I went to see Baba at the police station. The police sergeant on duty took one look at me and said, ‘You’re Odula’s son, are you not?’ I told him yes. He said I resembled Baba.
Baba came out of the cell, half-dressed. He looked sad, his forehead creased.
‘Murtala, did you come alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘How are your younger ones and your mother?’
‘They’re fine.’
He caught sight of the polythene bag hanging from my hand.
‘What’s that you’re carrying?’
‘It’s food for you.’
He took it and put it on the counter. He was on the other side of it. In a friendly tone, the sergeant told Baba, ‘Odula, you know say you no go pass dis counter o.’
Baba cast a spiteful look at him. Then he looked back at me. I looked away.
‘You can go home now. Thank you. Tell them that I’m all right. I’ll come home as soon as they release me.’
Three policemen were dragging a tall, dark man into the office. The man’s hands gripped the door frame. He grimaced, his teeth biting his lower lip, as he struggled to withstand the pressure from the policemen.
‘Wetin be dat?’ the sergeant yelled. ‘You no wan come inside, you bloody criminal!’ He rushed to the door and kicked the man in die crotch with his boot. The man collapsed, yelping.
‘Bastard! Pull am comot from dere!’
I left, downcast. What kind of reprimand could keep Baba in a cell as if he were a criminal? Why would he – who had been coming to work every day with no holidays, for as long as I knew – suffer such a disgrace because he was late for work? For once, I agreed with Mama that Baba was wasting his life in the police force.
Baba returned home in the evening, when it was dark. He looked morose and sulky. His brow was knotted, his lips pursed. His sunken eyes roved restlessly.
‘Welcome,’ Mama greeted him coldly. She was mending her blouse with a needle and did not look up. He did not react.
‘Baba, where did you go?’ Emayabo cried, elated.
‘Sabon Gari.’
Oyigwu, who would have gleefully shouted ‘Baba oyoyo,’ had fallen asleep.
Anyaosu said, ‘Baba, I prayed for you.’
‘Thank you.’
It was hot. There was a heavy odour of sweat in the room. The window was closed in order to keep mosquitoes away. Gentle music wafted to the outer room from the inner room. Imatum had bought a small radio. ‘Aunt Deborah gave me money and I bought what I liked,’ she told Mama when confronted.
I told Yakubu to take water in a bucket to the bathroom for Baba to bath. He did. When Baba returned from the bathroom, I served him food. Now Mama was studying her Bible. When Baba started eating, she closed the Bible and began to sing a Christian song: My Redeemer Liveth. She hummed it, then she sang it with some spirit, clapping.
Baba ate his food slowly, silently, his eyes darting around. I detected rage in them.
Yakubu took the plates away after Baba had eaten.
‘What kind of a wife are you?’ Baba began abruptly. ‘I slept in a cell two nights and you can’t even welcome me home, ehm.’ His tone was serious.
Mama’s tone was also serious. ‘What kind of a husband are you that you find yourself in a cell of all places, Father-of-my-children?’
Silence, ominous silence. I looked across to Mama. Her lips were firmly locked. The music from the inner room grew louder.
Baba said in a raised voice, ‘You’re so wicked! And you carry the Bible…’
Mama retorted, also shouting, ‘I choose to be wicked to someone who can’t cure himself of the evil of beer. I have seen that alcohol is a thing of your family. Your mother…’
Baba raged. ‘Leave my parents out of it! What makes you think it is right to insult my parents right under my nose? Have I ever insulted your parents?’
Mama did not apologise. ‘Don’t shout at me. I’m stating a fact!’
Baba sprang up and hit Mama hard across her face. Mama tumbled down from the chair, screaming. She was scrambling to her knees when another blow sent her across the floor, to the mat, startling Oyigwu from sleep.
‘Baba, please, leave her alone. Please, leave her.’
I was pulling him. He pushed me aside. He kicked Mama repeatedly. She twisted on the floor, her shouts for help decreasing with every kick. I sensed that her breath would cease. I was helpless.
‘Do you want to kill our mother? Do you want to kill our mother?’ It was Imatum in the doorway.
‘Shut up there!’ Baba shouted at her, breathing heavily. He moved back from Mama.
Imatum shouted back. ‘Kill her then! Kill her and kill all of us! Did she send you to drink? If you touch her again, I’ll go report you to the police. They will lock you up again!’ Imatum was dead serious, furious.
Baba rushed after her, but she had already dashed back to the inner room and banged the door shut. She bolted it.
Mama lay still. I knelt beside her. A thought occurred to me and I stood up and locked our door.
