Ajie would later feel this was a presage to Paul’s disappearance, a sort of rehearsal they had been at all along. That each time they said it to Paul, they were alluding to his eventual disappearance. The time indeed would come when they would look over to his empty bed to poke a finger in the mattress, to ask the question with eyes, not words, and still be left with nothing.
Ifiemi, whenever she didn’t follow any of Bendic’s sentences, simply let her fingers hover above the keys, and Bendic, not hearing the click-clack, would look at her and then repeat the last sentence, adding emphasis, although the sentence itself would have changed — in detail, not in essence.
To His Excellency, Colonel Dauda Musa Komo, Military Administrator of Rivers State
REQUEST FOR INTERVENTION IN THE IMPENDING CRISIS IN OGIBAH COMMUNITY
Your Excellency,
Paul had salvaged one of the discarded drafts from the dustbin; he spread it out.
There was also a letter for the Divisional Police Office (DPO) at Ahoada.
This was not the first time Bendic was taking up matters with the authorities. Once he had taken the federal government to court. That was a story his children all knew to its finest details, even though none of them had been born at the time. There had been an explosion in an oil well near the farmlands in Ogibah, which left the area ankle-deep in crude oil, pervaded with the stench of rotten fish floating belly-up in the ponds, so Bendic took the government of the Federal Republic of Nigeria to court.
The Land Use Decree of 1978 that would make all previous landowners mere tenants of the state was still six years away. It would allow you to farm on your ancestral land and bury your dead, but should anything of value be found, your tenancy would lapse and how you were dealt with was entirely up to the government of the day.
In any case, after the explosions in Ogibah, Bendic sued the government, and the case slowly wound through the courts for two years, and then a verdict was delivered. Bendic lost. The story of the court proceedings had become something of a legend in Ogibah. Bendic stood as his own counsel after he fired his lawyer a few hours before the fourth court session, when it became clear that the lawyer had been bribed like the other one before him.
On that day, March 7, 1974, at ten A.M., Benson Ikpe, the counsel representing the federal government, rose in front of the high court to argue the government’s position in the matter of Benedict Awari Utu & Ogibah Community vs. Federal Government of Nigeria.
Those present in the court said Bendic spoke for so long that his voice got dry and hoarse and the judge asked for a glass of water to be brought.
This was the part of the story Ajie liked best. He would imagine the courtroom. Where would Bendic be standing, being both counsel and plaintiff? In the witness box? The courtroom had a considerable number of Ogibah people. There were more than a handful who had never gone further than Elele before the start of this case months ago, but here they were in the serene expanse of Station Road in Port Harcourt, disgruntled but firm in their belief that justice would prevail. There were other people in the court: lawyers, all in black robes, adjusting their blond wigs to a cocky angle, their twig collars flapping out like gills. Representatives from Company sat in a single row in smart suits and spectacles — Ajie didn’t imagine them turning up in coveralls, jungle boots, and hard hats. Some had been flown in from their main offices in Europe.
There was a court clerk as well, and orderlies with severe faces, in navy blue polyester uniforms, their shoes old but well blackened and shined. Over the sea of heads, benches, and wooden partitions sat the judge, chief goon, master of ceremonies. There was something celestial about the array.
Bendic was standing in the witness box. Sheaves and sheaves of documentary evidence he had amassed had been laid carefully in front of him. Photographs of swamplands and ponds covered in grease, ruined cassava farms burned to frazzle. When Bendic answered the questions he was asked, Ogibah heads nodded, and their hearts sighed in affirmation of the details of the disaster. Bendic spoke till his throat got hoarse, and Chief Goon sent an orderly for a glass of water. At this point, as the story went, clapping erupted among the Ogibah people in the courtroom; it could not be helped. Their man had spoken at such great length that water had to be brought for him. Chief Goon banged his gavel many times to calm the court and warned the people very seriously not to interrupt his court session again, else he would have no qualms holding the lot of them in contempt.
Of course, on the day the verdict was delivered, when Chief Goon put down the gavel for the final time, it was to rule against Bendic and Ogibah.
Mboy ka Israel was detained in court that day because he stood up, just before the judge finished reading out the verdict; he pointed at the judge and yelled, “You are a liar, and a thief! Agbra awe eya! Blind devil.”
Ajie let the click-clack of Ifiemi’s urgent fingers on the typewriter keys into his afternoon reverie. There was the sudden yet expected sweep of the carriage at intervals. The carriage return bell, the brisk rolling in of fresh paper. He thought about Israel’s son, Mboy, who was held in the court jail for one night and didn’t make it with the others on the bus back to Ogibah that evening. Ajie thought of the judge; he tried but couldn’t muster hatred for him: At least he had the decency to allow a glass of water to be brought for a man who really needed it. But Ajie sensed his small feelings of gratitude to the judge were misguided. He would ask Paul what he thought. He counted on Paul’s perspective to steer him in the right direction and maybe ignite some indignation in him.
Marcus and Paul were sent off with the letters in the morning, and Paul sat in the passenger seat with the letters on his lap as they headed for the Rivers State Government secretariat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next day was a Sunday. Everyone was tired from staying up last night and didn’t appreciate Ma banging on their doors at five-thirty.
“Paul, wake up, wake your brother!”
“Ajie!” Paul hissed and rolled over on his bed but did not get up. “Are you there?”
Ajie stretched and yawned, then got up slowly, feeling a little giddy from the already violent start of the day. There was no smell of frying onions and yam chips in the air, or of scrambled eggs with diced tomatoes. It seemed unfair to have to rush down a slice of bread and tea on a Sunday morning. It was like a reprise from term time: the hassle of school rising bells, running to the dining hall with plate in hand, dorm inspections, standing next to his bunk with the mattress dressed in white sheets while waiting for the incoherent housemaster, Mr. Ubani, to saunter through, randomly asking to see fingernails and teeth before running a finger across the top of lockers for dust.
“Get up for morning devotion.” Ma’s voice came from the passage, and Ajie could hear Bibi shut the door to her room as she made her way to the parlor. Paul was by the door, and Ajie got up and followed as they went to sit in the parlor.
Bendic did not join them for morning devotion. He stayed in bed a little longer than usual on Sundays, and Ma said it was important for their father to rest.
Bibi perched on the edge of her seat, her sleeping wrapper draped loosely around her from the neck down. The reading was from the Book of Genesis. Paul read the verses with his eyes half open; his voice had morning cobwebs in it.