Stay polite if you must stay at all

You give up knocking with polite raps and pound hard. The rafters shake. A neighbour’s curtain shifts to the left and then rights itself. You don’t care enough to just walk away. You can hear the loud music indoors. Miserable teens with no consideration for others.

But think about it for a second.

It snowed every day since last month. The eaves are frozen with thick slabs of shiny white. The front steps are wet, and you could slip and turn an ankle.  You almost did turn both ankles shuffling through the snow to reach this house. You had felt like a hero for bringing the parcels. You imagined that they were important and might save a life. Head held high you had ploughed on. Your nose burning in the thin dry air, as red as your postal van.

You pound the door again.

And again.

And again.

Your anger and physical exertions put some warmth in your body. They encourage you in this madness. Then it hit you.


The music indoor stops. Someone opens the door. Screams. Curtains down the street shift to the left and the right and go up.

You can’t hear the gasps, the running feet or the emergency calls. You can’t see your bloodied head, or the indignity of you sprawled across the doorway. You can’t hear them say on the phones that you have been killed.

The police arrive. The investigators too. The coroner and his wagon on their heels. They do their thing - look around, examine you, and talk to everyone. No one saw how it happened but all had heard you plenty. The coroner is satisfied. He carts your body away.

People mill around, forgetting the cold for a while. They tweet and blog. One or two are distraught and ask for empathy from strangers on Facebook.

An officer stands beside the yellow caution tape. He kicks absently at one of the thousands of ice chips scattered where you’d lain. He forgets for a moment that this is what remains of the murder weapon – that great icicle that you had dislodged from the eaves when you pounded.

I will not be missed

I will not be missed
not in a crowd that hums, sways and grows,

I will not be missed
not for colour, nor drama, nor wealth.

I am not missed,
a distraction, a closing door, a memory,
something.

KICKING THE BUCKET

The sharp sound of iron buckets hitting the west wall startle me awake –the third time tonight.

Usually, I am amused by the short sporadic loud cheers of “Hurray!” that follow each bucket clang, but today my mood is sour, and I am irritable. I have had to soothe far too many troubled souls, counsel them, and walk them through their new routine. I do not relish the idea of staying awake the rest of the night, nursing the inevitable pounding that is now starting somewhere above my right eye.

But I should have expected the game to be played, and for a longer time too. I should not be annoyed, no, not with a tradition started long before the times of my father and his father. And certainly not when there are so many new members to introduce to it, so many who need to diffuse their shock with humour. I wish, as I always do, that I could find some of that humour for myself. That there could be something to cheer about.

“Hurray!” they cry again.

I sit wedged between clumps of roots. The white marble stone on which I rest my head relieves some tension in my head and neck. I flex the aching muscles in my arms and back. In the bright moonlight, black yawning gaps in the earth six feet away gape at me. I look at them dispassionately. Two holes left to fill up is good but that can wait till the early hours of the morning.

I must have dozed off because another clang and a series of short loud cheers wake me up again. “For God’s sake!” I mutter as I get to my feet, and forgetting my earlier thoughts, stalk angrily towards the West Wall.

The west wall is exactly what I call it. It separates a vast graveyard from residential blocks on the other side. The eight feet wall, like every good wall, is thick and impenetrable. It also has razor wires running along the upper ends. The wall keeps the residents from constant reminders of the grim reaper, maintains the solemnity and privacy of mourners, and most importantly, prevents intruders accessing the sacred grounds. It is no surprise then that I stop abruptly at the sight of two pale trembling men in the now suddenly quiet section of the graveyard.

The men shout and jump in fright when they see me. They cling to each other, two small parcels squashed between their thin frames. I move away from the shadows cast by overhead branches, and allow the bright light of the moon to fall on me. They can’t help but get a good view of my Bodija Cemetry uniform. And with wild grateful utterances, they move apart, and rush forward.

