On tiptoes, Amaka and Gabriel approached Chioma’s bedroom. The sound of singing could be heard from behind the closed door. Amaka turned the handle and slowly opened it. Chioma was on her knees on the side of the bed, her back to the door, singing into the sheets. Her head was buried, her elbows deep into the bedding and her hands clasped in prayer. Her shoulders shook visibly. She raised her hands and her face to the heavens and began a heart-stirring rendition of Amazing Grace. The high notes shuddered in her powerful voice as she swayed from side to side, spreading her sorrow across the ceiling, across the room, across the building.
The sun shone in Amaka’s face as she drove to Oshodi market. There were fewer cars than usual. On her way down she had passed parked police vans with officers loitering around them as if they were bored waiting for the riots to start. Their presence seemed to be keeping the riots at bay, and fear of riots was keeping traffic away. She could transverse Lagos freely - in a way that was usually only possible in the dead of night. But now Amaka had the safety of daylight.
She parked on the side of the road and resisted looking at the spot where the fire had curled around Chioma’s brother. She walked into the market, past rows of stalls already laid out, till she got to the butchers’ section and fat flies buzzed around her face. She walked between stalls, behind them, and into the two-storey building that the butchers had taken her to.
Young men with blood smeared on their exposed torsos watched as she walked to the building. The butchers followed a short distance behind. She walked through the open doorway and down the corridor that led out back.
In the backyard, shirtless young men in shorts and rolled-up trousers were lifting weights, doing squats and bench presses, or assisting others, the sweat they worked up making their lean, muscular bodies glisten in the sun. They put down their barbells – improvised from metal rods and moulded cement discs – and gathered around Amaka.
‘I’m looking for Ajani, your president,’ she said. ‘He told me I should come and see him if I need anything.’
‘We remember you,’ said one young man. ‘Baba Ajani is not in the market today. What do you want?’
‘I need your help to catch the men who killed the brother of the girl you saved yesterday. I saw a lot of people using their phones to record what happened. Perhaps they captured the faces of the people responsible. The police can print the faces in the newspapers and declare them wanted. Nothing will happen to any of you. Nobody will know whose phone I got the pictures from. Baba Ajani told me how none of you had a hand in what happened. He told me how you tried to stop them. How you and the market women saved Chioma and me as well. Please, help me catch them. She could have been your sister. He could have been your brother. If you took any pictures or recorded any videos yesterday, I need them.’
The butchers watched her in silence. Their mates from the stalls had filled the corridor and spilled out onto the backyard as well. Then the young man who had spoken took his hand out of his pocket and looked at his phone. He clicked a few buttons. All around, other men began retrieving their phones and clicking. Then they started to step forward, one at a time, holding up their phones so she could see the pictures they had taken and videos they had recorded.