The Other Side of Truth Read online

  Uncle Tunde insisted on going by himself. Under no circumstances was Papa to leave the house. Papa and the children were also to keep away from the front yard. It was unlikely the gunmen would return with so many people around, but who could be sure? Everything was so unreal, including Uncle Tunde—always the cautious lawyer—setting out on a mission to acquire false passports that could take them out of the country.

  “But I have to tell Kole. He’s my best friend,” Femi complained to Sade after Uncle Tunde had driven off. They were alone in the back compound, standing between the lofty pawpaw trees that Femi used for one of his goals. At the far end of the yard, two flaming forest trees formed the opposite goal under an umbrella of fiery red flowers. Kicking a pebble toward a clump of lemon grass, Femi raised a small spray of dust.

  ‘You can’t! Don’t you understand what Uncle Tunde said?”

  “But Kole can keep a secret!”

  “Look, even Mama Buki doesn’t know yet. If Uncle Tunde gets caught he’s in big trouble. You heard him.”

  “I don’t want to go to London,” Femi whined.

  Sade sighed. She was trying hard not to let herself think too much. After those great sobs had subsided earlier, her mind had become almost numb. Everything was happening too quickly. She did not want to hear Femi’s complaints because she did not dare let herself think about everyone and everything she would have to leave. It was too much. She ached to hear Mama’s voice calling them, to see Mama appear at the back door with her warm smile and welcoming eyes. Mama who would reassure them when they were sad or frightened. Mama who would remain calm and upright even that time when the police took Papa away.

  “Come to the kitchen,” Sade said abruptly although she did not feel like eating. “I’m sure Mama Buki is making something.”

  Femi scowled and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Leave me alone.”

  When Uncle Tunde returned some hours later in the afternoon, he headed straight for the study with their father. A few minutes later, he invited in the children.

  “I’ve told your father that it’s going to take a little time to get him a good passport. It will also be safer if he travels on his own.” Uncle Tunde gazed down at his gold-rimmed spectacles dangling from his right thumb and finger. He seemed to be thinking about how to continue.

  “However, by God’s grace, there is a lady going to London who is prepared to take you as her children.”

  Sade and Femi stared, not understanding.

  “Her name is Mrs. Bankole. She has a British passport with a girl and boy on it—just the right ages for you both—but they aren’t traveling with her. She has agreed to say you are her children—and also to take you to your Uncle Dele.”

  Uncle Tunde was expecting them to go along with a lie! Both children turned anxiously to Papa.

  “But she’s not our mother!” Femi’s face was contorted.

  Their father closed his eyes. When they opened, they wavered unsteadily, as if hurt by the light.

  “Of course I want us to travel together,” he began. “But these people your uncle met know much more than I do about this”—he hesitated, looking from Femi to Sade—” this business of getting out of the country. And the main thing—the most important thing—is that we all end up safely together in London. We can’t afford to miss this chance to get you out safely.”

  “We don’t have much choice—and we certainly don’t have much time.” Uncle Tunde no longer hid his agitation. “I was told it is usually very hard to get the right passport for a child—and here we have the chance to get the two of you out together! You must realize that we are only doing this because those people who killed your dear mama will stop at nothing!”

  Sade bit her lip. She and Femi were already swinging as loosely as Uncle Tunde’s glasses.

  “So when do we have to go?”

  Uncle Tunde and Papa glanced at each other to see who would answer.

  “Tonight,” their father said very quietly.

  CHAPTER 3

  A SMALL BAG AND A RUCKSACK EACH

  A SMALL BAG AND A RUCKSACK EACH. And less than an hour to pack. Only Mama Buki was told. Uncle Tunde took her outside, to the back of the house, away from the women in the kitchen. His strong whisper, however, carried through the open window of Sade’s bedroom. Sade tiptoed a little nearer to the net curtain.

  “If they know Folarin’s children are in London, they will keep special watch at the airport. Until he is well away, let everyone think the children are in the country with relatives.”

  Sade knew who her uncle meant by “they”—people who hated her father because he wrote the truth.

  A sudden slamming of the bedroom door behind her startled Sade and also brought the conversation outside to an abrupt stop. Femi, his back to the door, stood poised like a boxer set to fight but who cannot find his opponent. His eyes were full of misery.

  “What should we take?” asked Sade.

  When Femi did not reply, she opened her cupboard and stared at its contents.

  Mama Buki entered the bedroom. Silently she wrapped her arms around Sade. Femi edged away, but Mama Buki reached out and pulled him in. Slowly Sade felt him soften a little as their aunt pressed them close and murmured a short prayer for God to keep them safe. Her body was warm and sticky with the heat of the day. If only they could fall asleep and wake up to find everything had been a bad dream! But there was no way of blotting out the sounds of weeping, prayers and shocked voices that continued to thread through the house, even underneath the closed door.

  When Mama Buki released the children, she worked quickly.

  “It will be cold in London. Your Uncle Dele will have to get you some warm clothes right away,” she said.

  Neither Sade nor Femi said anything.

  “Is this light sweater all you have, Sade?”

  Sade nodded.

  “Fit it in your rucksack. You’ll need it on the plane. We shall have to find a sweatshirt for Femi.”

  Mama Buki now spoke as if they were making a quite ordinary journey. Sade tried to think what special things she should take with her. It was impossible to grasp that she would not be seeing her home again for what might be a long—a very long—time. Whatever she took had to be small. What would happen to her desk? After her last school report, Papa had asked a carpenter to make it for her specially. The wood even came from the forest behind Family House in their village near Ibadan. Both Mama and Papa had been born there into neighboring families although only Mama’s mother was still alive. Grandma presided over the same house where Mama had been a girl and Papa the boy next door. Sade loved the desk’s gleaming dark wood and the curves within the perfectly planed surfaces. They reminded her of the winding paths that led deep into the forest. All that was to be left behind. Could she at least take her favorite ornament—the head of a young woman with beautifully patterned hair? Her very own young Iyawo who seemed to hold some special secret as she watched Sade do her homework. Sade picked up the ebony head. She needed both hands. It was far too heavy. She put her down, next to her partner. The head of a young man, Oko, with heavy-lidded, rather sorrowful eyes above fine narrow cheeks. Let them at least stay together. On her desk.

