Dec 1, 1998 VI
Continued from Dec 1, 1998 V
I stare at the paper in my hand. Freedom or restrictions. I couldn’t really tell. It is one thing to brace yourself for such summon. It is another to get the summon. If I had been told, a year ago, that this day would happen, I would have called the messenger a liar. But then, I wouldn’t have predicted all that had happened in the past year either. Yes or no, there is no option.
I flip the paper, wondering why the lightness of the paper couldn’t translate to its content. Am I scared? I have no idea. My phone rings. I fish for it. It’s Sandra. I press the green button.
“Hey,” I say.
“Did you get it yet?” Sandra says.
“Yeah, I am staring at it.”
“You alright?”
Wondering what I am transmitting and what she is catching, I say “Yeah, why do you ask?”
“Nothing, we need to get ready. And I need you to be prepared for anything.” Sandra cuts right to the issue at hand. “I could come over if you want.”
“Do not cut corners for me, I would come in. But let’s make it tomorrow. Does that work for you?”
“That’s fine. I would see you tomorrow then.”
“One more thing Sandra—”
“Yeah—”
“I would tell mum myself,” I say, hoping she gets my unspoken message to treat me as any other client.
“I figured that you would want to do that yourself. Make sure you get a good night sleep. Tomorrow would be a start of a long journey. Brace yourself.”
I cut the call, my mind floating. Nigeria is a corrupt society and it is all each man for himself. Am I right in wanting to fight for my right? Should I have allowed my parents to bargain for my freedom with Chinedu’s parents? But his parents seem to root for my penitence. They seem so sure of my guilt and are all out to make me pay for my “crime.” Am I crazy enough to believe that the system would work or that I shall get an incorruptible judge? My parents already have spent three million naira for me to wake up on my bed each day.
I fold the letter with intricate care, ensuring that there are no extra creases than the already folded lines. In three flips, I get the letter in the envelope. I place it without much care besides me. I lift my leg from the floor and move them to the couch. I lower myself into the couch, seeking its comfort. I grab the remote from the central table, as I complete the descent. I stare at the white pop ceiling with its intricate central flower. I turn my focus to black screen, switching it on. I need some distractions and the TV is just what I need.
The soft caress of someone’s indulgent lips, I open my eyes. The face of my mother moving upward till it is high up on her body is what I see. I smile. I move my left hand to my eyes, massaging them with my thumb and my middle finger. I sit up straight, dragging my aching bones and muscle. I turn. My back connects with something hard and soft. The noise from the TV gently filters to my awareness.
“Are you alright?” my mum says.
“I’m fine. My body just aches from my visit to the gym.” I move my feet around the floor in search of my slippers. They connect with the flip-flops after a couple of tries.
“I see.”
“When did you get back?” My mum is without her normal baggage: her handbag and her briefcase. She still hasn’t changed from her light gray suit and her 2inch pumps were still on her feet.
“I just got back. Saw you lying here and I couldn’t resist. Why are you sleeping in the sitting room?”
“I slept off, I guess.” I swing my eyes to the clock above the entrance arch. I had been sleeping for an hour and a half.
“I see. I need to get changed. Would you be nice to let me know when your father is back? I have got a lot of work to get done.” She turns to leave.
“Sure,” my right hand connects with the envelope beside me, now. I want to procrastinate but I hear myself say, “Mum, this came today.” I whip the envelope around, stretching it out for her to see.
She stops on her journey to the stairs. I stand up and walk to her. I extend the letter. She reaches for it and accepts it. She turns the envelope around to read its sender’s address. She looks at me. She removes the letter from the envelope and hands me the envelope. She unfolds the letter with the same care I had afforded it earlier, her poker face giving nothing away. Everything is silent. I do not hear anything. My eardrum feels swollen and itchy. I keep looking at her. No trembling hands, no twitching eyes, no loud heartbeat. Nothing. She looks up. I feel liquid dripping from my eardrums. I move my hands to push my pinna into my air canal. My ears buzz and clear up.
“When did this come in?” she waves the letter.
“A few hours earlier, it was delivered before I got home from the gym. I don’t know when exactly it got here.”
“I see,” she turns to the stair and takes a couple of steps. I know what she is going upstairs to get.
“I told her not to tell you. I wanted to break it to you myself,” I say.
“My mum stops and turns. She stares at me for a while. Her eyes narrow as she peers at me over her rims. She nods and sits on one of the stairs.
