of an insane person. At the same time surprised and irritated that the three men failed to make a response to all he just said, Austen decided to get on his feet. He was suddenly oblivious of every other person in the room. He did not know how his speech faded into inaudible mutterings or the far-away look in his eyes. Then, he angled his head and took a scrutinizing look at his damp cloths. It struck him that he did not need the cloths after all. He began to tug on his shirt. A yank ripped out the buttons. He flung the shirt over his head, unconcerned with where it landed on the dirt behind him. 159
Next, Austen began to wriggle out of his trousers like a pupa slipping free of a cocoon. At first he was surprised that some human hands suddenly grabbed his waist, hands, and trousers directly preventing him from getting rid of the trousers. It was only then he experienced a shift in consciousness and realized that those hands belonged to three people in the same room with him. Rather than resist, Austen was more amused by that and wanted to chat the people up. He did not know he was just muttering gibberish. When it was clear Austen was in no mood to offer any resistance, the hands withdrew and that made him stop the muttering. He turned to look at the men who in turn exchanged questioning glances with each other. That aroused his curiosity and he stepped towards them for a closer look at their faces, an insane grin blemishing his face. He saw them step aside, creating a pathway to let him through. Obviously, they had misunderstood his intentions. He stopped in his tracks and opted to carry out the examination from that distance. Peter threw a surreptitious look at Edward and Donatus. None was willing to give voice to what they dreaded most, that Austen had just developed a mental illness. Their countenance was an untidy mixture of regret and guilt. They never expected what hit them few seconds later. “Hey, guys!” Austen’s voice was cheery. He felt excited but was not sure why. The high spirits turned to confusion when he saw the mixture of shock and amazement on his friends’ faces. “What’s up?” His friends rather seemed engrossed with evaluating him out than offering any response. “What’s going on here? Someone talk to me.” It was an order. Peter chuckled. He cast a furtive glance at the bush outside. His demeanour showed he really had nothing to say. Is this a nightmare or reality? Austen decided to change tactics. He needed to get his friends to talk. “You guys are gawking like scarecrows – so ugly. Try plastic surgery.” Donatus grimaced. He was in no mood for fun. “Austen!” His voice was reproachful. “But that’s total crap, man, total crap, to take us on a trip of horror.” 160
Austen threw his arms out in obvious confusion. “But what exactly did I do? That’s one question I’ve been asking since the last decade.” “Austen – crap!” Peter yelled with indignation. “Austen – crap! Happy how you toyed with our adrenaline and grey matter, eh? Don’t ever try that nonsense again.” He paused while mischief lit up his eyes. “My greatest consolation is the dirty slaps Peter gave you. It will take one whole week before your cheeks stop glowing red. I’m simply thrilled!” “Yea. And next time you play possum,” Edward chuckled, “it’s going to be hot water.” Austen’s eyes widened with fear. “You mean I passed out?” The ensuing silence was all the confirmation he needed. “Must be the Weri’s combo.” Edward heaved a sigh of relief. “Welcome back to the world. It’s a touchdown.” “My fingerprints,” Peter said gleefully, splaying his fingers haughtily, “are etched on your cheeks like a carving on marble.” Peter chuckled. “You can verify the authenticity with a fingerprint machine.” Donatus thought he heard a noise somewhere outside. He felt his heart skip a beat. “Austen, just pick up your – rags and let’s go.” He was growing impatient. It was only then Austen realized he had no shirt on. Bewildered, he threw a frantic look around and saw his shirt on the dirt. “Did you guys … or did I –” He finished the question by pointing at his shirt. “Yea,” Peter cut in feigning a sneer, “you nearly did a career change here to become a freelance stripper. Well, we made sure you didn’t succeed. All for one, one for all.” Donatus glanced at his wristwatch. “Austen, just pick up and let’s get out of here. We smelled the police not too long ago.” “Police?” Austen squealed with fear. He scurried to his shirt and flinging dirt off it, hurriedly put it on, unperturbed that some buttons were missing. Austen headed for the doorway, Peter, Edward and Donatus following suit. Midway across the room, Austen’s head began to shake uncontrollably. His friends, a few paces behind, stopped in their 161
tracks frozen with fear. As Austen began to stagger, he clamped both hands on his head, groaning in pain as he felt his brain begin to boil within the skull. He did not know when he started muttering gibberish as he ran outside.
8:05 p.m. Thursday June 28 2012.
Mrs. Bernardine was clearly restless. She was sitting in a couch in the parlour of the rectory, with Austen sitting inches away to her right and his immediate elder brother, Chijioke inches away from Austen. Shortly, feeling hemmed in, Austen tried to rise in protest. Chijioke impatiently thrust his left hand out, grabbed Austen’s right arm and firmly pulled him back on the seat. Austen was indignant and muttered something inaudible. He saw his mother looking at him with pity in her eyes. Austen tried to rise again and was forced back down on the couch. Suddenly, Austen’s head began to shake violently, his face contorting in pain as he began to mutter gibberish. He used both palms to clasp his head just as his mother hurriedly picked up a small container by her side and began to sprinkle Holy Water on him, tiny drops of sanctified water splattering over the three of them. Seconds later, both the head-shaking and gibberish stopped. Mrs. Bernardine heaved a sigh of relief, closed her eyes, did the Sign of the Cross and went into mental prayer. Shortly, she opened her eyes and retrieving the Bible on her left lap, spread it open and began to read Psalm 91. When she was through, feeling motivated to read further, she paged to Psalm 118. Just as she was finishing the passage, she heard some footsteps approaching and raising her head, looked in that direction. Five seconds later, the curtains of an inner door parted. As Fr. Ahamefule walked into the parlour, he felt ill at ease. Whatever has dragged Madam out so late must be bad news! Halting in the middle of the room, he did a quick visual scan of his guests. As his eyes fell on Austen, his eyes widened with anxiety. He turned 162
towards the woman, his eyes full of questions. Mrs. Bernardine was unaware how fast she had got up, her countenance visibly distraught. “Father, I need your prayers for my son. Father, help us with prayers-o! Father, it’s time for prayerso!” She felt short of breath but her voice plodded on. “Satan will never succeed-o-o!” She could no longer keep the tears from clouding her eyes. “Satan will never prise my son from my hands. God forbid!” She clapped her hands for emphasis. “God has already forbidden it! Kristi b! Eze! Austen belongs to God! God is in control!” With the palm of her right hand, she began to pat the Bible on the left palm. Fr. Ahamefule had stood rooted while the woman rattled off her distress. Thereafter, with three long strides, he got close to her and began to pat her on the shoulders. “You need to calm down, mum. I understand what you are going through but – you need to sit down, please.” He paused, his eyes in silent plea. He realized he did not need to repeat his words because he saw the woman become docile and proceed to sit down. However, she remained restless on her seat, which prompted him to place both palms of his hands on her head as he said a short mental prayer. He was glad that made her begin to recover her composure. The priest did a half-turn and fixed his eyes on Austen. Let it not be that Austen has become a victim of demonic possession to be in this state. Questions were racing through his mind but he was not sure voicing them would not worsen the distress wrecking his guests. “What’s the matter?” He was perturbed Austen seemed lost in thought or probably caught up in another world. “I can see Austen is not in the best of health.” He glanced at the woman briefly and then turned towards Chijioke for answers. Chijioke cleared his throat as he cast a worried look at Austen as if to ascertain what to deliver as the latest update on his condition. He took a deep breath and cast a glance at his mother apparently worried about her too. He sensed his mother was willing herself to say something. He thought it wise to allow her to free the burden on her mind. Yea, talking therapy, mummy! Mrs. Bernardine had a lot to say but was not too sure how to say them. She took a deep breath as she intensified her efforts to 163
hold back tears from her eyes. “For the past seven days, Austen has been acting … strange.” She swallowed hard, her voice laden with emotions. “I remember,” she said looking up at the priest, “some days ago, he went out with one of his close friends to meet the rest somewhere in the town. Must be a hideout. I’ve always warned him about bad friends. He never listened.” She looked at the priest, arched her eyebrows and angling her head, nodded towards a cushion. Mrs. Bernardine shook her head with sadness as the priest moved over and sat down. She took a deep breath and patted the Bible on her lap. “When he came back that day, it was already late and he wasn’t himself again. He was … different … as if it wasn’t my son again. He was talking crazy. His queer behaviour lasted about twenty minutes. We thought he was just – drunk, which he never tried in the past – and needed just a little time for the intoxication to wear off. We didn’t know it was something worse than that but he got his senses back.” She paused for breath. She was glad the priest’s countenance showed she had his full attention. “The next morning,” Mrs. Bernardine said, “we woke up to see him pacing around aimlessly – muttering gibberish though he never made any attempt to leave the house. It was horrible how his head was shaking so violently ... and he had no control over it. And –” She was surprised her voice suddenly cracked and her eyes beginning to well up with tears. She realized she could no longer continue speaking. She was glad to see a white handkerchief thrust close to her face. She smiled a thank you at Chijioke, grabbed it and dabbed her eyes. Glancing at the priest, she smiled apologetically. “Oh my God! That’s quite unbelievable!” Fr. Ahamefule wanted to say more but did not know what else to add. Na wao! How could this be? “Father-o-o!” It was a cry of anguish. Mrs. Bernardine looked up at the crucifix in the room. “People say my son is now insane but I reject that in Jesus’ name.” There’s no miracle Jesus can’t perform for his children! She closed her eyes in mental prayer. “Amen!” Fr. Ahamefule wanted more information. She knows it’s most likely insanity but her firm faith that God can even 164
miraculously cure Austen induces her to psychologically reject the reality of the insanity so it doesn’t look like she’s doubting God’s power. “What evidence do you have that it is insanity?” He thought it wise to turn to Chijioke for answers. Chijioke leaned forward and took a deep breath, enough time to articulate a response. “As he kept perambulating, my brother and I tried to lure him to a seat but when we failed, we grabbed him and forced him down on a chair. We called two of his friends on the phone and each of them confirmed it.” Dismay and embarrassment took turns on his face. “Confirmed what?” Fr. Ahamefule needed everything to be explained in very clear terms. I pray you Almighty God for the inspiration to resolve this crisis. He kept his eyes fixed on Chijioke. “Cocaine,” Chijioke announced matter-of-factly, holding the priest’s gaze. “There was methamphetamine too.” Shortly, turning his eyes to his mother, he shrugged while arching his eyebrows. “We never knew. That was a bad habit he picked up recently. Consequences of frustration, I’m sure. One wicked uncle has vowed to make life unbearable for us. He facilitated my dad’s death.” He paused, deep in thought. “Now, those friends of his only visit occasionally. And they all went into drugs because of this dysfunctional NDPP government.” “That’s something I fail to understand, why someone would decide to be just wicked, hardly a good thought for the welfare of a fellow human being.” Fr. Ahamefule looked amazed. “And there are so many of them around.” “Chigbo, the wicked uncle,” Mrs. Bernardine threw in with a shrug, “recently confiscated another piece of land from us, the very piece of land Austen was hoping we would sell and sponsor his Masters degree with. Hmm! Austen went into drugs out of desperation.” Nodding sadly, Chijioke added, “Life’s going just one way for Austen, downhill.” Mrs. Bernardine shrugged again, pursing her lips in defiance. “Father, God is in control. Don’t let this trouble you.” She was looking up at the priest, her eyes full of reassurance. Turning her eyes on Austen shortly and caressing his head, she added, “My son can’t live like an insane man.” The God I worship cannot fail 165
me. He never fails. Kristi b! Eze!” She started to nod rhythmically. “Bad friends. Bad friends-o-o! I always warned him. What will I tell God when he asks me how well I took care of my son? What will I –” “Pull yourself together, Ma.” Fr. Ahamefule leaned forward on his seat. “God will surely intervene.” He paused for thought. “Well, it is clear this isn’t a case of demonic possession but purely a psychiatric matter. We will continue to pray for divine intervention while we procure professional medical treatment for him. We will organize special prayers for divine intervention. There is nothing God cannot do for his children … as Jesus willingly came to suffer for us, even sacrificing himself. By his wounds, we are healed, as Holy Bible tells us. This nightmare will soon be over.” He paused for breath. God, they look up to me for direction. What’s the next line of action? Still hunched forward and eyes glued to the floor, Austen shifted on his seat. That made the priest throw a questioning glance at him. Realizing Austen just adjusted himself for comfort, he smiled and turning his eyes on Mrs. Bernardine and Chijioke, was glad they were smiling too. “You are already a woman of great faith, Ma. Keep to it. Satan cannot overcome us. The forces of darkness will always be shamefully defeated by the children of light.” He paused for effect, letting his words sink in. A thought streaked across the priest’s mind. “I will get in touch with the parish council chairman right away. I don’t want Austen becoming a burden to you, Ma, or to his siblings, if you permit me. The parish will quickly erect a shack within the church premises. That will be his temporary home until we build something better. You can always visit him … any of you, any day, anytime.” Mrs. Bernardine felt a surge of happiness but it was tainted with anxiety. She had seen Chijioke nodding in appreciation of the priest’s suggestion but she felt torn between losing sight of Austen for even a minute and her clear inability to fund the basic psychiatric treatment he would need. Her countenance showed she needed more convincing. “By keeping him close here,” Fr. Ahamefule continued in a reassuring voice, “we will effectively watch over him while I look 166
around for a good psychiatric hospital and the funds. You don’t have to worry about that. The parish will foot the bill.” Chijioke saw himself nodding with more enthusiasm. He cast a glance at his mother. Mummy, you better let him do this! He was convinced he had seen a sparkle of approval drilling through the mist of sorrow in her eyes. “He will be out of this mess in no time, mummy … by the grace of God. You have to let him. You can’t help him now any more than I can.” It sounded more like an order to acquiesce. “Hmm!” Mrs. Bernardine smiled, patting her Bible. “God’s will be done.” She knew that was all required of her then. “Thank God he isn’t the violent type. I believe he will cope and live with other needy people around here very amicably.” Fr. Ahamefule was secretly exultant he had successfully ridden through the storm that had brought his guests running to his house late that night. “Oh! Thanks so much, Padre.” Chijioke adjusted himself for comfort. He was glad the grin on his face effectively bottled up the laughter welling up within him. “We long tried to keep him in the house but he didn’t seem to like it one bit. He overheard us discussing how to come over here tonight and that was when he began to calm down, doing whatever we asked him to do. He will love living in the church premises.” “Father, I don’t know what to say-o-o!” Mrs. Bernardine was smiling. “God will continue to bless you.” “I’m happy you calmed down,” Fr. Ahamefule said smiling back at her. “See the Will of God in everything. The Word of God says all things work unto good for those who love and serve the Lord. I’m certain all this is a passing phase and something good will come out of it. So, don’t let this give you sleepless nights. Picking up an illness or high blood pressure won’t even help Austen’s condition.” “Thanks, Father.” Mrs. Bernardine turned towards Austen. “Let God accomplish his will,” she was caressing his head, “in the life of my family.” She paused for thought. “Alright, Father, we will head back home. It’s late. I don’t want his siblings getting more worried than they already are. Thanks … and good night.” “Good night. But before you go, please kneel for a blessing.” 167
Fr. Ahamefule stood up while the woman and her two sons promptly went down on their knees and closed their eyes. “The Lord be with you.” “And with your spirit.” Austen’s voice was distinct from his mother’s and brother’s. “And may Almighty God bless you,” and beginning to trace the Sign of the Cross over them with an outstretched right arm, “the Father … the Son … and the Holy Spirit.” The priest took a deep breath and it had a ring of finito. “Ame-e-en.” Their chorus was suffused with faith. “Go in peace,” Fr. Ahamefule said waving them to get up. “Austen stays anyway.” It sounded like a joke and everyone smiled. “Bye, Father. See you tomorrow, Austen.” Mrs. Bernardine nodded at both while arching her eyebrows at Chijioke, signalling him to begin moving towards the door. “Bye, Father.” Chijioke gave him one last look of appreciation and began to walk away. “Bye, you both.” The priest walked them to the door. As they disappeared outside, he shut the door, turned a key to lock it, and then turned to Austen. He stepped forward to Austen’s side, used his left hand to get hold of Austen’s right arm in a friendly grip and began to lead him towards an inner door. En route, he eased a handset out from a right trouser pocket and with some dexterity used his thumb to extract a contact from the phonebook. Satisfied with the name and number on the screen, he dialled it. He and Austen were just getting past the curtains when he put the handset to his right ear.