‘Emayabo and Oyigwu, stop crying,’ I told them. They stared at me with teary eyes. I heard shuffling legs outside, near the door. I heard knocking at our door. I did not answer. My siblings continued to stare at me.
I knelt down and called softly, ‘Mama.’
She did not respond. Blood oozed from her nose and her left eye was swollen. I looked at Baba. He was surprisingly calm, mute. Ashamed, perhaps. I vividly remembered the day Baba had told me that only cowards beat their wives, that he would rather divorce Mama than beat her.
I boiled water and cleaned Mama’s wounds, while Imatum comforted our younger ones.
*
Next day, Baba woke up quite remorseful. ‘I’ll take her to a private hospital,’ he told me, as if I had asked him.
Imatum did not say good morning to him. Behind him, she made an insulting gesture by opening her left palm and splaying her fingers, muttering inaudibly, ‘God punish you!’
We took Mama to Castle Clinic, close to Sabon Gari Divisional Police Station. As we paid for the registration card and sat down, I watched with fascination the quick movements of the nurses. They appeared very neat. Their faces, arms and legs glowed. I heard a baby screaming. A nurse walked briskly to where we sat, looked into the file she was carrying and called out: ‘Ruth Okundayo.’ A lady answered, ‘Yes.’
‘Follow me,’ the nurse said.
The lady who followed her wore expensive clothes made of a cream lace material. I looked round at the people seated and saw that they all looked neat, rich and sophisticated. Only Mama, Baba and I looked poor.
A man of Baba’s age entered the hall. His receding hairline was grey. He wore glasses which neatly framed his eyes. He was clad in a long-sleeved shirt, a tie and a pair of trousers. Almost half of the people seated rose to greet him.
‘Good morning, Dr Hassan.’
‘Morning, Doctor.’
‘Welcome, Dr Hassan.’
‘Good morning, Doctor.’
He answered ‘Morning.’ His voice was soft; he nodded along. A much younger man, in uniform, carried his bag and some books. They climbed the stairs to our left.
‘That’s the medical director,’ a man told a woman sitting beside him.
Soon Mama was called. Baba followed her. For the next fifteen minutes I did not see them. I got lost in a world in which I imagined myself as a doctor, a medical director, with my own hospital. I imagined myself coming into my hospital, the patients standing to greet me. I shook hands with them and asked them about their work and their families, about SAP and the activities of the military president. I imagined myself treating Mama and Baba and my siblings. I pictured myself making money and lifting Mama and Baba out of poverty.
Mama opted strongly to return home when a bill of five thousand naira was issued to us after two hours. ‘Chaakokoo!’ she shouted, berating Baba. ‘Why did you bring me here? Can’t you see why I say you don’t know how to go for what is fit for you, Father-of-my-children?’
Some patients stared at us, surprised.
Baba was sober, indeed happy at the thought that he was compensating for battering Mama by spending such a huge amount of money. ‘They did X-ray and other tests. There is also the consultation fee, the drugs. I’ll pay, don’t worry. Thank God my salary has been paid.’
‘I must worry. Did you beat me up so that you’ll spend the money that should be used to buy food for my children? Murtala, let’s go home.’
Though there was no internal injury, Baba insisted that Mama stay in the hospital for full medical attention. She dismissed this as unreasonable and we returned home.
*
When we returned from the hospital, we met Uncle Tony. It was quite some time since he had last visited us. He did not like coming to our house since we had moved to Kwanar Jabba, because our two small rooms were too crammed for comfort. I told him that Baba Rafatu occupied the same size double room with his two wives and fifteen children. He smiled and said it was stupid of a man as poor as Baba Rafatu to have two wives and that number of children. It was because of such people that the government, through SAP, was making noises about birth control.
‘Really, the issue is not about birth control alone,’ Uncle Tony said. ‘Africa is a spacious continent, but many people are crammed into tiny rooms.’
Uncle Tony’s eyes had grown redder and his lips darker. I noticed a bruise on his right cheek, towards his ear. The short-sleeved shirt and trousers he wore were faded, almost threadbare. His long hair was dishevelled. He looked sad. He stood up to greet Mama and Baba.
‘My dear in-law, when did you come?’ Baba asked.
‘About half an hour ago.’
Mama was quiet, her eyes still swollen. She covered her head with a veil. Uncle Tony looked at her and then turned his face away. One of my siblings must have told him. Mama did not sit down in the outer room. My siblings followed her into the inner room.
‘Welcome, Uncle Tony,’ I greeted him.