They are barely out of their teens, and dressed in black: black caps, black tight shirts tucked into black skinny trousers squeezed into black boots. Their eyes are white and wide, and I can’t tell whether they are good looking or not. One of them launches into some sort of speech.

“Something!” he says pointing a trembling finger in an indefinite direction. I cannot follow his wild gesticulations, and it makes me dizzy to try. “Something!” he says again, his face twisted with the horror of whatever that ‘something’ is.

The second one is more coherent. “We heard something,” he clarifies looking around as he waits to hear it again. But just as it happens in thrillers, the sound has stopped at the arrival of a third party. We listen but we hear nothing.

Why, I think exasperatedly, do people expect a graveyard to be quiet? Why - of course it’s a stupid question to ask, but not for me. I have been in this graveyard a long time, and one thing I have learnt is that things are not always as they seem.

The men shiver as though this pleasantly warm April evening was a cold harmattan morning.

“Do you still hear it?” I ask, making an effort to still my irritation and impatience with their additional interruption to my night.

My voice, instead of reassuring them, only makes them uneasy. They step away from me, and I’m afraid I understand why. My voice is raspy and hollow from disuse and it echoes eerily in the silent night.

“No,” the inarticulate one replies eventually. He reaches out and touches my hand. It is solid under his touch. His friend looks at him, and he drops his hand.

“No, we don’t hear it,” his friend says. He turns to look searchingly into the night. There are many dark places between the tombstones, with shadows cast by huge mango trees distributed unevenly along the wide expanse of the land.

I take a closer look at my visitors, and understanding dawns on me. There is no doubt that I am really tired tonight and something that should  leap to the eye has taken me several minutes to see. I ease down my irritation, and as I have trained myself over the years, I become ready to be gracious in every way.

It is easy  because I know their type very well. As a wild young man, I had scratches such as those on their faces, and I lied every time inquiries were made about them. I would say a rejected lover scratched me with her  manicured nails. But the truth was that the branches of trees in the green bounteous fields beyond my father’s land had slapped my face and shoulders as I ran from their angry owner.

The men are nervous, ready to bolt at the sound of ‘something’. I wonder what they would say if I ask about the tears in their shirts, and trouser legs. I wonder if they would allow me to look into the stained parcels held so tightly in their arms.

“So, what are you doing here?” I ask.

“Passing,” the answer is barked at me sharply.

“We are just passing through,” the other says in a friendlier tone. He gives his friend a cautious look. He gets a nervous nod in response.

Of course they are passing through, what else would they be doing? The entrance and exit gates to the graveyard are both good fifteen kilometers to the north of where we stand. Passing through isn't how I would describe what they are doing.

“Ayo, Kola,” the incoherent one says in his staccato manner of speaking.

“My name is Ayo,” the other says. “And this is Kola.”

Kola nods nervously.

I do not introduce myself but instead offer to guide them out of the graveyard. They accept too readily. They want to get out. They want to find the exit gate. They want to return home. 

There is a home to return to.

And as we begin our walk, Ayo stays beside me, and Kola stays close at his heels. I am conscious of every turn of their heads, and of their startled movements when the night animals scurry around.

Ayo says without Kola’s inarticulate promptings. “How do you do it?” and then clarifies “I mean … how do you stay here in the graveyard at night without being afraid?”

Penance is the word that comes to my mind, but he will not understand. “Do you think it will be easier to stay here during the day?” I say instead.

“I should think so, yes!” Ayo replies earnestly. “It would be creepy no doubt.” He shivers. “But a lot less so.”

“But what are you afraid of?” I ask. “Creepy sounds that seem to come from the bowels of hell? Or dead men who might be walking around?”

Kola’s eyes bulge out at my words. He misses a step and stares at the ground with alarm. I am not sure which could be worse; the reality of his fears or the fear itself.

“One shouldn’t joke about these things,” Ayo says disapprovingly. “I’ve heard things…” he whispers in the confidential tone of one about to let out dark and haunting secrets.

“Don’t!” Kola implores.

