The night before the election.
Someone had fitted the ceiling fan directly over the only light bulb in the room. With every oscillation of the fan, flickering shadows swept over the people, the boxes, and the surfaces cramped with ballot papers. Outside in the night, generators with various capacities rumbled from different distances, and the wind, on occasion, carried the cymbals and singing of a Pentecostal church’s night vigil.
Amaka stood by the closed door, her back against the wall, and fanned her wet face with a campaign flyer. Before her, sitting or kneeling on the floor, sharing the edges of a stool or standing over a table, were women of varying ages, all pressing their thumbs into blue ink pads and onto blank ballot papers. Other women gathered the thumb-printed papers and stuffed them into ballot boxes marked with the INEC insignia.
Amaka’s phone buzzed. It had been in her hand all night. She looked at the screen and answered.
‘Amaka, where are you?’
Amaka kept her eyes on the old women pressing their thumbs onto ballot papers. ‘Where I should be, Ambrose,’ she said.
‘We have been compromised. DSS has picked up ten of our men.’
‘Where?’
‘Where they should be. Someone must have tipped them off.’
‘And the material?’
‘Nothing will happen. They are working for the other party. They will keep our men till elections are over. Someone has given the names and the movements of our people. They are simply neutralising our assets. You might have been compromised too. You have to leave where you are, now.’
‘How many people do we have?’
‘Doing what you are doing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fourteen. Fifteen.’
‘And ten have been arrested.’
‘Detained. They will be released without charge.’
‘Only you know my name and location. If ten of us have been detained, it makes the job of the remaining five even more important.’
‘I am not the only one that knows your name and location. Just like you, the others may know where we sent material tonight. Someone within has compromised us.’
‘But if I’m detained, I’ll be released without charge. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.’
‘No. Not you. Your father’s name will make you a big catch for the government. You can’t risk it. Get out, now.’
Amaka tucked the phone in her skirt and looked around. The women, none of whom spoke English, continued thumb printing and stuffing INEC ballot boxes. An old woman with grey cornrows was holding a ballot box steady as another pushed folded ballot papers into it. She looked up at Amaka and gave a toothless smile, her face glistening with sweat.