Dec 1, 1998 IV

                                                                                        Continued from Dec, 1 1998 III

The sun is mild and weather conducive. I sit with my parents in the gazebo, sipping orange juice while listening to my parents talk about Nigerian politics. It is always an interesting discourse, with my parents taking different sides of the cons and pros table. I figure that they need the sparring match to hone my mother’s arguing skills. But of what benefit to my mother, I wonder. Her law firm is doing well and she seems to have retired from the court scene. I guess they continue the tradition for my sake. Every now and then, my input is requested to settle the differences. And each time, I carefully weave my way out of it without pitching my tent with any one of them. Nigerian politics is just not my cup of tea. I have never exercised my right to vote as I figure that the outcome of elections would not affect me. Besides, whoever gets elected would always be the wrong guy for me.

            The house-help comes bearing seasoned snails and suya from the kitchen. She places it on the table and walks away. Someone knocks at the gate and the gateman opens the smaller gate. Hushed and muffled voices can be heard and I wonder who is at the gate. The gateman closes the gate and rushes to the gazebo.

            “Oga, police dey ask for una,” the gateman says.

            “Police? What do they want?” my dad says.

            “Oga, dem no say. Them just ask whether anyone dey home.”

            “And what did you say?”

            “I tell them say I dey come,” the gateman says.

            “Are you sure it is Oga they want to see and not me,” My mother stops and ponders. “But I wonder why. I do not have any criminal case open. That is weird.”

            “Let them in and close the gate well well,” my father says to the gateman.

            “Okay Oga.” The gateman hurries to the gate. My mother picks up her phone and calls her firm. The receptionist’s phone rings but no one picks it up. My mother looks at my father and me, confusion on her face. Two men in uniform and another wearing a blue polo shirt and a black bulletproof vest walk towards us. They nod at my father and acknowledge my mum.

            “Officers, how may I help you?” my father says.

            “We are actually here for your daughter. She is needed at our station,” the officer with the bulletproof vest says. “Young woman, would you please stand up?”

            “What! What for?” My mum stands to shield me from the men.

            “Mam, we are not here to fight you. Would you please step aside?” one of the uniformed men says.

            “This has to be a mistake,” my father says. “What is she wanted for?”

            One of the policemen navigates around my mother and grabs me. He turns me around and slaps a pair of handcuffs on my wrists.

            “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the law court.” The guy slapping on the handcuffs says.

            I mentally correct the man’s spiel –in the court of law. And reel off the last three sentences that are actually in the Miranda rights but ones Nigerian policemen would never say nor grasp. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you while you are being questioned. If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning if you wish. You can decide at any time to exercise these rights and not answer any questions or make any statements. And the waiver that always follows, do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you? Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now? But I guess the cop shows Nigerian policemen watch always cuts right through the Miranda rights to the next scene. Or their corrupt mouths no gree make them talk am.

            “Young man, would you remove that thing from my daughter’s hands and tell us why you are arresting my daughter.” My father says in response to the spectacle in front of him. “The last time I checked, my daughter is not a criminal and has nothing to hide. She can go to your station without being cuffed.”

            The cuffs are removed from my hands. I rub my wrist, as I try to decipher the rubbish that spews from the men’s mouths.

            “Sir, your daughter is wanted in connection to the murder of Chinedu Okafor,” the guy without the uniform says.

            “Chinedu is dead? How? When?” I hear myself say.

            “Chinedu?” My father looks perplexed. “And how does that concern my daughter?”

            “You would find out when you get to the station. Sir, it is because of who you are that we are giving you time to talk. We need to get moving.” The guy without the uniform turns to the other two policemen and beckons that they get moving. The one closet to me, who had earlier cuffed me, pulls and attempts to drag me to the gate. 

My dad flails his hands. “Be gentle with her. If there is a single scratch on her, you would wish you were never born. To me he says, “We would be right there behind you. Do not say or write anything.”

His words jar my mother out of the stunned state she has been in. She finally remembers the phone in her hands and types in some numbers. I know without her saying so, that she is already trying to pull some strings. She places the phone to her ears. I turn to my father and say “It’s fine, they have nothing on me.” Without fear, I beckon to the officers, “Oya, let’s get this over with.”

I am placed in a dark cold room. I have been left alone for a couple of minutes now. If this was supposed to be a penitentiary, it’s not working. I am not fazed about the allegation placed against me.

I had been dragged as gently as any policeman can ever muster, which is not very. I was thrown into an empty cell, its wall an art in the making. The diverse markings neither soothing nor troubling. The ‘I will rise’ in bold had me wondering what might have gone on with the occupants before me. I moved towards the wall, trying to decipher the knowledge it had. My exploration was cut short as a short dark policeman arrived to escort me to this room - an interrogation room I suppose. He had shut the door behind as he walked away. The room has no window, hence the darkness. And it has no insulation, hence the cold.

I sit with my hands itching for my phone. It, with my other stuffs, had been taken from me immediately I stepped into the station.

The door opens and there is light. The lone bulb in the room flickers to life as a stout middle aged man walks into the room. He plops himself on the chair adjacent to mine. He stares at me, almost as if he were trying to read my mind. I stare back. He taps on the table.

