Bird's eye view.
837 Words
Twenty years on...
- How does the defendant plead?
This dragged me ruthlessly out of my reverie. I had gone a thousand steps down into the basement with my doom staring right back at me.
I tried swallowing saliva in vain. One, two... nothing. My mouth was dry like harmattan paper, my heart fluid with an array of fearful thoughts. My stomach became hollow, empty like an undead with no organs therein. I stood blandly in the box, gazed emptily into space. I looked but saw nothing. Just forms. Shadows. Having nothing to say was not my problem as I had only two viable options to choose from; accept my fate and pronounce my guilt or make proceedings longer – postponing doomsday. Either could subsist but no amount of sophistry, forget how clever, could win me this.
In an instant, Lukas Graham’s “I’m not guilty” refrain in ‘Apologies’ came to mind but I lacked auditory function. I hesitated, mouthed it, no sound. It seemed she had somehow found a way of rendering me sotto voce whenever I was to say what was off-script, off her script. Her will weighed on me.
- How does the defendant plead? He repeated, this time more purposeful.
My vision blurred as an oasis of tears welled my eyes. I opened my mouth to speak but the volume was turned down low. Only my thoughts filled the big courtroom. This was a rave of a case, every mind in the country keenly followed for updates ever since it broke. I was the cynosure of attraction, a television celebrity, a feat I always aimed for only now it was not my genius or astounding success that was being celebrated. I was in the news for criminality, murder.
Like a mouse in a maze, I stood, shapes taking on hazy forms as she came yet again. I saw her as the cameras flashed, an older form this time. She stood by the door. All eyes in the courtroom must have traced my gaze to the door where no one stood. But she was there smiling as events of that evening unfolded for the umpteenth time in front of me. She had made it a routine visiting me regularly in my cell at the station. She says nothing. She only stood staring at me with bloodshot eyes and the trademark, a smirk. She carried something on her left hand. In the early apparitions I confused it for a staff. It resembled a shepherd’s rod but something oval stood atop. It was my head. She had my head spiked. I saw me.
I had ventured to the junction to buy sosatie and a cheese baguette from Y’au. I left my niece at home since I’d be back in a jiffy and the maid was home too. She was three. Her parents had gone for a formal company dinner leaving her, the maid and I home. She was a cranky three-year old and could easily get on one’s nerves but she was beautiful and adorable with bright piercing green eyes; a weird and greatly unusual feature for someone of nothing but pure black African heritage dating back millenniums immemorial. She was always perky and playful. They lived in Rayfield, a highbrow suburb of Jos metropolis which plays host to the seat of government and I had come within the week to attend a host of job interviews. Some I had attended already but the whale among fishes I had my eyes on was scheduled for Monday. It was a big juicy Federal Government establishment and I had been in top gear anticipating it.
I had on a varsity jacket, a head warmer and a pair of socks, a trademark of Jos. On my headphone played Tory Lanez’ remix of DJ Khaled’s ‘Wild thoughts’. It was on repeat. I had barely gotten to Tasty Trends when a brown 1998 VW Golf saloon cornered me crudely.
- “Kai yaro zo mana, wani aiki ne ka na yi?” came a barking voice like a loose Alsatian.
I needed no fortune teller to announce their person. The pitch black on pitch black like night and their old World War II guns told me these were those you never wished you crossed path with.
- “Ah, officers good evening, sorry I don’t understand Hausa.” I retorted politely although I had an ample touch of the language.
- “Dan buro uba. Ai kai ba Dan naigeria ba in ba ka iya Hausa ba.” Said another cop in a raw husky deep voice.
I smiled at his tanned stupidity. I could have applied balm of words to assuage his foolishness buy hey, who wants a fit with Nigerian cops? It only ends as a tepid tale of accidental discharge. I remained humble as a sheep thus. Besides I had already claimed ignorance of Hausa.
- Writer
