‘So you mean to tell me if someone were to blow up this place that would be the end of most of this country’s ruling class?’ Mrs Aluko joked and a chill of dread ran down my spine at the thought. Would Ego and Zina mourn my passing? Would Adelola have a hard time recalling my face? The first time I’d struggled to remember my mother’s face, I’d scattered through my belongings in deranged craze, until I’d found the picture of her I’d hidden away at the bottom of a drawer, her broad smile lighting up the frame. Then I’d traced a finger over the lines of her face, willing my mind to commit every single one to memory, to never forget.
Mrs Aluko chuckled, enjoying her own grim humour. ‘Don’t look so startled, dear; I have no plans to blow up this place. I have too many friends here.’
Both aisles of the political spectrum had converged for what many had branded the wedding of the year. Here, there was no need to play-act enmity; hugs were shared, handshakes exchanged, conversations loud and boisterous. Soye moved within the crowd like a whirling breeze, table to table, making new friends and lasting impressions. I’d grown tired of the performance when he’d pulled me towards Onomavwe’s table where Kamsi – whose sight still revolted me – was seated and returned to our assigned seats instead.
Enitan glared at the white roses and potted bare-branch trees crusted with crystals and LED lights that served as our table’s centrepiece, then she turned her head to look around at the painted white manzanita tree branches and lampstands that bordered the aisle, the crystal garlands, candles, flakes and petals that covered the cavernous hall, all reportedly flown in for the occasion. ‘What theme is this meant to be?’
‘Winter wonderland,’ I guessed.
‘In Nigeria? Do we have snow in Kano?’ Enitan said.
‘No, but we have money in Nigeria and money can buy snow,’ Mrs Aluko said and picked up her wine glass.
The bride emerged to applause an hour into the reception in a sculpted couture dress, sheer nude material covering her shoulders. The groom escorted her down the aisle towards elevated palatial thrones. At the other side, I spotted Soye shaking hands with a man who’d referred to him as a buffoon during the last elections.
‘How old is she? She can’t be that old,’ Enitan said. A server in a waistcoat approached our table to take our order, interrupting conversation.
‘Probably nineteen or twenty, maybe twenty-one? Not very old,’ I said when he was gone.
‘She’s nineteen,’ Mrs Aluko said with certainty.
‘No wonder she doesn’t look very happy,’ Enitan said. ‘They should have allowed her to enjoy her youth a little more before marrying her off.’
‘Maybe she just doesn’t smile much,’ Mrs Aluko drolled.
‘They don’t look like they love each other,’ I observed.
Mrs Aluko huffed. ‘Only the poor can afford to marry for love, my dear; we have more important things to worry about, like power and money. Even the middle-class marry to improve their options. At the end of the day, we’re all trying to escape poverty.’
The conversation shifted towards my work when Mrs Aluko asked how the project was going. I told her of the arrest. As promised, Soye had secured their release but Yusuf’s wife had been instructed to return to the headquarters for Islamiyya sessions for six months.
‘Why didn’t you inform me?’ Mrs Aluko asked.
‘I felt it was something Soye could handle. I didn’t want to bother you,’ I said.
‘You should have called me; it’s never a bother,’ she said with finality.
My eyes caught Yunusa’s across the room. He smiled and winked like we shared a joke. I laughed.
‘What’s so funny? Share the joke,’ Mrs Aluko said.
Enitan was still thinking about what I’d shared. ‘But isn’t the bride also a Muslim?’
‘Enitan, are you going to spend the evening asking questions?’ Mrs Aluko retorted, with a hint of exasperation she did not often show. ‘Rules are for the poor.’
Adelola called me the next day to say she’d seen my pictures on social media; she’d returned to school at the beginning of the new semester. ‘You looked so pretty, Mummy!’ Conversation had erupted online on the bride’s dress and the hypocrisy of the Hisbah police. Days later, it released a statement saying it was against religious tenets to criticise a leader publicly.
36
Sachet economics
Death came in the midst of chaos in early December that year.
‘Have you heard the news?’ Soye asked me. ‘Rabiu Harouna is dead,’ he said when I shook my head.
We turned on the television and scrolled quickly to a local news station. ‘BREAKING: FORMER GOVERNOR RABIU HAROUNA DEAD AT 85’ was emblazoned on the screen as the leading story. A reporter was saying he’d passed away in a hospital in London and they would have more details later. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen crawled by in brilliant yellow, the only byline that would matter for a while – ‘Breaking News: Elder statesman Rabiu Harouna passes. Nation in mourning.’
‘What sort of year is this? From one problem to another,’ Soye said. And I thought the human memory was as fickle as humans themselves. Just months before, we’d celebrated a victorious election cycle, and it had only been weeks since the senator’s son’s wedding, but a succession of unfavourable events was all it took to turn Soye’s perception of the year around.
An unlikely TV documentary broadcast in two parts in October and November had resurrected Kamsi’s case – ‘Sex for Grades’. Female journalists had gone undercover in academic institutions in Ghana and Nigeria to obtain proof of sexual harassment and assault endemic in the system. The ensuing online debate had caused a wide-reaching stir as calls for reckoning for the lecturers caught on camera came:
‘This has been going on for decades and nothing has been done about it. Women are not protected in our society,’ one person commented on a news site.
‘Nothing will change. Nothing ever changes,’ another said.
Then a single tweet that lit the embers:
The Police Command issued a statement saying it had concluded its investigations and the onus lay on the Ministry of Justice to act based on the investigative report, effectively laying the blame at the ministry’s feet. Forced to defend its delay in addressing the case, the Ministry of Justice released a statement that said prosecution would have to wait for the conclusion of internal due process.
Onomavwe called, unhappy. How could Soye have allowed the online discourse to escalate to such perilous levels? What had happened to the influencer farm that had won them the elections? Soye lamented about social media after that: how it had become a dangerous tool of expression and slander. I told him he’d loved social media when it had helped to get rid of the then incumbent president.
Then a US associate of Otunba Bankole was taken into custody by the FBI, facing criminal charges for conspiracy to launder money obtained from business email compromise fraud and other related scams. Within weeks, Otunba Bankole and a high-ranking member of the police force – a recent recipient of a national award – were labelled as persons of interest and declared wanted. Pictures surfaced online of Soye in Otunba’s company, and he was branded a fellow criminal. Soye read out one of the news site comments to me, his voice trembling: ‘A member of a state legislature! We’re truly a country run by criminals.’
The following morning, Soye issued a statement disassociating himself from all criminal activity, but the conversation had been started.
Otunba Bankole called Soye, screeching through the speaker phone at the highest decibel. ‘Adetesoye, what is the meaning of that nonsense statement? Are you calling me a criminal?! Ehn? Shey o ya werey ni? Have you gone mad? Iwo? After all I’ve done for you? Ah! O ma gba gbe? You’ve already forgotten? Is this how you treat your friends?’
