‘We don’t take our brethren to court,’ Emeka’s father said. He’d been the one to post bail for Pastor Kamsi. We were in his office at church, and I realised it was my first time there. It was just how I’d imagined: on the walls, a picture of the general overseer at the headquarters hanging beside portraits of the president and an artist’s depiction of Jesus Christ, a mahogany bookcase stacked with spiritual guidance books and various versions of the Bible, a chestnut desk cluttered with letters and pamphlets.
Beside her husband, Emeka’s mother watched me like I wasn’t the same person who’d insisted on slicing onions and tomatoes for rice just the previous week.
Pastor Igwe stood up to pull a Bible from a stack in the bookcase. ‘First Corinthians six verse one. New International Version,’ he read out when he was seated.
‘If any of you has a dispute with another, do you dare to take it before the ungodly for judgement instead of before the Lord’s people?’
‘Look,’ my mother said. ‘I know the Bible like everyone else in this room. What has happened is a crime and I am not letting it go until justice is served. If this is why you’ve called us here, you’re wasting your time.’
‘The pastor involved says you’re lying, and it’s your word against his,’ Mrs Agnes said.
‘It’s not just her word against his, we have the DNA sample from that day at the hospital,’ my mother said.
Mrs Agnes looked at her husband. ‘DNA? Do we use that in this country?’ Then to my mother, ‘It still doesn’t prove anything, the intercourse could have been consensual.’ I realised she couldn’t say the word ‘sex’ aloud, it was too lurid for her.
Pastor Igwe sighed. ‘Madam, are you married to the man you’re living with? Where is her father? Why are you not here with him?’
My mother huffed, insulted. ‘What does that have to do with what we’re discussing?’
‘I’m trying to understand what circumstances at home would have caused her to come up with such a tale against a man of God. I can personally vouch for Kamsi as a man of God. We know she’s had issues with him in the past and has pushed against any form of mentoring and guidance.’
Mrs Agnes gripped my hand just before we walked out of the office. ‘Nwakaego, tell me the truth as a mother, why would you do this? Why not just tell the truth?’
They were convinced the devil had chosen me to try to ruin Pastor Kamsi.
I dropped a note in the prayers and testimonies basket before we walked out the church building:
Pastor Kamsi raped me.
16
Big guns
They wouldn’t stop fussing: my mother with her minute-by-minute checkups; Aunty Sally and her bottomless gift baskets and packages; Sister Bolatito’s drawn-out visits with coolers of rice and chicken; even Zina and Eriife’s sudden affinity for spending hours in doing nothing but chatting aimlessly. Eriife whose life had previously revolved around her boyfriend; Zina whose thickened middle connoted problems of her own. I didn’t understand it. I wasn’t sick, I wasn’t dying. I was still the same person, the same Nwakaego – wasn’t I?
Anger had settled over me like a fresh crust. Why had any of this happened? What had I done wrong to be deserving of this? In the mornings, I scrubbed at myself thoroughly, scalding and bruising in the process, willing this new membrane away, this ever-present feeling of disgust and irritation. Some days, it boiled like bile at the bottom of my belly, then rose up in my chest and I entertained thoughts of driving to Pastor Kamsi’s house and creating a circle around it with kerosene, lighting a match and locking both of us in, of watching the flames consume our bodies. Other days, I woke up leaden, trudging between my bed and the bathroom and nowhere else. Those days, I existed in a state of nothingness.
The therapist encouraged me to talk about my feelings, said that speaking would help me feel better. But who was she to say so? In our sessions, I watched her head bob from side to side in animation, eyed the tuft of hair that had escaped the sleek relaxed bun at the top of her head, thinking of how much money she was costing my mother. ‘She’s shielding her mind,’ she told my mother. It wouldn’t work until I cooperated. It angered me how much she felt she knew about me, a woman who until a few weeks ago had no idea I existed, that she could suddenly speak about me to my own mother like an expert.