10:30 a.m. Thursday July 5 2012.
Chigbo, the manager of Nedu Phoenix Bank, Amaego branch felt a tornado of anxiety rip through his heart. However, he decided he had nothing to fear. The situation is under control, no cause for alarm! He wished it was harmattan as he was sure its cold weather 168
would have a soothing effect on his nerves better than the split unit air-conditioner in the hall. He adjusted himself for comfort on his chair as he thought about the harmattan season. Chigbo knew he still had a childish fondness for the harmattan and always felt enthralled whenever the harmattan began to quietly but resolutely ease the rainy season out. For a moment, he dwelt on the thought that when in full swing between November and January of every year and sweeping in from the Sahara region of North Africa down to the western coasts, the harmattan would throw a cloak of chilly air and dry, dusty wind over the entire country. Temperatures always dropped rapidly especially in the northern cities but not low enough to precipitate snow. Chigbo smiled at the thought that the dusty wind was the only thing he disliked about the harmattan. The impatient blare of a horn somewhere across the road startled Chigbo out of his daydream. He smiled, secretly reprimanding himself for the luxury of a reverie when he had something crucial to deal with. A scheduled board meeting of Nedu Phoenix Bank branch executives, all of them neatly dressed in suits, was already underway in a conference hall and he was the chairman. Methodically, he cast a glance around as if doing a head count though he knew all the members were present, namely, the Cash Operations Head, the Customer Services Head, the Local Operations Head, the Fund Transfer Unit Head, the Electronic Business Unit Head, the Security Department Head and, the Casual Staff Head. As his eyes settled on each person, he ran his mind through a mental file he had on the person in a wishful quest for something he could use as a bargaining chip. On the conference table, Chigbo had a Toshiba laptop inches to his left while an office flat file was spread out directly in front of him revealing some typed documents. Leaning forward, his eyes locked on a teacup sitting on a saucer, he pushed the tea set further out to his right. I hope she doesn’t consider that a distraction to her presentation. On impulse, he looked up, evaluating for the umpteenth time the pace at which each person was consuming the tea or coffee, canned drinks, snacks and bottled water that had been served. He noted that some serviettes were yet to be 169
touched. It was then that Ogadimma, the Electronic Business Unit Head, finished her presentation. Chigbo hurriedly turned his eyes on Ogadimma. “Yea, Mrs. Ogadi, that was a wonderful presentation. And from previous feedback from the board, we are all agreed then that we have to compile those files ASAP and forward them to Abuja. Headquarters will synthesize the data there and send a memo to the Central Bank of Nigeria pending when the CBN would call for a review.” He took a deep breath. He suddenly felt anxiety begin to nibble at his self-confidence. He took a sip of water. Nothing to fear! Chigbo cast a glance on one of the documents before him. “Now, we have come to the last item on the agenda” he continued, successfully keeping his countenance as unruffled as ever, “the faulty surveillance system in the bank.” Suddenly, his peripheral vision picked up a variety of body movements around the table. He looked up, interrupting his speech. Quickly looking around the table, he was glad no executive pressed on with any form of antagonism. Happily, he wished the gestures away as inconsequential. “As stated on the contract review document,” Chigbo was holding brief eye contact as he shuffled his glance between the executives, “the job of repairing and upgrading the surveillance system has already been contracted out, and 75% mobilization fee released to the contractor company, DotCom Nigeria Ltd. Unfortunately, the contractor manager had to travel to the US shortly after the contract was signed.” He paused. “There was a family emergency that led to the sudden trip. Nevertheless, he will use that as a golden opportunity to procure more advanced surveillance equipment from an American company. I’m in steady communication with him. He will soon be back.” He paused, realizing with a diffident smile that he had been rushing through the words. Throwing both eyes down on the papers before him, he began to shuffle through as if searching for a particular document. The ensuing silence was very disconcerting. Shortly, further random gestures around the table introduced a wave of subdued murmurs from various corners of the conference table. Chigbo 170
pretended not to notice as he kept his head down and continued the search. He didn’t fail to notice, though, that a particular male voice was gradually dominating the buzz. Don’t push your luck, Emmanuel! You can unseat me no more than the opposition can unseat Mugabe. Intending to throw a warning shot, he snapped his head up and fixed a stare on Emmanuel. It was only then he noticed that the man had never touched any of the edibles served him but had rather been waiting for a chance to make his move. Emmanuel, the Customer Services Head, did not bother to hold eye locks with Chigbo. He knew he had a formidable battle plan and did not want to waste time on peripheral scuffles. You will never know what hit you! He cleared his throat loud enough to get the noise on a downward trip. “But, with all due respect, Sir,” he said casting a glance at Chigbo and then beginning to shuffle his eyes around the table, “on this note you really need to treat us with a little more respect.” He was surprised how his own face involuntarily contorted with repressed aggression. “I mean, we are not kids you could take for a ride,” his voice a decibel beyond friendly, “in case you haven’t noticed.” Emmanuel managed a smile but was sure from the look on the faces of his audience that they expected more aggression. Someone coughed a few seats to his left but he ignored the interruption. “Someone just has to confront you face to face with the bare facts. And that’s why I have to –” “What’s all this about?” Chigbo cut in, clearly in combat mode. “If you have something to say, do so. How do you mean I’m taking you people for a ride? That’s an allegation I find very embarrassing.” He gestured in a show of victimization. “And besides, it looks like a calculated attempt to deflect the course of this meeting. I won’t let you do that, not on my watch.” Chigbo’s eyes were riveted on his enemy. How I wish my eyes could drill holes through that stupid skull of yours and whip your grey matter into a ludicrous pulp! Emmanuel chortled and shortly conjured a patronizing smile on his face. He was visibly happy that rather made Chigbo look more infuriated. “Before you file a suit against me, just let me finish my little speech.” Emmanuel cast a glance around and was certain he saw silent ovation in many pairs of eyes. “Let’s 171
cut to the chase. All of us here – take a good look at all of us – have been very uncomfortable over this surveillance system contract. Our suspicions increase as more incriminating facts turn up. And –” “What incriminating facts?” Chigbo sounded truthfully incredulous. That’s a lot of wishful thinking to believe you have anything on me! “Recently,” Emmanuel continued after a pause, “Hyacinth, the Local Operations Head stumbled on information that the contractor, characteristically handpicked by you amidst three other equally qualified contractors, was none but your brother in-law. And to cap it all, from further investigation, it was uncovered that your in-law’s company is nothing but a front for you and your son. You’re a major shareholder there, 85% between you and your son.” He threw a meaningful glance at Hyacinth. On cue, Hyacinth sat up on his chair. He was sitting on the other side of the conference table, with Chigbo a few seats between him and Emmanuel. This is really a pincer attack! “And I have here the relevant documents establishing that.” Hyacinth looked at Chigbo, “Now, if the chairman would permit,” and scared by the gleam of hatred in Chigbo’s eyes, scurried his eyes off to other executives around the table, “I would just distribute copies around.” He did not wait for approval before letting the documents begin to flow around. While he waited for some to get to Chigbo, he picked up a few pieces of biscuits, threw them into his mouth, and began to munch with half-closed eyes as if chewing the cud. Gradually, a hum built up with only a few eyes turning to glance at Chigbo who kept staring at the two documents that had just reached him. He knew he could never give up on the herculean task of hiding the shock waves ripping his heart apart. This is a landmine territory. How I wish I could back out. He knew Hyacinth would most likely not be saying anything further since he sensed Emmanuel preening to resume the onslaught. This should all turn out a mere nightmare! Emmanuel hunched on his chair, angling his trunk towards Chigbo. “Your in-law,” his voice was seething with rage, “came over and submitted his tender. You subtly railroaded us to approve 172
it for the contract. A done deal, isn’t it?” He cast a look around, pausing for effect. “Furthermore, rather than the 60% mobilization fee which this board earlier approved in principle for such contracts, you authorized the release of 75% without referring that critical decision to this board.” Just as he had anticipated, there were sudden random gestures around the table while a woman a few seats to his left hissed aloud in open condemnation. Though everything was going as planned, he still felt powerless to stifle the uncertainty stubbornly lodged in a corner of his mind. This man is so cunning! He’s always managed to wriggle out of every mess, no matter the scapegoat or collateral damage. “There’s something else.” Emmanuel was clearly determined to use incontestable facts to suffocate his enemy into defeat. “It was clearly stated in the contract that with the release of the mobilization fee, the contractor has to commence and complete the job within a month from the date of release. Yet, today is the middle of the second month since the release and the best we can get is about your in-law travelling abroad for a family emergency. Spare me that prattle!” He hissed, anger blazing in his eyes and locked on Chigbo. “And –” A sudden surge of fury choked him. Emmanuel realized with dismay that he just could not continue. He fell back on the backrest of his chair and pursing his lips, began to fiddle with his fingers, his eyes on them. Shortly, he took a sip of cold water and was glad for the soothing effect. Idiot! Why don’t you keep on with the blabber? Chigbo was beginning to brighten up. “I see!” He was nodding for emphasis. “This is nothing but a kangaroo court, isn’t it?” He expected no response as his eyes took up the fight to shut every other person up. “We gather for another regular board meeting and a clique hijacks it to pursue a vendetta.” He paused while his mind cruised around for an escape route. Chigbo took a deep breath indicating he was not through yet. He was not ready when Hyacinth cut him short. “Let it be on record,” Hyacinth heaved a sigh of relief, “that on this day, we raised these issues.” He paused for effect, happy to see Emmanuel loosening up with a smile. “If ever anything 173
untoward happens in this bank for which a surveillance system was needed to prevent, control or resolve the incident, you, the contractor and of course your son will be sued. This bank will demand complete restitution for any loss from all of you as well as claim damages for negligence, breach of contract, the whole works.” Chigbo brought his eyes down on his laptop before, as he had anticipated, all eyes turned his way. In the silence that ensued, he kept his right forefinger busy on the touchpad. Smart of them that the rest are quiet while only two launch the offensive so I don’t accuse them of a premeditated concerted assault. “Exactly what I had in mind.” Emmanuel was making a comeback. “Anything goes wrong here,” he hissed, “and you get sued. I will see to it.” “That sounds like a threat,” Chigbo replied, raising his head to meet Emmanuel’s eyes, a cunning smile on his lips. “It’s rather a prophecy,” Emmanuel chuckled, “a prophecy of doom.” “But I can’t be threatened.” Chigbo’s voice resounded with mockery. “You’re just being unreasonable. What difference does it make whether the contractor was my brother in-law or another man’s? You tell me!” “He certainly has to be someone’s brother in-law,” someone chipped in. It was Adaku, the Casual Staff Head. As nervous laughter rippled around the room, her colleagues again appreciated her knack for defusing bureaucratic tension with her wits. “That’s right,” Chigbo cut in but he was the only one not laughing. He saw an opportunity to up his defences. “And all that should matter is that we finally got a contractor for the job. Unfortunately, that’s exactly a point a clique here has conveniently decided to ignore because of some unrelated personal grievances against me.” Ogadimma felt she needed to correct an impression. “Sir, don’t take this the wrong way.” She paused as all eyes turned on her. She always felt shy for her beauty. “There’s nothing personal about this issue except the temperaments. Otherwise, the entire process of the award of the contract and the undue delay in execution 174
calls a lot into question. That’s an objective rather than subjective point and needs to be addressed by this board.” “Thanks my dear,” Emmanuel said. “It’s all about the lack of transparency and due process; it’s about the fraudulence in –” Chigbo did not know when his right hand shot up and a clenched fist came down on the table in a smashing hit, startling some colleagues and upsetting teacups. “Now, it’s clear to me you’re reeking with arrogance and self-delusion, Emma.” On impulse, he shot a menacing look at Hyacinth. Methodically, he slapped the table for emphasis. “All I need to do, and which I’m now firmly resolved to do, is to send a report to Abuja about the selfish ambitions and insubordination of a clique here in this branch. I’ve been tolerant but even tolerance has its limits.” He paused to let the threat sink in. “I have a scheduled appointment with the chief executive officer. Let me run this by the CEO. You all who are members of this clique will soon be hearing from us. In addition –” Hyacinth was seething with rage. “But that’s exactly where our own report is headed, complete with these documents” he was tapping on his file, “that expose your fraud. We will see whose head would be rolling, the leech that would be getting burnt off.” He paused for breath. “I think we’re done here.” Emmanuel cast a glance around. “I move for adjournment. Someone should be seconding me.” Chigbo did not see the three hands that immediately shot up from different corners of the table as his buttocks and legs hurled his chair out and away in a show of unrestrained anger. The clatter of the chair hitting the tiled floor and rolling over left the others turning towards Chigbo and speechless, watched him storm out of the hall.
5:30 a.m. Monday February 25 2013.
