
“The man who lives by the gun surely dies by it.” — Captor Singh
CHIKE
The thick bundles of naira notes that were strewn on my bed that morning was the proof that the operation to Unity Bank, Lagos which I code-named “OPERATION UNITY” was successful. Unlike the other towns we had attacked, Ikorodu offered no resistance at all. We simply strolled in, shot a few bullets and walked out.
Mother was in the kitchen making beef stew from some of the money I realized. Of course she had no idea who I really was or what I did. I was invincible.
A man could only do what he could do, my father would always say. He would reconstruct this as occasion demanded. He was always penniless, and so I heard this a million times in my childhood days. When the school fees had not been paid, Pat, for that was my father’s name, would announce proudly, “A man would only do what he had to do.”
Payment of school fees to him was a responsibility of the mother and not his. When Mother would need “soup money” she would meet Pat.
“A man can only do what he can!” He would announce and give her some money.
The day Chinyere, my eldest sister, died of pneumonia and Pat was asked by an uncle of ours to get a coffin, he could say only the few practised words: “A man could only do what his hands allowed him to do.” I was eighteen then and sick of hearing him talk, so I flung myself at him and pushed him to the ground, pushing sand into his mouth. He did nothing. He could not do anything. He was a shameless man. Neighbors gathered around me and whisked my lean frame off him. He stood up, and like a re-energized wrestler he screamed, saliva spewing out of his mouth.
“You’re a shameless son, boy! A shameless son of mine. You beat up your father! Your mother won’t say anything. Isn’t she the one who spoilt you all? Useless people!” He sat on the pavement, his energy dissipating. “But what could I have done? A man can only do what he can. Nothing more!”I did not wait for the burial the next day. It was time to leave home. I ran off into the house, packed my few belongings and hit the road. The family was poor and somebody had to do something. I was going to be a man, but not the sort of man Pat was. Not the kind of man who watched his first daughter die and did nothing. I was going to be a man who could do anything. Anything.
I returned eight years later with my daughter Oluchi who was born out of wedlock four years earlier. It did not matter. Mother would understand. The important thing was that I had enough money to take care of everyone. Pat had died soon after Chinyere’s demise. Someone had poisoned his drink. His death was as shameful as his life had been. His stomach had swollen and hardened until cracks began to appear. He died two days later as there was no money to send him to the hospital. The news was saddening and painful even to me, but I feigned indifference to it. Everyone else, especially Mother was fine.
I could perceive the sweet aroma of Mother’s stew. I bought the beef, peppers and tomatoes myself. It was my favorite meal and I was going to enjoy it with my family. I locked the door so no one entered my room that morning. That size of money could drive my mother mad if she saw it lying there on my bed.
Yerima left two days before. Where he went to, I did not know, but considering the war spoils that lay willingly in my bed awaiting invasion, his return was not the best of ideas. I gave Sule and the other boys their own share of the booty the day before. A sufficient share I would call it, but Sule is so damn greedy. He returned that morning asking for more.
“How about the one I gave you yesterday?”
“You should understand. I have four wives and sixteen children.”
I did not care much about Sule. He was a police officer and the gang’s official spy. Sule had two primary functions: supply intel on police activities in areas we were going to invade, and help in getting our men who were too stupid or luckless to have been caught by the force out of detention. He was a short middle-aged Hausa man who walked in a manner that showed, to the uninitiated, that he was about to fall with each step he took. He would stagger to the left as he walked and remain in the bent position for some seconds before making another movement and staggering to the right. His walking style became more pronounced when he ran. This, alongside a long ugly scar that ran across the right side of his face which he claimed he had received from a bottle fight a long time ago became his distinguishing physical features. Deep within, however, Sule was a good man. He could keep our secrets. But I was not going to give him any more money. The dough that man got from drivers at his checkpoints daily was thrice the dough we gathered from OPERATION UNITY!
I lay in bed smoking my Benson. The money, like beautiful women, massaged my body, soul and spirit! Mohammed Ali, swinging his lithe legs from side to side in bursts of confidence, enjoying his moments of brutal glory. Life was good. A knock on the door interrupted me from my reveries. It was definitely Yerima. Bad timing it was. I strode to the door with nothing over my chest. I swung open the door. It was Oluchi.
“Your friend is outside. He said he wants to see you,” she said. I was a little apprehensive, but since my family knew my friends, I did not bother asking which of my friends it was.
“Okay, baby. Tell him to come inside.” She ran off. I packed the money and hid it in a bag, pushing the filled bag under my bed and lying on it. There was a knock on the door to which I requested the visitor to enter. I was not prepared at all for the question asked nor for the man himself.
“Is Chike in?” The man asked. He was on mufti, but I knew by experience that he was a policeman. I examined him from toe to head. Quite lanky but strong, I judged. He would prove a hard coconut to break if I made any move to escape. From his facial expression and the manner he stroke the gun tucked in his right trouser pocket, he did not come to eat doughnuts. This man meant business. It was apparent he knew who I was now. My family had inadvertently sold me out. It might not be too late to play a trick. They must have been told Chike was an illiterate thief, so I switched to clean English.
“He was here only a moment ago. He went to get something. I’m only his friend.” He entered the room and looked around casually.
“Did he go far?”
“Yes, sir. But he’d be back before nighttime.” I looked out of the window and discovered that there were about six more armed policemen all waiting for me.
“You’re Chike. This picture fits yours.”