Ayo frowns. The words are on the tip of his tongue. He struggles for a few seconds not to drop them, and succeeds.  

We continue our walk in silence and they watch warily as heavy clouds sail overhead obscuring the moon. The darkness of the night becomes complete.

They follow me closely, trusting what they judge correctly to be my years of experience in the graveyard.

“Where have you been tonight?” I ask finally, breaking the thick silence.

Kola and Ayo exchange looks. Ayo shrugs and looks away. He probably figures that it is of no consequence what secrets they let out to someone like me.

“The Estate” Kola answers, his voice dripping with pride.

“We raided Aminu Estate,” Ayo says importantly.

“Just two of you?” I ask with the right tone of incredulity. “Just the two of you… in that Estate?”

Aminu Estate is renowned for its beautiful homes. Its wealthy and influential residents invest in security gadgets costing millions of naira each year. Video surveillance, hidden cameras, motion detectors with GPS systems, and a number of wild ferocious dogs are somewhere on the list. I should know about it. Around me lie the remains of ordinary thieves who did not know what to watch out for in order to successfully rob the estate.

Perhaps I have underestimated Ayo and Kola. Perhaps I have presumptuously classed them among men who run wild in green fields next to their father’s land.

“There were more of us,” Ayo says quietly, a strange tension underlining his words. “We got separated from them and don’t know where they are.”

In the dark I see Kola look at me uneasily. I return his look but do not confirm his fears.

“We were to meet at our hide-out, but they didn't show up. After all our planning, all our hard work, they didn’t show up!” Ayo says. “We waited for a few hours but the police officers came, somehow they had tracked us. The whole place turned into a mini war zone, and when we ran out of ammunitions, we ran away.”

“And we came here,” Kola says his first almost complete sentence.

I allow a pause. “But do you know why you came here?” I ask.

“Why we came here?” Ayo says. “What do you mean why we came here?” He stops walking abruptly and stares at me.

“Ayo…” Kola says. He is trembling.

“Are we close to the gate?” Ayo demands but I do not answer him. He looks around him suspiciously, he can’t see much but he suspects rightly that there is no exit gate in sight. “Where is the damn gate?” I can hear the panic in his angry voice.

“The sound we heard earlier” Kola says trembling “What was it? What was it?”

“Where is the damn gate?” Ayo shouts.

“It’s a game” I say turning to Kola, and ignoring Ayo. “A game that will amuse you.”

“For God’s sake!” Ayo snaps glaring at Kola as the moon appears overhead. We can now see each other clearly.

We can also see that there are no gates next to us save the little decorative gates around the tombs and they don’t count, at least not to Ayo.

“I saw the blood,” Kola says quietly but bravely. He drops his parcel to the ground. It is heavily stained, and lands with a definite thud. His hand goes to a tear in his shirt. He looks at me so I nod gently.

“I know,” I say.

“Kola shut up!” Ayo says hysterically. “We are getting the hell out of here now! Right now!”  He is agitated. He looks around desperately and then turns to me. “Now look here old man, we don’t want any trouble, just show us the way out of this goddamn place!”

 I don’t look away from Kola as the clouds clear away completely. Ayo turns and sees a path that could only be the way out. He stands still as though struck. “Kola,” is all he says.

Kola does not respond. The wildness and fear are leaving his eyes. There is peace in his face. He looks suddenly handsome and terribly young.

“Kola,” Ayo says more urgently.

I realise with sudden empathy that for all his bravado, Ayo will not leave without his friend.

“Ayo said it was nothing,” Kola said looking at a spot just beyond the place I had laid dozing. He is getting more coherent as he accepts the situation. “When it stopped hurting I knew.”

“Yes,” I say. Kola will be the hero in this saga, no doubt.

“Are the others here?” Kola asks looking around at the evidence of my labours. The fresh earth, plot after plot, smoothed over with a strong rake. 

Ayo sits on the ground. He drops his own parcel and starts to weep, holding his head. He knows he will not see the exit gates.

