Looking for Papa

I will begin with a brief background. I’m Papa’s only child. He is all I’ve got—since Mama died of arthritis four months ago. The two of us live alone in a single room in one of those old colonial-era buildings on Enyinna street.

We are poor. Papa has not had any meaningful job since Mama died. He only started selling gala on the highway a few weeks back, but he hates it. All he’s focused on now are his Leavers meetings. If only our people—our special tribe—could break away and form our own country, we would become the Japan of Africa in less than five years, he would say.

So, on Friday, just three days ago, Papa joined in the Leavers protest.

It was cold that morning, very cold. Perhaps a premonition of how the day would pan out. Papa was excited like a little boy with a new toy. It was our day, he said. Our final march towards independence. It was going to be a mega protest. The Leavers would march all the way to the government house and officially declare an independent state. He said the world was on our side, that countries like Britain that had just gained independence from the EU were all waiting for us to become independent too.

Me, I was a bit scared despite Papa’s optimism. I knew how previous protests had ended—how many people had been shot or ended up in prison. Papa would always react in anger to those news reports. “Animals! Madmen!” He would scream. “Did Europe shoot Britain when they said they wanted to leave them? Ehn? Or did Britain shoot Scotland when they too decided they wanted to leave? Did Spain shoot Catalonia? Ehn? Animals! Madmen!”

I shared Papa’s sentiments but I didn’t want him protesting in the streets against gun-wielding policemen. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him too and becoming an orphan like Afam that begged in front of the school gate.

We left the house together that morning, Papa donning his crested Leavers shirt and brandishing a flag in one hand. There were rumours that the teachers had called off the strike and that those of us that were preparing for Junior WAEC had to be in school that morning. Papa wasn’t with his bag of galas today. Me, I used to be shy when he first started hawking those galas. He would walk the distance with me, his box of galas perched like an eagle on his head. I didn’t want any of my classmates seeing us together as I was scared of the teases and nicknames that would follow. Like Adanma for instance—no one called her Adanma any more. She was now Nwanyi Akara since one of the boys saw her selling akara by the road side, two years ago. Me, I didn’t want anyone calling me nwa gala or gala boy.

Thankfully, Papa never escorted me all the way to school. He would usually stop halfway, perhaps to save me the pain of further embarrassment, and drop a piece of gala in my bag. “Make sure you don’t eat it before break time o,” he would instruct before swiftly diverting into a side street. It wouldn’t be long before I heard his high-pitched cries of Gala! Gala! Buy your sweet gala!

Thankfully, there were no galas that morning. Gazes trailed us as we walked down the streets. A few people called out in support as Papa raised his Leavers flag in acknowledgement. It was like those days when we used to return from the viewing centre after watching Arsenal beat Chelsea or Manchester United. Papa would wear his Arsenal jersey and swagger as co-supporters hailed. The locals around here support the Leavers’ cause in much the same way as they do their favourite English football team. 

We could already hear the distant chants of the Leavers as we approached the big roundabout. Nzogbu! Nzogbu! Enyinba Enyi! The street people were already getting excited and cries of “Independence! Independence!” rent the air.

“We will separate here.” Papa was managing to talk between excited gasps. “Because, me, I want to join them at the front. I want to be where the whole world will see me on TV. On BBC and CNN and Aljazeera.” Papa’s excitement was genuine. His face was one big boyish grin.

Because there was no gala, Papa gave me fifty naira for lunch break before marching off to join his compatriots. I felt like a king. I was still cradling the bill as I watched him walk down Mma street. He stopped halfway, turned to look at me, before waving me on.

The Headmaster dismissed us at 9am—the few students that turned up anyway. The resumption rumour had been just that—a rumour.

It was on the way home that I heard the first gunshot. It was loud—like those knockouts we shoot every Christmas. And then, there were more. Five, six, seven, eight. Instinctively, I began to run home. There was confusion everywhere. People were running up and down. Some were asking what the shooting was about. Market women were closing their shops. Children were peering through windows.

 Me, I was on our street in no time. Things were calmer there but everyone was afraid. They had heard the shots too. As I inched closer to home, I could see Madam Nkechi, our downstairs neighbour frantically hurling her goods—bread, milk, biscuits—behind the metal bars of her small shop. Gunshots were like closing-time bells around here.

The gunshots had stopped by the time I got to our street and the general anxiety was turning into general curiosity. The voices in the streets grew louder and louder. Everyone wanted to know what had just happened.

