Having eaten little all weekend, I arrived in my office on Monday tired and listless. I had just sat down when my phone rang.
“There’s a lady here who wants to see you,” said the female receptionist.
“Her name?”
“She refuses to say.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but she’s been quite rude.”
In the background I heard somebody cursing. “Na your mama be quite rude! Na you be rude, you hear!” I recognized Violet’s voice.
“I’ll be there in a second,” I said.
At reception Violet stood akimbo, glowering, her mouth drawn into a contemptuous pout.
“Ah, Violet,” I said, feigning surprise. “Please come with me.”
I led the way outside.
“Do you want something to drink? There’s a bar nearby.”
“I no come to drink. I simply wan’ tell you say he done kill Emilia.”
I furrowed my brows as if confounded. “Who’s he? What did he do?”
“Isa. Major Bello. He kill Emilia.”
“Iyese is dead?”
“Yes, Emilia done die.”
I gasped. “Why? How?”
“She jus’ tell Isa say na you be the papa of her boy pikin.”
“Wait a minute. She told Isa I was the father of her baby boy?”
“Correct.”
“Why would he kill her for that?”
“Because Isa want boy pikin bad bad.”
I gasped again. “How can you be sure Major Bello did this?”
“Emilia been plan to do naming ceremony for the pikin last Saturday evening. She tell Isa say na your name she wan’ give the pikin. The news vex Isa well well. Na that same Saturday Emilia die. If witch fly for night and person come die, then the witch must to answer.”
“What happened to the baby? Is he dead too?”
“No. The banza man stab the pikin, but him no die. Child Welfare take the pikin go hospital. Na me police ask to identify Emilia’s dead body. Even self, na me tell Child Welfare the pikin name. After the pikin recover, Welfare plan to send him to Langa Orphanage. If you like, you fit go there see the baby. Emilia tell me say, true true, na you be the pikin papa.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” I said.
Violet flared up. “Why you speak so? You mean to say Emilia lie? You two no sleep together? I been think say you be better man. Now, I know say you be nonsense man, true true.”
No doubt she considered my grief inadequate, and perhaps she was right. Although we were bound by a common loss, our concerns were different. One death, separate memories.
“Iyese did not deserve this,” I said, to break the silence. “She was such a sweet person.”
Violet continued to look at me in silence, as if my words were insipid compared to the emotions she felt. At last she said, “I jus’ say make I come tell you wetin happen. You be bad man, but I know say Emilia like you too much. More than too much.”
“Did the police ask you any other questions?” I couldn’t help worrying about the complications that might arise if the Child Welfare Department looked me up.
“They ask whether me know who killed Emilia. I tell them I no fit to talk. Thas why I say make I come ask you first.”
“I don’t think there is any use in accusing Isa,” I suggested. “The police won’t touch him. He’s a powerful emir’s son. And also an army officer. Besides, the case against him is only circumstantial.” Violet regarded me coldly. “Thank you for all the trouble you took. The best thing is to let Iyese rest in peace.”
“Otio!” she shouted. “Which kin’ peace? Which kin’ rest in peace? No, Emilia no fit rest in peace at all at all. She no go rest until bad death come kill Isa. Na that time Emilia fit rest.”
“Well, if Isa did this he will receive his just desserts eventually,” I said.
She looked at me reproachfully. “I dey go,” she said, already walking away.
Returning to my desk, I sat and brooded. I had the sensation of being in a time warp, trapped in the one unchanging moment when I found Iyese lying dead. I was back in Iyese’s room, staring at her bloodied body, her baby on her chest, also spattered with blood. Nothing I did could free my mind from that scene. I feared that I would live all my life shut up in that room, my eyes forever riveted on that horrific sight.
“Your letters, sir.”
The words broke into my consciousness long after the office messenger had spoken them and gone on to deliver mail to other desks. I thumbed through my letters indifferently until I saw an envelope that bore Iyese’s handwriting. My heart’s ferocious beating was compounded of fear and anticipation. My hands shook as I held the letter up to my face and read:
He looks just like you! Eyes, mouth, forehead—just like you. A happy, handsome little boy! Perhaps a carbon copy of you when you were a baby.
In my last letter I asked you for some photographs. Since I didn’t hear from you, I guess your answer is no. That won’t stop me telling this baby about the lift you gave my life.
Now, I have another favor to ask you. In two days the baby will be a week old. In my village the seventh day is when the naming ceremony is done. I want to name the baby Ogugua. I hope you won’t mind sharing the gift of a name with him.
Will I ever see you again? Have you ever thought about it?
Love, Iyese
P.S. Isa came around two days ago and asked me to marry him! Can you believe that? I’ll look for a new flat for me and the baby. Isa will be dangerous when he realizes that I won’t let him have this baby.
Again,
Iyese
Ogugua. The name my mother had muttered the very instant I was put in her arms, birth blood hardly dried on my soft, coppery skin. My father had intended to give me another name, but the moment my mother held me in her arms and said Ogugua, he knew that was what I would be called. She had pronounced the word as if it were written on my forehead, inscribed in a language she alone could decipher.
Ogugua—a male name. Yet my father was certain his wife would still have insisted on it even if I had been born a girl. For what mattered to her was what the name meant, the statement she wanted to make to the world. Ogugua, condensed from Oguguamakwa. Literally, the wiper of my tears. My consoler, vindicator and comforter. In my case the name was blighted by a terrible irony. I had wiped my mother’s tears, true; but I had also sent her to an early grave.
As time passed my guilt grew less acute; the image of Iyese seemed to fade. Then one day a colleague brought her newborn baby to the office. The baby’s penetrating eyes in its tiny, tender, vulnerable face made me think about Iyese all over again. I was tortured with the thought that Iyese’s baby might truly be my son, the first of the many children my grandmother had prayed that I should have. I considered going to the orphanage, but in the end fear outweighed curiosity: seeing the baby would wake up feelings I was not confident I could face, would exhume emotions I had buried in a shallow grave.
Yet Isa Palat Bello continued to haunt my mind. He was present in every soldier’s face, eyes peering out at me, lustful and ugly. I began to dread the approach of night, for his face would loom up out of the dark. Whenever I heard footsteps behind me I whirled around. I stopped going out at night. When friends complained about this I lied: I had been diagnosed with a rare disease that brought on sudden fainting spells; my doctor had ordered me to rest in bed.
Then, one day, I received an unexpected reprieve; it was reported that Bello was among ten officers on their way to Pakistan for a six-month advanced artillery course. That night I went out to visit some friends. A new drug had worked wonders for me, I told them.
I began to regain my former vitality. Sleeping became less grim.