Austen emerged from his shack dressed like a clergyman. He felt there was something markedly new about him, something 175
different about that day but could not put a finger on it. All he knew was that it had something to do with banks and the donation box back at the Marian Grotto. Whatever it was, he was sure it would be destiny unmasking itself. The thought made him giggle. Austen was happy to see daylight creeping in from the horizon. The light rain the previous night despite the harmattan had left the air momentarily refreshed and salubrious. Angling his head downwards, he took a careful look at himself. He was clad in a long-sleeved black Roman collar and over it a sea-blue two-piece suit, black socks and black shoes. Flicking off some imaginary dust on his suit like a celebrity preening in front of a mirror, he nodded with satisfaction. Thereafter, he stepped outside, shut the door of his shack and began a brisk walk towards the main gates of the church premises. He found it providential that the gateman, listening to soft music in his room, already had the gates open for parishioners arriving for morning Mass. Austen believed a few parishioners must have already passed through although he did not meet anyone on the way. He walked through the gates and once outside, walked on. A short distance from the gates, he stopped and stood by the roadside ready to flag down any taxi that came his way. Austen wanted to get out of town but it never occurred to him to check his pockets for money to pay the fare. He was glad a taxi was already easing out of the light traffic to pull up near him. A minute later, he watched helplessly as the taxi scurried away, the driver shocked by Austen’s inaudible mutterings and violent head-shaking. Austen sneered. Three minutes later, Austen saw a pair of headlights turn a corner and begin to come in his direction. He sensed it was a taxi and just before the car could accelerate, Austen was already frantically flagging it down like a distressed clergyman. As the car slowed down and began to approach cautiously, Austen steeled himself for another encounter, determined not to display any unusual manner of speech or action. He was certain he would get a free ride and hitchhike out of town.
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11:00 a.m. Friday June 14 2013.
Although muttering to himself occasionally, Austen was so engrossed pacing around a few feet from the central doors of St. Bernardine’s Church that he was oblivious of everything else happening in the world. What he did not miss though, was the sorrow underlying the rhythmic interplay of voices and music flowing out of the church. He realized a Holy Mass was on and it was for the burial of a highly respected woman whom he heard died not too long ago. Feeling tears welling up in his eyes, briskly he wiped them off with the back of both palms. Oh, how I wish she’s still alive and in great health! He felt consoled by the thought that the deceased was bound for heaven. Shortly, Austen stopped pacing around and cast a glance at the central doors but was uninterested in the churchwarden standing by the door to maintain order, keep latecomers out and prevent him from entering the church and creating a scene. Austen began pacing around again. Fifteen minutes later the liturgical music changed to a dismissal hymn. A feeling of excitement coursed through his body as he stopped and turned to stare at the central doors. Shortly, the churchwarden stepped aside to let through a procession of altar boys clad in well-tailored purple cassocks and carrying various religious items ranging from a bronzed thurible spewing scented smoke, two lit candles on gilded candleholders, a bronzed incense boat and a silver crucifix fixed to a long wooden pole. The parish priest, clad in a purple chasuble, was at the rear of the procession with other clergymen but ahead of the handpicked people conveying the coffin out to a waiting sportutility vehicle, a white-coloured Chevrolet ambulance. A crowd of worshippers, which included some religious and political dignitaries, oozed through the doors to watch the priest conclude the liturgical rites there. Austen, standing at a vantage point, watched as the procession recommenced, took a left turn, and headed for the sacristy. He knew the priest would later hurry out of the sacristy to his car and drive to the residence of the deceased for the rite of interment. 177
As the procession passed a few feet from him, unaware that his countenance was still sorrowful, Austen fixed his eyes on the priest and when their eyes met, muttered a greeting. Fr. Ahamefule nodded in response, a soft smile on his face as he walked past but not enough to hide the sorrow in his heart. Austen giggled and like a shy kid, looked away. Then, chuckling, he headed for the far walls of the premises just to get away from the crowd. Austen turned for a final glance when the Chevrolet SUV ambulance, with siren blaring and lights flashing, began to slowly lead a convoy of cars and hundreds of people trekking to the deceased’s residence for her interment. Trekking on both sides of the ambulance were children from a mission nursery/primary school where the deceased last taught, a volunteer job she had taken up upon retirement as a secondary school teacher. There were also kids from a prayer group she had formed in her lifetime. All the kids were singing mournfully and on cue from a leader, a group of kids periodically threw flowers on the ambulance. Austen’s peripheral vision picked out three men and five women heading for the Marian Grotto. A hunch told him they were going for short prayers before catching up with the slowmoving convoy. He recognized the unmistakable figure of a woman, Mrs. Bernardine, a Bible under her left armpit and a wrapped package in her right hand, briskly walking a few paces ahead of the group. Austen did not stop walking until he arrived at an umbrella tree near the spot where his shack once stood. He vaguely remembered how the shack looked before the Añuri Home of the Needy was built from a huge anonymous donation and how subsequently he had been relocated to the property. As he sat down in the shade of the tree, his back to the crowd, he was unaware that Mrs. Bernardine had followed him there with her eyes. Five minutes later, intrigued by the hush around the premises, Austen turned his neck for a glance. There was no one in sight except the few praying at the Marian Grotto. With a smirk on his face, he rose, beat some dirt off his rumpled black shorts and blue polo shirt and turning around, stood facing the main gates 178
of the church premises. Seconds later, eyes fixed on the gates like a Phoenix missile homed in on a heat-emitting target, he marched towards them. When Austen arrived at the gate, the aroma from a room attached to the gates hit his nostrils and from the accompanying chinking inside, he sensed the gateman was busy with his lunch. Heaving a sigh of relief, Austen walked through the pedestrian gate into the street outside. But he was unprepared when his head suddenly began to shake uncontrollably. With pain constricting his facial muscles, he began to mutter as he used both hands to hold the head until the shaking stopped. He had not broken his pace as he walked on. Austen kept walking, muttering intermittently until he came upon a bank a stone’s throw from the farthest edges of the walls of the church premises. Standing opposite the bank, which was on the other side of the road, he turned around as if to confirm his bearing from the exact spot where he had begun the journey. He could see a line of pines trees that always whistled in the wind and hundreds of brightly coloured birds nestling on them. He stood transfixed as the aesthetic effect was heightened by the gilded dome of the Church, glittering as the rays of the early sun bounced off its surfaces. Snapping out of his reverie, Austen turned his eyes back on the bank. A fancy sign fastened somewhere on the top walls announced Nedu Phoenix Bank. He looked away, and throwing his eyes further down the street noted that the signs hoisted on three other different banks a stone’s throw from each other were not as artistic as the NPB’s. However, as Austen began to compare the number of clients streaming into each bank, some driving into the premises while the rest walked, he chuckled at the discovery that none was doing better than the rest. He started a head count on NPB’s clients. Ten minutes later, Austen realized he had lost count about eight times. Exasperated, he turned towards the Church and began to walk away. Striding through the gates, he homed in on the Marian Grotto. On arriving there, he halted in front of a browncoloured wooden donation box mounted on four slim wooden legs. Squinting, he read what was written in bold white letters 179
on it: PLEASE MAKE YOUR ANONYMOUS DONATIONS HERE. He looked up and cast a glance at the devotees praying at the Marian Grotto. No one seemed interested in him. Austen shrugged noncommittally. Locating a vacant spot on the kneeler a few paces away from the devotees, he went over there, knelt down, did the Sign of the Cross and began to mutter a prayer with his eyes closed. Without looking, he sensed a woman beginning to look at him. Angling his head, he looked at her. When their eyes met, Mrs. Bernardine smiled warmly and took her eyes back to the life-sized statue of the Blessed Virgin. He knew she would be glancing his way occasionally until she left the Grotto. He was sure she was praying twenty decades of the rosary. Shortly, Austen ended his prayers with another Sign of the Cross and stood. He went back to the donation box, and with his eyes locked on it, became lost in thought. Two minutes later, he moved in and shook the box roughly in a bid to guess how much money could be inside. Feeling the hollow weight of the box, disappointment quickly crystallized on his face. Then he felt anger begin to sprout somewhere within him but which metamorphosed into a giant tree in milliseconds. Austen stepped back two paces from the box, and pointing in the direction of the banks, began to mutter something, his voice a decibel beyond cordial. Seconds later, he moved back to the box and shaking it roughly again, nodded sadly in a reconfirmation of the weight. He stepped back two paces again, thrust his right hand to point at the banks behind the high walls of the church premises, swung it around to point at the box, and then back at the banks. The gestures came in one fluid motion and were repeated five times while he kept loudly muttering a complaint why all the money was going into the banks and little or nothing into the box. The strident tone of voice clearly exposed the frustration and anger rioting in his mind. Austen was unaware that his sudden change of mood and aggressive gesticulations had become an intimidating distraction to devotees. They all ended their prayers and left in a hurry except two men and a woman who chose to watch the unfolding events. Austen heard a woman call “Austen!” in a familiar voice, a 180
trademark combination of cooing and chiding. That promptly ended his tirade and mumbling apologetically, resorted to a long hard stare at the box interspersed with pacing around in front of the box. Glad for Austen’s subsequent subdued mood, the two men still at the Grotto, Chimezie and Okechukwu, simultaneously glanced at each other. With a tacit agreement, each did the Sign of the Cross and thereafter began to walk away, a few paces from each other, leaving Mrs. Bernardine still at prayer there. Certain he was out of earshot and itching for a chat, Chimezie stepped sideways closer to Okechukwu just as Okechukwu did a halfturn for a sympathetic glance at Austen. Chimezie did the same. “Such a sad story,” Chimezie murmured after a conspicuous shrug, “how this promising young man ended like this.” He looked around the church premises. “Na wao!” Okechukwu’s eyes were fixed on Austen. This is too depressing to be put into words. Chimezie returned his eyes to the Marian Grotto. “It’s his mother I pity more, you know, a widow with six kids, three boys and three girls. Austen is the third son, I believe.” He paused, enough time for their minds to run around. Mother Mary, please manifest your maternal intervention at least for the sake of this woman who’s probably your greatest devotee around here. Austen needs a miracle! At least this once. “We really thank God our parish priest has taken Austen under his wings,” Okechukwu saw a glimmer of joy in his partner’s eyes, “providing him with shelter, nourishment and medical services just as he’s been doing for some other needy people benefiting from his philanthropic program.” He paused for thought. “It’s very encouraging that the young man isn’t the violent or naughty type. His mum’s prayers are really working.” “Yea!” Chimezie paused and added with happiness, “And his mental condition has improved a lot. To God be the glory!” He sighed with admiration. “Madam Benar is really a woman of faith, great faith. She once told me that the miracle working Jesus cannot cure all those sick people as recorded in the Bible and when it gets to her turn to present her sick kid, he turns away!” “Interesting!” 181
“Earlier when his malady began, it was rumoured it was a clear case of witchcraft by a relative of his although some suspected outright demonic possession. However, in either case all were agreed on the urgency of exorcism.” Chimezie chuckled. “Fr. Ahamefule’s first battle was to completely debunk the rumour and its mutant versions despite stiff protests from some members of the Charismatic society already mobilizing for firepower sessions of exorcism. He surely prayed for Austen many times but sent him off to a reputable psychiatric hospital.” He stifled a laughter. “Yea, I remember all that.” Okechukwu laughed lightly. “Father repeatedly told some of those people that God created the people who would later become doctors and nurses so he could also use them to cure some illnesses rather than for people to always anchor every sickness on miracles.” He laughed again, a minute longer this time. Chimezie felt a grin break out on his face. “Getting prompt medical attention really did him a lot of good because he returned back here after six months almost his old self.” “It really did him a lot of good.” Okechukwu paused, his countenance changing. “Sadly, brief spells of insanity have recently begun to manifest. That’s quite worrisome.” “I fear he’s on the verge of a relapse.” Casting his eyes towards the Marian Grotto on impulse, Chimezie added in ominous tones, “And it must be something about the box. Ever since Austen started a daily routine of shuttling between banks and the box and the resultant build-up of negative emotions, his mental health took a dive. This will –” “Just what I had in mind,” Okechukwu cut in. “And it’s slowly but steadily triggering a relapse. Exactly the kind of aggressive bank-box gesticulations just before he allegedly robbed a bank out of town. That was in February.” He took a deep breath. “He needs help and he needs it now.” “I hear Fr. Ahamefule and the parish council made fresh arrangements and were about to send him back for more professional attention before one of Austen’s uncles began making threats to sue them if they did so without his permission as the head of the extended family since the demise of Austen’s dad.” 182
“May his gentle soul rest in the Lord.” “Amen! However, the uncle pointedly refused to grant that same permission on the pretext that he was working out an alternative arrangement to send Austen abroad. He never said when and where and forbade everyone from bothering him with that.” “But that’s plain wicked!” “Terrible! Fortunately, Fr. Ahamefule and the parish council pulverized his fortress by getting a human rights lawyer to pay him a visit. That was just yesterday. Funny indeed.” Okechukwu paused with a grin on his face. “They have now contacted a top psychiatrist to come around and examine Austen here. Other things will follow from his recommendations.” “Good to hear that. Austen may not have to be sent away again. Might boil down to simply prescribing medications to hold off a relapse and facilitate convalescence.” Chimezie’s face creased into a frown. “Come to think of it. Austen may be mentally incapacitated but he understands the difficulties the priest is facing taking care of him and dozens of other needy people.” He glanced at his partner’s face. “Father has been doing that on meagre resources and private savings while many of the city’s rich folk go to dump their money in banks, not a thought for the poor. Nigeria gets worse by the day! I’m glad I’m doing my best to support his philanthropic project both in cash and in kind.” “Me too. But what is that compared to the magnitude of the demand?” Okechukwu paused as a thought beeped in his mind. “Not all the rich but the rich with political affiliations. They are to be held accountable for a greater percentage of our social problems.” He paused again. “You know what? Sometimes I feel just fed up, wondering why God created the world and even had to bring me into it. That’s not blasphemous, I hope?” He guffawed. In response, Chimezie laughed nervously, unwilling to condemn his friend. “We just have to continue praying for the world.” He paused for breath. “It’s very encouraging – you know – that Austen, just like his mother, attends almost every Church activity although he stops outside the doors.” “And occasionally sweeps the premises, haphazardly though. Madam Benar sweeps inside the Church whenever she could.” 183
Okechukwu felt his eyes light up with awe. Chimezie chuckled to himself. “There was even a day Austen started preaching to me … using a Bible Father had given him. Funny day it was!” “That wasn’t the day he was dressed like a clergyman – in a black long-sleeved Roman collar shirt, suit, socks and shoes, was it?” Okechukwu was laughing. He already knew the answer. “Confirmed!” Chimezie said clapping for emphasis. “That was … was … was the day!” He was choking with laughter. “People had a good laugh. Fr. Ahamefule gave Austen those cloths. What was he thinking!” As their boisterous laughter wafted unhindered towards the Marian Grotto, they were unaware it made Austen turn and look in their direction. Just then, Okechukwu threw another perfunctory glance at the Marian Grotto and caught his breath as his eyes locked with Austen’s. Seconds later, Austen turned away returning his eyes to the donation box. Okechukwu felt remorse begin to deflate his balloon of mirth. Quickly, he threw some reins on his laughter. Casting a glance around the premises, Okechukwu’s eyes finally settled on Chimezie. “Fr. Ahamefule later confessed he gave those things to his houseboy to burn as they had become unusable and needed replacement. The houseboy dropped them near a dustbin intending to burn them later. Austen happened to come that way and stumbling on the booty, carted them away to his shack. He cleaned them up and there you are, a clergyman is born! Of course the houseboy didn’t have the guts to go to Austen and demand for them.” “Wonderful!” Chimezie chuckled. Thereafter, he thrust his left wrist up for a quick glance at his Rolex wristwatch. “Interment must be over by now.” He heaved a sigh of regret. “A pity Austen’s issue made us miss it. Well, it’s for good.” He paused. “Hmm!” Okechukwu’s sighed as a sparkle came to eyes. “Back at the Church, during the burial Mass, I overheard someone a pew behind me remark that for all her exemplary life, God could have spared the deceased the tortures of cancer because cancer is a disease that does not let people die with enough human dignity.” 184
Chimezie arched his brows, his eyes full of questions. “Well, that’s a point of view,” he was groping for something better to say, “a human point of view. God certainly has a different point of view.” As he quickly turned to look in the direction of the car park, his demeanour suggested he was not ready for a theological debate. “I don’t have much at my company today. Just a couple of documents to sign and a staff meeting at 3:00 p.m.” Okechukwu heaved a sigh of relief. “I was even about to suggest calling it a day. I have an evening flight to Abuja for an international conference tomorrow morning. See you around … and may God bless your family.” “Take care.” Chimezie thrust his right hand forward for a handshake. “And God bless your family too.” One last glance at the Marian Grotto and they realized Austen had been watching them for some time. They began to walk away from each other heading for the different spots where their cars were packed. They did not know when Austen lost interest and turned around to look at the statue. He was not distracted when later he heard two car engines rev and then drone, and begin to move towards the main gates. Shortly, Austen looked around, found a convenient spot on the well-maintained lawn around the Grotto, went over to an umbrella tree there and lay down to sleep. He slept all through the day, oblivious to the moment his mother ended her prayers and dropped a wrapped package by his side. Hours later, pangs of hunger harshly roused him from sleep. Just as he hauled himself into a sitting posture, he noticed a wrapped package by his side. Unwrapping the package, his eyes fell on a food flask just as the aroma of his favourite soup hit his nostrils and which made his stomach scrunch with anticipation for garri and egwusi soup. As he walked over to a water tap nearby to wash his hands, he felt delight quickening his pace. After eating the meal as leisurely as he could, Austen repackaged the food flask, left it in the spot he had seen it and went back to wash his hands at the tap. There, he decided it was time to get back to his room. With eyes locked on the gates, he ambled across the premises and when he arrived there, walked through. Out in the street, he kept walking until he could see the rooftops 185
of the Añuri Home in the distance. The sight of the Añuri Home increasing in dimensions as he approached quickened his pace. Minutes later, when he reached his room, he instinctively threw a glance at the spot where attendants always dropped his meals when he was not around to join the rest in the refectory. He saw a food flask. His nostrils told him it was porridge ukwa, one of his favourite meals. He was glad he could still eat the breadfruit meal and then go back to sleep.