“Why didn’t you wait?”
“What—” I realize that my mother has once again read me more than I wish for. She realizes that I had broken the news a little too soon. “I don’t know.” I move towards her and sit beside her. “I don’t know. I told myself that I would wait till daddy comes. But my mouth betrayed me.” I slam my head into the banister, looking at her.
She heaves. “I guess you unconsciously wanted to tell me first, hoping I break the news to your father.” It makes sense. Every time I did something bad, I would run to my mother first. Even when we fought like there is no tomorrow.
“Maybe, although I could have sworn I wanted to tell dad myself,” I say.
My mum snorts with laughter. “Indeed! How were you planning on breaking the news? After dinner? Oh wait, you would sit us down and tell us you have something important to tell us. We would sit and then you would pace the floor, at loss for words. Then you would hand me the letter to read. And then you would sit down and wait for me to break the news to your father.”
I smile. She is right. She smiles and hands me the letter. “Monday uhn. What did Sandra say?”
I collect it and place it in-between us. “She told me to see her tomorrow, to prep me.”
My mother nods. “What time?”
“2.”
“In that case, get as much sleep as you can tonight. You would need it.”
“Why do you guys think that would help me? It’s bad that I probably would be awake, thanks to anxiety but pressure from both of you isn’t helping. Not one bit.”
“My mum smiles and stands. “Let me know when your dad gets in. I would be in the den, pacing around.” She rubs my head. “You would be fine.”
Would I?
Monday 24, 1999
I walk to the white washed building with trepidation. Sandra is beside me, swinging her Louis Vuitton monogram briefcase. We stop at the tall wooden door, and both take in and release our breaths. I turn and smile at Sandra. Today is the preliminary hearing. She nods at me and opens the door. We walk in. The court room is quite full. Sandra ushers me to a pew in the middle. We sit. The clerk announces the judge’s entrance. The judge walks in. We all stand. He sits. We sit. Court is in session.
“Case 30521, the state versus Chioma Doyles.”
Sandra walks to the front. I trail besides. We move to the left. The police officer in charge of the case walks to the front and presents the charge sheet to the court registrar. The court registrar forwards it to the magistrate, who asks that the case be called.
“Can the defendant please step to the dock,” the clerk says. I walk towards the dock. “Chioma Doyles, hereinafter called defendant, in the state of Lagos, on or about the 1st day of December 1998, did then and there commit a felony, to-wit: fueled with frustration, committed or attempted to commit an act clearly dangerous to human life, to-wit: struggle with a knife with Chinedu Okafor, which caused the death of the said Chinedu Okafor. And it is further presented in and to said court that during the commission of the above described felony, the said defendant did use a deadly weapon, to-wit: a shape serrated knife, which in the manner of its use or intended use was capable of causing death or serious bodily injury.”
In this single moment, I become the accused. I have been charged.
“Do you understand these charges, Ms. Doyles?” the judge says.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say.
“And what do you plead,” the judge says.
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” I say.
The judge nods. The court reporter furiously types away at the typewriter. I walk to Sandra and stand beside her. She nods at me.
“Are counsel ready to proceed?” the judge says.
“Ready, your honor,” the lead prosecutor says.
“We ask for two months to prepare for defence and that the police make available all their evidences and documents. We also ask that the defendant not be locked up, due to medical issues.” Sandra says as she approaches the judge. She presents the judge with documents citing the reasons I couldn’t survive in a police cell and why I need to be close to my parent who know what to do should I ever start my fits.
The judge read and turns to the prosecutor. “Does the prosecution have any objection to this?”
“None, Your Honor,” the lead prosecutor says.
“Granted, the defendant is allowed to return home.” the judge says. “The police should ensure that each attorney have enough resources to prove their cases. This case is adjourned to the 29th of March 1999.” He hits the gravel.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Sandra says. She picks her files with precision, straightens and puts them into her briefcase, closes the flap and clicks the lock. She swings the briefcase off the table to rest by her side and walks out of the door. I follow her lead. As I leave the courtroom, I hear the next case being called.
“That wasn’t bad now, was it?” Sandra says as she presses the unlock button on her remote. Her red Benz E-Class Cabriolet car beeps. She opens the door and drops her briefcase on the leather seat. She closes the door and turns to me.
“Did you drive or did a driver drop you?”
“I drove. I need to go see my father.”
“Okay, I have to get back to the office and review some files. Make sure you see me tomorrow. We’ve got a lot to cover. Before you know it, two months would be here. We need to be prepared for hell, because that is exactly what we would be getting.”