In a millisecond, I made a dash outside, administering a heavy blow on the man with my elbow. He tactfully held down my foot with his right booted leg and shot at my thigh, pushing me immediately to a sitting position on the floor. Despite the agonizing pains, I still could hear the officers outside as they rushed in now. My name is Chike. I was not going to be captured like a rat. I made another trial to escape. The next round of bullets on that same thigh drove me to a world of excruciating torment.
“You are Chike, aren’t you?” He asked again. The question this time was more rhetorical than the first.
The next days went in rapid succession. I had apparently been drugged not to have known when my leg was being amputated and when I had confessed to everything I had done. If I say I remember, I would be lying. They strapped me onto a wheelchair and into a minivan.
“Where are we going to?” I asked the guard beside me.
“The court,” he said. “They ordered a quick trial,” he explained, emphasizing on the “quick” by snapping his thumb and middle finger twice. We arrived at the court. Click click click a hundred cameras went. I was a celebrity! Mike Tyson bouncing into the ring. I was led into the ring and I saw the faces looking on hatefully at me. In a moment the allegations began to pour in. Different people brought allegations over allegations. To my greatest horror, Sule and Yerima were also being tried. They had obviously been caught before me. The bruises on Yerima’s face and his dirty shirt made it crystal clear. Sule said all the lies and allegations against us. That this, that that…. His stupidity got to me.
“You’re a shameless liar!” I screamed. He stopped talking, turned to look at me and then faced the judge again as he continued blabbing away.
I reckoned they would let me go or at most let me do a prison sentence since I was a recent amputee. Hell NO! It was not going in that direction. When the bloated judge began his speech on how my name would forever remain in the history of crime and how no mother would name their child Chike, I had to expect the worst that came a few seconds later.
“In view of the crimes committed by these three men under trial today, it has been reached that the trio of Yerima Balogun, Sule Mohammed, and gang leader Chike ‘Alvine’ Okereke be sentenced to death.” He faced me. “They would be executed by the firing squad on the 12th of July, 1982.” He hit his mallet on the desk and I heard nothing more but my thoughts.
It was a cold Sunday morning. The guard brought a priest into my cell. He prayed for me and I surprisingly let him. It was the first prayer I had heard in a very long while and definitely the last. I was given food to eat. It tasted like paper. I yearned for my beef stew, but more than anything else, I yearned for my life which was about to be snatched away from me. But then was I not just like my Mohammed Ali? I was going to fight to the finish! A moment later, the guards came again and wheeled me out. Yerima, Sule the traitor and I were driven in separate vehicles to the bar beach. They did not tell us it was to be a public show. I almost shit in my pants but I remained resolute. That’s who I am! They arrived earlier and were already being tied to the stake. Yerima looked pale. I almost laughed at Sule. I could almost imagine him running away from his death with his staggering strides. I laughed loudly. The soldiers pulled me up. I held my leg in pain.
Despite the heavy dose of analgesic given to me, I still felt a throbbing pain there. They tied me up to a metal drum. I requested for a cigarette and the fools gave me one. I lit up and started to smoke out the tension that rocked my body. I felt more relaxed after that. I looked into the crowd and standing, her old body shivering in the early morning cold was Mother. She carried Oluchi, but I could not see her face as Mother buried her head to her bosom. I could not hold the tears welling up within. I shed them without constraint in that moment. Mother wept.
I thought of how miserable my death would make her. I remembered how she would dress us up for church every Sunday mornings and of how I would struggle to free myself from my Sunday suit which connoted five hours of interminable hymns and prayers, shouting and violent wagging of heads. My mind raced like a kaleidoscope spinning. It raced to the hunger days when Father would leave no money at home and mother would give us tiny morsels of bread to eat and would go hungry herself.
“I want more, mother,” Chinyere would whine.
“There is no more. It is finished. When your father comes, he would get you biscuit,” Mother would retort, her eyes filling with tears.
“But I want bread! I’m hungry.”
“Keep your mouth shut or you’d have no meal tonight when I cook.” And she would explode in tears. Chinyere and I would go out to play. I remembered everything and I pitied Mother. I should have done more for her. I should have done more for Oluchi. I pitied myself.
I threw away the butt and allowed them do their job. They covered my face with a black hood after I took a look, a final look at the world. I had a strong appreciation now for the darkening sky and the people staring fixedly at us from afar, and most of all the soldiers behind the great canon-like guns aiming straight at our hearts. I counted ten seconds.
I heard a scream. It did not come from anyone of us but from far away from the field. The words were inaudible, but I picked up a word. It was unmistakably a “STOP”. The person shouting was running and the shouts became clearer as he came towards us. The shouts now rang in front of us. He was certainly standing before the three of us now.
“Stop!” He said. “I just got a letter.” He was panting.
He continued, “It is from the Head of State. He wants them pardoned.”
“What?!” This was another person.
“The Head of State wants them pardoned. It is a good thing I came here before they were killed. It would have been my head on the gallows tomorrow.”
“But why? Why would he want them released?”
“Who spoke about release? They are obviously going in for a long time. He just doesn’t want them dead. It’s his birthday today, remember? I guess that’s his gift to them. Lucky, eh?”
“The bastard!”
A hand came over my head and pulled off the hood from my head. I could not tell if this was the one who brought the message or someone else, but I could see the hate burning in his eyes as he said, “It’s your lucky day. The Head of State doesn’t want your head.” He drew out a knife from a holster behind him and cut off the ropes that bound me. I fell to the ground. He went over to Yerima and I heard him saying the same thing he said to me.
“It’s your lucky day, boy.”