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Chapter Five 10:00 a.m. Friday October 4 2013.
The Federal High Court had reconvened after a two-week recess, a palpable sense of anxiety resolutely settling over the court like the dark clouds of an approaching storm. The judge had requested for police presence but no one had anticipated the surprising calmness with which the crowd inside and outside the court conducted itself, thus making the police irrelevant. However, the imperial decorum of the female judge was a permanent warning against any disturbance, not even from reporters fiddling with their equipment in the media gallery. I’ve had many momentous days in courts but today’s seems different! Chima took a deep breath, which was always a preemptive strike against nervousness. From where he stood a short distance from the judge’s bench, he looked across the courtroom, his eyes bristling with confidence. He did not bother to guess what could be going on in the minds of the prosecuting counsel and his female partner where they sat at a long table. He cast a glance at his own male legal partner who sat at another long table and smiling encouragingly at him. He smiled back. On impulse, he looked over his partner’s shoulders towards the gallery, his eyes settling briefly on Fr. Ahamefule who was dressed in his usual immaculate white soutane. Around the waist of the priest was a black cincture that ended in tassels that flowed down the side of his left leg. Smiling, Chima nodded at the priest, glad that the priest looked unruffled. The priest nodded back with a smile. Thereafter, his eyes moved to Mrs. Bernardine who sat 187
near the priest as well as to the rest of the family, members of the parish council and a good number of parishioners all dressed in black skirts or trousers and white polo shirts on which was boldly written, “JUSTICE? FREE AUSTEN, AN INSANE MAN!” Chima already knew that all eyes in the courtroom were on him while millions of other people around the world craved for news updates on the trial. Still beats me how a local robbery incident defied all odds to become breaking news around the world! Chima heaved a sigh of relief as it was a comforting thought to him that as the defense counsel to Austen, he had ipso facto inherited millions of fans globally. Judging by recent statistics from an opinion poll on a website hoisted by a youth pressure group from Umuezeanoruo, Austen’s hometown, a majority was in favour of acquitting Austen whether or not he did rob the bank. Chima knew that also meant his fans expected him to win the case, no matter the odds. I don’t have to make my wide clientele begin to lose confidence in me! The judge coughed lightly and turning his eyes back to the judge, Chima realized she was still hurriedly scribbling on a notepad. Having just delivered a well-researched brief on Austen’s life like a flashback in the films, he knew that was an ace and every ace he played during a trial always guaranteed victory. However, he felt anxiety streak across his mind as he acknowledged he could not divine what exactly the judge was writing down. I can’t rest on the oars of past victories though, and the consequent high profile among peers! Chima remembered telling a friend he always took every new case like a first opportunity to prove himself. In two media interviews within the past one year, he had confessed he developed that mindset from a principle he borrowed from a book, The Wiseman, which had declared in golden tones, “Do not tell me how great I am but how great I can be.” Another cough from the judge stirred him out of his reverie. “You can now continue, Mr. Defense Counsel.” The judge’s voice was cordial. She was looking at him. Good! Just a mop up operation after the blitzkrieg. “So, Your Honour, I have just presented the defendant’s life in brief as pertinent to this case. You must have found it brief but 188
comprehensive, I believe. And having elaborately taken this honourable court through the basic factors and transforming moments in his life and satisfied with the examination and crossexamination of both the accused and witnesses, I wish to end my speech with some highlights.” Chima paused for breath, which was sufficient time to keep his audience in suspense while he articulated his next stream of words. “Your Honour,” Chima’s voice exuded gallantry, “the history of the mental instability of the accused has been painstakingly established. Although progressively convalescing upon release from a reputable psychiatric hospital where he had spent six months, recently, certain factors stimulated a relapse, particularly from periodic visits to banks nearby. This means the accused needs to be sent back to a psychiatric hospital on the double rather than to a prison since in the eyes of the law, a patient who has been clinically diagnosed as mentally insane, with incompetent mental capacity – non compos mentis – lacks the mental capacity required for a conviction of crimes that require intent.” Chima paused to let his points sink in. “It is a clinical case of schizophrenia and which is caused by certain genetic or environmental factors, or probably by significant changes in brain chemistry – one moment a good man, the next a bad man, a liar, a vagabond, an armed robber, you name it.” Chima did a half-turn, throwing a cursory glance at the prosecuting counsel. “I understand the prosecution has made several attempts to create the wrong impression that the accused was in full control of his senses during the robbery. Providentially, several witnesses both for and against have sufficiently attested to noticing something markedly insane about the alleged bandit during the robbery. In other words, he was afflicted by insanity before, during and after the robbery.” Chima paused again and with a cursory glance around the courtroom sensed the admiration of the crowd just shooting up. He saw the judge begin to scribble again. “And this great philanthropist,” Chima continued, making a half-turn to nod courteously towards Fr. Ahamefule, “this model of a priest, Fr. Ahamefule, has shown sufficient evidence that once the accused is released back to him, he would right away 189
get him further professional psychiatric care and foot the bill.” And simpering, he quickly added as he turned to stare at Chigbo, “That is, if the same uncle Chigbo who has proven himself to be one of the major negative factors stimulating and sustaining Austen’s mental deterioration, no more scuttles this noble effort.” Idiot! Human rights lawyers will soon be docking you. It pleased Chima to see Chigbo begin to squirm under the glare of the crowd in the courtroom, apparently mindful too that millions of other eyes watching the trial live on televisions had just become riveted on him and none with a kind thought for him. Chima decided to call attention back to himself. “It is very clear then, that the prompt provision of medical attention to the accused would directly preclude any anti-social sequela that insanity might induce him into.” Chima paused again, hoping the judge would read the subtle threat that she would be blamed if her verdict denies Austen prompt medical attention and something bad happens after that. “Let’s take it, hypothetically, that the accused did carry out the heist. People wonder how the accused could successfully execute a bank heist that makes professional bank robbers look like amateurs.” Chima chuckled as he sensed the curiosity of the audience pique. “That feat has been thoroughly traced to his hobby of watching too much Hollywood bank heist films while in the university and during the four years he was on very frustrating job hunting. It was as simple as that to an insane man.” A buzz of random remarks and laughter exploded around the courtroom but was quickly subdued by the impatient rapping on the judge’s bench. Chima took a deep breath, pointedly avoiding the judge’s eyes and the silent scolding he was sure to meet in them for the witty remark. “About the clerical attire he wore on that fateful day, sufficient evidence has shown that he wore it not because he wanted to rob a bank dressed like a clergyman but because he wanted to put on the best clothes in his wardrobe. The decision to wear his best to the bank was among the virtues he picked up from a habit of walking over to some banks to watch well-dressed clientele stream in and out of them.” A section of the crowd hummed. Chima decided against 190
pausing long enough to let the hum amplify. He sighed, turning towards two police officers standing by the door. “The police have sufficiently interrogated the accused just as the prosecution and I have sufficiently examined and cross-examined him all in the quest to discover where he carried the two bags of money from the heist. All we got was gibberish and more gibberish, with him blanking out a couple of times in-between. That’s another signal that even as we speak, his mental condition continues to deteriorate and he needs medical help as soon as possible.” As Chima paused while turning away from the police officers, he heard one of them heave a sigh of relief, glad that the spotlight had lifted off as suddenly as it had descended. Chima took a deep breath, throwing a glance at Fr. Ahamefule and reassuring him with his eyes. This isn’t like walking a tight rope! “The prosecution made copious references to information about two parishioners who stumbled on #19.6m on the same day of the robbery and delivered the same money to Fr. Ahamefule, the parish priest. The prosecution tenaciously argued it could be part of the #20m from the heist since the accused lives in the care of priest. And being so,” he turned for a questioning glance at the prosecuting counsel, “the priest has the moral and legal obligation to return the money, all of it.” Chima paused for a smile. It looked rather condescending. Chima stepped three paces closer to the judge’s bench but mindful that before he could traverse the well, he must seek permission. “Of course, that line of argument,” he said gesturing towards the priest while his eyes locked with the judge’s, “has been a harrowing and unfair emotional moment for the priest and his parishioners. However, by legal principles, that same line of argument is a mere insinuation as it totally lacks any substantiating evidence. It lacks credibility.” He paused, letting the judge yearn for what reasons he would be furnishing. “The money from the heist was #20m whereas the money handed over to the priest was #19.6m. Furthermore, the #19.6m was left at a donation box on which was written in clear letters, ‘PLEASE MAKE YOUR ANONYMOUS DONATIONS HERE’. The direct deduction from this is that an anonymous donor, either an individual or a group, dropped the money there on purpose. 191
Moreover, that’s the right place for huge donations like that, when you don’t want your identity revealed to the public. What is more? That isn’t the first time money was being dropped there, huge or small, by anonymous donors and no such money has ever come under court inquiries or police investigations.” A feeling of relief swept through the court but which hit Chima like shock waves from an earthquake and he was on time to catch himself from staggering. As the judge put her head down to scribble again, Chima walked towards his legal partner. “It has been sufficiently proven too,” he said halting a few paces from his partner, his eyes scanning the crowd, “that two bags of money were carried away from the bank whereas it was only one bag at the donation box. Moreover, the #19.6m was found in a bag totally different from those taken away from the bank.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Furthermore, on the hypothesis that it was the insane man here that carried away the #20m from the bank, he could have littered the money anywhere along the way, along the streets, a market, a football field, a dustbin, a bush, God knows where. Of course, he wouldn’t know what to do with all that money, that is, if he didn’t already call up a cashier from the floor of hostages and request to open an account and deposit the entire money right away.” Chima chuckled and as laughter took the courtroom by storm, immediately added, “Sorry, Your Honour. I was certain that was part of my points.” In response, the judge threw him a menacing look. “In other words,” Chima was in a hurry to quell the infectious laughter personally, “the loot is probably with someone else right now.” He paused for thought. “Still on the hypothesis that he did rob the bank, one would have to ask what might have prompted that. Not that robbery could be justified in such a situation but that the robbery came from a relapse triggered by the sight of a routinely empty donation box for the welfare of numberless poor people while upper class citizens routinely dumped profits in banks to lie idle.” He knew that would be a knock-out punch in capitalist climes. Smiling, he decided to sharpen the attack from that angle to help him enervate the prosecution. “Austen’s reaction to this social contradiction surely reminds 192
me of one author, a lonely voice at the moment, who’s been demanding that just as the world set a line at the base called the poverty line, to mark off those unlucky citizens of this our commonly-owned world who are very economically disadvantaged, the world too must draw a wealth line at the top beyond which it would be a criminal offense for any individual, group, or nation to worth more than economically. The excess at the top is sufficient to fill up the lack at the base. In other words, the misdeeds of a single insane man should bring the rest of humanity back to sanity.” Chima smiled triumphantly. Isn’t that an upper-cut? Sure it is! “Finally, about that #19.6m that came by anonymous donation, the priest and his parish council have already innocently invested the entire money in some purely humanitarian projects, never for personal use. And let me inform this honourable court that there is a corroboratory precedent.” Chima cast his eyes around knowing he was just piquing the curiosity of the crowd. “While on pastoral work a few years ago in Odomomoh parish in Kogi State, he initiated and led a grassroots campaign to call the attention of the government to the plight of Ibaji people who produce over 60% of the yam and rice that feed Kogi State and a handful of other states but lacked basic amenities like motorable roads, markets, potable water, hospitals, electricity, competent schools and good mobile phone services. He faced stiff opposition from a handful of clergymen but never gave up. Now, such a priest rightly merits a national award, not legal indictments. And on this note, I humbly close my speech.” It was the calm before the storm as seconds later, the courtroom exploded into a thunderous ovation as dozens of hands began to clap with exuberance coupled with loud exclamations ranging from “Thank you Jesus!” to the singsong “We don win! We don win o! We don win!” in pidgin. Chima, clearly taken by surprise, humbly walked back to his seat. As he approached, his partner rose to welcome him back with a macho handshake. They saw the judge adjust herself on her seat. The judge, fighting back a burgeoning smile, quickly picked up the gavel and sought refuge in five loud bangs. Thereafter, 193
she waited until the defense counsel and his legal partner had sat down. “I wish to remind everyone in this courtroom that I have an incontestable policy of quietude and orderliness during proceedings in my court.” She threw a warning look around. “I won’t hesitate to get someone arrested,” she nodded towards police officers at the door, “and charged for contempt of court.” Thereafter, the judge took a moment to peer at her notes, aware she was heightening the suspense. “Good that both sides have closed presentations.” Methodically, she cast a glance around the court. “This court is adjourned to next Wednesday before a verdict can be given.” On cue, the baritone of a male court clerk took over the entire courtroom with “Court!” Everyone rose as the judge gathered her items on the bench and began to walk towards an inner door manned by a court officer in uniform. She knew that as soon as she was out of sight the courtroom would be overrun by noisy chatter and jubilant gesticulations.
