Two weeks later Bukuru’s trial began before a Langa high court.
The day was hot and humid.
I arrived at the court at 7 a.m. Cars and buses already filled the parking lot. Many buses bore the colorful logos of newspapers and magazine publishers as well as radio and television stations. Photographers dashed here and there, cameras hoisted on their shoulders, flashing explosions of light at the crush of spectators. Several television cameras were mounted outside the courthouse. Their operators turned them now this way, now that, like anti-aircraft weaponry. The crowd steadily grew in size and rowdiness.
At a few minutes past 8 a.m. the court door was opened. The crowd rushed forward in a wave that overwhelmed the police cordon. One police officer lay on the ground, cradling his ribs, groaning. Incensed, the others began to swing their cowhide whips. Those stung by the whips ran in every direction, letting out squeals of pain.
A police officer speaking through a portable microphone asked reporters to come forward, their picture identity in hand, and file into the courtroom. I detached myself from the crowd and moved towards the police line. Two policemen checked my press identity, then waved me in. Inside the courtroom the reporters were herded to a corner, standing room only.
After we were settled in, the gate was opened to a throng of spectators who rammed their way in until the stifling courtroom was packed full. The previous day the Madia Gazette had predicted a large turn-out. In a lengthy preview the paper had disclosed that a crew of reporters had arrived from London to cover the trial for the British Broadcasting Corporation. The West Africa correspondent of the New York Times was also expected to report on the trial. The Gazette disclosed that many Madian civil servants, determined to attend the trial in person, had bribed doctors’ clerks in order to obtain false sick slips.
At 9:15 four detectives led Bukuru into the courtroom. His entry caused a quiet commotion as many spectators raised themselves on their toes, straining to catch a glimpse of him.
The trial was scheduled to begin at 9:30 but at 9:45 neither the prosecutors nor the judge had entered the courtroom. A wall clock behind the judge’s bench ticked monotonously; two ceiling fans stirred the stagnant air with creaky revolutions.
At 9:50 the main courtroom door squeaked open and the two prosecuting counsel walked in, severe in their dark, cape-like robes. With his long hair and unkempt beard, Bukuru seemed out of place among the lawyers in their old-fashioned wigs. Very soon the lawyers began to fan themselves with papers.
At 10:06 an air of apprehension spread through the crowd.
The clerk bellowed, “Court!” and a hush fell. In the silence heavy, measured footsteps could be heard approaching the courtroom.
A uniformed orderly opened the door that led to the judge’s chamber and stood aside, frozen at attention. Justice Primus Kayode squeezed through the door, a tall, bulky man, bespectacled. This was the one the lawyers called the Elephant. The name alluded to the judge’s size; but it also had to do with his tendency to bear down on whoever was within sight whenever his mood was in “bad weather.” Lawyers and accused alike dreaded the Elephant’s hectoring style and it was rumored that if he found a defendant’s face or manner disagreeable, regardless of evidence indicating innocence or guilt, he was wont to convict and impose a harsh sentence.
Justice Kayode cleared his throat noisily and deposited the phlegm in a paper towel. His motions seemed those of a man aware that the eyes of the world were on him. He looked up and surveyed the crowded courtroom. If he was impressed or perplexed, his expression did not show it: his triple-chinned face had that practiced look of blankness cultivated by men whose business it is to read others’ faces while taking care to mask their own state of mind.
“Clerk!” he shouted.
“Your Honor, Sir!” answered the clerk, the response at once rehearsed and startled, as if there could be no getting used to the Elephant’s booming summons. The clerk was middle-aged, bald and portly, like a scaled-down version of the judge.
“Have you established protocol with all the parties in this case?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Call the case.”
“Case number CH847-LSP 33902. The State vs. Mr. X., male, adult, of no ascertainable address. Count one: That you, the accused, on 1 January 1988 at approximately seven a.m., contributed, by acts of omission or commission, to the death by drowning at B. Beach of a human female, age unknown, of no ascertainable address, thereby committing a crime punishable pursuant to the provisions of the penal code number six, sections four and five (as amended) by death or up to a lifetime in jail.
