3

Prof was asleep in his cell the day his mother and friend came for him. A warder had told him some days earlier that the president had freed some prisoners, but he hadn’t thought he was one of them. He no longer expected freedom.

He stirred as one of the new warders tapped him on his leg. ‘Prof, or what do they call you? Get ready, there are people here for you.’

He raised his head up from where he lay in his cell and uncurled himself into a stretch.

‘Oya, come, let’s go,’ the warder said, and turned around immediately to call out to someone, ‘Give that one any cloth you see. Who dey keep cloth for here?’

Prof followed the warder with his head bent low, his steps slow. He veiled his face with his threadbare khaki shirt, stopping when the warder dawdled to greet or reprimand a prisoner in a cell, until they reached a front desk with other warders and a few unfamiliar faces smiling at him.

‘Home beckons,’ someone said to him. He noticed the man clasped a small gadget, later identified as the new GSM phone, in his right hand. ‘Mr. President has freed you.’

Prof placed his hands behind his back and observed the ghosts before him; his visitors—Maami and Olukayode, his childhood friend, whom everyone now called Kayo because Prof had, a result of not being able to pronounce his friend’s full name as a toddler. Maami and Kayo watched him, and exchanged quick glances, between turning to listen and respond to the warders. He could tell from their looks that they were examining the way his shoulder blade was chiselled into his flesh, burrowing a visible hollow in his neck.

‘Take,’ Kayo said. Prof did not look at his friend’s face, even as he accepted the handkerchief that he passed to him. He put it in his pocket, eyes fixed on the Nokia mobile phone which Kayo clutched. He tucked his grey vest into his trousers and swapped the prison uniform he used as a veil over his head with the flower-patterned cotton shirt they gave him to change into. The sunlight was bright, and it penetrated the shirt as soon as he stepped outside. He winced every time he needed to raise his face to the light.

As he walked out of the prison, he noticed a calendar with the picture of a young girl, smiling with her eyes shut. She reminded him of Desanya—who had often visited him in prison. He was going to turn away when he noticed it was a calendar from 1995 and it displayed the month of October—a month and year he could never forget. His eyes landed on the date he had come to prison: 3 October 1995. It was two days after Nigeria’s independence celebration and four days before his 45th birthday.

He thought back to that day. He was trying to avoid the cars swerving towards pedestrians who filed down the broken sidewalk of Bode Thomas Street when a man in an army green T-shirt and khaki shorts gave him a scissor kick that saw him kissing the ground. Before he could gather himself to stand, he counted seven men, all wearing the same clothes, bent over him. They punched and kicked his ribs until he spiralled onto the ground like a millipede.

In that moment, he understood what it was like to be a ball being rammed about by tennis players, as one of the men asked him, ‘Who hit you? Guess!’ The sun’s rays boiled the blood and sweat dripping from his flesh, split open by the strike of cowhide whips. He raised his swollen, bloodied eyes, and caught a name graffitied on a wall in white: MKO. Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola, the billionaire businessman who was in prison for treason, because he had declared himself president four months after his victory was annulled by the government. He considered that they might soon share a prison cell. The white letters of the politician’s initials faded slowly to a light grey, blue-grey, then charcoal; until everything became so black he felt outside of himself. He stopped struggling against the men and watched his motionless body as he could no longer resist the darkness that possessed him; until he woke up handcuffed with a hood over his head, in a vehicle that smelt of dried faeces and what he would later identify as dried blood. This was how Prof Eniolorunda was to become disconnected from the world he fought for, for ten years.

 

Prof placed his hand on Kayo’s shoulder, ‘Take me home. I want to go to my father’s house.’

***

Prof dug into his pockets for a handkerchief as his mother excavated a phone from her bag. She punched the keyboard for light and explored the walls for the switch. Prof placed the handkerchief loosely over his eyes, as a blindfold, to avoid the light of the 30-watt amber bulb which came on as he stepped into the house. The cloth covered his left eye but the right eye, which was left partially bare, made him squint. He turned towards the curtain and felt the coarse settling of dust on the thin lines of the fabric’s weave. The dust rose into his nostrils and he sneezed. His mother moved closer and slowly stroked his back. Prof did not turn to face her. He listened to her low voice as she spoke. Kayo walked in after him and sank into a chair. Prof walked towards the farthest corner of the room, observing his mother and Kayo.