The church headquarters had called in the big guns: the Chief Superintendent of Police, the Assistant Commissioner of Police; people whose ranking surpassed that of an ordinary Divisional Police Officer. Aunty Sally made calls, but no one was willing to risk weathered alliances over such a flimsy matter, a promiscuous lying child.
‘Your case cannot be proven in court,’ the regional pastoral head told my mother. ‘It’s best for yourself and your daughter that you leave all this now. She’s still young, there’s no need to ruin her life over this.’ Ruin her life. I would have laughed if it wasn’t so funny.
My mother called my father. She’d held out over the years, refusing to budge in even her most vulnerable moments: when we had no money for basic amenities and sat in pitch darkness without power supply; when she’d spent all she had on our school fees and had no money for food. In those moments, she’d prayed instead, clasped her hands together, looked to the ceiling and waited for a miracle. And each time, whether by the force of her faith or the intervention of the Almighty, a breakthrough had come, a timely remediation that was nothing short of miraculous.
But this time, she called my father. Akin had been the one to encourage her to do so; I was his daughter, he knew people, he would be able to do something. And so, my mother dialled a number she’d sworn to never call again.
Much like Pastor Kamsi in earlier years, my father had remained outwardly single; a disconsolate bachelor abandoned by his unstable wife who had taken their children; his son’s mother was too unrefined. It did not stop the stories of his new much younger girlfriends from reaching our ears.
Usman was still at the gate when we arrived. ‘Hay madam! Na you be this? Welcome o.’ He poked his head outside the gate as if searching for something, then he looked myself and my mother up and down. Realising we hadn’t returned with any baggage, his smile waned.
‘Is your oga around?’ my mother asked.
He was around; he’d told us he would be.
‘Yes, ma,’ Usman said.
The compound was the same: the blooming ixoras, open garage and majestic columns. The steward opened the door; that had changed, replaced by a bulletproof structure.
My father was sat behind the mahogany desk that had always been at the centre of his study, but now there were even more bronze plaques lining the walls and corners. He was still handsome, the only indication of ageing the grey strands in his hair and new lines under his eyes. He asked to speak with me alone. He demanded this slowly, with the brass of one aware of the power he wielded.
‘Nwakaego,’ he said when we were alone, leaning forward in his seat. I started; it was a while since I’d heard him call my name. He laughed. ‘So, you’re finally here. After asking you to come and see me for years, I sent your sister – you even collected my money, remember? – and now you’ve come to me of your free will.’ He threw up his hands. ‘It’s okay, I understand. I can’t say I didn’t deserve any of it, I only hoped you’d give me the respect deserving of a father.’
He relaxed in his cushioned chair. ‘Anyway, that’s not why you’re here. Your mother says you need my help.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ashamed.
He swept his hand forward. ‘Go ahead, tell me what happened so I can know exactly how I can help.’
‘Hmmm,’ my father said when I was done speaking. ‘These are the kind of riff raffs I tried to protect you and your sisters from when we were still a family. Would any of this have happened if your mother hadn’t refused to listen to reason? All because of a child, a child whose mother I’m not even married to. He’s upstairs by the way in case you’re wondering, I hired a nanny and special tutor for him. I take care of all my children, make sure they get the best as long as they’re under my roof. Unlike your mother who has given herself to prostituting for that lecturer that goes and comes as he likes, I’m still honouring my vows. Did you see any other woman here when you walked in?’
‘No,’ I said meekly, clenching my fists in my lap.
‘Regardless of all that had happened, you’re still my child, and so of course I’ll help.’ He paused. ‘On a simple condition.’
I waited for him to speak. It was like making a deal with the devil, you never knew what he would ask of you.
He nodded, taking my silence for acceptance. ‘Once I take on this case, two things might happen: one it might go away quietly; two, if they resist and people get wind of it – this is the more likely reality– it will get wider coverage in the newspapers. I’m already dealing with some issues, you might have already seen some of it in the papers, I’m not in the mood to deal with any more noise, and I’m sure you don’t want the world to know what has happened to you. I have a solution that can work for the both of us. You remember Chief Badmus? He used to be a regular at my parties back in the days.’