“Count two: That you, the accused, on 1 January 1988 at approximately seven a.m., unlawfully assaulted the said deceased in a physical and sexual manner prior to her death, thereby committing a crime punishable pursuant to the provisions of the penal code number five, sections eight and nine by up to fifteen years in jail.
“Count three: That you, the accused, on 1 January 1988 at approximately seven fifteen a.m., aided and abetted the death of the aforementioned deceased by hindering her resuscitation, thereby committing a crime punishable pursuant to the provisions of the penal code number six, sections eight, nine and ten by up to five years in jail.”
“Is the accused ready to enter a plea?” asked the judge, looking morosely in Bukuru’s direction.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Do you understand the charges?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Have you sought the advice of counsel? I have it in my notes that you have chosen to defend yourself. But the charges are serious, I must have you know. In the circumstances you would be well advised to engage a lawyer.”
“I can’t afford one.”
“I understand that a number of lawyers had offered to provide you with free counsel.”
“My case is beyond a lawyer’s understanding.”
Justice Kayode’s face grew sour. He fixed Bukuru with reproving eyes.
“I have no wish to waste time. I have advised you to accept legal help. It is for you to decide whether to follow my advice. Meanwhile to business. The charges have been read. How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
Lanky the lifeguard was the prosecution’s first witness. His answers were so long-winded that on two occasions Justice Kayode warned him to respond more succinctly. The third time the judge raised his voice. “For the last time, cut out the cock and bull and get to the point!” Lanky lost his composure. He stuttered and stammered and became so fidgety and incoherent that the prosecutor cut short his examination.
“You may now cross-examine the witness,” Justice Kayode said to the accused.
“I do not wish to. The witness said nothing of importance,” said Bukuru.
“May I warn you, Mr. X,” thundered the Elephant, “that such decisions are to be made by me. You understand? By me, exclusively!”
A forensic pathologist was next to take the stand. He testified that medical evidence indicated that the deceased woman had been raped. “She had sustained substantial lacerations to her labia minora, labia majora, clitoris and vestibule. The injuries were multiple and devastating, consistent with persistent forced entry and penetration with a penis or some sharper object.”
The pathologist testified that the alkalinity of the seawater had compromised the integrity of the semen sample taken from the victim. He also told the court that he could not determine whether the wounds had been inflicted by one attacker or several.
Bukuru waived his right to cross-examine the witness.
The prosecution then called a psychiatrist. He wore a pair of thick reading glasses and entered the witness box with a stack of files in the crook of his arm. The prosecutor, Jerome Okadi, asked him to summarize his findings.
“After several sessions with the accused,” began Dr. Mara, “I found him to be quite discerning, lucid and possessed of rational faculty.”
“Is there any way of determining that somebody is deranged even before you’ve had the opportunity to make a clinical evaluation of their mental state?”
“No. You might suspect it, but the determination of neurosis, psychosis and other schizophrenic conditions is usually dependent on clinical examination. That’s the only professionally sound and respectable procedure.”
“You mentioned suspicion. When would you suspect somebody of derangement?”
“When a person appears—and appears is the key word—to operate outside the established and reasonable norms of his society. It could be in his manner of dressing, speaking, eating, or in some other aspect of demeanor.”
“When you first met the accused, did you suspect him of derangement?”
“No, not really.”
“Would you say, then, that his appearance was within acceptable social norms?”
“No, it wasn’t. But I was asked to do a professional evaluation, so I had to approach the task with extreme objectivity.”
“But if you had met him in the street?”
“I certainly would have considered him somewhat peculiar.”
“Why?”
“Because of his appearance. The unkempt and untidy nature of his appearance.”
After a pause, the prosecutor put another question.
“You have positively determined that the accused is not mentally incapacitated?”
“Yes.”
“Beyond the shadow of a doubt?”
