by Okey Ndibe
“Soldiers brought her to the beach.”
“What do you have against prostitutes?” asked the only female interrogator. I spun around and faced her. Her lipstick was liquid and deep-red. It gave the impression of a mouth dripping blood.
“Nothing.”
“So why did you rape and kill them?”
“I didn’t rape anybody. The members of the vice task force did.”
“You were caught red-handed. If you confess, you make things easier.”
“Nobody caught me at anything. I’ve tried to help your investigators with the truth.”
For three hours they took turns asking the same questions, until an awful pain throbbed in my unsupported lower back. Fissuring, this pain moved in two directions: one branch of it crept down my legs, the other spread upwards to my shoulders.
My neck was knotted into a taut hardness. I sat still, tracking the geography of the pain.
One interrogator cleared his throat.
“How many times did you rape her?” It was Musa. Desperately I began to retell the whole story, but this time my narrative was incoherent, jumping and tumbling in time and space.
Suddenly Mr. Lati shouted, “Stop the crap!” I stuttered and stopped. “We are not here to listen to your petty fancies. All we want to know is how you raped and killed the woman!”
His small obdurate eyes bored into me, the eyes of a man who would only see things one way.
I made a last appeal to be believed. “I’m telling you the truth. I really want to help.”
He hissed disgustedly. “This nonsense has made me hungry. Let’s take a lunch break.”
The eight interrogators rose and filed out of the room.
“We know an easy way to get the facts out of you,” said the woman when the session resumed. “So, it’s up to you.”
My back seethed with pain. My body already felt like a thing less alive than slowly dying and the suggestion of torture reached me only in a distant, abstract way.
“What do you expect of me?”
“The truth,” answered one of the interrogators.
“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” I said.
The futile seesaw continued for the next two hours. Then Lati said, “That’s it for today. He’s one of those who want to be tortured, but he can’t stand much. Let’s just give him the mosquito treatment.”
Two big-bodied guards marched into the room. They took hold of my arms and dragged me to a cell at the back of the headquarters. The cell was dim and dank, its air warm with unflushed feces. As I entered, cockroaches scurried and disappeared under the mattress. A swarm of mosquitoes detached themselves from the walls and advanced on me like soldiers closing in on an unarmed target.
Night fell in that cell long before it did outside. In the deep darkness the mosquitoes attacked me in waves. I swatted at them until my arms became numb. Furtive roaches found my unshod feet. As they scampered away, I brought my heels down and squished them. Pup! pup! came the sound of their stomachs popping open, reaming out their entrails.
In the morning a police officer brought my breakfast. In the dim light as he opened the door, I saw a busy line of ants feasting heartily on the lifeless roaches. The mosquitoes had withdrawn to their perches on the walls, their bodies bloated. When I squashed them they squirted my own dark-red blood. The litter of dead things took away my appetite. Eventually the cell door was opened again. Two guards came in.
“You’re wanted for interrogation,” one of them said.
They hoisted me up and propelled me out into the light. The ensuing interrogation was a relief from the smell of my cell, from the repulsive intimacy of roaches, bedbugs and mosquitoes. With each session the tension sharpened. My inquisitors were desperate for something other than the truth. Dismay was written on their faces. Their speech became snappy.
“Apparently you don’t realize just how serious your situation is,” one of the officers sneered at the end of a grueling session. “Perhaps you should read what the papers have to say about your case.”
He thrust a copy of the government-run Sentinel at me. Back in my dim cell, I pored over it. I was not surprised to see that even though another prostitute had been attacked since my arrest, a guilty verdict against me was presented as a foregone conclusion.
“Well,” the officer began at my next interrogation, “did the newspaper persuade you of the need to tell the truth?”
“I have been telling the truth all along,” was all that I could say.
After the fourth day they announced that they had had enough of my “lack of cooperation.” I was returned to my cell and left there, day and night, for forty-eight hours, until two guards came and took me away to the interrogation center. A lone man waited there, a pair of glasses balanced on the end of his nose.
“Dr. Mara,” he said cryptically after I sat down. “A psychiatrist.”
He removed his glasses and began to fiddle with them, his eyes fixed on me. Then he took out a white handkerchief and began to polish the glasses, bringing to the act deliberate poise and indifference.
“Is it a good thing to rape women?” he began, as if addressing a moral question to himself.
“No,” I answered.
“How about killing? Is it excusable to kill?”
“No.”
“Would you consider a serial rapist a bad person?”
“Yes.”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
“Would it make a difference to you if such a person raped prostitutes?”
“No.”
“If you somehow raped a woman, would you see yourself as a bad person?”
“I didn’t rape any woman.”
“But just for the sake of argument, let’s say . . .”
I interrupted: “I won’t let you say a falsehood for the sake of argument.”
He slipped his glasses on and threw his head back, glancing up to the ceiling. He asked, “Do you always obtain a woman’s consent prior to having sex with her?”
“Sex has not been a part of my life for a long time.”
“But do you recall ever having sex with a woman without obtaining her unambiguous consent?”