“They were kicking the buckets, making the sounds you heard,” I say to him.

We both turn towards the direction we had come from, where they had heard the noise. Kola follows my eyes as I turn and look at the holes in the ground. We are silent for a while, the only sound we hear is that of Ayo weeping.

Kola goes to Ayo. He grasps his hands and pulls him up. He holds him close for a second or two, and then turns him gently towards the yawning holes.

“Come lie down Ayo,” He says kindly to him as he walks him towards the holes. “It is over now.” He pauses and looks back at me with a smile. “He has brought us ... to the exit gate.”

I look away as the weeping fades. I must accept one thing tonight; there will be no sleep for me. Not because more buckets will be kicked against the wall, as surely they will, and not because the cheers will be loud; perhaps even louder than usual, but because someone else has found a way home.

I remain here.

What does Ithaca mean?

Moji to me

You get to eventually understand the poem towards the middle. Where it encourages and admonishes one not to hurry at whatever part of the journey you find yourself but to take time get a few things, equip yourself with what that level or stage has to offer!! But all the long names could get u a bit confused at first. lol… But I took something from it…Tthe probing question however is where exactly is or how does one define one's personal ithaca?? Or is it just your journey through life generally?

Well I guess that's for you to clarify in your next write-up

My thoughts:

I believe that each person gets to define his or her own Ithaca, only it must be something worth living for. One of my friends thinks Ithaca is death and there are reasons to agree with him and also reasons not to such as:

Reasons to agree that Ithaca does not mean death:

1. No one can decide when they will die unless they commit suicide.
2. The general tone of the poem indicates a higher pursuit than reaching the moment of death. For instance why talk about the monsters and dragons in your heart that can stop you achieving what you set out to do?

Reasons to agree that Ithaca means death:

1. 'Pray that the road is long' - this could mean that one can get to Ithaca in a very short time. It could mean that one can die anytime, so it’s best to pray for long life.
2. My number 2 argument for why Ithaca cannot mean death goes out here - One can get the sense that the writer is admonishing that one should set out on a purposeful journey while one is alive, gaining wisdom, giving love (sensual perfume- something that disperses in the wind), investing in things that will last (mother-of-pearl, coral) and in the process become rich in soul, body and spirit. By the time you get to Ithaca-death- (in old age- if the road is long), you don’t expect death to give you any of these things because you have achieved them while you are alive. And we all know that in death, we leave things and not take away. So if ‘we find her poor’ we will not be disappointed.
3. Also, it could be a poem that is encouraging people to get to the moment of death having lived a fulfilled life than none at all.

But I still think that Ithaca does not have to mean death. Most people live mechanical lives that have no meaning whatsoever. They go through the rituals of the day with nothing driving them. Some are desperate for meaning but others just float along. To me, Ithaca can be anything that brings you out of that stupor and puts a bounce to your strides (of course there’ll be days your steps will lag). It can be anything that makes you conquer your own fears (the monsters- fierce Poseidon etc), that makes you enrich your spirit, soul and body, something that inspires you to go outside your comfort zone (enter ports seen for the first time), something that you want to spend your life trying to achieve.

Finding his voice as a poet is what Constantine Cavafy, the poem's author, spent most of his life trying to achieve. Something he did not achieve till after he was 40 yrs. He called himself  'poet of old age', and when he died at seventy, he predicted that his works would be better appreciated after his death because his poems, based on his journey were ahead of their time. And you can bet that he travelled a lot and studied under different scholars etc.

When we finally get to a point in our life where we feel that we have achieved our objective (Mandela?) We would not expect that point to add or take away from our life’s work. We would be at rest. I think that the peace that will be in our heart could be our Ithaca, especially as it will not ask anything of us and we will not ask anything of it. And then when death comes eventually – those who find us will understand the meaning behind the smile on our lips.

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,

Pray that the road is long,

full of adventure, full of knowledge.

The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,

The angry Poseidon – do not fear them:

You will never find such as this on your path

If your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine emotion touches

your spirit and body.