Suddenly, a man burst into our street limping on one leg. He was wearing the Leavers shirt and, me, I couldn’t help but notice the bloodstains on it. Everyone knew him. His name was Thomas and he lived just a few houses from ours.

“They have killed us o. They have killed our people o”. He was screaming and crying and gasping. Some men ran towards him. Everyone was screaming and remonstrating.

“Ewo!”

“Chai!”

“Chineke!”

“What happened o?”

“Somebody should bring him water to drink.”

“Everybody shift! Shift! He needs breeze.”

The houses were now emptying. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of Thomas.

“They have killed us o. The Police. They ambushed us at Egwuoma junction and started shooting o. They’ve killed us o. They’ve arrested our men. Chai! I’m dead o!”

Cold fear was spreading all over my body. I just stood there shaking like a pawpaw leaf. And then, before I knew what was happening, I was running towards Egwuoma junction, my black nylon bag swinging with every movement of my hips.

It was when I got to Egwuoma Junction that I realised the magnitude of what had happened. There was a huge crowd. Some people were standing in front of their houses while others peered from their windows. There were people crying. Some were shaking their heads. Others were just quiet.

Me, I was staring at the puddles of blood on the road hoping for an instant that they weren’t real, that some careless fruit hawker had slipped and dropped huge watermelons everywhere.

Honestly, I had never felt so lost and confused in my entire life. I looked around for someone to explain to me—tell me where Papa was, but there was no one. There were no BBC cameramen, no Aljazeera; not even our own local Okwunti Radio reporters. Just a group of frightened people shouting and wailing and sighing and cursing.

 I felt alone in the world. The only person I had left in the world had probably been taken from me. What would happen next? How would I eat? Who would pay my school fees? Would I be joining Afam at the school gate with my own empty bowl? The tears were beginning to build up in my eyes but I fought them back. Now wasn’t the time to cry.

Somehow, amidst the brouhaha, with everyone talking and sighing, my ears picked out two words: police station, mortuary.

My brains immediately began to work. I should go to the police station, I thought. Perhaps Papa was amongst the lucky arrested ones. I was not even thinking of the mortuary. I banished the thought whenever it tried to creep into my head.

I couldn’t go to the police station on foot. I needed a keke to take me there but there was none in sight. They always disappeared at the tiniest hint of trouble and a round of gunshots was enough alarm. I ran down two more streets before I saw one driving along the road and waved it down.

The driver asked me where I was going and hesitated when I said the police station.

“Ah, police station. I don’t go that side o. Me I don’t like their wahala”.

I told him he could stop me at the junction and I would walk down. He must have noticed the desperation in my voice because he told me to get in without another complaint. Ten minutes later, we were at the junction. I alighted from the keke and gave him the fifty naira Papa had given me that morning. He looked like he was going to protest but then changed his mind and drove off.

I walked till I reached the black gates of the police station. There were a few people gathered outside. There was the woman with a child on her back. The child was crying loudly as she heaved and danced around to placate it. There was also the heavily pregnant woman sitting on a bench, her face riddled with smudges of sweat and mascara. Then there were the four standing men who looked forlorn and dejected. One of them was saying something about raising more money for bail. The others were sighing and kissing their teeth. No one paid me any attention.

“Give that baby breast na. He’s disturbing everybody,” one of the men lashed out at the woman with the child. She apologised profusely as she undid her wrapper and brought the child around.

“This baby sef. All you know is food, food, food. Cry, cry, cry.”

I walked past them through the half-open gates. I was a bit scared. I had heard tales of the police station. When I was still in primary school, the kids in the neighbourhood would gather around Uncle-the-Law, who lived opposite our house, and he would tell us gripping stories of his legal adventures. He said that anyone who entered a police station would be arrested unless he was a lawyer.

I could see people hanging around in groups. Some were crying while others just stood there staring into space, their faces ashen. Everyone was minding their business. Nobody even noticed me. I saw a small yellow bungalow with an open door which was wedged with a big stone to prevent it from closing. Uncle-the-Law had told us back then that all the doors at the police station were made of steel so that no one could break through and escape. This one here looked like it would fall to pieces if given the slightest nudge.

There was a frail-looking policeman at the desk when I walked in. He looked nothing like Uncle-the-Law’s macho descriptions. As I walked up to him, the policeman gave me a disinterested look like fourteen-year-olds walking into the police station was a common sight. He had a name tag on his chest but it was faded and some letters were missing. 

“Ehen, what is it?” His voice was a little harder than his looks.

“Ermmm… good afternoon sir. I am … err… I… I am looking for my father”.

