‘Why do you think you are dreaming?’
‘Because I don’t know you and I need to get back to work.’
‘Do you know Tolu?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At home or work and I am wasting time.’
‘Tolu is dead. Do you know that?’
I inhaled sharply and turned away to hide my pain. ‘You can say that because this is not real.’ My voice shook.
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Tolu is at home. We left Kano together,’ I lied without reason, without a care.
‘When was this?’
‘About a week ago,’ I answered.
VIII
‘Naked In A Cathedral’
It’s admittedly not the kind of thing you forget in a hurry, everyone going wild around an eleven year old holding a six inch blade covered in blood. And I didn’t for about a year afterwards but then I went through a shutdown of sorts and it all faded from memory until now. It wasn’t planned in any way; I suppose it was my defence against a painful memory and it kicked in right after reports reached me of Ireneh’s death. He didn’t deserve to die, not at that age and certainly not when he had God on his side. But God had failed the lad even in church. Who else was there to trust?
Since I have put my memory to task, however, it’s revealed how the mum had collapsed tearing her wrapper off her body at Ireneh’s bloody deed. TJ was her son after all and she’d lost him. She’d have double tragedy if mob justice or any kind of justice prevailed over the killer.
The crowd had instantly swelled beyond measure as TJ rolled off Uyi holding his neck writhing in pain and making gurgling noises. It became harder to see anything as Eze and I were pushed to the background and arms went out to support the wailing mother of the boys on the ground. From my severely obstructed view, I could make out even more arms but stronger ones sweeping TJ off the ground and grabbing Ireneh relieving him of the weapon. The scene was now nearing a full scale stampede as TJ was being rushed off to hospital. Transport was a problem.
‘Who has a car!?’ Someone yelled. ‘Who has a car we can use?’
‘Keep moving!’ another yelled back. ‘Don’t stop! When we get to the junction, we will stop a bus.’
I remember the crowd moving as one man even as I tried to guide Eze out of the way. The crowd moved twice and on both occasions, TJ and Ireneh moved with them.
‘Where are they taking my child to? Stop!’ Ireneh’s mother had torn away from her consoling group and was running towards the moving mass carrying her sons. She looked the picture of devastation, barefoot and dishevelled hair. ‘Give me back my son,’ she wept as she ran.
The last thing I saw on that day was Uyi who’d recovered from the fight with his brother running after his mother and behind the wave.
****
The first news of Usuman’s arrest that was made public came on the radio. That bit of information only took a few seconds and it was well summarised. It simply said that a man had been arrested in possession of a stolen vehicle and would be tried under the Shari’ah law of the State. It was that brief and could easily have been missed. But in a short time, it grew bigger; it came on TV and got more attention on the radio. The newspapers took it up with a picture of the helpless Usuman looking very cornered. This was going to be the first Shari’ah trial of the State with a significant outcome in sentence beyond mere flogging.
For the Muslim majority, this would be a triumph over the Federal constitution and a sign of things to come for the glory of Islam. When I read the story in the papers, I was surprised about how much it had been twisted to keep the poor young man exclusively in the limelight. It stated quite accurately that a garage in Sabon Gari had been raided but that the accused had been found with a vehicle identified as stolen. There was no evidence to link any other person at the garage to the vehicle nor were any more stolen vehicles discovered at the premises. It was well worded so that it gave little room for questions or doubt; if the police said there wasn’t any evidence, first, who would dispute that and, secondly, who would take anyone who tried to seriously?
The south of the country raised a huge outcry against the impending trial. This was a travesty of democracy, human rights and civilised society. Papers went full pelt at it; international News agencies picked up the story while the president made a weak appeal against the affair. But Kano remained steadfast. It was their constitutional right and they were going to exercise it. Even Usuman seemed happy with the situation. The daily newspaper ran a report that he’d accepted that he should be tried under the Islamic law and he was happy to accept the ruling of the courts as the will of Allah.
But I was having none of it and was determined to try what I could to turn the spotlight on Ibrahim as well. At this time, Tolu and I had quit working at the garage. We’d let the Mallam know that we were leaving but said nothing about what we knew of his trade with the law. He bid us farewell and we prepared to get out of Kano. Alhaji Sanni was gracious and told us we could take as long as we needed to leave but he was simply being polite and we didn’t want to outstay our welcome so we decided to leave in a week’s time.
Two days passed. On the third day after following the growing hype about the car-thief, I wrote a long letter detailing our involvement at the workshop and all we did. The letter was meant for one of the local newspapers; in it, I described the input of Ibrahim and the role the Mallam played along with that of most of the people who helped him out.
Foolishly, the letter carried my name but claimed the story was that of a friend. It went on to explain how more people had been arrested and the police had made a deal with the Mallam to politically exploit Usuman who was simply a victim. Years later, I’d think back and wonder what in hell possessed me to do something so unadvisable. What was I thinking – that I’d convince the people of the State? Win them over to my side and have Shari’ah abolished? Save Usuman from amputation or, maybe, get others like Ibrahim to be punished too? Or that I’d get a medal for being thoughtful? I don’t know but it really felt right at the time. I just couldn’t tear myself away from the plight of the young man who’d worked by my side for the last three months. Besides, I hoped to get out of the city before any information from my letter became public.
