Election night.
Ambrose’s living room heaved with party officials, many on their phones, talking or listening, pacing the room. The few men and women who were talking to each other were doing so in hushed voices, as though they were at a funeral. Babalola was alone on a sofa, his face glistening. He tried to listen to the conversations around him and attempted to read the lips of people chatting to each other across the room. His eyes darted from person to person, often returning to Ambrose who was dwarfed by two men whispering into his ears and showing him things on their mobile phones.
A large man in Ankara entered the parlour and looked about. He made his way over to Ambrose who raised his hand so the man speaking into his ear would pause. ‘Oga,’ the fat man said, ‘Iná ti jó wa. We have been burnt.’ He showed his phone to Ambrose.
Ambrose flicked his finger over the screen and looked up. Babalola was looking at him.
‘Sule, Sule, Sule,’ Ambrose said. ‘Didn’t you use the ballot papers from Amaka?’
‘Oga, I delivered them myself. In fact, only the one meant for Banana Island is remaining in the car.’
‘So what happened? The INEC boys betrayed us?’
‘Oga, I don’t know what happened o.’
‘You said there is still one box?’
‘’Is inside the car.’
‘Bring it.’
Sule left. Ambrose and Babalola stared at each other.
Otunba Oluawo was alone in the middle of his sofa. Everyone in the large parlour of Peace Lodge was on their feet, shaking hands, embracing, rubbing their hands in thanks to the Christian and Muslim God and to the several other gods they had prayed to and made sacrifices to. They clapped with each new set of results that came in through text messages and phone calls. Ojo was in the middle of the jubilant crowd. Shehu stood next to him. Declarations of ‘His Excellency,’ and ‘My Governor,’ preceded every handshake slapped onto Ojo’s palm by people who seemed to think it important to seize his forearm before shaking hands with him.
Alone on his sofa, Otunba scribbled in a little notebook. A man in white buba and sokoto came up to him and told him the results of yet another ward. Otunba wrote the new figure in his notepad and looked up. In the room full of celebrations, he was the only person not celebrating.
Sule returned carrying the INEC ballot box high over his head. Everybody watched. Sule placed the box down at Ambrose’s feet.
‘Open it,’ Ambrose said.
Sule bent down, broke the INEC seal and flipped the lid over. The box was stuffed to the brim with folded ballot papers. Ambrose gestured. Sule grabbed a handful in his large palms and held them up.
The men and women watched as Ambrose went through the papers.
Still holding one in his hand, he looked up. ‘Where is she?’ he said. ‘Where is Amaka?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sule said.
‘What is the matter?’ Babalola asked. Ambrose handed him the ballot paper in his hand and took another from a new handful Sule had fetched.
Ambrose fell to his knees behind the ballot box and began picking ballot paper after ballot paper, unfolding them and scanning them before flinging them away. Faster and faster he went through the ballot papers, his face contorting more and more. He looked up. Sule retreated.
‘Where is she? Who is watching her? Find her. Find her now!’