“What’s the purpose of the question?”
“I’m a psychiatrist,” he said.
“I know that. But what do you think I am?”
“I haven’t found out yet.”
“And you never will.”
He smiled the smile of a man too self-assured to let my anger touch him. Then he asked, “Could we talk about the woman who died on the beach on New Year’s Day?”
In a dry tone I said, “Yes.”
W
In all, Dr. Mara interviewed me over three days. On the second day I decided to test the possibility of winning his attention—not as a scientist, but as a human being. So I began to tell him about Tay Tay, the prostitute I had spoken to after she and two of her friends had been raped. For a moment he appeared to be engaged by the story. Then he lifted his hand, compelling me to stop.
“I am interested only in the questions I raise myself,” he said. “Let’s keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”
After that he grew more and more remote, in what was clearly to him an impersonal search for a truth supported by evidence.
Like a pre-programmed machine, he rattled on, each of his unanswered questions followed by the briefest pause, then the next question.
In the end, despite my refusal to budge, he said, in a tone that revealed no frustration, “That’s all the questions I have. Thank you.” As he left the room even his steps were measured, as if scientific precision had permeated every facet of his life.
The anger aroused in me by those sessions was still fresh as I cross-examined Dr. Mara in court. I wanted to pummel him with questions that would force him to dr
op his mask of scientific objectivity and expose his human face, or what was left of it. I warmed with joy when he began to sweat on the stand and could have cried out in exultation when he dropped his files.
Chapter Seven
The sense of elation I had experienced in the courtroom dissipated as soon as the Black Maria drove through the gate of Bande maximum security prison where Justice Kayode had ordered me remanded until my trial resumed. The vehicle screeched to a halt inside the prison grounds and the warders ran about in a great bluster, as if my arrival as their ward was an event bound to shake the vital center of their lives.
Alighting from the vehicle, I noticed the severity of the prison’s design, the maze of concrete pathways that connected the cells. Tall mahogany trees stood outside the prison’s high spiked walls, like spies.
Alone in a cell my heart shriveled within me. The cell reeked of a variety of smells, mementos left by all the previous occupants. The four walls seemed to draw imperceptibly closer, threatening in time to meet in an embrace and crush me. Death entered and stayed in my thoughts.
A beam of light shot through the cell’s high-set window into the center of the room. A multitude of motes danced within the beam, floating in a kind of hopeless limbo. I soon had the sensation of becoming one of the motes, freckly, weightless and flimsy, one among a million gyrators in an unending dance.
At night different sounds intruded on my solitude: the swaying of trees, the chirr of insects, the croaking of frogs, the shabby shuffle of roaches, the low requiem of mosquitoes and the terrible braying of demented prisoners.
Eight days later I was visited by the new court-appointed psychiatrist.
Joshua was on duty that afternoon, a stocky fellow with a beer belly, a scarred face and small, serpent-like eyes. The other warders know to keep their distance, allowing me some space. They announce their presence discreetly, as if their eyes dread the prospect of meeting mine. Even when they bring me the bland-tasting beans that are the staple diet here, they shy away from my gaze. Joshua is different, a creepy monster with a surly coldness about him.
“S. P. J. C. Mandi,” I heard a male voice say outside my cell. “State certified psychiatrist. I’m here on the orders of a high court to see suspect number MTS 1646.”
“De suspect dey sleep,” Joshua announced in his baritone.
“Well, then, we’ll go in and wake him.”
“Go in?” asked Joshua incredulously. “Go in? Mister doctor, nobody fit enter that cell. The man be crazy man. You can’t fit to enter the cell. God forbid bad thing!”
“I’m the only one who can determine that the suspect is crazy. Not you, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t fear, Mister doctor. I no do your job. But I get two eyes. I done look the man well, well. I swear, he be proper crazy man. Allah!”
“I’m awfully sorry then that Justice Kayode did not have the wisdom to appoint you. What’s your name by the way?”
“Joshua,” answered the warder. “Corporal Joshua.”
“Yes, Corporal Joshua. I happen to be the one asked by the court to report on the suspect’s mental state. Now if you don’t mind, could you please open the cell so that I may get to work?”
“I know say me no go school, but no way I fit open that cell. I no fit contravene protocol, at all at all.”
“Okay, Corporal Joshua, I see that we’re a little confused here. My job is to interview the suspect—where and when I choose to do it. Your job is to provide me with security. And even then you must not be too intrusive. Do you understand?”
“I understand, but . . .”
“No, there are no more buts. You’ll do what I ask. Now open the cell.”
Joshua grunted in capitulation and slid the key into the lock.
In stepped a tall man, spare and athletic, bearded. He looked straight into my eyes and smiled.
“Dr. S. P. J. C. Mandi,” he said, extending his hand for a shake.
I sat up on my mattress and took his hand. He tightened his grip and held on for an oddly long time. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. A real pleasure.”
He was warm and suave, a man capable of establishing instant familiarity. I had to be on my guard, I cautioned myself; I had to keep unthawed some of my distrust of men who serve systems.