The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,

The fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,

if you do not carry them within your soul,

if your heart does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.

That the summer mornings are many, when,

with such pleasure, with such joy

you will enter ports seen for the first time;

stop at Phoenician markets,

and purchase fine merchandise,

mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

and sensual perfumes of all kinds,

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

visit many Egyptian cities,

to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

But do not hurry the voyage at all.

It is better to let it last for many years;

and to anchor at the Island when you are old,

rich with all you have gained on the way,

not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.

Without her you would never have set out on the road.

She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

wise as you have become with so much experience,

You must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Constantine Cavafy (1863 - 1933)

Translated by Rae Dalven

My first post in 2011 is a poem that means a lot to me and I suspect it will mean something to each person that reads it. We are all on a journey somewhere, defining the end with each step we take to achieve it. Constantine Cavafy wisely points out what we have all found out at one time or the other; that the process of the journey, the anticipation, the travails and joys are always sweeter than the destination itself. And perhaps that is why everytime we arrive -seemingly- at one destination, we begin to plan for the next.

I wish everyone on the great journey to Ithaca good wishes, and I pray the road will be very long. As the french will say Bon voyage et bonne chance!

The man who can't be caught (Short Story)

“The man who can’t make up his mind” my niece said startling me.

She had been standing quietly by the window for almost half an hour and I had forgotten that she was in the room. I looked up from the sketch I was drawing and smiled in her direction.

I adore my eleven year old niece and usually find her one-line labels amusing and disconcertingly accurate. Take for example, the case of our neighborhood butcher who had a thriving business till last week. At the market square, weeks before the incident, Temitade pointed a skinny finger in his direction and said in her usual dry tone ‘the sac under the table man’. The label proved true because the butcher was thrown out of the square last week when it was discovered that while chopping meat into smaller bits for his customers, he would furtively drop some pieces into a bag he kept under his table.

I was curious to see who the ‘man who can’t make up his mind’ was, so I got up and walked to stand beside Temitade. Temitade is unusually tall for her age and at five feet one inch, her head stands at my waist. She pointed at a white Toyota Camry driving up the road. It was circling an abandoned building on the other side of the street. From my flat which is situated on the topmost floor of a four storey-house, we have an unimpeded view of the driver’s activities.

"That’s the fifth time he’s gone around the building,” Temitade said. The building she referred to is empty, left in a terrible state of disrepair by its owners for two years. The fence around it is also broken in places, and parts of the house and its grounds have been overtaken by weeds. Recently, the property has been popular for one other thing -

“Isn’t that the property with that awful smell?” I asked, adding hopefully. “Maybe he is surveying it to buy.”

Temitade shook her head and said, “He slows down at the gate, looks inside and continues driving,” then she exclaimed, “Can you see what I mean? He’s doing it again.”

We watched as the driver slowed the car down at the gate “I wonder what he’s looking for.”

“Maybe the lady and the little boy who are in the building,” Temitade said.

I stopped looking at the car and frowned at Temitade. “What lady and little boy?” I asked sharply.

Temitade shrugged “I saw them in the building” she said unhelpfully

“Nobody in their right mind would go into that property,” I said outraged “that building can collapse at any time.”

Temitade didn’t say anything and we continued watching the car. I watched the building as well for any signs of movement.

Finally I asked “Have you seen the lady and the boy before today?”

Temitade looked pensive “Yes, some weeks ag,o” she said slowly “The day you forgot I was staying over.”

I smiled wryly; she would never let me forget that. On that fateful day, I returned home about 2am and found her asleep in my bed. I had forgotten that I invited her to sleep over. Instead of calling her father, my perfect and annoying brother to pick her up, my ingenious niece persuaded a carpenter to break down my door.

“Was that before or after your fight with me?” I teased her, knowing full well that the ‘fight’ started three days after the incident.