‘I’m still wondering why you’d choose to come to your father’s house, and not mine,’ Maami sighed, before adding, ‘I would have washed the window blinds or changed them for one with a brighter colour, so gbo.’ She rubbed her temples and looked out of the window, before moving restlessly around the room.

Prof moved to take her place at the window. His eyes  roamed over the row of houses with peeling paint, stopping at the faded signpost with “LSDPC Low Cost Housing Estate, Abesan” painted on it.

However, everyone called the estate Jakande Estate, after Lateef Jakande, a former governor of Lagos state who built it and many others around the city to tackle the city’s housing problems. Years after, not much changed. The blocks of flats remained as ugly as he remembered, only now there were more discordant noises leaping from generators and pepper-grinding machines competing for attention. He rearranged the curtains, turned away from the view, and found himself facing his mother.

‘The curtains are really dirty. Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me—in my house?’ His mother waited for him to reply and when he didn’t, she added, ‘At least for some months, you can live with me. I’ll cook good food. I can also bring people to clean this house and air it as well if you want to return.’ He stayed quiet, her words disappearing into the air as if she never spoke. ‘Kayo knows the right people if you need a job,’ she added. ‘You know how it is, big-big women and big-big men are everywhere in this country.’

Prof held Kayo in his stare for a long time; no smile, no attempt to show appreciation for the kindness spoken about. Kayo, on his part, grunted.

‘You needed to remind them of me?’ Prof asked.

‘Haba! You’re a man of the people now-o. Don’t you know? We can also turn on the radio, I’m sure it’s in the news,’ Kayo turned around to switch on the radio on the stool beside the chair. ‘Mr. President released ten prisoners, but you’re the most significant one. You’re probably the headline.’

‘Don’t put it on. It isn’t necessary!’ Prof growled, staring down at his feet as the crackle of the radio filled the room, ‘Please turn it off.’

Kayo waffled but turned off the radio. Prof turned to look at his mother, studying the lines which had formed on her forehead, the corners of her eyes and the sides of her mouth. He imagined tracing them with his hand. Oblivious to the turn of his thoughts, Maami attempted to court him with stories that started off with ‘Do you remember when…’ He wondered if what he saw in her eyes was fear, although he couldn’t say what for. He began to hum a birthday song he had heard on the car radio. She stopped talking.

Kayo chuckled, ‘Do you miss celebrating your birthdays?’ He moved closer, their shoulders brushing, and whispered, ‘Remember how I used to get you drunk the night before your birthday?’ He hawed.

‘Abeg, let’s see your face. Remove the shirt over your head, now. Abi, you are now Captain Hook?’ Kayo slapped his back and neighed. ‘Do you want me to get you a generator? The power situation is still terrible-o.’

‘How regular are the outages?’

‘Ha, I can’t say it is regular, as we don’t even have a pattern. There’s been no light here for four months. Even though there was a name change, the problem persists.’

‘What name change?’

‘Oh, they changed the name from NEPA to PHCN—Power Holding Company of Nigeria—when the government privatised electricity distribution.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘We have seen no benefit so far. In fact, it is worse. We have gone from “Never Expect Power Always” to “Problem Has Changed Name.”’ He sighed, and with an added intensity to this voice, said, ‘We have not had light for two years now in my area. They carried our transformer away and three months ago, some people stole the cables. We use the generator, morning and night.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Well, it is the way it is. This is our life. We have accepted it,’ Kayo laughed. ‘But there’s regular electricity here. At least, you can do some things with power. You get four hours out of twenty-four hours. It is not that bad.’

‘Really? How could anyone tolerate light which brought even more darkness?’ Prof asked. He adjusted the cloth from his face to shade the light a little, before walking towards the bedroom.

As he moved away, he overheard his mother saying, ‘It will take a while, but we will try to bring him back to proper life.’

