by L I Owugah
I gazed down and watched as the blood trickled off my chin, and made crimson coloured artwork of my previously pristine suit and tie. Looking back up I spotted three faces in the middle of the crowd. Three familiar faces I had encountered barely two hours earlier.
The stern-faced female from Care Call Computers and her two ultra relaxed colleagues. The trio stared at me in shocked horror. Like a group of witnesses to a fatal road collision. I gazed back at them, and the message was crystal. Under no circumstances were Care Call Computers going to be hiring Mr Jonah Badmus. I plunked myself back onto my seat. Then, waited in silence, as the Old Bill snaked through the crowd towards me.
The trial was brief and should have been an open and shut case. But the moment my left fist had made contact with Monroe's paper-thin chin, any argument for a case of self-defence was rendered null and void. Leaving me branded as the perpetrator rather than the victim.
Awaiting the verdict that afternoon, I felt the vibration of a message alert on my phone. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the handset, held it at waist height, and thumbed the envelope icon. Since the incident Care Call had been in contact to advise that the position was no longer available, but this time, the message was not from the company. It was from a person I'd known my entire life but hadn't seen for close to a year. The message read: "Call ASAP it's M.D."
And that's when I heard my name.
"Jonah Badmus."
I looked up at the magistrate.
"Please rise."
I rose to my feet with the word "please" making all the difference.
3
MICHAEL
HIT AND RUN
Across Lagos city, eighty people are killed each day in motor-related accidents. But on the day I attempted to contact Jonah I was utterly oblivious to this tragic statistic. I hadn't seen or spoken to my brother for over a year but on that particular morning the words "Call ASAP, it's MD," were just about all I could muster.
At thirty seven years old, I was an IT specialist who had once made a financial killing during the global paranoia that a potent computer flaw would return the planet to the Stone Age. But since an acrimonious divorce and a period of depression, for the two years that followed, I had only worked sparingly. The day before I sent the message, I had turned up at a couple's mediation office, to resolve a longstanding dispute with my ex-wife, but had no foreboding of what was to transpire twenty-four hours later.
The dispute involved the four-bedroom home we had once shared in a leafy sector of Shepherds Bush. She was determined to sell up and move on, while I was of the opinion that to maintain a familiar environment for our young daughter, she should stay put. However, after an hour-long session, involving bitter arguments on both sides, I decided that after twenty-four months of clashing heads it was time to throw in the towel.
Returning to my rented, single bedroom apartment, I felt like a prizefighter on the wrong end of another lousy decision and grabbed an open bottle of Jack Daniels from the kitchen cabinet. I guzzled more than half of it, crashed out on a two seater leather couch, and was dead to the world in minutes.
Hours later a flood of sunlight woke me up. The rays crept through the living room curtains and hit me in the face. It was the next morning. As my head took a vicious pounding from the effects of a dizzy hangover, all I could do was gaze around the living room like a man snapping out of a temporary coma. There wasn't a great deal on display, but, as with many single men, less was often more. Directly across from where I lay, mounted on the wall, a giant framed photograph of my daughter being cradled in my arms at birth.
Then flush against the wall to my left, a tall narrow bookcase. Its shelves were crammed with famous writers, ranging from contemporary authors like Lee Child and James Patterson to old-timers like Alex Haley and Michael Crichton. There were also several computer software publications. My mobile phone lay flat on a plain looking wooden coffee table from Ikea. Over in a corner, an Apple branded laptop sat on a metal-framed office desk which I had also purchased from the Swiss giants of DIY furniture.
The monitor of my phone was lit, displaying the message icon next to the initials MD. MD, corporate speak for Managing Director, but in this instance, also an acronym which meant something far more personal - Mum and Dad. Swinging both legs over the edge of the couch and pushing myself up into a sitting position, I reached over to the table and snatched up the handset. I stared at the initials I had fondly used for the two people I had accepted as my parents since the age of ten. According to the recorded time of delivery, the message had arrived at 6am. Thirty minutes prior. However, my parents lived in Nigeria. Therefore, the difference in time zones meant their message would have been dispatched much earlier.
I looked at the date on the screen. It was the 6th of May. A date I had conveniently managed to forget, but recognized that for my mother, it was still the most special of occasions. I punched the message icon with the bottom of my thumb.
"Happy birthday my son. I hope and pray that God blesses you tenfold this year, and for many more years to come. Call us when you wake up.
Your loving mother."
I smiled quietly to myself "Call us when you wake up." My mum's unique way of reminding me that she was still a fierce advocate for us having eight hours of sleep each night. As kids growing up, she had never been one to make a compromise. I punched the call button, expecting my father to answer. As I pressed the handset to my ear, the blunted, but familiar sound of the long distance ring tone echoed from the speaker. A blast of static followed.