She gave me a superior look and said “I didn’t fight with you, I chose not to speak with you and that was three days after Uncle Timothy was buried”

A dark look appeared on Temitade’s face as she said the words. I thought I could understand why. Uncle Timothy’s death had being her first brush with the dark spectral being and even for older folks the experience isn’t easy at all. I can still see her pinched face at the funeral when they lifted the coffin lid. She looked thoroughly shocked and ran from the room. It took a lot of persuasion from her father before she would come out of her room. I was surprised that she didn’t speak to me for days. I still get uneasy when I think about it. Why did she choose not to speak to me? I didn’t force her to go for the funeral, matter of fact, her father and I disagreed strongly about her presence at the funeral. I felt that he should know better, being a medical doctor and all that.

“There he goes again” Temitade said, her interest returning to the car

“There’s something fishy going on” I said inadequately

“Maybe you should call the police” Temitade suggested

I nodded thoughtfully “Maybe I should” I said but made no move to do so.

Temitade walked to my desk and picked up my phone, she handed it to me and rattled off some numbers “those are the police emergency numbers that my dad gave me” she explained

I rolled my eyes and she giggled. It is common knowledge that apart from our mutual love for his daughter, my older brother and I have nothing else we agree on. For instance, if I had a daughter I would not leave her at my brother’s for the weekend and arm her with emergency numbers. I would show some trust.

I dialed one of the numbers and an officer picked on the first ring. I explained to the Police officer that we had a prowler in the neighborhood whose activities I felt required a closer look. The officer assured me that there were officers on patrol close by who could be at the location in question in two minutes. I gave a detailed description of the neighborhood and the prowler and hung up. My civic duty done, I looked out of the window and noted with satisfaction that the Toyota Camry had stopped opposite the gate of the house. The driver was sitting duck, and the hunters were on their way.

Asking Temitade to stay in the room and ignoring her pout, I ran downstairs and arrived at the house almost the same time the officers arrived in a black beat up van.

The van packed beside the car and four Police officers dismounted and surrounded it in the most intimidating manner.

The driver of the Toyota Camry got out of the car with a confused look on his face. He was a tall, thin man with a good looking face. He did not look like my idea of a dangerous criminal and I sighed with disappointment “Good afternoon officers” he said “Is there any problem?”

“What is your business here?” one of the officers demanded. I looked at his name tag, it read M.A Yinusa. Officer Yinusa was obviously the senior officer here and by his tone, he didn’t share my view about what criminals looked like. In his line of business everybody was probably a criminal until he could prove otherwise

“I was looking.........” the man’s voice faltered, he looked at the faces around him and suddenly realized that a crowd was gathering around him. “Why do you ask Sir?” he said cautiously.

“We had a call about your activities, they were reported as being suspicious” Officer Yinusa said

“Someone called you about me?” the man asked with disbelief

“I called” I said suddenly from among a growing crowd of curious people. Everyone looked at me and I added by way of explanation “You drove around this building almost fifteen times” I noticed that several people from the crowd nodded in assent.

“So, what is your business here?” Officer Yinusa asked again

“My name is Toye Odu” the man said “I got a call form an unknown person that my wife and son are in this place”

His words were so unexpected that we all stared at him. The officers looked at the abandoned building “Is this where the smell is coming from?” one of them asked looking at me and I nodded “Why would your wife and son go in there?”

“I don’t know” Toye Odu said and suddenly he broke into tears, his thin shoulders shaking “I have not seen them for over a month. They were attacked at gun point on the third mainland bridge and their attacker drove away with them. There are police records to support this at the Panti Police Station. We’ve been looking for them everywhere”

There was an uneasy silence as we all looked at Toye Odu and then at the building.

“Why are we still standing here? Let’s go inside and check!” Officer Yinusa barked suddenly “You!” he pointed to the man and then pointed at me “And you! Come with us”

They all dashed into the building, and I reluctantly followed. The awful smell hit us afresh as we stepped in through the gate and we all gagged. Yet we continued into the building. We had to run through walls of grasses and swarms of flies. It was not the way I would have chosen to spend my afternoon.