‘Thank you, Murtala.’
Baba first sat down and then stood up. His eyes roved round the ceiling, taking note of the cobwebs. He seemed restless, even nervous. He switched on the TV. Thereafter, his hand reached for the switch of the ceiling fan. It started with a sharp noise, rolling lazily. Baba moved to my bed and sat on it, looking at Uncle Tony. ‘I can see some bruises on your face. Did you fight?’
‘Another religious riot on the campus.’
‘Oh yes, I heard of it. Are you seriously injured?’
Uncle Tony pulled up the left leg of his trousers, revealing a swollen ankle. He touched it, grimacing. ‘I scaled a fence and landed badly.’
‘Too bad. You need some drugs.’ Baba dipped his hand inside the pocket of his trousers and pulled out some bank notes. He gave Uncle Tony twenty naira. ‘Go get some drugs for yourself. ’
‘Thank you,’ Uncle Tony said, taking the money.
‘Don’t mention it. When you’ve taken the drugs, you’ll tell us what happened.’
I followed Uncle Tony to the drugstore. He limped, grimacing now and then. ‘I heard your dad didn’t sleep at home two nights and returned to beat up his wife.’
‘He was locked up in the police station.’
I saw Emayabo and her friends, seated on the ground playing, their unclothed bodies dusty.
‘For what crime?’
‘He went to work late.’
Uncle Tony said, ‘That’s strange. Is there such discipline in the police today?’
‘They have a new DPO who is a disciplinarian.’
Uncle Tony smiled wordlessly.
We got to the drugstore. I watched silently as he explained his condition to the man in charge. My eyes caught a large poster above a shelf. Two images of Saddam Hussein, adjacent to each other, were on it. On the left, he wore a riga, his head hugely turbaned, and looked pious. On the right, he was in a military uniform and looked aggressive. Splashed above the images ran the words: ALLAHU AKBAR! WE HAVE WON A JUST WAR.
The man selling the drugs suggested that Uncle Tony take injections. He refused. Instead, he collected some drugs, paid and we left.
As we entered the compound, I saw Omodiale, his arm bandaged, sitting in front of his room, reading a newspaper. Some children were playing soccer even though the sun was high and the day was hot.
‘Hello Omodiale,’ greeted Uncle Tony, moving towards him.
He raised his head. ‘Ah brother! Thought I heard your voice a while ago. When did you come?’
‘Not long ago.’
‘You’re limping.’
‘Same story. Rioting. Fleeing. Jumping. And sustaining injuries.’
Instead of expressing concern, Omodiale was bristling with laughter, saying, ‘You’re the metaphor, brother. Isn’t that what the world is today? Rioting. Fleeing. Sustaining injuries. Limping. Y’know, I see why the faithful yearn for the peace of paradise. When you live in a world filled with violence, the alternative is to console yourself with the belief in a world devoid of violence.’
Omodiale’s bandaged arm caught Uncle Tony’s attention. ‘That bandage, is it a joke?’
‘Ha! Didn’t M-Boy tell you? Well, let’s accept that some violence comes as a joke. This,’ he pointed at his bandaged arm, ‘came as a big joke from my dagger-wielding landlord.’
‘Your landlord?’
Omodiale ignored the question, turned to me and said, ‘M-Boy, kindly bring that bench for your uncle to sit.’
I looked into Uncle Tony’s eyes. I thought he would turn down the offer, because he was supposed to take his drugs, but he did not. I brought the bench and he sat down, facing Omodiale.
‘Get me some water for my drugs, Murtala.’
I had turned to go when Omodiale told me to fetch the water from his room instead. The tall water container was in his inner room. On the other side of it, a girl was sleeping on a huge mattress on the floor, her face to the wall. She was stark naked. I moved gently so as not to wake her, fetching the water in one of the stainless cups neatly arranged on a plastic tray.
Omodiale was narrating what had happened to him. I gave the water to Uncle Tony who had already unwrapped the drugs. He swallowed them quickly, eager to listen to Omodiale. I took the cup back. I stood, shocked, when I saw that the girl lying down was Fatima, Omodiale’s next-door neighbour’s daughter. She had turned her face towards the door. I hurried back out.
Omodiale had taken Uncle Tony to the climax of his story. It did not sound like a sad story. They laughed and shouted. I sat down with them because I liked the way they spoke English. I liked their many-referenced chat. They did not talk like Baba Fatima, Baba Peter, Baba Eddy and Baba Tindele who mostly expressed anger, referring only to their present conditions and quarrelling with one another over trivial points. The depth of their reasoning fascinated me.