7:15 a.m. Saturday October 5 2013.
I need to get to the car before my wife does! It did not occur to Suleiman that he was taking too long preening in front of a mirror in the master bedroom he shared with his wife. His wife, Ifeoma, had hurried over to the children’s bedroom on a peace mission having heard two of their three kids quarrel over a newly bought teddy bear. He felt a surge of regret at the thought that Ifeoma had requested him to branch to any supermarket on the way back from work the previous day but he had forgotten. He had to do it that morning if he did not want Ifeoma to take the Toyota Camry saloon car, do the shopping herself and then drive off to whatever meeting she said she had to attend that morning with her former classmates from Obowo Township Secondary School. Her own car, a Honda Accord, was still in a mechanic workshop for repairs 194
after a minor accident two days earlier. As Suleiman hurried downstairs, he heard the housemaid keeping herself busy in the kitchen. He headed for the door while his mind was inundated with thoughts of the inevitable vicissitudes of the rush hour traffic. He was just unprepared for an ambush right outside his door as two reporters lay in wait, their van parked out of sight. They knew if he got any early warning they were coming, he would pointedly ignore them. “Sorry, no comment. Give me time to think things through” was what the press knew him for. As soon as Suleiman stepped outside, Stanley emerged from the shadows of a flower hedge a few feet from the door. “A very good morning to you, Sir.” And pretending not to notice how startled Suleiman was, added, “My name is Stanley, from The HotPen newspaper. And here with me is –” “Nkechi.” Nkechi was glad to notice that her cheery voice visibly helped the lawyer begin to regain his composure as she emerged from the shadows inches behind him. “Good morning Sir.” She nodded at her partner and both hurried out. As she closed in on Suleiman, her microphone pointing at the lawyer’s mouth, Stanley took three steps aside for a vantage point, a camcorder sitting on his left shoulder. It took Suleiman six more seconds for his brain to assimilate and synthesize what just happened. It’s the menace again. Initiate evasive manoeuvers! He did not need those introductions because he already knew the reporters by name. Suleiman tried a smile but it looked shallow. It was the best he could do to keep his bile from shooting up beyond his hospitality threshold. “If you’re here about Catherine, that fraudulent minister of ecology and natural disasters I and the Economic Crimes Department put away last week, sorry, no comments. Justice has been done. It’s amazing how the current leadership of the ECD has stepped up to the challenge without fear or favour. That’s exactly what we need in the war against high profile crimes.” “Great. The country is faring better now. But I’m not here about that. Not at all, Sir.” Nkechi was scared of anything that could turn him off too early. She threw a worried look at Stanley who was rather busy fiddling with the controls of the camcorder. 195
“Then, I don’t remember giving you an appointment. Now, if you would excuse me, I have somewhere to go and I’m running late.” Suleiman expected some resistance and which was always followed by the reporter finally succumbing and backing off. Nkechi’s smile indicated she would do neither. A little flattery might help loosen you up. “You did very well on that fraud case, Sir,” her voice exuded admiration, “despite undue pressure from some top politicians in the federal government to stop the prosecution or to whittle it down with trifles.” She beamed a disarming smile at him, her beauty upping the stakes against any attempt to get rid of her. “And I made sure my newspaper, The Hotpen, gave it as much coverage as it required. You’re a pacesetter indeed.” Suleiman grinned. “Yea, thanks for the compliment. Your reportage was quite good and that’s among the reasons why your newspaper is among the best in the country.” He paused as memories flooded his mind. “The minister of ecology and natural disasters really had it coming. Unfortunately, there are many more like her in top offices in Abuja. I pray God that someday we will line them up for prosecution.” He laughed at the idea. “That would be – tough, very tough,” Nkechi giggled. “But I’m convinced you can ride the storm, looking at your pedigree, Sir. And ever since the new Director General of the ECD assumed duties, the criminals in the National Assembly and the Ministries now live in fear just like their colleagues at the state level, spooked by your victory over the minister of ecology and natural disasters. Isn’t that a good turn in the nation’s history?” Suleiman chuckled. “Nigeria is old enough to turn a new leaf, that is, if our leaders give us the chance.” He began to fight back the laughter pushing against his lips. “Someone has offered an off-the-counter remedy. Didn’t you hear about it?” He chuckled. “Just get someone among their staff to become a whistleblower and down goes the mighty! It works!” “Oh!” Nkechi laughed. “What I heard was to hoist a whistleblower website where people could upload incriminating information. The ECD won’t again lack sufficient evidence to prosecute criminals.” “A remedy indeed!” Suleiman laughed but it was brief as he 196
cast a glance at his Omega wristwatch, making sure the reporter took note of that. “My dear reporter, I need to get somewhere, if you don’t mind.” He locked eyes with her. Nkechi saw a frown begin to creep in from the edges of the lawyer’s face. The thought that he might soon walk away made her restless. I just can’t throw in the towel, at least not yet! Discontent rose like geysers within her as she was still coming around to the topic for which she had planned the ambush. It did not help her mood when she recalled that getting Suleiman to comment elaborately on anything, let alone getting an exclusive interview was among the most daring secret contests among reporters. The lawyer does a lot and says just too little, which is bad business for reporters. Nkechi’s heart skipped a beat as the lawyer headed for his car. “We have information that might save your career.” Nkechi knew she had to say something just to stop him from getting to the car but how that come out of her mouth was shocking even to her. The feeling threatened to turn into a cold scare when she saw Suleiman freeze mid-step while Stanley. She could guess that Stanley held his breath, gawking from behind the viewfinder of the camcorder. “Excuse me?” Suleiman was not too certain he had heard her right. He turned around for a face-to-face encounter. He had pointedly ignored Stanley but had a rethink as he threw a questioning look at him just in case he had the answers he needed. “We have information that might save … em ... em ... help your career.” Oh God! This could cost me my job. It was too late to back out and Nkechi did not want to give the lawyer any reason to get a court to slam a restraining order on The Hotpen from henceforth coming within five miles of him. What should I tell him? Assassins are after him? His wife is considering a divorce? Or what? Nkechi threw an SOS look at Stanley who rather closed his mouth and hid behind the camcorder. She needed nothing but a miracle. “I’m listening.” Suleiman was urging her on. “Alright, then.” Nkechi sighed at her ineluctable decision to play along. She felt a sudden rush of inspiration. “Within the next one month, your law office will suffer a paralyzing storm 197
from a loss of confidence by a majority of your clientele, current and prospective alike. Your pedigree among colleagues would suffer a taint, a rather thick one and nosedive. In counter-reaction, the threat level of your reticence on public issues would shoot up to DEFCON THREE and of course, your wife and kids would begin to complain you’re no longer the man they used to know. Consequently, your family would implode, setting the stage for divorce and custody suits, as stormy as that often is. And all this because,” she began to hit the microphone on her left palm as if counting the words, “you are sure to lose Austen’s case. That’s it.” Suddenly, Nkechi paused, panting like an exhausted runner while her eyes searched the lawyer’s face although she did not even know what to look for. In the ensuing silence, Suleiman resorted to looking back and forth from Nkechi to Stanley as his mind went into overdrive. Seconds later, a smile appeared on his face. “Would you have me classify that,” his voice was calm, “as a religious prophecy or a scientific prediction?” He locked eyes with Nkechi for a few seconds that looked like eternity. He did not know when he began to laugh. Nkechi was not too sure if the laughter was good for her career or rather bad. “Well,” she shrugged noncommittally, “a little of this and a little of that.” As the lawyer’s laughter increased in pitch, she threw a confused look at Stanley. It was only then she realized her partner had been laughing quietly. Then it dawned on her that everything she had rattled off had been written off as a joke and a rather good one. Vivacious laughter burst through her lips. Suleiman was pleased to have walked into a joke right outside his door. I’m sure these reporters consider it a victory to have gotten me to laugh with them. “My dear, that was funny but … scary.” Suleiman arched his eyebrows as he took a deep breath, some seriousness returning to his face. He was not surprised Nkechi impulsively hauled the microphone back to his lips in anticipation of something newsworthy while signalling Stanley to get the camera rolling. “All you are telling me,” Suleiman’s voice was cordial, “is that I could lose that case but,” he paused, “I fail to see what repercussions it could have on my career and family.” He chuckled. 198
“My team and I are on it. We fight tough and I run a tight ship. That’s why I always win every case I’m prosecuting.” Nkechi could not believe they were finally having an exclusive interview with the notoriously reticent lawyer. She fought hard to keep the thrill out of her face and voice. “But that’s the same thing the defense team has been repeating all this while,” she paused, “that they are working round the clock and are confident they will win the case.” “Yea, I know about that. I got that from the media.” He paused and a light came to his eyes. “Let’s put it this way. In football, when two very good teams meet on the pitch, while the game is on, each side is so sure of victory. However, only one team finally emerges victorious no matter how tough the match turned out. That’s exactly what’s unfolding in the courtroom.” “A very good analogy. Do you happen to love football?” “Oh my God! I just love the game. It’s more than a hobby. And when you’re a talented footballer as I was in my youth,” his eyes glistened with pride, “you just couldn’t resist carrying a pair of football boots anywhere you were travelling to, so long as there was the possibility of stumbling upon a field, a ball and a couple of players there.” He paused as memories kept flooding back, a broad smile adorning his face. “I didn’t make it into the professional league when I was in the university because I was rather focused on graduating top of my class.” He shrugged but without a show of regret. “Now in my late forties, I still manage to play football once in a while but very carefully. Keeps me young, trim, healthy and agile.” “That’s wonderful. The agility surely resonates in your legal career and is directly influencing the case you are prosecuting, the bank heist case against Austen.” “About that, I can assure you, the defense team is not to be underestimated. That would be obviously calamitous.” Suleiman chuckled. “Just as I had anticipated, their game plan is to establish a case of non compos mentis but that’s exactly what my prosecuting team is set to outflank and destroy.” He paused to let his words sink in. Suleiman knew the reporter wanted him to say more. “Many people have become very interested in this case, locally and 199
internationally.” He shrugged noncommittally while arching his eyebrows and pursing his lips. “If final verdict is in my favour, it’s good and merited. If it does not, in the spirit of sportsmanship, I will accept it. The possibility of filing an appeal or taking the case upwards to the Supreme Court could be explored by us if need be. However, the extensive manner in which we are handling this case at the Federal High Court will most likely not leave sufficient verdict-overturning grounds for an appeal.” “In other words,” Nkechi paused, letting her mind synthesize a follow up question ad lib, “the decisive battle is at the Federal High Court. Do you feel under pressure to win this case may be a little more than during other cases you prosecuted in the past?” “Every case I’m prosecuting is always enough pressure because I’m focused on winning. Nevertheless, I have to confess that Austen’s case is surprisingly proving to be unique besides grabbing international attention the past few weeks and with millions of people assessing the progress of the case every step of the way. So you would understand then when I say I feel some pressure. But we always prove our mettle, my team and I.” “That’s reassuring.” Nkechi paused for breath. “Do you mind elaborating a little on the nature of this pressure?” Suleiman shifted his weight on his legs. “Well, the international attention is most of it. Then, there are a couple of other factors but which to me are better ignored than worried over. Take the instance of Austen’s fellow parishioners always putting on polo shirts screaming, ‘JUSTICE? FREE AUSTEN, AN INSANE MAN!’ right there in the courtroom. What’s the point … to intimidate the judge or to make me suffer amnesia while delivering a speech?” Suleiman grinned and was happy Nkechi nearly laughed. “But you didn’t raise an objection to that before the judge.” “I didn’t have to. I know the judge very well. She can’t be swayed by how many people are clad in uniforms, same colour, same inscriptions. Moreover, the defense counsel would have argued that every individual has an inalienable social right to wear any decent clothing of choice irrespective of uniformity in colour and inscriptions with other people’s. So you see, that would be diversionary and that would be me wasting my time on something inconsequential.” 200
“I see your point.” Suleiman swallowed hard. “There was another distraction I just had to ignore, a threat call I received late one night, exactly a month ago, at 11:15 p.m. An anonymous caller used a hidden phone number to wake me from sleep. He told me that some people in the top echelons of the federal government requested him to tell me I should lose the case – otherwise my law firm would suffer a ferocious investigation either by the Nigerian Bar Association or by the National Judicial Commission on allegations of unprofessional irregularities, as the press would be told. And they would see to it that my legal career is kicked downhill for the rest of my life. In response, I didn’t give the man the pleasure of cutting the call. I cut it right away. He must have felt stupid after that.” “Wao! That’s something to report to the police about.” Nkechi felt her heart begin to palpitate. She took a deep breath and was glad for its soothing effect. “It was unmistakably a warning that if I don’t take a dive, my career takes the dive instead.” Suleiman could not hide the disgust and defiance welling up within him. “I can’t be cowered into taking a dive. I rather dare whoever it is to investigate my law firm. I’ve nothing to hide. My associates and I live by the rules – we do everything by the book. But I’m making a move to file a report with the police concerning the threat call.” “What’s your hunch about the origin of the threat?” “Austin’s prosecution is a legal matter but I’ve realized, together with millions of fellow Nigerians, that it clearly has broad political consequences. The political angle is even increasingly overshadowing the legal angle. In other words, the probability is very high that the threat call came from some political quarters. And if that’s true, it is another confirmation how politicians are meddling with and corrupting the judiciary for very selfish interests. I wish some firebrand lawyer could conjure up some legal terms casting such a meddling as a treasonable offense since it could directly lead to a string of events that could truncate the unity and existence of Nigeria as a nation.” “Wao! That would be a pacesetter.” The lawyer smiled patronizingly. “A pacesetter,” he echoed 201
almost inaudibly as his thoughts took a sharp turn. “A good number of politicians only want to grab from the public treasury for themselves and their unborn generations. It is greed and selfishness all the way. What if another firebrand lawyer takes the United Nations to task to promulgate a Right to Dignity of Human Labour, whereby, it would be illegal for someone to amass wealth sufficient beyond his lifetime and saved up for unborn generations whereas a percentage of the present generation withers away from want? Thus, let children and grandchildren be born and avail themselves of the dignity of human labour. They will work for their own wellbeing, just as we have it in the Lord’s Prayer, ‘Give us this day, our daily bread,’ rather than saving for tomorrow when millions are dying from poverty today. A child or any concerned citizen would sue a parent for saving up and denying the child the freedom to dignity of human labour. Now, what would you call that?” “A new civilization!” Stanley was surprised how fast he had provided an answer. Angling his head, he smiled at Nkechi, then at the lawyer. “Wao! Never thought of that,” Nkechi was just finding her voice, “but better than what I would have come up it.” Suleiman was silent, his eyes narrowing with deeper thoughts. “Come to think of it. In South Africa, according to Owelle, that philosophical VPPC politician, it was the apartheid whites who enslaved the indigenous tribes, citizens by birth and by right. In Nigeria, it is the ruling party, in fact, most of the politics-oriented elite, who theatrically enslave us, citizens by birth and by right, and we don’t have the guts yet to rally together and end it, nonviolently, of course. Terrorism and warfare come under the category of problems rather than solutions. We got our independence the first time from Britain. Today, more than ever, we need a second independence, this time from our politicians. This explains why some narcissistic political cabal had the guts to threaten me.” Nkechi smiled at him encouragingly, wondering what to say next. “It should be comforting to you, Sir, that millions of people will soon be reading about this threat call as soon as we publish this exclusive interview in the next edition of The Hotpen. Any 202
subsequent attempt to investigate you after this case will most likely be traced back to this threat call.” Suleiman smiled as mischief lit up his eyes. “That now sounds like you’re offering me an insurance policy.” He laughed, as did the reporter. “Earlier, when you were rattling off a prophecy or prediction about an imminent damage to my career and family wellbeing, well, I thought it was a follow up from the threat call.” He paused just as his eyes scolded her amicably. “Nearly took me an eternity to unmask the joke there.” On impulse, he turned his head and glanced at his car. In response, Nkechi giggled apologetically. “Sorry Sir. Didn’t know when it came rushing out of my mouth. Really scared me though.” Suleiman smiled. “Don’t try it somewhere else. You could get thrown behind bars. Well, you’ve got your exclusive interview. Congratulations! Now, do me a favour. Keep other reporters out of my way. That’s all I need to swap an earlier decision to sue you for trespassing and for premeditated journalistic assault.” Never heard of that one anyway! He began to walk away, leaving the two reporters staring after him. “Here’s a quotation I need you to chew the cud on,” he hollered over his shoulders. “Here it goes – ‘First, it is dark all over. Then, from a corner, a shooting star emerges, bathing everything in a light of love and beauty. But as suddenly, the shooting star burns itself out and darkness returns. For the lifespan of a shooting star is the story of a life.’ That’s it.” He was soon at his car before the reporters could decide on what to say in response.