“What would you say your relationship to the deceased was?” he asks.

“There was no relationship. I hardly knew the guy,” I say.

“That is not what people say. They say you dated for a while and had a fall-out.”

“If you knew that before, why ask? And I have no idea who you talked to, but I never dated Chinedu. I barely knew the guy.”

“So, how would you describe your relationship with him?”

“I told you, there was none.”

“Is that what you are sticking with-”

“If you have anything to ask me, just come out straight instead of beating around the bush. It looks to me that you are searching for a connection between Chinedu and me. I have no idea why you need such connection in the first place. Is this a normal interrogation for his entire past and present girlfriends? It must be really tiring.”

“You do realize that your father’s clout can only protect you for so long? Soon, you would need to start talking.”

“I see that without your usual battery and social infringement, you really do not know how to carry out your job. I do know the law. You do not scare me. And where is my lawyer. I am not saying jack without her present.”

“If this how you want to play, okay; I wanted you to take the easy road. But I see that you are as stubborn as your mother is rumoured to be.”

“Did you think I was going to be browbeaten to write a statement just to placate whoever was paid to handle this case? I have no idea what you’re talking about and you still haven’t asked me anything worth answering.

He stands up, stares at me for what seems like eternity and walks out, leaving the light on this time. My parent and Sandra, one of my mum’s employees who I guess is to be my lawyer walk in. Sandra is a light skinned tall woman in her early 30s. She is an amiable spirit, always smiling and nothing seems to faze her. My mum rushes to my side, hugs and inspects me. Pleased that I haven’t been harmed, she lets me go. She returns to my father’s side and does her best to look dignified. But I can see that the situation is getting under her skin and she is itching to get a control of the situation, with the way that she continually rubs her ring finger with her thumb. And that she is mad that her hands are tied in regards to me -- she can not barge in and rescue me. Another policeman walks into the room dragging two chairs which he deposits and leaves us alone.

“So, have they told anyone of you what my crime is yet?” I say to break the silence. My parents and Sandra sit in front of me. Sandra places a folder on the table. I feel reassured knowing that she is the one on the case. Sandra has a reputation of being a hound dog. I can’t remember the last time she lost a case. She is supposed to be my mentor when I start my internship in a few months. But that isn’t going to happen. A lawyer that has been booked cannot practice. So, it seems like I have to find a new profession.  Just fine, my life couldn’t get any worse! First I get raped, and then arrested – my life is finished!

Sandra extends a piece of paper to me.

I look at the words, feeling the bitterness and anger I had written the text with. I had written those words in a blind rage. Would I have retracted my words? I am not sure.

“Is this all they have?” I shrug and pass the paper back to Sandra. “This isn’t enough to indict me. They need more than a text message. They can do better.”

“What did you say? And they have some other evidence that they are not sharing at the moment. They seem pressed to charge you to court. But we are working to bail you out right now.”

“I understand and I didn’t say anything they could use. I was asked whether I had a relationship with him-”

“And-” Sandra butts in.

“And I told them the truth, I barely knew the guy. We didn’t have a relationship,” I say.

“And what about the message?”

“Just seeing it in your hands. They didn’t ask about it.”

“Is there anything I need to know, Sandra says.

“I do not have anything I need to tell you here.” I look directly into her eyes hoping she get the stress on the “here.”

Sandra nods and looks to my parents. “In that case, I need to go and check how the bail issue is playing out.” Sandra stands and walks out. My parents look at themselves and look at me with questions in their eyes. Questions they are too scared to ask, praying that their worst fear would not be realized but too powerless to ask.

“I didn’t do it,” I say.

My parents nod. “We didn’t say anything,” my dad says.

“But you were thinking it. Do you honestly believe I would throw away my career away just like that? Believe me, if I wanted to switch careers, I would have done it in a smoother way. Not like this. I am sorry mum that I screwed up our plan.” I was to work my way to being a partner in my mother’s company.

I can not remember the first time I knew that I wanted to be a lawyer. But it had something to do with the pictures of my mother with her high necked white/off white shirts, her high waist skirts carefully tucked underneath her robe and her wig in place. Or the sight of my mother peering over papers in her den; her red rimmed glasses in place and the desk lamp casting a shadow of her proud, focused and distinguished face. I can not remember the moment I knew I wanted to be like my mother when I grew up. But I know that moment had crafted my life down to my clothing choices. Black and white became my favorite colours.

As I stare into my parents' eyes, I once again was confronted with the idea that I am back to square one. And that I have no idea what to do next. I push the thoughts away and file away in the “don’t open yet” section of my brain. If I attempt to work through it, I would break down. I do not have the time for that yet. Something tells me that this is going to be a long haul.

Sandra comes back bearing good news. “The bail is set. You can go home but we would have to be back and promise to assist the police in their investigations.”

I stand up and proceed to collect my things. I leave the station without looking back. On my way home, I send Tomi a text: “wat av you done?”

                                                                                         -continued http://olatodera.blogspot.com/2012/01/dec-1-1998-v.html.