Even more foolishly, I put my address at Alhaji Sanni’s on the letter, should they want to interview me, and addressed it to the editor of one of the local newspapers – The Kano Mail – that I’d judged to be quite impartial to the subject. I went into town the same day and located the newspaper office. No one seemed to bother with me as I walked through the pedestrian gate flicking quick greetings at the gateman as I passed. The elderly man in dark blue khaki trousers and a shirt of a lighter shade simply nodded uninterestedly. The reception was hard to miss not only because it was the only visible avenue into the building but also because it had ‘reception’ in huge letters across the top wall. I walked in. A dusty marble floor greeted my feet – everywhere up north seemed to be dusty; on my journey to the office alone, I must have swallowed enough dust to serve me as lunch – and directly in front of me was a rather small desk at which sat a lady. Naturally, I took her to be the receptionist and greeted in English. She returned my greetings smiling painfully, like she didn’t want to give all her smile away.
‘I’ve got a letter for the editor,’ I started. ‘Can I leave it here with you please?’
‘Who’s it from?’ she asked.
‘From me,’ I answered and no more.
‘What’s it about?’ she asked again.
‘Ar-er, I can’t tell you; it’s meant for the editor.’
‘What’s your name? Does the editor know you?’ I concluded that she really knew her business.
‘No, he doesn’t know me,’ I replied truthfully.
‘I can’t just hand a letter to the editor from someone strange.’
I thought she was going too far.
‘But the letter is important a
nd is a story he might want to pursue. Besides, if I’d posted the letter, you’d have given it to the editor without any questions, not so? So, please will you give the letter to him?’
That line of reasoning did the trick and she backed down. ‘Well, you can drop it in the tray.’ She pointed to a metal desk tray in front of her.
‘Thank you,’ I said quickly and left the building before she got too enthusiastic about her job again.
****
So to put this story into perspective, no, I’ve never been naked inside a cathedral quite simply because I haven’t found the right excuse to do so. There just aren’t that many reasons anyone could find to go bare in such impressive surroundings as cathedrals usually are. But then again, that is simply my opinion.
Do I have a thing for cathedrals? Not really. These days I am no longer religious but I’ve been inside so many cathedrals that I find it easy to use them as some point of reference.
And some references are more saddening than others. Like the cathedral church in Badagry – well, it may not have been a cathedral but it was a church, some church Ireneh and I stumbled into on a Sunday morning.
It was a funny-looking building constructed of fired clay and supported by a crumbling woodwork. Its design was in arches; the doors, the windows and even the walls curved away into some arch form. The whole building was an arch. Such structural design was not so common. It belonged to the past and even then, to a top end niche of past designs, or maybe not. I can’t say I am an authority on the subject but it wouldn’t surprise me if the church had served as some sort of principal organ in the past, after all, this was Badagry.
Badagry stands on a beach. It was a slave port in the days when the transatlantic trade was at its peak and was annexed by the British later on. In recent years, it had become a museum of monumentally old structures and rich traditions.
We didn’t see a lot on that day. The church was as empty as it was old so that was one thing to be said fairly – no religious crowds to deal with. It felt dank inside, the kind of setting that’d suit tourists with Polaroid cameras and shiny trainers. In fact, when you were inside, you’d half expect to see them walking through the aisle creating noisy echoes. Sometimes, with effort, I make it difficult to remember exactly why Ireneh and I went there not when it so starkly stands out in my memory that that was the last time I had him by my side alive. But really, how could I ever forget?
And Ireneh screamed and streaked around for a bit laughing his head off. It would have been funny and it should have been but even the eleven year old that I was could recognise guttural from normal. His eyes danced crazily in front of me from sheer excitement and I knew he wouldn’t be easily matched, not for a while and not even when he calmed down and sat next to me naked in the silent church.
I wasn’t talking, not then. I was in too much of a daze.
****
I didn’t tell Tolu about my actions because I didn’t think he needed to know. He was having an easy preparation for home lazing around all day and didn’t look like he’d be much use. But he got to know two days later when the gatekeeper slipped a letter into our room. It was from the Kano Mail and bore no stamp so must have been delivered by hand like the one I sent off. I tore the envelope feverishly; its content was short. The paper would be interested in my story – they ignored the fact it was my friend’s story – and would like an interview with me at two in the afternoon of the following day.
‘Yes!’ I exclaimed attracting Tolu’s attention.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
I told him the whole story. ‘Now, we can let people know what Ibrahim did.’
‘Are you mad?’ Tolu seemed very worried. ‘We’d better go from the newspaper office to the bus park and not return here. Do you think all this is a joke? This is Shari’ah, you know - a great debate between north and south. If we fight against it in any way, then we shouldn’t be fighting while in Kano or we are dead.’
‘I know that,’ I said calmly. ‘But we are leaving in a few days anyway. They can’t come after us before my story is published. And you really think that they would come here?’