“Did you give me your father to keep for you?” He had an expectant look on his face like this was a question I was supposed to answer.

“Sir, he was on Egwuoma street today. He is a gala seller…” I was obviously reluctant to mention Papa’s membership of the Leavers.

“Ah, the Leavers,” he nodded vigorously. He made me write down Papa’s name and then vanished down the corridors. He returned some minutes later with an elderly policewoman. She looked gentle and kind. Something about her reminded me of Mama. Or maybe it was just that gentle smile, the same one Mama has on her big picture frame—the one Papa turns facing the wall so that instead of seeing Mama’s gentle face, one sees the soggy, termite-infested, wooden back. Papa says the picture brings back painful memories. It reminds him that he was not there at her side when Mama died. He had been at the church choir meeting, he said. Oftentimes, I would turn the frame around, pick it up and look at Mama. Then I would kiss her on the forehead and tell her how much I missed her before returning it back to its place at the corner of the wall, careful to slant the frame so as not to brush Mama’s beautiful face against the rough wall.

“Your father is not here,” the policewoman said kindly. There was a sad look on her face as her eyes darted up and down my small frame as if weighing me up for devastating news. I was suddenly gripped by the fear that Papa was among the dead. The tears began to well up in my eyes again as I struggled to maintain my composure.

The policewoman consoled me as her colleague looked away disinterested. At this point, my head began to replay pictures of a future without Papa. I saw myself running down the highway with a carton of gala on my head. I saw myself alone in our upstairs room with Mama’s picture frame. Then I was begging at the school gate with Afam. Then I was on the highway again.

“Just go home, ehn?” the policewoman said as she led me to the door, her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure your father will come back soon”. Those words were all too familiar—similar to the ones I heard when I went to the hospital the morning Mama died. The nurses had said: “She is not here anymore. She has been transferred to another hospital. She will be back home soon”.

 I never saw Mama again.

I resolved as I left the station, not to wait idly for Papa to return. If he was dead, then, me, I needed to know. I was no longer a child. I was old enough to be a man.  Was it not only last week that Ogochukwu left school for the city to work in his uncle’s mechanic shop? And what of Ifeoma that got pregnant last term for Papa Sunday, the fifty-something-year-old shoemaker, and had to leave school to settle down with her new family?

 With these thoughts, I walked resolutely towards the community mortuary. I don’t remember how long I walked. It could have been hours or just minutes, but on and on I trudged towards the house of the dead. I walked until the sun hid and the sky wept, nature’s part in the cycle of sorrow.

The narrow bush path to the mortuary was dusty and deserted but for two stray puppies that took an unusual interest in me, whining and groaning as they trailed behind before abruptly turning back just a few metres from the mortuary. The stench of death grew stronger as I drew nearer. I could see a grey figure at the mortuary entrance and trembled at the thought that it might be a ghost. Ghosts, they said, would sometimes walk around cemeteries and mortuaries. I approached the figure cautiously. I could now see it was a man in a faded soutane. He had his back slouched against the gate, his left hand clasping a small radio against his ear.

He only turned to look at me when I got to the gate, a huge frown settling upon his face. His radio was blaring so loud I wondered why he had to hold it close to his head. I could hear every word from where I stood.

For a minute or two, we stood still—the man and me—listening to the voices from the radio. The presenter was interviewing some highly placed police officer who was giving the official version of the protest—the same incident that had brought me down to the mortuary. It was an unbelievable version: the police had clamped down on rioters who were disturbing the peace, vandalising properties and stealing from traders. The hoodlums had all been apprehended and would soon be facing criminal charges. There was no mention of gunshots. No mention of blood. No mention of deaths.

“Bloody liars!” the man snarled in disgust. “These government people, they are bloody liars!” He was looking at me as he spoke, so I nodded back in agreement.

“Instead of giving us independence, they are here lying like idiots. Let me ask you a question. If you marry a woman today and then tomorrow she says she is not interested in the marriage, won’t you let her go in peace?”

I nodded profusely.

“Exactly!” He roared. “We have told these people that we want to have our own country and all they can do is to be shooting us. The whole world is watching o. America and Britain and Israel. As soon as the war starts this government will see pepper. They are playing with fire and soon that fire will consume them.”

I kept nodding.

“Quote me anywhere, they will regret it. We will soon start fighting back. We are just waiting for our guns to arrive from America and Israel. Our men are ready for battle.” He was wagging his finger like he was issuing a warning. And then, something strange happened. This man who had just been talking to me and asking me divorce questions just turned around, pushed the gates open and walked in as if I did not exist. No goodbye. No ‘see you later’. No ‘what do you want?’