I nod. “I would call Claire on my way to dad’s office. Drive safely.” She gets in and drives away. I walk to my car and drive away. Day one at court done!
“Did you get it yet?” Sandra says.
“Yeah, I am staring at it.”
“You alright?”
Wondering what I am transmitting and what she is catching, I say “Yeah, why do you ask?”
“Nothing, we need to get ready. And I need you to be prepared for anything.” Sandra cuts right to the issue at hand. “I could come over if you want.”
“Do not cut corners for me, I would come in. But let’s make it tomorrow. Does that work for you?”
“That’s fine. I would see you tomorrow then.”
“One more thing Sandra—”
“Yeah—”
“I would tell mum myself,” I say, hoping she gets my unspoken message to treat me as any other client.
“I figured that you would want to do that yourself. Make sure you get a good night sleep. Tomorrow would be a start of a long journey. Brace yourself.”
I cut the call, my mind floating. Nigeria is a corrupt society and it is all each man for himself. Am I right in wanting to fight for my right? Should I have allowed my parents to bargain for my freedom with Chinedu’s parents? But his parents seem to root for my penitence. They seem so sure of my guilt and are all out to make me pay for my “crime.” Am I crazy enough to believe that the system would work or that I shall get an incorruptible judge? My parents already have spent three million naira for me to wake up on my bed each day.
I fold the letter with intricate care, ensuring that there are no extra creases than the already folded lines. In three flips, I get the letter in the envelope. I place it without much care besides me. I lift my leg from the floor and move them to the couch. I lower myself into the couch, seeking its comfort. I grab the remote from the central table, as I complete the descent. I stare at the white pop ceiling with its intricate central flower. I turn my focus to black screen, switching it on. I need some distractions and the TV is just what I need.
The soft caress of someone’s indulgent lips, I open my eyes. The face of my mother moving upward till it is high up on her body is what I see. I smile. I move my left hand to my eyes, massaging them with my thumb and my middle finger. I sit up straight, dragging my aching bones and muscle. I turn. My back connects with something hard and soft. The noise from the TV gently filters to my awareness.
“Are you alright?” my mum says.
“I’m fine. My body just aches from my visit to the gym.” I move my feet around the floor in search of my slippers. They connect with the flip-flops after a couple of tries.
“I see.”
“When did you get back?” My mum is without her normal baggage: her handbag and her briefcase. She still hasn’t changed from her light gray suit and her 2inch pumps were still on her feet.
“I just got back. Saw you lying here and I couldn’t resist. Why are you sleeping in the sitting room?”
“I slept off, I guess.” I swing my eyes to the clock above the entrance arch. I had been sleeping for an hour and a half.
“I see. I need to get changed. Would you be nice to let me know when your father is back? I have got a lot of work to get done.” She turns to leave.
“Sure,” my right hand connects with the envelope beside me, now. I want to procrastinate but I hear myself say, “Mum, this came today.” I whip the envelope around, stretching it out for her to see.
She stops on her journey to the stairs. I stand up and walk to her. I extend the letter. She reaches for it and accepts it. She turns the envelope around to read its sender’s address. She looks at me. She removes the letter from the envelope and hands me the envelope. She unfolds the letter with the same care I had afforded it earlier, her poker face giving nothing away. Everything is silent. I do not hear anything. My eardrum feels swollen and itchy. I keep looking at her. No trembling hands, no twitching eyes, no loud heartbeat. Nothing. She looks up. I feel liquid dripping from my eardrums. I move my hands to push my pinna into my air canal. My ears buzz and clear up.
“When did this come in?” she waves the letter.
“A few hours earlier, it was delivered before I got home from the gym. I don’t know when exactly it got here.”
“I see,” she turns to the stair and takes a couple of steps. I know what she is going upstairs to get.
“I told her not to tell you. I wanted to break it to you myself,” I say.
“My mum stops and turns. She stares at me for a while. Her eyes narrow as she peers at me over her rims. She nods and sits on one of the stairs.
“Why didn’t you wait?”
“What—” I realize that my mother has once again read me more than I wish for. She realizes that I had broken the news a little too soon. “I don’t know.” I move towards her and sit beside her. “I don’t know. I told myself that I would wait till daddy comes. But my mouth betrayed me.” I slam my head into the banister, looking at her.