1:00 p.m. Monday October 7 2013.
Just as the car entered the car park of the Nedu Phoenix Bank, Amaego, David started pushing the rear passenger door of the IVM jeep open before his chauffeur could bring the car to a halt 203
in a vacant space. He was in no mood for any delays. He did not know when his psyche sought a release of tension by letting some thoughts about the Innoson Vehicle Manufacturing company sneak into his busy mind. What factors hinder the Nigerian government from giving the IVM company a reviewable contract to supply about 50% of all official vehicles at all levels of government? That would certainly boost the local economy and slash unemployment significantly. But what could explain the puzzling insufficient advertising of Innoson vehicles in the Nigerian market? What are the prospects in the international market? Suddenly, David took a deep breath and chided himself for brooding over something else when he had more pressing issues to worry about. In one fluid motion, David eased out of the car and motioned the two police officers in the car with him to fall in step as he headed for the entrance doors of the bank. I’ve just been made a detective and about to make my first arrest. It has to look good. At the doors of the bank, he flashed an identity card at a security man stationed there. That got the result he expected as he and the three police officers walked through without any fuss over their arms. The sudden appearance of three police officers in the banking hall momentarily ruffled the queue of clients awaiting their turn at the counter. As they marched through the banking hall, clients parted to let them through. Pointedly ignoring nervous or questioning glances from some bank staff and clients and sparingly returning salutations, the police officers headed towards the staircase. At the top of the flight of stairs, the detective did a quick scan and caught sight of a door marked, “BRANCH MANAGER.” They arrived at the door within seconds. David rapped on the door. However, rather than wait too long for a response, he pushed the door open and walked in, his partners a few paces behind. Marching into the office, he stopped around the centre and quickly looked around, a feeling of contentment lighting up his face. Everything is looking good for me today. Thank God o! Chigbo, the branch manager, sitting at his table, was just beginning to look up from his desktop computer ready to rebuke 204
whoever it was that had barged into his office without first acquiring his consent. The words got stuck in his throat as he saw three police officers. Realizing shortly that his mouth was agape and eyes wide with uncertainty, he hurriedly hoisted a courteous smile on his face. He wished he were a psychic capable of reading minds. “Good afternoon officers. How may I help you?” He let his eyes settle on the man who had the air of a senior officer. David heard the greeting all right but chose to ignore it, confident it would riddle the banker’s self-confidence with more holes. Furthermore, to create some shock waves, he methodically did a half-turn and threw meaningful glances at his partners who were a few feet behind him. He could almost hear the banker’s heart thumping with fright. He turned back and locked eyes with the banker. Chigbo guessed that a psychological warfare was on and was convinced that whatever it would be leading to would never be for his good. At the speed of light, he racked his brain in search of an exit strategy. He hit a blank as his mind seemed to have failed to function again. I don’t even know what I’m up against! However, he decided to lash out for an advantage in the psychological warfare. “But let me make this very clear, officers. The manner in which you officers,” his eyes scanned them with some ferocity, “stormed into my office was unnecessarily uncivilized and unduly aggressive, to put it mildly. I’m a principled man and well connected. You don’t have to get yourselves into trouble just for barging in like that, that is, if I desist from putting a call through to the commissioner of police. Now, if you are here for some banking services, let me get –” What an egotist! David torpedoed the remainder of whatever the banker was set to say by suddenly marching to the banker’s desk and signalling his partners to outflank the banker at the two ends of the desk. He was secretly amused to see the banker look so scared, his mouth agape once again. A siege is underway, Mr. Bigmouth. And how would that qualify as one of your banking services! Deftly, David whipped out his identity card and a folded document from his shirt pocket. With some finesse, eyes locked 205
on the banker, he unfolded the document and thereafter shoved both the document and his identity card a few inches from the banker’s face. David saw the banker struggle to close his mouth as he squinted to read what had been displayed in front of him. “That’s my ID card,” he said, jerking his left hand, “and that’s a warrant of arrest for you,” he added, jerking his right hand.” He paused to let the words sink in. “Investigations have netted you in a bank fraud case and it’s water-tight. Orders are from Abuja. You have the right to remain silent for anything you say can be used against you in the court of law. Officers, get to it. Put him in handcuffs.” Chigbo suddenly suffered an attack of claustrophobia as the two police officers moved in from both ends of his long desk. He did not know when he sprang from his chair in protest. “Officers, hold on, please.” He was glad the conciliatory tone of his voice took the officers by surprise as all three of them froze in motion. “Please, forgive my bad manners,” he said in a voice oozing distress. “It hasn’t come to this.” Nervously eying the handcuffs earlier hurtling towards him, Chigbo turned his head at the window nearest to him. Should I make a dash for that window? He began to shuffle towards the window. Shortly, David realized that his partners were looking at him for further instructions. He pursed his lips in a show of disgust and shrugging noncommittally, nodded sideways towards the banker. Within seconds, the two police officers pounced on the banker and put him in handcuffs. David glared at the banker for attempting to foil the arrest. He saw the banker’s countenance begin to change. “What’s my crime?” Chigbo demanded aggressively. “Why would you storm into my office and arrest me just like that? Am I a criminal? Am I a criminal, you tell me?” He paused, waiting impatiently for a response but got none. “What bank fraud are you talking about? I demand an answer,” hissed while his eyes challenged the officers as he looked at them in turn. Another nod from David and the officer on his right side nudged him roughly on the shoulders. He nearly stumbled over his chair. The impact sent the chair tumbling away across the floor. This can’t be happening! What do I do? Oh my God, please save me o-o-o! 206
As Chigbo began to step out from the desk to avoid the humiliation of being pushed out, he decided to try pleading again. “Please o-o! I’m willing to refund every kobo spent on the surveillance system contract. I will let the headquarters know right away. I don’t need to get arrested to do it.” He paused for breath. “Sir, do me this favour and I will repay you officers in cash. I promise.” He fixed suppliant eyes on the detective. David was happy when, in response, the same police officer gave the banker another shove on the shoulders, rougher this time. They watched with some amusement as Chigbo staggered but successfully recovered his balance. David sighed with disgust. “You will soon be reminded that bribing police officers is another culpable offense. Oyah, officers, take this … worthless criminal to the car on the double. I can’t grant him the pleasure of wasting my time when I have a lot waiting for me back at the station.” With one last threatening look at the prisoner, David turned and began to walk towards the door, a cue to the others to follow suit.
10:30 a.m. Wednesday October 9 2013.
The atmosphere around the Federal High Court, Abuja, was charged with excitement, a mood that also benefited from the harmattan which was not harsh on people who were gathered there. The crowd outside the courtroom was five times greater than the spectators inside. It added to the glamour that many of the people who were not Austen’s fellow parishioners were putting on differently coloured polo shirts marked: JUSTICE? FREE AUSTEN, AN INSANE MAN! There was an overarching mood of anticipation in the courtroom but which was tainted with an undercurrent of uncertainty. The medley of media crew from some local and foreign media corporations was evidence that something was about to go down in history. All eyes were on the judge who had 207
just theatrically begun to peep at her notes, apparently oblivious that everyone was silently urging her on, as they waited patiently for a verdict on Austen’s case. As the judge raised her head, her eyes beginning to scan the crowd, she could almost hear sighs of relief from various corners of the courtroom. “Pardon me for the interruption.” She smiled, knowing that everyone was hanging on her words. “Bearing in mind all I already said and with sufficient references to the array of presentations made by the prosecution and the defense, a verdict had been articulated and here it is.” She paused again, secretly amused that millions of people watching the live coverage around the world must be holding their breaths. In all my career life, I’ve never had this much celebrity status! She resolutely fought back the joy surging through her while her expressionless face hid it all. “While there are sufficient indications that the accused robbed the said Nedu Phoenix Bank, Amaego branch Monday the 25th of February 2013 between 09 hours and 10:03 hours, the accused, however, has a proven clinical history of grave mental incapacitation. He is a profiled psychiatric patient. Therefore, he is not guilty and is acquitted of all charges.” Quickly, she threw threatening glances at corners of the courtroom that just exploded into jubilant exclamations and ululations. The atmosphere was quiet once more although emotions were straining at the leash. “In addition,” the judge continued, her eyes moving around, “the priest, Rev. Fr. Ahamefule and his parish council have no case to answer for using money that came by an anonymous donor. There is not even the least defensible evidence proving beyond all reasonable doubt that the accused had conveyed any money to the Church, let alone the #20m loot.” She had to throw threatening glances once again to quell the jubilation. Thereafter, she turned her gaze on the priest, her expressionless face concealing the empathy in her mind. “And may I remind the priest that he is henceforth under both legal and moral obligations, as he earlier promised, to send this insane young man back to the psychiatric hospital as soon as possible. I will put a request to the social services commission to 208
follow up on that. God bless this honourable court! God bless Nigeria!” The sound of the gavel hitting home and reverberating around the courtroom was a clear signal that the case was over and the crowd should remain calm until she was out of sight. As she began to pack up her files, the baritone of the court clerk hollered “Court!” Rising from her seat, she headed for an inner door. She was not yet was not yet out of sight when the courtroom exploded into a thunderous applause riddled with different religious songs that had sprung from different corners of the courtroom and were in a stiff competition for dominance.
5:30 a.m. Thursday October 10 2013.
Only a couple of early risers saw a milk-coloured Innoson delivery van pull up in front of a popular roadside newspaper kiosk in Amike, a city that had become one of the flashpoints of civil rights activism. They did not miss to notice the conspicuous inscription on both sides of the van, which declared in bold letters, The National Daily. As soon as the driver of the van brought it to a halt, he and another man, both in uniforms, emerged from the front doors and in quick movements, hurried to the back of the van. The driver deftly used his fingers to select a key from a bunch and unlocked the carriage. He pulled the doors wide open. Stepping closer to the carriage, they leaned forward and each man began to pull a stack of newspapers towards him. Each stack of newspapers was neatly tied with ropes but despite the weight, it was not too heavy for each man to carry one on either hand. Walking briskly, they hauled the newspapers over to the kiosk and after a murmured exchange of greetings with the salesman inside the kiosk, dumped the newspapers by the door. A couple of meaningful nods later, the men in uniform turned around and headed back to the van. En route, they spotted three men and a woman walking apart from each other and 209
approaching the kiosk from different directions. As the van eased back into the morning traffic, the deliverymen did not see the salesman amble to a corner of the kiosk. He picked up a pocketknife in a corner of the shelf and stepping close to the newspapers, hunched and began to cut the ropes of one of the four stacks of newspapers. Within seconds, he pulled a newspaper free and straightening himself, ran his eyes around the front page. He felt his face crease into a cheery smile as his eyes fell on a close-up shot of Austen and above it a headline in large fonts, “The Holy Heist” and a sub-headline in smaller font, “Contract Scam: Top NPB Banker Arrested and Sued for #150m in Damages.”