“Yes.”
“Briefly, in layman’s language as far as possible, kindly outline to the court the basis of your conclusions.”
“The suspect’s logical coherence. His ability to recall events in an ordered way. His exhibition of mature speculative reasoning. His ability to comprehend information and to communicate in a clear and meaningful sense. Finally, his ability to make connections—in other words, his cognitive grasp of cause and effect.”
“Is there perhaps a chance that the accused suffered a momentary lapse of mental capacity at the time that he committed the alleged crime?”
“I considered that possibility. However, my finding is not consistent with that theory.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the suspect’s near-perfect recollection of the incident. And because of his willingness to discuss the details of the drowning and everything that happened up to his own arrest. When he did not discuss certain details he made it clear he did not wish to talk about them; it had nothing to do with gaps in his recollection. That level of awareness rules out the possibility of a temporary lapse of mental competence—an occurrence that is usually marked by cognitive dissonance and other disassociative symptoms.”
“If the accused was never mentally incapacitated, how would you account for his, as you said, unkempt and untidy appearance?”
“I would describe him as socially maladjusted.”
“And the cause of this maladjustment would be?”
“Maladjustment may spring from a number of factors. There is no need to speculate in this particular case. The most important thing is to underline that social maladjustment is often a matter of choice on the part of an individual.”
“Thank you. No more questions.”
“Mr. X,” said the judge, “I take it you have no questions for the witness?”
“Yes, I do, Your Honor,” Bukuru said. Justice Kayode glanced up at him, surprised. Hushed whispers spread through the courtroom. Dr. Mara, who had half-risen and gathered his papers to leave the witness stand, sat down.
Bukuru stood up and drew a long breath.
“Dr. Mara, how long have you practiced as a psychiatrist?”
“Eighteen years,” answered Dr. Mara in the even, unemotional voice of a man of science.
“And how old are you?”
“Forty-two next March.”
“Before you qualified as a psychiatrist, did you know any mad person?”
“Objection!” protested Okadi. “What the witness did or knew before qualifying is irrelevant.”
Dr. Mara and Bukuru paused, looking to the judge.
“Over-ruled,” said the judge.
“Yes,” the psychiatrist answered.
“Did you ever have time to closely observe the behavior of this mad person?”
“Objection.”
“Over-ruled.”
“Yes.”
“Who was this mad person?”
“A man from my village.”
“He was born in your village?”
“Yes.”
“Was he mad from birth?”
“No. His condition manifested in his adolescence. One day he took to shrieking and dancing—especially at night.”
“Did he continue to live in the village?”
“Yes, sometimes at home but mostly at the marketplace.”
“Did he have relatives?”
“Yes, his widower father was still alive. And he had two brothers and a sister. Some cousins and so forth.”
“Did he still recognize them after he fell into, shall we say, a crazed state?”
“Yes, he often talked to them.”
“Tell us how he related to them.”
“He spoke to his father with appropriate reverence. At least most of the time. When the old man died, he was at the funeral. As the oldest child, he threw the first earth into his father’s grave.”
“Did he laugh at the funeral? Did he dance or ululate? Shriek or make other untoward noises?”
“No.”
“How would you describe his behavior during the funeral?”
“Somber. Sober. Restrained.”
“Like a normal bereaved person?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say then that there was a seeming suspension of his madness during the funeral?”
“Objection. The witness is being invited to speculate unnecessarily.”
Dr. Mara and Bukuru again looked to Justice Kayode. He seemed to weigh the question for a moment.
“Sustained.”
“Let me rephrase the question,” Bukuru persisted. “Did this madman appear during the funeral to—forgive the phrase—suffer a relapse into sanity?” There was suppressed laughter in the courtroom.
“He seemed to have a reprieve from his condition, yes,” answered the psychiatrist, removing his glasses and wiping, with the back of his hand, the sides of his eyes.
“How long did the funeral last?”
“Six days—that is the tradition.”
“What happened after the funeral?”