Suddenly, one of the officers shouted and we all rushed forward eagerly. We could tell that he had found something momentous.

Apparently, it was also something so terrible that it made the man called Toye Odu scream in agony.

I heaved my guts out when I saw the discovery. Temitade and her one-liners! I blamed her terribly for putting me through this experience.

The remains of a woman in what must have being a white gown and a young boy in black shirt and trouser lay on the floor of one of the rooms in the building. They must have been there for a while. Their bodies were barely recognisable due to decomposition and the ravages of animals. This then was the origin of the smell.

“Arrest this man!” Officer Yinusa shouted with anger pointing at Toye Odu who until that minute had been staring at the bodies with stark disbelief, his hands clutching his head

“But why?” Toye Odu cried “This is my family!”

“Nobody could have seen them here! These corpses must have been here for at least a month!” Officer Yinusa fumed

“But....But someone called me that they saw them” Toye Odu stammered “I don’t know how it happened and I don’t know who called me!”

I cannot understand even till now what emotions ran through me as I watched the man defend himself. It might have being sympathy, but whatever it was, I found myself saying “My niece told me earlier that she saw a woman and a boy in here”

The officers looked at me with suspicion, and Toye Odu looked at me as though he was seeing me for the first time. He probably was.

“Why didn’t you say this earlier?” Officer Yinusa asked suspiciously

“I didn’t think it was necessary till we saw this” I said defensively

“Where is your niece and when did she see this woman and boy in this place?” Officer Yinusa questioned

I replied reluctantly “I don’t know if it was this woman and this boy, but she saw them about thirty minutes ago from my place which is some houses away”

“Can we see your niece?” Toye Odu asked eagerly

I hesitated “She’s waiting for me in the house”

Officer Yinusa, Toye Odu and one of the officers followed me to my flat. The crowd on the street watched us with curiosity. I could hear them whispering, giving their own interpretations of events. I felt the sweat run down my back. I should have kept my mouth shut, I thought

When we entered my flat, Temitade was still standing by the window. I looked nervously at my desk and noted that the sketch I was drawing earlier was gone. The desktop was empty.

Temitade met my eye and said mysteriously “The man who can’t be caught”

I was not in the mood to ask her what she meant by that. It couldn’t be anything good anyway, and one label was enough for one day. She would explain this one another day.

“These gentlemen are here to ask you some questions” I said

“About the car or about the woman and the boy?” Temitade said in her dry way.

“Did you see a woman and a boy” Toye Odu asked excitedly

“Dont lead the witness on!” Officer Yinusa said sharply. He asked Temitade to sit down and sat opposite her.

“What is your name and how old are you?” he asked

“Temitade Ojo,” Temitade replied. “I am eleven.”

Officer Yinusa looked at Temitade’s tall but thin form and glanced at me “Is this man your father?” Officer Yinusa asked pointing at me

I expected Temitade to giggle but she didn’t, she looked at me with accusing eyes and looked away “I am his niece” She said

Officer Yinusa nodded. “Tell us what you saw earlier today.”

Temitade narrated how she saw a woman and a boy in the building and noticed a Toyota Camry circling the property.

“Can you describe what the woman and the boy wore?” Officer Yinusa asked

Temitade nodded “The woman wore a white gown and the boy wore black shirt and trouser with red socks. He wore no shoes.”

Officer Yinusa didn’t say anything for a while. He looked around my room as though for answers. Then he looked back at Temitade “Have you seen this woman and boy before today?”

Temitade surprised them by nodding, but surprised me even more with her words “I saw them some weeks ago late in the night,” she said. “Someone brought them to the house in a car. They seemed to be asleep.”

“Did you see the person who brought them?” Toye Odu asked agitated

Temitade hesitated, she looked at me and then at Officer Yinusa “I didn’t see his face,” she said.