"Allo!"
It was the voice of a man with a heavy, Yoruba sounding Nigerian accent.
"Hello," I returned.
"Michael?"
I smiled. Whoever was on the other end knew who I was. Probably my Dads younger brother Uncle Taffi I thought. We had never met but had spoken to each other on the phone. A man with a delightfully colourful personality who was always keen to educate me in all things Nigerian, ranging from the country's sense of pride for wresting its independence from the British in 1960, to its historic culture of social injustice, and everything in-between.
"Uncle Taffi!?" I replied buoyantly.
The speaker cleared his throat in the manner of someone who had something of extreme importance to convey.
"I am sorry, but this is inspector Phoenix Balogun." I paused for a moment, puzzled as to why a police officer would have access to my mother's phone.
"I don't understand," I said. "Where's my mother?"
"Your mother?"
He sounded confused.
"Mrs Eko," I clarified.
There was a momentary silence followed by a sense of tension you could dissect with the proverbial knife. I could hear his steady breathing and pictured him trying to cultivate a meaningful response to my demand, but, at this point, I had run empty on patience.
"The woman whose phone you're using!" I yelled.
"I'm sorry,"
"What are you sorry about?" I said, "Where is she?"
"They are with here with me."
"They?"
"Both your parents."
"Then put one of them on the phone."
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
"You said that already!"
"I was talking about their bodies."
I turned numb, a feeling I'd once been informed was the body's unique way of coping with traumatic events. There was a short silence as Balogun allowed me time to process what he knew to be true, and what I was struggling to accept.
"I'm sorry, Michael, your parents are no more." The finality of these words hit me with the "lights out" effect of a left hook to the temple. Only I was still conscious - still reeling - still in utter disbelief.
"How?"
"Road accident," Balogun said. "Hit and run."
"Why?" I groaned. A protest of despair rather than a genuine question. He didn't answer but patiently waited for me to gather myself.
"It is very unfortunate," he said. "Where are you based?"
"London," I gasped.
"Shall we be expecting you?"
I wasn't quite sure what he meant by "we" but was too shaken to ask.
"Take down this address," he continued.
I reached across and grabbed a pen lying on the coffee table. Springing to my feet like a man possessed, I yanked a Michael Crichton medical thriller from the bookshelf, which, ironically was titled, A Case Of Need. I turned to the back cover and folded it open.
"I'm ready"
He mentioned the name of a road he described as being the location of the accident, emphasizing that it was only a short distance from a designated police post along the motorway. Then he provided the full address of the police station where he was based and said if that if I were going to attend the funeral, he'd be more than happy to help with an investigation.
"Thank you" I muttered.
"Contact your family members, okay?" he said.
The line went dead.
Maybe it was something technical, maybe he had accidentally pushed the wrong button, or maybe he'd just hung up. The truth was, none of those scenarios mattered. If my parents were dead, there was only one person who I had to contact immediately. Scrolling through the contact list on my phone, I found Jonah's name, typed the message: "Call ASAP it's MD," and punched the send button. Collapsing back onto the couch, I tossed the phone to one side and sank my face into my hands.
There were no immediate tears, but once the seal was broken, and my palms were soaked with grief, it was hard to imagine they would ever stop.
4
JONAH
OPPOSITE SIDES OF A COIN
Five minutes after receiving Michaels message, I was handed a six-month prison sentence. The sentence was somewhat predictable, but the news that the two people had played an instrumental role in our upbringing were now dead was clearly not.
Arriving at Brixton Prison in South London I registered Michael's details as the one person I would contact by phone. I acquired a prison-issued pin number and made an outgoing call later that evening. The conversation with my brother was our first in over a year and from the prominent slur in his voice, I could tell that he had been hitting the bottle.
"Talked to Mr Taffi yet?" I asked referring to Mr Eko's younger brother.
"Yes," Michael drawled. "Doesn't look like he's taking it too well."
I said nothing. A quiver in his voice told me he was struggling to mount a brave face and had probably spent the better part of the day in tears.
"Anything else?" I said.
"Nah," he answered. "This should never have happened, but..." I heard what sounded like a swig from a bottle, probably one of several.
"But I'm going to fix it."
"Fix what?"
He didn't answer and the sound of another swig from the bottle echoed over the line.
Waiting for a response, it suddenly dawned on me how different we had always been from one another. Different in every way imaginable- opposite sides of a coin. He was emotional while I was practical. He was a respectable five foot eleven while I stood an impressive six foot five. I was midnight dark, while his complexion was several shades lighter. A significant contrast which, in a prejudiced world of colourism, equated to him being the pretty boy, and I the fearsome ogre.