3:00 p.m. Thursday October 31 2013.
Owelle was thrilled to see a mammoth crowd of supporters at the third election rally organized by the Visionary Political Parties Confederacy ahead of general elections in January 2015. As the crowd heard the master of ceremonies announce Owelle as the next speaker, they burst into a thunderous ovation when they saw him approach the microphone. Party enthusiasts began to wave party flags in salutation of Owelle’s populist governance and multiple infrastructural projects within so short a time as a state governor in the south-eastern heartland notwithstanding periodic surges of criticism from the opposition. Rather than plead for silence as he stood centre stage on the wooden platform, Owelle waved them on, a gesture that threw the crowd into greater frenzy. It took no one by surprise when “Owelle the Genius!” began to be screamed all around the 50,000 capacity Onwusoroibe National Stadium, Abuja. Grinning with humility, Owelle did a half-turn and saw his fellow party leaders from around the country smiling or nodding at in him support. Someone gave him a victory sign, a woman who was the VPPC governorship candidate in one of the states in the western zone. She was standing next to his wife. Owelle acknowledged the 210
victory sign and then spent a moment looking at his wife as she stood in a corner of the platform, an aura of royalty around her. Behind every successful man, there is a woman. But you’re a darling and an achiever too! Winking at his wife, Owelle smiled at her and then returned his attention to the jubilant crowd. Absent-mindedly, he fingered the cap on his head, shifting it around for a better fit. Like everyone else on the platform and thousands of supporters, he wore a sky-blue polo shirt and cap both marked with the party’s name and logo. The National Working Committee of VPPC had left no one in doubt about their astuteness. On the heels of the uproar around Austen’s incarceration, Owelle had approached the NWC with a proposition that he vowed would both embarrass the NDPP into an unforeseen implosion and make them a sitting duck for the ire of the international community, which of course, would mean netting a majority of votes against the NDPP. When asked what this weapon was, he had replied with a coy smile, “Vision Austen.” Thereafter, the VPPC had spared no resources in making sure the entire court proceedings received as much local and international publicity as was possible. It was a chance they had taken, not knowing how everything would finally play out since the ruling party, NDPP, was equally resolute in its counter-attack in the bid to scuttle VPPC’s offensive manoeuvers. In addition, the NDPP had an intimidating campaign slogan: It is the ruling party; therefore, it is the winning party! Furthermore, the VPPC realized the NDPP seemed to have received a timely boost when The Political Review magazine described the incumbent NDPP president as “the best temporary option the nation could ever have at this moment in history; about the other offices, the nation has been left with no option but to seek changes.” However, the VPPC also latched on this same mindset to justify their advocacy for massive changes in the government. Later, the rumour made the rounds that VPPC had indirectly sponsored some of the demonstrations that sprang up in some cities across the country in protest of Austen’s arrest. That was what had drawn the attention of the international community to the political intrigues unfolding ahead of the general elections. 211
As Owelle waited for the ovation to die down, he felt a surge of elation at the thought that party leaders and followers have begun to affirm he had been precocious enough to foresee a “Not Guilty” verdict and successfully manipulated it to their advantage. Thereafter, VPPC enthusiasts had nicknamed him “Owelle the Genius” but which the NDPP had angrily and jealously countered with “Owelle the Devil”. As Owelle stood grinning before the crowd, a spark came to his eyes as memories again flooded his mind. He remembered how, as soon as the court case came to its ecstatic end, he had given the signal and the NWC had announced on the media that the party would hold its third election rally three weeks after the verdict. The objective, in the words of the party’s press office, was to deliver “a preliminary salvo that would surgically expose the crippling fraudulence of the NDPP-years of the nation and more importantly call attention to VPPC’s resolve to pioneer a fulfilling future for the nation.” In addition, due to its historical importance, the venue for the rally, according to the press office, would be the Onwusoroibe National Stadium, Abuja, “since there is no better place for such a vital surgical operation than at the heart of the nation’s youthful vigour, the ONS.” The ovation had almost died down when Owelle threw both hands upwards as he bowed in greeting, doing that once in three different directions. He sensed many people reluctantly suppress an urge to holler “Owelle the Genius!” again because they all wanted to hear him address them once more. Straightening himself behind the lectern, with a microphone by the side, Owelle cleared his throat as he was set to meet up with expectations. Oh God, help me one more time! “Permit me, Ladies and Gentlemen, to clarify some matters.” Owelle paused, letting the crowd sway with wild guesses. “I am not here,” he said tapping his chest repeatedly with the right forefinger, “to prove to the VPPC that I am an eligible candidate for the presidency or for the vice-presidency or even for governorship. I humbly leave that ultimate decision to all of you, leaders and supporters alike. Through this greatest of all parties, I am ready and willing to fulfil my obligations to God by serving the nation and indeed all humanity in any capacity as deemed 212
fit, empowered by millions of supporters spread out all over the country and beyond and whose votes will be as decisive as the next person’s at the next elections in 2015.” Owelle paused for breath at the onset of another round of applause interspersed with shouts of “Owelle the Genius!” Enough about me. It’s NDPP’s turn now. “Talking about elections, you all heard what that NDPP politician said on television yesterday in a futile attempt to denigrate our party. But here is the question. What are the current prospects of our dear country, Nigeria?” He paused to let his words sink in. “In South Africa,” Owelle’s voice was firm, “as I never cease to remind you, it was whites from the apartheid ruling class who enslaved blacks who were citizens by birth. In Nigeria, it is the NDPP’s ruling class that is doing the same to the rest of us.” He grinned as sections of the crowd chuckled and gesticulated widely. “No wonder then why the battle cry of VPPC,” as he gesticulated with both hands towards all corners of the stadium, “the slogan of the masses, the prayer of all men and women of goodwill across the world is, ‘It is time for change!’” Taking a deep breath, Owelle scanned the crowd with his eyes. “I have a confession to make.” His voice was solemn. “For a couple of weeks now I’ve been worried sick, with a couple of nightmares in-between,” he smiled at the jest, “that Austen, a citizen like us but unfortunately afflicted with insanity due to the long-running gross deficiencies in the society, won a legal suit, a high profile case against both the Attorney General of the Federation and the NDPP-led federal government that prides itself on zero tolerance for terrorism and armed banditry but never says anything about zero tolerance for corruption because that would be shooting itself in the foot.” He paused, enough time to articulate his next stream of words. “They only talk about zero tolerance for terrorism and banditry because that’s the regrettable and deplorable option a handful of people resort to when pushed to the wall by the harsh realities of life under the auspices of the National Democratic Progressive Party.” He paused to let the crowd muse on those words. Wao! There was this fellow who declared during a television interview last week that the NDPP leadership is rather busy dividing and selling 213
off our lands, tenancy, refineries, and a handful of other national facilities and companies to the highest bidders among them or to their allies, and they tell us it is infrastructural development. Owelle grimaced. Then, taking a deep breath, he resumed his speech. “But providentially, a legal case materialized somewhere inbetween and Austen defeated them.” He paused again, baiting the crowd to grope in vain for what he would say next. “What else does this tell you –” Owelle paused, “but that an insane man has more righteousness than this NDPP government, more responsibility, more humanity, more rights to rule the NDPP than this NDPP government has to rule him. To God be the glory that even the international community has seen through the fraudulence of the ruling NDPP government, many thanks to this court case and to the local and the international press. The NDPP would never know what hit them but the one sure fact is, it is time for change, my people. And as Austen’s mother always says, ‘God is in control!’ and ‘Kristi b! Eze!’” Owelle nodded a couple of times while his face creased like someone considering a decision. “Earlier, the VPPC board of trustees extended a VIP invitation to both Austen and his mother to join us today on this campaign platform. A noble woman she is, Mrs. Bernardine, a living saint despite the difficulties, but she humbly declined. Her response to the invite, with a copy of the Holy Bible clasped close to her heart, was that she and her son don’t play partisan politics because of the corruption that goes with it but are prepared to vote just the right man or woman into the right office at the next elections since they cannot be passive while bad governance compromises the well-being of citizens. Owelle creased his face and arched his eyebrows while his countenance exuded awe. “Thereupon I told her that in principle she belongs to the VPPC because what she just said happens to be the core manifesto of VPPC, which is about making a change for the better. And that in addition, we have given her family and their parish the epoch-making honour of codenaming our new campaign strategy ‘Vision Austen’.” He paused for breath. “And here’s the juicy part.” Owelle knew the crowd craved for news. “That the board of trustees met and resolved that the donation box at the Marian Grotto of their parish will henceforth 214
experience a seasonal inflow of funding for the Añuri Home and other philanthropic projects run by Fr. Ahamefule. Indeed, they are models for all of us to emulate, clergy and laity alike.” He was glad when chants of “Madam Benar!” broke out from a corner of the stadium but quickly swept through like a hurricane. Apparently, most of the people in the stadium did not need anyone to refreshen their memories concerning how the woman single-handedly confronted and publicly spoke against the corrupt administration of one of the former governors of Imo State over a sudden hike in school fees that worsened the plight of students around the state since most of them were from poor families. She was arrested but was later released without imprisonment because, as she recounted, the Bible she clasped close to her chest was all the strength she needed. She had another heroic encounter when the teaching staff of schools were required to manipulate the figures of the student population of their schools so that the state government would use that to acquire more resources from the federal government. On her refusal, her salary was seized for a couple of months. Again, as she remarked, her faith and her Bible were all she needed to survive the ordeal and to feed her family with meagre resources. Two minutes later, most of the noise died away, the wafts disappearing where the chanting had originated. “What do I tell my kids?” Owelle squealed into the microphone, dramatically throwing both hands out in a gesture of anger and disgust. “What do we tell posterity? That all of us here were around while this NDPP government continued to imprison Nigeria in the dark ages of political ineptitude and colossal corruption? And that NDPP was so brazen as to scrawl another list of candidates for us to vote into different offices, personalities already infected by varying degrees of typical NDPP ineptitude and corruption while the rest of us chose to remain passive? No! And that’s an emphatic No!” Owelle paused for breath. Do I need to make a passing reference to that partisan “Weekly Herald” that had declared that “the integrity of the NDPP is evidenced by some NDPP politicians who have acquired pretty high ratings in good governance.”? Owelle smiled at the crowd. “That’s exactly why six parties of distinction rallied together and merged as one mega party, ipso facto the 215
only and insurmountable opposition party, the VPPC.” He took a deep breath and hollered into thousands of ears, “V-i-i-i P-i-i-i P-ii-i C-i-i-i!” “It is time for change!” The response from the mammoth crowd was thunderous. “V-i-i-i P-i-i-i P-i-i-i C-i-i-i!” “It is time for change!” “V-i-i-i P-i-i-i P-i-i-i C-i-i-i!” “It is time for cha-a-a-nge!” Satisfied, Owelle sighed with relief. Everything is on course! “Fellow citizens of this dear nation, imagine the effrontery of the leadership of NDPP to have stood before the media to announce to the world that all their candidates at all levels, councillorship, local government chairmanship, state and federal, are honest and reliable. My brothers and sisters,” he continued, mischief coming into his eyes, “isn’t that a clinical case of pseudologia fantastica?” Quickly, with feigned impatience he shouted into the microphone, “Sure it is!” He paused to let the crowd ponder on his words. “And that’s a psychological disorder. Obviously, they need more psychiatrists than politicians within this NDPP.” Owelle staggered away from the lectern as laughter rocked him. This is really a surgical operation on NDPP! Shortly, he began to fight down the laughter knowing that the crowd would not stop laughing and jeering at the absentee NDPP unless he stopped. Returning behind the lectern and after a couple of gestures, the crowd heeded his plea for silence. “Now, just how does that improve the international reputation of our dear country in the eyes of the civilized world? Unfortunately, it does nothing but destroy even the little self-respect we have managed to salvage from the clutches of the NDPP. It’s just too sad!” He paused as the crowd booed the culprits. When some calm returned, Owelle took a deep breath as he had privately decided to round off his speech. “I believe a good number of you have read that great book, The Oracle of the Wiseman, where the sage emphatically declared in respect of a certain candidate, ‘You really think he can win? Not on my watch! What would the world say – that the Wiseman couldn’t run for an election and by default this man was elected president?’” 216
“Owelle the Genius!” was the best response the crowd could offer apart from a round of applause and jubilant exclamations in different tribal languages. When the commotion lessened considerably, Owelle added, “All is now set for a turn of events in the nation’s history, a decisive change for the better. This will be on Election Day, on the 15th of January 2015. Our great party, VPPC, will soon publish the list of candidates for the various offices ranging from ward councillors to the presidency. These are people we took time to screen thoroughly, with a lot of prayers and astuteness, the right people, the right offices, the right time. Change the nation, change the world. NDPP has to go down in order that the nation may rise! What a wonderful crowd of staunch supporters you have been.” He paused, the crowd anticipating his next move. “V-i-i-i P-i-i-i P-i-i-i C-i-i-i!” The suddenness and firmness with which Owelle thrust his right hand into the air drew an immediate and corresponding response from the crowd. “It is time for change!” Thousands of hands were left hanging in the air. “V-i-i-i P-i-i-i P-i-i-i C-i-i-i!” “It is time for change!” “V-i-i-i P-i-i-i P-i-i-i C-i-i-i!” “It is time for cha-a-a-nge!” The stadium was quickly overrun by diverse jubilant exclamations and party songs. It was clear to both VPPC members and observers from across the country that millions of people eagerly awaited a confirmation that VPPC had taken the right step of positioning Owelle for one of the topmost jobs in the federal government in anticipation of the 2015 elections.
4:05 a.m. Friday December 6 2013.