The officers and Toye Odu had a lot of questions but they couldn’t get more than that out of Temitade. She had no further information to give. After almost half an hour, they took their leave. The mystery of the phone call to Toye Odu remained unsolved amongst other things.

Temitade and I watched through the window as more cars arrived at the abandoned property- more Police officers, a few reporters and a medical personnel or two. The bodies were taken away in an ambulance and Toye Odu’s Toyota Camry followed the ambulance. We continued watching till all the cars drove away. Then the crowd dispersed and eventually night fell and everywhere became as silent as the occupants in my room.

“How much do you know?” I asked finally

“About you being my real father? Or about the man who placed the bodies in the building? Or about the sketch of the bank that is situated two blocks from my parent’s home?” Temitade asked dryly

“I’m not your father,” I protested.

“Yes you are,” Temitade said with conviction. She really was a most unusual child, I thought with irritation. “I’m the only person in the world that you care about, and besides there must be a reason why my mum hates you so much.”

“Your mum isn’t the most loving person in the world,” I said. “She hates quite a number of people.”

Temitade didn’t look convinced. “She hates you especially,” she said and added “don’t try to deny it, I've known for a long time”

We were quiet for a few minutes. I tried to remember if there had been any hint from Temitade about this knowledge.

“The sketch” I hesitated “The sketch is just another drawing; you know how much I love to draw. I mean, I’m an artist after all.”

“You drew a sketch of Monique Jewellery store and two days later it was robbed,” Temitade said uncompromisingly. “And the Modas Antique store that lost that priceless vase? I saw the sketch on your desk; it had the vase showing on one side.”

I cracked my knuckles nervously.

“The man who placed the bodies in the building?” I asked nervously

“It was you,” Temitade said quietly

I took a deep breath and it hurt my insides

“I saw you in the moonlight,” Temitade continued in a quiet voice. “It was the day that you forgot that I was staying over. I looked out of the window and I saw you. I didn’t know then that they were dead, I thought they were asleep.”

“So why didn’t you tell the Police that I was the man who put the bodies there” I asked.

Temitade replied slowly. “I thought they were asleep when I saw them that night. But it was the same look on Uncle Timothy’s face when they opened his coffin. That was when I knew that the woman and the boy were dead.”

“That is why you didn’t talk to me,” I clarified

“Yes,” Temitade said nodding

“But why did you lie to the Police man,” I insisted

Temitade looked at me and her eyes seemed to glow in the dark. “It wouldn’t have being the truth because I know you didn’t kill them,” Temitade said. “You see, you are not that type of criminal. You wouldn’t hurt anyone that way.”

I should have being offended but instead relief flooded through me

“I stole the car as a get-away,” I confessed. “Imagine my shock to find dead people inside.”

Temitade nodded. “You called the man, didn’t you?” She asked

“I couldn’t help it,” I said. “A man has the right to know where his family is.” I tried to see Temitade’s face in the dark. “And you didn’t really see the woman and the boy earlier today, did you?”

“No,” Temitade said “I only said it to see what you would do.”

We sat in the dark for a couple of minutes without speaking “I’m not your father” I tried again

“Yes you are,” Temitade said happily “but dont worry, I won’t tell dad anything.”

I knew she wouldn’t tell my brother, but it didn’t make me feel better. It was much easier to think of Temitade as a niece.

After a few more minutes of silence, Temitade squeezed my hand and said “The man who can’t be caught”

The labels usually make me smile but this time it didn’t, it only brought relief.

Paddle your own Canoe

If my backyard reeks

of onion and cow dung manure,
And my coal pot remains black
days and days without end,
Who are you to point it out to me?
My critic, I say; paddle your own canoe

Why do you never stop looking?
Never stop having opinions?
Never stop being right?
Always eternally correct?
Just paddle your own canoe, please paddle on

When I was young
my nose was a good foot long
My mother chopped it with a meat knife,
Putting me in a long wooden canoe, out in the open sea
She handed me the cut nose
and said; “now go on……….paddle your own canoe”