‘Yes!’ he screamed looking at me as if I was a moron. ‘You think that it isn’t likely? Is this a castle? Or is Alhaji Sanni a Christian? You think that he doesn’t support Shari’ah? We are in the minority, you know that?’
‘But how will they know where we are? And who this ‘they’ anyway?’ I asked looking a little more foolish.
‘How did the letter get here?’ he replied by way of answering.
‘The newspaper people? They can’t attack us. You cannot be referring to them.’
‘Of course not. The newspaper as a firm won’t attack us but what do you know about every single person who works there? Isn’t there a single Muslim person working there? Are all of them anti-Shari’ah? Even if only one person knows about us as traitors to the State and to Shari’ah and knows where we live as you have graciously informed them, then any one can find out.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I said to calm him down. ‘We will leave tomorrow then from the office.’
‘I won’t even advise that we stay here tonight. You have identified us as threats to the State, Arinze. Can you really afford to wait to see if anything will or won’t happen or if it will happen before or after your story is published? Remember, this is the north; we are dealing with northerners here. Don’t you remember Kaduna?
‘So what are you suggesting?’ I asked getting a little scared too.
‘I am not suggesting anything but I am getting out of here now. If you want to risk getting dismembered and tortured by a mad mob, you can stay here.’ He was really worked up and began to frenziedly stuff his things in his suitcase.
I thought rapidly, panic setting in and crippling my reasoning process. Of course, I remembered Kaduna and I definitely knew enough about the scale of violence that both northerners and southerners had unleashed on one another – about that I was clear. There were some risks worth taking but this couldn’t one of them. Unlike Usuman who had his religion, I thought, I had no backup anymore. In the robbery attack, I’d called on God and got a fist slammed in my face. No, I wasn’t complaining; I could have had worse after all I had renounced religion, hadn’t I? And God owed me nothing. But scaled down proportionately and having, at best, a displeased God to rely on, a rioting mob would hit me with a quick stab to the heart. That wasn’t worst case scenario but it wasn’t ideal either. I realistically had only myself to rely on now and I couldn’t afford to take chances. Usuman would not be disappointed, I consoled myself; he didn’t even know I’d planned to fight his corner. Taking on God was enough for me; I couldn’t take on humans as well.
‘Okay. I’ll come with you,’ I stammered slightly in Tolu’s direction. His fears may not come to pass but I wasn’t going to wait to find out. ‘Let me pack my things. I will come with you.’ I joined him in packing and together an hour later, we lugged our suitcases to the gate.
‘We are leaving now,’ I said to the gate keeper smiling to look calm.
‘You won’t wait for Alhaji?’ he asked. His face showed that he didn’t really care either way.
‘Oh no. Our friend is driving us to Lagos now. Tell Alhaji, we thank him for everything.’
He bid us goodbye and we thanked him as well. Slightly trembling, we walked out into the warm night.
Sabon Gari was well awake when we arrived even though it was half past ten at night. The district was bustling in a seedy way; light bulbs winked at us from every street-corner guest inn and brothel and glared from thousands of kiosks, shops, restaurants and beer parlours. For a moment, as usual, I forgot I was in the north. The place could pass for any southern town not least because almost everyone in it was a southerner. The district had now become my refuge as it was for many people fleeing from a lot of things social and religious. Wouldn’t it be a shame to lose Sabon Gari? I wondered. Even the Muslims might find it hard to adjust to a state without the foreigners’ qu
arters not when it provided a boom for life and business in Kano.
The lady who ran the guest inn was Igbo; it was plain in her accent. She didn’t speak much, just enquired about the length of our stay and the kind of room we wanted.
For two people, we informed her, and for one night.
She showed us up to a room with twin beds after wrenching a deposit payment from us. There was no breakfast included in the price but the inn had a restaurant that opened at half past seven in the morning should we be early risers.
‘We will leave this place at seven-thirty Rez,’ Tolu said bringing me back to the real world. ‘I just want to get out of here as quickly as possible, you understand?’
‘I know Tolu. Relax,’ I said trying to play it cool.
‘You can relax. I will only relax when I am outside Kano. I still can’t believe you tried to get involved in a Shari’ah issue. Who do you think you are - God?’
‘I think you have said all this before,’ I retorted. ‘Can’t we just drop it?’
‘Okay. But don’t delay tomorrow or I will leave without you.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I didn’t think it was fair to take that tone after all if there was danger ahead, and there probably was, I’d put him in it. But I couldn’t help myself.
****
It took Eze and I, a while to recover from the gory scene we had witnessed at Ireneh’s. We had walked away in silence and shock, parted company early enough and I had stayed in the rest of that Saturday absolutely petrified. It was painful and deeply uncomfortable to recall the incident, to raise a picture in my head of TJ’s bleeding neck, the blood flooding the grass and seeping into the sand. If he died, it would definitely be from blood loss; after all, the people around hadn’t been that quick to react leaving the injured boy writhing on the ground for a good many seconds.
I’d been like that – all quiet and pensive for five hours when Mama noticed. My sisters Obianuju and Amaka were toying with the TV changing channels arguing fiercely about what programme to watch.