Prof moved down the passage into the bedroom, more certain than ever that he would keep the light out of his new home.

 

‘You can’t exist here—You should ask them to take you back to prison. I mean, that’s home now—for you, for us—Think, man, think!’

‘How can prison be home? He should stay here. This is where he belongs.’

‘What is this one saying? Home is where your body settles even in the dark. The prison is home.’

‘Is this one okay? Was his body ever settled in prison, lest being settled in darkness? Please, Prof, don’t mind him. Take your time and relax. You can make up your mind later. Seriously, when did prison become homely?’

Prof felt the voices in his head increasing as each one tried to be heard. They wanted to drown out Desanya’s voice, which was usually the loudest, and the one he ended up listening to. He focused on her voice; ‘Nothing has changed since you went to prison. Okay, there are now GSM phones,’ Desanya said with a giggle.

The moment her voice came in clearly, he knew the other voices would go away and leave Desanya to speak to him. This was their routine.

‘Hey! How are you coping with the new attention?’

He smiled and didn’t respond. It was always how they started their conversations. She did most of the talking and he listened.

‘I see you’re considering turning off the lights.’ He remained silent.

‘Here’s something for you as you ponder; “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”’

‘That’s profound,’ he murmured, turning around to see if his mother or Kayo were behind him.

‘Yes, that’s Mary Oliver. Remember her?’

‘Not sure I do.’

‘We—you read her to me when some Canadian NGO visited the prison with books.’

‘Oh, I did?’ He pondered over the words. Desanya had come to him as a gift. When he had been thrown into solitary confinement, the many voices in his head wouldn’t stop talking. He would press his hands to his ears and scream, but that did not stop them.

Until Desanya came to him. She whispered, ‘Breathe, breathe, breathe.’ He listened to her and the other voices left. She stayed.

Desanya was different. She didn’t have a name when she came to him. He just thought of her as The Voice. He wanted to give Desanya a personality so he started with a name. A name from a memory that would not go away. He gave The Voice the name of a little girl in Maroko—an area for low and middle-income earners who bragged to be homeowners, even though they waded through potholes to arrive to a house sinking in the mire. The location appealed to the country’s big men and the people of Maroko were given an eviction notice over the radio and asked to vacate the area by the following day. Prof was in a caucus meeting of activists when he heard the story, and he hurried over to the area.

As he spoke to the thousands of eyes staring at him, hopeful that something could change, his gaze landed on this little girl with eyes like water in a glass. He picked her up from the ground and carried her in his arms. The feeling he felt holding her was close to nothing he could compare, except to once in life when he felt he was going to eventually be a father. It was just a moment, one he tried not to think of. Yet, as he looked into the little girl’s eyes, he felt as if cold water was running down his entire body and he shivered. A strange feeling overcame him. He felt a sudden yearning which was not for want of a daughter, rather, she made him want to become a little girl. He wanted to feel vulnerable and be so innocent he could share his emotion without fear of judgement.

He asked for her name—she whispered into his ear like someone blowing off a candle in three breaths and he heard, ‘De-san-ya.’ He left Maroko with her presence still filling the corner of his arm where she had rested when he carried her, filling a place that had become empty at a point in his life. Many weeks later, with his heart buried in a vacuum, he returned to look for her, and someone told him that a pillar had fallen on her and killed her. He left the place emptier than when he came. You have lost another one, he told himself.

The name “Desanya” suited The Voice. It filled up the emptiness that came with the loss, with warmth. While he could not see this new Desanya, he could always spread his arms along the prison wall, begging Desanya to come for a chat. There were times she did not come. Those times, he cried as he pined for her. Those times, he felt lucky to sight an ant in the cell that he could talk to and express how much he missed Desanya. He would jump with an hysterical happiness and then smile at his luck when an ant waited for a few minutes to listen to him whine. At other times, when he was overcome with weakness, he would strain his ears to listen to the echoes of laughter, groans, or deep sighs from the other cells.

Desanya interrupted him and he stirred from his thoughts. ‘You should go to your mother and Kayo. You’re spending too much time alone.’