She heaves. “I guess you unconsciously wanted to tell me first, hoping I break the news to your father.” It makes sense. Every time I did something bad, I would run to my mother first. Even when we fought like there is no tomorrow.
“Maybe, although I could have sworn I wanted to tell dad myself,” I say.
My mum snorts with laughter. “Indeed! How were you planning on breaking the news? After dinner? Oh wait, you would sit us down and tell us you have something important to tell us. We would sit and then you would pace the floor, at loss for words. Then you would hand me the letter to read. And then you would sit down and wait for me to break the news to your father.”
I smile. She is right. She smiles and hands me the letter. “Monday uhn. What did Sandra say?”
I collect it and place it in-between us. “She told me to see her tomorrow, to prep me.”
My mother nods. “What time?”
“2.”
“In that case, get as much sleep as you can tonight. You would need it.”
“Why do you guys think that would help me? It’s bad that I probably would be awake, thanks to anxiety but pressure from both of you isn’t helping. Not one bit.”
“My mum smiles and stands. “Let me know when your dad gets in. I would be in the den, pacing around.” She rubs my head. “You would be fine.”
Would I?
Monday 24, 1999
I walk to the white washed building with trepidation. Sandra is beside me, swinging her Louis Vuitton monogram briefcase. We stop at the tall wooden door, and both take in and release our breaths. I turn and smile at Sandra. Today is the preliminary hearing. She nods at me and opens the door. We walk in. The court room is quite full. Sandra ushers me to a pew in the middle. We sit. The clerk announces the judge’s entrance. The judge walks in. We all stand. He sits. We sit. Court is in session.
“Case 30521, the state versus Chioma Doyles.”
Sandra walks to the front. I trail besides. We move to the left. The police officer in charge of the case walks to the front and presents the charge sheet to the court registrar. The court registrar forwards it to the magistrate, who asks that the case be called.
“Can the defendant please step to the dock,” the clerk says. I walk towards the dock. “Chioma Doyles, hereinafter called defendant, in the state of Lagos, on or about the 1st day of December 1998, did then and there commit a felony, to-wit: fueled with frustration, committed or attempted to commit an act clearly dangerous to human life, to-wit: struggle with a knife with Chinedu Okafor, which caused the death of the said Chinedu Okafor. And it is further presented in and to said court that during the commission of the above described felony, the said defendant did use a deadly weapon, to-wit: a shape serrated knife, which in the manner of its use or intended use was capable of causing death or serious bodily injury.”
In this single moment, I become the accused. I have been charged.
“Do you understand these charges, Ms. Doyles?” the judge says.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say.
“And what do you plead,” the judge says.
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” I say.
The judge nods. The court reporter furiously types away at the typewriter. I walk to Sandra and stand beside her. She nods at me.
“Are counsel ready to proceed?” the judge says.
“Ready, your honor,” the lead prosecutor says.
“We ask for two months to prepare for defence and that the police make available all their evidences and documents. We also ask that the defendant not be locked up, due to medical issues.” Sandra says as she approaches the judge. She presents the judge with documents citing the reasons I couldn’t survive in a police cell and why I need to be close to my parent who know what to do should I ever start my fits.
The judge read and turns to the prosecutor. “Does the prosecution have any objection to this?”
“None, Your Honor,” the lead prosecutor says.
“Granted, the defendant is allowed to return home.” the judge says. “The police should ensure that each attorney have enough resources to prove their cases. This case is adjourned to the 29th of March 1999.” He hits the gravel.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Sandra says. She picks her files with precision, straightens and puts them into her briefcase, closes the flap and clicks the lock. She swings the briefcase off the table to rest by her side and walks out of the door. I follow her lead. As I leave the courtroom, I hear the next case being called.
“That wasn’t bad now, was it?” Sandra says as she presses the unlock button on her remote. Her red Benz E-Class Cabriolet car beeps. She opens the door and drops her briefcase on the leather seat. She closes the door and turns to me.
“Did you drive or did a driver drop you?”
“I drove. I need to go see my father.”
“Okay, I have to get back to the office and review some files. Make sure you see me tomorrow. We’ve got a lot to cover. Before you know it, two months would be here. We need to be prepared for hell, because that is exactly what we would be getting.”
I nod. “I would call Claire on my way to dad’s office. Drive safely.” She gets in and drives away. I walk to my car and drive away. Day one at court done!
Read the next chapter here http://olatodera.blogspot.com/2012/02/dec-1-1998-vii.html
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