I was confused. I had hoped to ask him if the police had brought corpses to the mortuary. But now I was alone. I stood there staring till I could no longer hear the receding sound of his radio. An eerie silence enveloped the entire street and I suddenly became petrified.

It was at this point that, me, I gave up the search for Papa. My initial resolution and gragra just collapsed like a sack of Dangote cement. Tired, hungry and confused, I began to walk away briskly—the same way I had come. I started to run at some point. I ran and ran until I got to the police station. I could still see the same people I had met there a little earlier. The woman with the baby, the pregnant woman and the four men. Nothing had changed except that the woman’s baby was no longer crying. The same man was still talking about money for bail while the others sighed and listened. The pregnant woman was still sweating and the other woman was still rocking her baby. In that brief moment, as I walked past them, I felt a strong connection with these strangers. It all felt like we were actors in this drama of hopelessness.

The trip back home was long, so long that I had to stop a few times to rest on the pavement. I had taken a keke to the police station and now I had no money left to hire another.

The bars and restaurants had opened again and the aroma of egusi soup wafted through my nostrils as I turned at one corner. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about the bloody protests some hours earlier.  On and on, I trudged until, finally, I reached the junction of my street.  I could see some women reciting the Angelus in the nearby saloon. It’s only 12pm, I thought. All my adventures from Egwuoma street to the police station, to the mortuary and back, and it was only 12pm. We would have just been finishing the long-break in school—gearing up for the dreaded afternoon sessions.

I entered my street with caution half expecting some neighbour to run towards me with tears and words of solace. The crowd had dispersed and everywhere was calm. I could see Madam Nkechi from afar. Her shop was open and her wares proudly displayed on the tables outside. As I walked gingerly towards her, I imagined her grabbing me in agony, and crying and rolling on the ground the same way she had done when Mama died.

“Ah, you are back,” she sighed with relief when she saw me. “I was starting to get worried”.

“Is Papa back?” I asked with dread.

“Yes, he’s upstairs.” It was the way Madam Nkechi said it that confused me. There was no joy or relief. Instead, I noticed a hint of disapproval—even disdain. And then, she turned her head in a not-my-business kind of way.

I was completely puzzled. See, I had prepared myself for two extreme reactions: one of total sorrow and another of total happiness. What, me, I saw here was closer to total indifference.

Without another word, I ran into the house and made for the steep stairs. There was a feeling of intense relief as I ran up the stairs. Papa was not dead after all. I was not going to be an orphan yet. But, me, I was also slightly confused. Why had Madam Nkechi responded in that manner? Was she not happy that Papa had somehow escaped the police’s bullets? I scaled the stairs, two at a time, my tired bones suddenly reinvigorated.

I was panting by the time I reached the top of the stairs and started to make for our door. It was then that I heard a strange, yet familiar sound—the creaking of our bed. It was not unusual for our bed to creak, but there seemed to be a rhythm to this one. As I inched closer, my ears could pick other strange sounds, like the whines and groans of my puppy companions.

Looking back now, I think I should have knocked. But I didn’t. Instead, I felt my hand pulling the key from my shorts, slipping it into the lock and turning. The door opened with a loud squeak as I sauntered, rather unceremoniously, into the room.

I cannot tell you all what I saw that day even though the images are still fresh in my mind—as fresh as Madam Nkechi’s morning bread. But I will try.

Papa was on top of a woman. They were both naked and sweating like Christmas goats. The demarcating curtain which we religiously lowered was raised such that my view was not impeded. I recognised the woman the moment I saw her. She was a member of our church choir and used to be Mama’s friend.  And right there, me, I drew the connection. I knew why Papa had not been at Mama’s side when she needed him the most.

The choir woman was the first to recover from my intrusion. She nudged Papa aside and began to hastily wear her clothes. She left without saying a word.

There was an awkward silence after she left that reminded me of the mortuary. After what seemed like an eternity, Papa mumbled something about my being too early from school and how he hadn’t even joined the protest.

He was still speaking when me I left the room. Yes. I simply walked out on him, my heart laden with disappointment and betrayal. I felt stupid—very stupid and naïve.

 I could hear him calling, his voice receding into the background with every step I took down the stairs. As I walked, I replayed the events of the day in my head—the gunshots, the blood strewn street, the keke driver, the people outside the police station, the police officers, the mortuary attendant. I do not know for how long I walked that day. I walked and walked until my legs could move no more. Then I sat down on the side of the road and cried.