Tsaor, the Attorney General of the Federation, was furious but with himself. He cast his eyes around the parlour in search of 217
something that might distract him but everything seemed annoyingly normal. Not even the images flashing on the monstersized plasma television in a corner of the room could hold his attention and mollify him. All dressed up, he could do nothing but remain glued to the expensive sofa he was sitting on while waiting with growing impatience for his chauffeur to back his latest model IVM jeep out of the garage and meet him at the porch. The delay was because earlier he had requested the driver to get the Crosstour but when he set eyes on the ostentatious car, he had a change of mind. This fatigue must be because I hardly slept a wink last night. For the umpteenth time, Tsaor wondered why his destiny was such that, at the moment he begins to feel secure to have brought his ambitions within reach, something beyond his control, something irritatingly unforeseen, springs up from somewhere and torpedoes everything and leaving him with no option than to go on damage control. Why does God do this to me? Why does he keep making life miserable for me? I know I’ve not been a saint but am I the worst sinner? Is my destiny a punishment? It was clear in Tsaor’s mind that had he not been born into an Anglican family, he would have considered atheism, at least to eliminate God from the list of his worries on Planet Earth. No wonder he felt no remorse to have become a member of a secret cult just to safeguard his political career. It was also clear in Tsaor’s mind that he dared not file an appeal in protest of the court verdict because that would be the final nail in the coffin of his political career. Should I ever make that colossal mistake of filing an appeal or pushing the matter up to the Supreme Court, the inner caucus of NDPP would simply conjure some allegations and disgrace me out of office. He felt his heart begin to palpitate from fear but was glad the air conditioning in the room seemed to have a soothing effect. It pleased him to acknowledge he was among the top echelons of NDPP. What he found rather displeasing was that NDPP was dreaded for its unrivalled record of intra-party politicking, which periodically led to the expulsion or decamping of some individuals 218
and factions. Ad hoc reconciliation committees had always walked a tight rope and sometimes had managed to secure intra-party armistices but which always were a patina on entrenched divisions rooted in greed, corruption and tribalism. Tsaor’s knew that his dilemma was that if he ever left the party from expulsion or by decamping, not even VPPC would want to touch him by a long pole. That would make him a pariah and he was not willing to surrender to that. He could not shake off the feeling of envy for a handful of politicians who in public opinion were responsible for most of the woes of Nigeria and yet VPPC had to rope them in just to build a stronger and broader political base against NDPP. On a second thought, Tsaor smacked his lips with scorn as some questions bobbed up in his mind. Why then would anyone presume that VPPC politicians, once in power, would have a better conscience than their NDPP counterparts to refrain from corrupt governance and from periodically sacrificing the interests of the masses on the altars of the elite? Isn’t it only the blind that would fail to see that some top echelon politicians of VPPC are as corrupt as their counterparts in NDPP? Tsaor hissed, a glimmer of contempt in his eyes. Isn’t it rather annoying then, that the masses know there’s a vicious circle of political corruption which scuttles their hopes for better times and yet attend our political rallies like a swarm of bees? And Boko Haram terrorists, unable to come after us, rather massacre the masses for us. Wao! It’s such a hopeless situation for the masses if these terrorists are also sponsored by some bloodthirsty politicians, the modern vampires. Anyway, let the masses take care of themselves, that is, if they have the discernment and the guts. I’ve more urgent personal problems to tackle. Tsaor had never felt more powerless and confused in his life and never angrier at whatever imps or goblins fate had hired to consistently wreck his ambitions. It’s just unbelievable! I’ve been priming my son to win the local government chairmanship at the next elections and that’s for starters because by the time I become the minister of oil and gas, he would run for governorship. Now, all this has been irremediably obliterated because of one wacko called Austen! Just one wacko! This is just too embarrassing. 219
A few minutes after the verdict on Austen’s case was broadcast live on television, Musa, the vice-president, had called Tsaor on the phone and ordered him to an emergency caucus meeting at the NDPP national headquarters. That was back in October. Since then, he had been summoned to five other meetings, the last three being in November. Not only had none of those meetings ended in his favour but also he had been quick to figure out that three people were already vying for his portfolio! The chime of a gilded grandfather clock hacked the AGF out of his daydream. Nevertheless, his mind, reluctant to begin worrying about the delay with the chauffeur getting another car, worked backwards to the previous day. Among the calls he had received was one that summoned him to yet another meeting. However, what he had found immediately unsettling was that, apart from the call coming so late at 11:53 p.m, rudely shocking him out of sleep, the caller had bluntly refused to identify himself but merely ordered him to be at Room 53 of the Northwest Hotels at 6:00 a.m and to come alone. Failure to do so, the voice had warned, would be considered a final breach of trust and an antiparty activity. Tsaor knew something was fishy about the call, even clearly life threatening, but could not determine how. He felt a strong desire to disobey the summons but was overwhelmed by the dread that disobedience might be the very factor that will trigger off the same backlash he was intent on avoiding. He shrugged in selfsurrender. I will brave it. It won’t be the first time and obviously not the last. The Northwest Hotels was a seventeen minute drive from his house but Tsaor desired to get there six minutes ahead of time. He hoped that would at least impress the caucus whose political and economic interests had been seriously damaged by the court verdict. He could only blame fate that the verdict had inadvertently painted a bull’s eye on the NDPP. Since then, that political misfit, Owelle the Devil, has never stopped launching a volley of campaign missiles already wrecking havoc on the entire NDPP structure and aspirations. Just then, the door swung open and startled, Tsaor looked in that direction. He saw his chauffeur bowing courteously, 220
signalling him that the car was ready at the porch. Springing up, he hurried to the car and three minutes later, they were on the road. He felt an urge to open the suitcase on the seat by his side to review some documents pertaining to the disputed figures from the nationwide census conducted the previous year in anticipation of the forthcoming general elections. He already knew he was too emotionally disoriented to concentrate. Tsaor was glad the roads were relatively deserted because many people were still getting out of bed. Looking out the window, he watched the scenery flash by. However, he could not shake off the uneasy feeling the soft glow of the two-pronged streetlights running along the middle of the dual carriageway stirred within him. He looked ahead and saw a car negotiating a bend. As fear momentarily sliced through his heart, Tsaor could only pray that the call was not a ruse to lure him out into the open to be ambushed by kidnapers or for an assassin to lock his sights on his forehead. It was only then Tsaor began to regret not bringing his armed security detail along. Tsaor heaved a sigh of relief when they finally arrived at the gates of the hotel. He saw two armed military men approach the car from either side as the chauffeur decelerated to a stop. Two other armed men stood paces away and in combat poise. The massive entrance gates were still closed and Tsaor knew his IVM jeep would have to go through the customary security check by the special unit of the Anti-Terrorism Brigade before they could be let into the premises. He smiled at the thought that he had been part of the discussion that established the ATB, as they were popularly called, both to negotiate with and to counter Boko Haram terrorist attacks in some states in northern Nigeria. Tsaor heard his chauffeur begin to argue with one of the officers that it was the Attorney General of the Federation in the car. Calmly, Tsaor called out to his chauffeur to stop protesting and allow the officers to carry on with the search. The chauffeur yielded, his eyes wide with surprise. Tsaor grimaced. If I had moved with my security detail, they would have aggressively cut through every traffic jam and check point. A minute later, they were cleared to drive in. The chauffeur headed for the VIP car park and finding a vacant 221
spot pulled up there. Before he could hurry out to open the door for his master, Tsaor was already out of the car and hurrying towards the doors of the Northwest Hotels. The chauffeur could only stare after him, the second big surprise in one morning. Wao! Something must be really wrong. This is ominous.
3:15 p.m. Saturday December 7 2013.
Austen reluctantly opened his eyes, realizing his body wanted to sleep longer but his mind was stubbornly kicking against it. He peeped around the room feeling a rush of excitement at what immediately came into view inside his well-furnished room at the Añuri Home of the Needy in Umuezeanoruo. Every furniture was stamped with the name and logo of the Visionary Political Parties Confederacy that had donated them in the wake of the court victory. Shortly, Austen realized that what had woken him was neither the chill of the split unit air conditioner nor the low murmur of the 34-inch plasma television bolted to the wall opposite his bed. It was rather two male voices outside and just a few feet from his door. Austen took a moment in a bold bid to listen hard and recognize the voices but failed. He knew it was because he was still feeling drowsy. However, he was glad he could still piece together some bits and pieces he picked up from the animated chatter outside. That was how it dawned on him that the men were discussing something that had happened in the morning of the previous day and it was about the Attorney General of the Federation. Austen realized he was already feeling sorry for the AGF who, according to the story, had gone to the Northwest Hotels for an early morning NDPP caucus meeting the previous day. Unknown to him, it was rather a group of kidnappers who had lured him there since they were in no mood for a gun battle with the AGF’s 222
security detail. The kidnappers, masked and acting on the orders of an NDPP splinter group whose interests had been irremediably jeopardized by the court fiasco, had handed him a pre-written letter of resignation complete with his official letterhead and seal. Someone had palmed a letterhead and seal from the AGF’s office a day earlier. Furthermore, though the kidnappers were set to coerce the AGF into signing the document, they were glad he was willing to do so without any threats. Nevertheless, the kidnappers had threatened that as soon as they released him, if he failed to drive straight to the President’s office to tender the letter of resignation effective upon submission, they already had some armed men trailing the AGF’s wife to her office and she always drove without a security detail. The gangsters would block off the vehicle and kidnap her as soon as a call gets to them from the Northwest Hotels. There would be no request for a ransom because her release would only be when the AGF resigned. Acquiescing, the AGF had gone straight to the President’s office and when he submitted the letter of resignation, the President looked like he had been expecting it! However, someone on the staff of the President happened to catch a glimpse of the letter when the President left the office to attend a meeting with some foreign ambassadors. The snooper whispered it to a newspaper editor from The Shooting Star who had her on the company’s payroll as a “confidential source.” Thereafter, the newspaper sent some resolute reporters to ferret the truth out of the AGF. They did not find it easy but finally the AGF capitulated and spewed everything. He did that in retaliation for NDPP’s witch-hunting and lynching mindset since he had nothing else to lose. The next morning, The Shooting Star promptly hoisted a copy of the letter of resignation on the front page alongside the inside scoop leaving rival newspapers and television stations scrambling for a piece of the pie. Austen chuckled at the mental image of sinewy reporters from different newspapers tripping over each other in a stiff competition for crumbs falling off the table of a fatso called The Shooting Star! Shortly, a thought streaked across Austen’s mind. Mere kidnappers inadvertently changing the fate of the cabal that hired 223
them! Austen felt a spurt of regret that he did not own a copy of the current edition of The Shooting Star. On impulse, he cast a glance at a collection of books arranged neatly on a bookshelf in a corner of the room. It was only then it hit him. Jumping out of bed, Austen scurried over to the bookshelf. After a quick search, he pulled out a copy of The Oracle of the Wiseman. Flipping through as fast as he could, he got to a page number. Satisfied that it was the page he had in mind, he carried the book back to his bed. Sitting down, eyes glued to the page, he began to read what was on the page: Three top executive Chinese men working with a Chinese oil company in Nigeria were recently kidnapped by the notorious Niger Delta militants. The Wiseman intervened and convinced the militant leader to interact with the press and communicate their grievances and demands. That was quickly arranged and during a press conference, the militant declared, “Westerners and Asians with low academic qualifications come to Nigeria and lord it over Nigerians with higher qualifications because the biased inner structures of the multinational companies that employ them favour these foreigners. We, the Nigerian people, go to their countries and they still lord it over us there despite our qualifications. Isn’t the modern world all about equal rights and opportunities for everyone?” The militant was seething with anger. “Isn’t this modern day slavery, eh, I ask you all?” he said barking at no one in particular. “The Nigerian government must legislate against this abnormality continuing in our great fatherland. I am a patriot and we militants are great patriots working even harder than the government to right such wrongs.” He paused to tap loudly on the gun slung across his shoulders. “Yes, we kidnapped those Chinese illiterates but for humanitarian reasons. We are sending them back to school to upgrade because they were placed higher than Nigerians with better qualifications. It is to our own militant-run school we are sending them and we are determined to teach them lessons they will never forget in their lives. Yes, education is a process of learning lessons.” He frowned rather than laugh at the pun. “We will not release those expatriates until they graduate. Their families and government don’t need to worry anymore because we placed them on 224
scholarship. So, we won’t be demanding any money from anyone as if for ransom. We don’t negotiate with racists and exploiters.” He paused again and with some glee in his eyes, added, “I have one good news anyway, an announcement that would make every patriotic citizen happy. Due to the great services our militant-run school is rendering the public towards righting the wrongs in our society, we militants are scouting for more foreign students to place on scholarship in our schools. And fortunately, expatriates are all over the Niger Delta region. Long Live Nigeria! Long Live Niger Delta Militants! Just as he finished reading and laid down the book on the bed, the television programme turned to sports. “Oh,” Austen muttered to himself, “there’s a match today!” Thank God kick-off is in 20 minutes. He tried again to eavesdrop on the conversation outside but realized the men had begun to walk away, their voices becoming too faint for his ears. He lay down on his bed hoping to sleep just a little more. Looking up at the ceiling, his eyes glistened with questions as different thoughts flashed across his mind. VPPC is fighting hard to displace NDPP. NDPP is fighting back to keep standing. If NDPP goes down and VPPC goes up, how good would a VPPC government be the next four years? Would VPPC leaders end up as corrupt and ineffective as most of their predecessors?
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Also in the series (FICTION) (continued) Ozioma Izuora: Scavengers’ Orgy (2011) Ozioma Izuora: Merchants of Flesh (2011) Vincent Egbuson: Zhero (2011) Ibrahim Buhari: A Quiet Revolutionary (2012) Akeem Adebiyi: The Negative Courage (2012) Onyekachi Peter Onuoha: Moonlight Lady (2012) Onyekachi Peter Onuoha: Idara (2012) Akeem Adebiyi: The Negative Courage (2012) Temitope Obasa: Strokes of Life (2012) Chigbo Nnoli: Save the Dream (2012) Florence Attamah-Abenemi: A Bouquet of Regrets (2013) Ikechukwu Emmanuel Asika: Tamara (2013) Aire Oboh: Branded Fugitives (2013) Emmanuel Esemedafe: The Schooldays of Edore (2013) Abubakar Gimba: Footprints (2013) Emmanuel C.S. Ojukwu: Sunset for Mr Dobromir (2013) Million John: Amongst the Survivors (2013) Onyekachi Peter Onuoha: My Father Lied (2013) Razinat T. Mohammed: Habiba (2013) Onyekachi Peter Onuoha: The Scream of Ola (2013) Oluwakemi Omowaire: Dead Roses (2013) Chidubem Iweka: So Bright a Darkness (2014) Asabe K. Usman: Destinies of Life (2014) Stan-Collins Ubaka: A Cry of Innocence (2014) Data Osa Don-Pedro: Behind the Mask (2014) Stanley Ekwugha: Your Heart My Home (2014) Yemi Ajagbe: The Triumph of Childhood Trials (2014) Ndubuisi George: Woes of Ikenga (2014) Nwanneka Obioma Nwala: Wives on the Cross (2014) Emmanuel Ojukwu: A Whiff of Kahara (2014)
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