I was just eleven years old and Michael twelve when Mr and Mrs Eko entered our lives. We had never met our birth father, who was of Nigerian heritage. And following the tragic passing of our Trinidadian born mother, had been suitably placed with the Eko's, who had sourced our information from the National Adoption Agency.
Mr Eko was a finance professor and his wife a qualified librarian. But with the challenges of an economic downturn in Nigeria, they had relocated to the United Kingdom in search of greener pastures. The couple had been keen on starting a family. But following a routine medical examination, they had discovered that having children in the biological sense was never going to be an available option - hence the decision to adopt.
At first glance, one would never have guessed that we were not related, as the Eko's had, by accident or design, made an exceptional aesthetic choice. Physically Michael mirrored the light skin of Mr Eko and was of a similar height to that of his wife. While I had the reverse, which was the dark skin of Mrs Eko, and what was the towering, imposing figure of her husband. They were a patient pair and appeared utterly unfazed at having to manage the temperament of a naturally gifted pugilist, who was already leaving a trail of black eyes, bloody noses, and puffy lips, amongst a string of playground bullies who had a routine habit of setting upon Michael. Harsh conflict resolution strategies that were never an issue for Mr and Mrs Eko. Probably because it gave them the security and peace of mind to know I was fully capable of looking after myself. Or maybe it was because they had figured the obvious, which was, next to a force of nature like myself, Michael, was safer than houses.
For Michael, the feeling had always been more complex. He knew how protective I was of him but resented me for it. Resented me for doing what physically speaking he was incapable of doing for himself. I hadn't seen him for twelve months, which left me wondering if this was his way of proving to me that he no longer needed my support.
"Funeral arrangements," he said, "That's what I'm going to fix."
"Plan on going out there?" I asked.
"Absolutely," he said. "You?"
"What about me?"
"Are you coming?"
"If I could cut through steel."
He paused again. This time as though trying to figure out what I meant without having to ask directly.
"Banged up?"
"Three months."
I heard the liquor being drained from the bottle once again. "I'll be in touch," he said, and hung up, bringing our stilted conversation to an abrupt close. I held the handset to my ear for a brief moment, as the familiar sound of the dial tone echoed on the other end. I hung the phone back on to its cradle.
Two years since his divorce, Michael probably needed me more than he would ever care to admit.
5
MICHAEL
THIS IS LAGOS
At 5am, Lagos standard time the British Airways Boeing 747 touched down on the runway for Murtala Muhammad Airport, which, like New York's JFK, was named after a legendary leader. The passenger count was substantial. A stream of Nigerians kitted out in designer branded garments alongside a handful of Lebanese business types, soon to become minorities in a city populated by over twenty million black men women and children. Disembarking from the plane, I headed into the airport building and was met with the deafening silence of a deserted war zone. There was a notable absence of airport staff, save a handful of domestic workers, in sweat-stained, crummy looking uniforms. Flip-flops on their feet, they stared at the passengers, dressed in Ralph, Gucci and Louis, their faces blank, brooms resembling tightly bound bunches of straw in their hands.
Arriving at the Airport's point of entry, I waited my turn to be screened by a group of immigration officers sitting behind a row of wooden counters devoid of computer screens. The baggage hall was behind where the officers were seated and had two baggage carousels. One of the carousels had a major crack in the conveyor belt and appeared to be out of order. The other was already doing the rounds, dispatching the first of several suitcases and large bags, several of which were colourfully marked for instant identification.
The temperature was sky high, and with no airconditioning of note, it felt like being stuck in a sauna. The immigration team was slower than Heinz Ketchup, and the silent frustration of the majority of passengers was palpable. Then I spotted an interesting trend. Members of the team would identify specific passengers and escort them away from the queue. These, I figured, were the "Connected people" Uncle Taffi had often spoken about in many of our phone exchanges. The select few who either had the money or the smarts to circumvent the inevitable clogs in a social system which was rife with daily corruption. Then the loud sound of a man's voice gatecrashed my train of thought, like a
random stray bullet.
"That's my person!"
It was a unique turn of phrase. The speaker had found who he was seeking. Looking past the passengers in front of me I spotted a man I instinctively knew was my father's brother. Flanked by two pot belied immigration officers, Uncle Taffi had a broad cheerful smile on his face. He wore a status-affirming, white coloured, Agbada, which was a traditionally sewn, grand-looking outfit that fell several inches below the knees, and resembled a broad sleeved, double-sided superhero cape. Plodding towards me, he carried what I'd later discover was one of my old photographs in one hand, and had a firm finger pointed in my direction. I was seeing him for the first time in the flesh.