‘Y’know, as is the tradition in the world, when someone inflicts violence on you, he brings you relief materials. I…’
Uncle Tony cut in. ‘That’s positive violence. There was nothing like relief incentive for those butchered by Samuel Doe in Liberia.’
‘Ah, positive violence and negative violence. A nice classification there. Brother, I took advantage. Y’know, I insisted on my seven-month rent debt being written off as a relief incentive for the violence committed against me.’
‘Was it done?’
‘He had no option. Y’know, whatever is your demand, once it’s backed up by the almighty police, it must be granted.’
‘Next time he will treat his tenants with some respect, I suppose.’
‘Sure.’
It was Uncle Tony’s turn to tell Omodiale what had happened at the university. He was asleep in the night when a commotion awoke him. His two roommates and he were confused, at first. The commotion was on the same floor as their room. It was, in fact, only two doors away. They heard a heavy footfall in front of their room. Then a voice shouted that everybody should come out of his room. Everybody! Every damn kafiri! The urgency of the voice, its fierceness and its deathly tone made frightened students fling the doors of their rooms open. The corridor was jam-packed. Uncle Tony was alarmed that the people he saw, those who had caused the commotion, were turbaned, wearing traditional Arab kaftans, their waists girdled. They spoke Hausa fluently, harshly.
Everybody was instructed to leave his room, to go down the stairs and out to the courtyard. Some people were shouting, asking what had gone wrong. The students, some in pyjamas, some in shorts, some simply with large towels round their waists, lurched down the staircase. They scurried out like cockroaches, terrified, knowing that whenever Muslim students unleashed their wrath, the consequences were overwhelming. People would be killed. People would be wounded. People would lose property. The university would be closed down.
Uncle Tony, among the last to get down, met the crowd, fluttering, murmuring in a silent rage. Inside the large circle, on the floor, lay two bodies, a man and a woman, stark naked, freshly mangled. The male lay on his back, arms straight apart. The whitish pulp of a smashed brain was part of his head above his arms, tilted as a result of a broken neck. Below the arms was a plump, handsome torso, stabbed in two places, one of his legs straight and the other bent. His severed penis lay on his hairy stomach. The woman was inches away, her head also smashed. She must have been flung furiously against a wall. She lay on her stomach, the smooth mounds of her buttocks lustrous under the bright fluorescent light. Her thighs were slightly apart. Blood oozed out of her gaping vagina, trickling along the edges of a dagger that was stuck inside it.
A chill coursed through Uncle Tony’s veins. The bodies were those of Dayo, the ebullient Yoruba guy on their floor, and Jessica, his Calabar-born girlfriend. Dayo was an advanced student of economics, with just a semester left before graduation. He was known across campus by all for his vivacity, for the music that boomed in his room, for his famous brokering of peace among feuding student politicians, and for his terrific oratory. Dayo found Jessica last year and promptly broke the hearts of his four, well-manoeuvred girlfriends. Why? She took him, through her lusty lap, into what he called the nth paradise of the flesh. He also boasted that Jessica cooked the best food he had ever eaten. He once called Uncle Tony and his roommates to eat edikaikon, a traditional Efik soup, prepared by Jessica. She was a second-year student of mass communication. She was ravishing and intelligent. Dayo and Jessica were a pair, inseparable, enviable, almost legendary. She loved his politics. He took her around with pride. His verve and robust laughter overwhelmed his jealous erstwhile girlfriends and envious guys.
And in their delirious affair, they forgot that Kano University had a rule binding all students, that no female student should enter a male hostel and vice versa. The male and female hostels had well-furnished common rooms where a student could receive a visitor of the opposite sex.
‘My guy knew this rule quite well and had been obeying it before he met Jessica with the sweetest lap,’ Uncle Tony said.
‘Don’t blame him, brother. Y’know, if I were there I would have been kpai too.’
Uncle Tony cackled. ‘Yon mean it?’
‘Oh sure,’ Omodiale said, hunching forward. ‘Y’know, religious crises are killing our young ones, thinkers of tomorrow. I suppose this Dayo was a great guy.’