Finally letting go of my hand, he explained his presence. “Justice Kayode has asked me to examine you.” He paused and averted his eyes, ashamed of the indelicacy of his words. “Examine is perhaps not the right term. It’s more like an interaction, a, what’s the word I’m looking for . . . a dialogue. My job is to have a dialogue with you. Then to advise the court on certain matters.”
I nodded and he continued.
“Perhaps we should start by taking care of one or two procedural issues. The first is that I propose for our dialogue to be held right here, if you don’t mind.”
I didn’t, I told him, but where was he going to sit? Apart from a mattress on the floor the cell was bare.
“No problem at all. I intend to stand.”
I shrugged, indifferent.
“And, if you don’t mind, may I request that you stand when we talk? Things are easier that way.”
“How?” I asked, hardly able to hide my curiosity.
“Blood circulates better when we stand. And people are more honest on their feet.”
“Are they? I know people who’ve told the baldest lies standing.”
In a serious vein, he said, “It’s a matter I’ve given serious consideration. And my conclusion is, it’s harder to hide or distort our true feelings while standing.”
“Is this a scientific insight?”
“Call it my personal insight. No scientific journal would be likely to accept an article from me on the subject. But who cares? Some of the most important discoveries in life have never been reported in any journal.” He winked at me, a twinkle in his eye. “You may be interested to know that some of my colleagues view me as something of a maverick. The unkinder ones might even call me a quack.”
Disarming and charming as he was, I had to remind myself sternly that he was not my friend. He was a scientist, I a caged animal in his laboratory. He might masquerade as a genial and humorous man but he could just as easily slip into his other skin as a diviner of minds. What was he here for but to plumb my deepest motives and uncover my hidden desires?
“I have no problem standing,” I said gruffly.
“Thank you.” His tone sounded a little officious. “Now the second procedural matter has to do with the length of our meetings. You have the veto. You may call things off any time you wish.”
“Very generous of you, Dr. Mandi.” I spoke too brightly.
“Ah, there’s the issue of nomenclature to iron out. I’m quite happy with my initials. You must call me S. P. J. C.”
“That would be presumptuous. Besides, it’s such a mouthful! Ess Pee Jay Cee.”
“Well, that’s what you get when the Catholic Church names you. Simon Peter came with baptism. Jude with confirmation. My parents threw in Chika to appease the ancestors. For years I didn’t know how to hold the names together. You don’t walk up to people and introduce yourself as Simon Peter Jude Chika Mandi. Somebody might fall asleep while you’re at it. But my chemistry teacher in secondary school solved the problem. He strung together the initials I have used ever since. Saved me a lot of headache, that wise fellow.”
I began to smile, until I saw the doctor’s eyes fixed on my teeth. Was he puzzled by the brownish stain on the two front ones? I clamped my mouth shut.
“I understand that you absolutely refuse to tell anybody your name.”
“On the contrary,” I said in a low, weary voice. “I do tell my name.”
He laughed. “Like the ones you gave to the detectives? Those won’t do. Nobody is going to put down Exile on an official document. Perhaps you should know that the prison
bureaucracy hasn’t given you a very flattering name.”
“You mean MTS 1646?”
He nodded.
“I’ve been wondering,” I said. “What does it mean?”
“1646 is of course your cell number.”
“I figured that out. But MTS?”
“Mentally Troubled Suspect.” He scanned my face for my reaction. I averted my eyes, and shrugged. In a strange way I found the information laughable, like a fool’s predictable witticism.
He fell silent, twittering. Then he said, “I have to leave now. We can’t get into the big issues today. I’ll return tomorrow at one thirty. Would you need anything?”
I thanked him, but said no, he could not give me what I wanted. Then I told him about the cockroaches and bed bugs, the mosquitoes and their sad songs.
“I can’t claim to know much about roaches and bed bugs. Their history is as shrouded as their ways.” Then, moving slowly towards the door, he said, “But there is a story about mosquitoes and the ear.”
“There are stories,” I corrected him. “I know quite a few of them. But I still hate their melancholy droning.”
“You sound like a harsh critic.” He was now at the door. “But remember that mosquitoes may be more moved by kindness.” He laughed, and without looking back, said, “See you tomorrow.” He exited so fusslessly that, moments later, I still felt his presence in the room, reinforced by the echo of his parting words: moved by kindness, kindness, kindness.
I looked forward to my next meeting with Dr. Mandi with mixed emotions. Expectancy was mingled with a sense of foreboding, a vague fear that peril lay in store if I placed too much trust in the psychiatrist.
He opened the conversation gravely. “I’ve thought a lot about the way we ended yesterday: the bit about MTS.”
“Oh.” I was not sure what this was leading to.
“I know you’re not mentally troubled.”
My brows shot up. Had I heard right?
“If you believe that, then the adjournment is a waste of everybody’s time. Your report will merely repeat what Dr. Mara has already told the court.”
“I’m afraid not. My hands are tied in that regard.” His face was mournful and tired.