“He resumed his abnormal behavior.”
“You mean his normal behavior?”
There was another round of restrained laughter among the spectators. Even Justice Kayode bit his upper lip to keep from laughing.
The psychiatrist answered, “You could put it that way.”
“Could you tell the court the oddest thing you ever saw this madman do?”
“Objection. The court’s time is wasted by the accused asking the witness to tell unnecessary stories.”
Pause.
“Over-ruled.”
“I once saw him speaking to two ants in a threatening way.”
“Go on.”
“Apparently he’d been stung by an ant as he slept. Later on he came upon two ants going about their business. ‘Stop!’ he said to the ants. ‘I want to know which of you stung me in my anus while I slept under the baobab tree.’ The ants continued on their way. He addressed the faster ant. ‘Hey, you, stop! You appear strong-headed. Perhaps it was you who stung my anus. Confess and I’ll let you free—only with a warning.’ The ant continued to move. So the madman brought down his big toe and flattened the ant. He then turned to the other ant and said, ‘Well, you’ve seen what happened to your headstrong brother. Now, stop and tell me, was it not he who stung my anus?’ The ant continued to move. Again in anger the madman crushed the ant flat on the ground with his foot. That was the oddest thing I ever saw him do.”
The crowd in the courtroom chortled at the story. Bukuru stood straight-faced waiting for a return to order. Justice Kayode took a slurp of water, cleared his throat and asked whether Bukuru had exhausted his questions.
“No.”
“Proceed,” the judge commanded.
“Have you ever been stung by an ant?” Bukuru asked the witness.
“Yes, on a number of occasions.”
“Did you ever kill an ant on account of that?”
“Yes.”
“Were you sure in every instance that you had killed the ant that had stung you?”
“I can’t say that I was. Not in every instance.”
“Is it right, then, to surmise that as far as ants go, you believe in retribution?”
“Objection. The question is irrelevant and frivolous.”
“Over-ruled.”
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” said the psychiatrist.
“You have no problem with killing an ant that has stung you?”
“No, I have no problem with that.”
“Nor do you have a problem with killing an innocent ant—one that hasn’t stung you?”
“I don’t think of ants as guilty or innocent,” answered the psychiatrist.
“But apparently your village madman was concerned with that principle, wasn’t he? He was interested in finding out which ant was responsible for stinging his anus, wasn’t he?”
“Apparently,” Dr. Mara answered, with a confounded look.
“And he was apparently willing to forgive the quote and unquote ‘guilty’ ant—if only he got a confession of guilt, wasn’t he?”
“Apparently.”
“If you saw a man who went about killing every dog in sight simply because one dog had bitten him, would you consider his action sane?”
“Objection! This is an egregious abuse of the court’s time and courtesy.”
“I don’t see how,” retorted the Elephant. “Over-ruled.”
“No.” Dr. Mara wiped a trickle of sweat off his face, like one wiping tears.
“Returning to part of your earlier testimony, why do you think the madman remained restrained during his father’s funeral?”
“Perhaps because his socialization had become strong before the onset of his psychiatric symptomatology. Perhaps he remembered how people were expected to behave at funerals.”
“Perhaps, then, he had not been socialized about dealing with ants. Or perhaps that part of his socialization had been weak, would you say?”
“Objection. This is argumentative. It’s not a question but a tendentious suggestion.”
“Sustained.”
Bukuru stroked his chin. Dr. Mara fiddled with the pile of files in front of him. A smile spread over Bukuru’s face as, turning to the judge, he said, almost in a whisper, “I have no more questions.”
Open laughter broke out in the courtroom as the psychiatrist descended from the stand. In his confusion he dropped a number of files and papers and knelt, flustered, to recover them.
“Easy does it, Dr. Mara,” said Justice Kayode. “Take your time.” The psychiatrist bared his teeth in a smile that seemed a mixture of apology, gratitude and self-pity.
The judge’s gavel fell three times, conjuring silence. “The court will recess until three p.m.”