Sure, he was. And that was why the Yoruba community on the campus rose up in rage. Other ethnic groups and the Fellowship of Christian Students exploded against the Muslim students. Why should the Muslim students take precious lives, simply because they appreciated each other’s flesh? The Muslim students waxed stronger with their holy swords, asserting their will to kill any student who defiled the holy campus with sins of the flesh. Non-Muslim and Christian students grew more furious. Would the president of the Muslim Students Society come out and swear by the Koran that he had not fucked any girl on the campus? Or that his deputy had not fucked any boy, as he was rumoured to be a homosexual? While the argument raged on, the university authorities tried helplessly to intervene and calm the situation, but within twenty-four hours, four Muslim students, two men and two women, were found dead in the same manner at the back of the huge library building. A group of non-Muslim students, most of them cult boys, owned up to the killing, formed a mob and broke into a Bob Marley song: How Long shall they Kill our Prophets, while we Stand Aside and Look… The president of the Muslim Students Society, in a brief but grand event, recited the Koran and declared jihad. The campus was about to burst aflame. The vice chancellor, a bearded Marxist who had been trying his best to resolve the rift without the intervention of the army because he hated the military, gave up. Brutal soldiers were sent to flush the students out of the campus. Students took to their heels. While most of them scaled the fence unscathed, Uncle Tony did not.
*
Baba did not go out drinking that day. Perhaps he was still contrite about having beaten Mama. Perhaps he had learnt his lesson from the punishment the police had given him. He stayed at home, restless, doing nothing. After listening to Uncle Tony’s story, he spent the day watching TV, dozing.
After supper, I brought out the receipt from Ola and handed it to Baba.
He asked, ‘What’s it?’
‘It’s a payment receipt. My friend paid my school fees.’
When Baba read the contents, he bowed his head and began to shake his legs. My mind leapt. I was inwardly happy that Uncle Tony was around. He was reading an old copy of the newspaper Baba bought occasionally.
‘Mu-ri-ta-la,’ Baba drawled, as if drunk.
Uncle Tony looked up at Baba.
‘Yes, Baba.’
‘Who is your father?’
Surprised at the question, I answered, ‘You.’
Uncle Tony and I exchanged a knowing glance.
‘Thank God your uncle who is more educated than you is here.’ Then he addressed Uncle Tony, ‘My in-law, listen to what I’m saying, please.’
‘I hear you,’ Uncle Tony said.
‘Murtala, who has been paying your school fees since primary school?’
‘You, Baba.’
‘Where do I get money to pay your school fees?’
‘Your salary.’
‘And because the salary is delayed, you can’t be patient?’ For the first time, I felt really angry at Baba’s reasoning. I gave it back to him. ‘Have I not been at home for more than a month now, patiently waiting for your salary?’
‘I asked you a question, you replied with a question. If we were in the police station, I could lock you up for that.’
Uncle Tony took it as a joke and had a good laugh.
I did not reply.
‘And you begged your rich friend to pay your school fees. You want…’
I was so cross that I interrupted him. ‘I did not beg anybody!’ My voice was loud.
Uncle Tony looked at me, somewhat embarrassed.
Baba continued in a steady voice. ‘This friend of yours just paid your school fees without your asking. Is that what you want me to believe?’
‘Believe it or not, that’s the truth.’
‘Hhm. I can see you’re becoming a man. Very assertive.’
I did not say anything.
‘You will return this receipt to the owner, whoever he is! Thank God my salary has been paid,’ Baba said with a tone of finality.
My stomach churned. My body tensed up. My eyes misted. I stood up and left. Outside, hidden beside the mosque, I wept.
Uncle Tony found me seated on a stone in front of our compound.
‘My young man,’ he said in a friendly tone. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
I stood up and joined him. As we made a turn, we saw a girl alight from a big black Mercedes. The car moved off in reverse. As we drew closer, we saw that it was Imatum. She and Uncle Tony exchanged greetings. She walked away, holding a polythene bag. ‘She’s not changed, I suppose,’ Uncle Tony said.
‘You can see it for yourself, Uncle. Her boyfriends bring her home in cars.’
He chuckled, shaking his head. ‘Are you still being censorious? She must hate you now.’
‘We fought the other day.’
Uncle Tony stopped and threw a quizzical look at me. Then he limped on. ‘You fought her? Is that what you want to be doing?’
‘She caused it.’
‘I did advise you to ignore her, not to waste your precious time on her. Why don’t you concentrate on your books?’
‘I’m sorry. I regret fighting her.’
‘You want to be a medical doctor. I haven’t seen any medical doctor fighting. They’re groomed to be gentle and caring.’
‘I won’t fight again.’
We took another turn and walked towards the main Kwanar Jabba road.
‘Imatum has chosen her path. We all choose our paths. The point is, be wise when choosing your own path.’
‘I agree with you, Uncle.’
We walked on in silence for a while.
‘I’m sure your exam results are out.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve maintained your position.’
‘Yes.’
‘You have great promise.’