  “What about this, Sade?”

  Mama Buki held up the aso-oke that Sade had worn to the last family wedding. Mama had made splendid new clothes for all four of them from the same deep-blue material woven with golden thread. Sade felt her eyes pricking again.

  “I don’t know, Auntie,” she said quickly.

  “Let me roll them up small anyway. You need one good outfit, wherever you are.”

  How could she ever wear it again? thought Sade. The last time they had all been so happy. Mama had sat up late every night for a month sewing the wedding clothes. Sade remembered saying that the blue shone like the sea at Leki Beach at sunrise and Femi had joked that Mama was sewing up the sea. At least the outfit would help her keep that memory. From the bottom drawer of the chest, she lifted out a small bag i
n the same material. Mama had made it specially for her, lining the inside with shimmering blue satin. Blinking back new tears, Sade slipped it down the side of the holdall.

  Mama Buki packed for Femi, asking Sade to fetch what she needed. Femi sat listlessly on the chair by Sade’s desk. When Sade asked if he wanted to take his cards and his game of Ayo, he shrugged his shoulders. She put the pebbles and the board into his rucksack all the same.

  Their father came to say good-bye. He sat uneasily on the edge of the bed.

  “Don’t worry, I shall be with you soon. Your Uncle Dele is going to take good care of you. We shall speak to him tonight when he gets back from work.”

  Uncle Tunde had already tried to get Uncle Dele at his flat in London, but no one had answered the telephone.

  “If he can’t get to the airport, Mrs. Bankole will take you to the college where he teaches.” Papa handed Sade a piece of paper with his neat handwriting. At the top was written LONDON COLLEGE OF ART with an address.

  “When you get there, ask for Doctor Solaja. But before that, take care. Until you are safely there, your surname is Bankole and you must only use the names in the passport.” He paused grimly.

  “You know how much I hate lying, but right now we have no choice.”

  The children listened to their father in silence. Outside, the compound lay drowsy in the still, dry heat of the sun. It was harmattan season, when winds from the Sahara blew south, shrouding everything in fine misty dust. This was the time in the afternoon when Sade liked to seek refuge in her father’s study. The large revolving fan made waves of cool air dance throughout the room. Often Papa was away at the office, but even when he was at home he would let her clear aside the books on the small side table. Although he would be absorbed in his writing, she loved it when he was there. Mama would bring them each a drink at five o’clock, sometimes joking about “beans from the same pod.” Then, as the sun began to go down, Femi would pester Papa to play football with him between the pawpaw and flaming forest trees.

  Papa was waiting for them to respond. Femi flinched as Mama Buki placed her hands on his shoulders.

  “Your father is doing what is best for you. We shall all miss you.” Their aunt struggled to keep her words steady.

  Sade’s voice was choked. How could she speak without becoming confused and jumbled? Yet if she did not use these few minutes, when would they see Papa again and be able to talk to him face to face? She sat down beside him, leaning her head against his chest. Femi inched toward him and Papa drew him closer. Feeling the strength of Papa’s arm around her, Sade heard herself ask in a small voice, “What will they do to Mama?”

  She was taken aback at her own question. She did not want to think of Mama laid out on the stretcher. Yet she needed to know.

  “The doctors have to do a post-mortem. They must check what is the cause of death. When that is over, she can be prepared for burial.” Papa spoke gently.

  “Where?” Femi asked gruffly, his head down.

  “In our home village, if possible. We have to see. Look, we shall still be able to talk over the phone and—”

  Papa broke off as Uncle Tunde poked his head around the door.

  “Sorry to interrupt. It’s time to leave. We have to get through the traffic.”

  Uncle Tunde had driven his car around to the back compound.

  “It’s better if no one sees you,” he said bluntly.

  He opened the rear door and pointed to the floor between the seats.

  “Squeeze in down here and I shall cover you up.”

  A dark gray blanket lay on the backseat.

  Femi’s face wrinkled in protest.

  “You can be sure your uncle will make me lie down there when we go out!” Papa embraced the children quickly.

  “Look after each other,” he said huskily. “We shall be together soon. O dabo.”

  Mama Buki’s cheeks were wet as she kissed them. Sade clambered into the vehicle and crouched down in the narrow space. Femi followed and a few seconds later the blanket covered them like a great thunder cloud.

  “Femi?” Sade whispered. “Are you all right?”

  She stretched out her arm to touch her brother. Her fingers clasped something knobbly, his knee. Usually when they played in the dark it was a game, full of giggles and weird sounds intended to frighten each other. Now Femi made no response apart from a muffled sniff.

  “Femi?” she repeated.

  He jiggled his knee as if to shake her loose. Sade withdrew her hand and hugged herself tightly. She listened to Uncle Tunde open and close the trunk, climb into the front seat and slam the door. Each movement carried different vibrations. They were being swept away from their home and from Papa, submerged in darkness. The engine was revving now and they were leaving. To some unknown place. Only a few hours ago Mama had been carried away under a blinding-white sheet. Not seeing, not hearing, not feeling. But Sade could still hear and feel. She dug her fingers into her palms, wishing she could stop all sensation.

  CHAPTER 4

  “SO, YOU TWO WILL BE MY CHILDREN”

  HUNCHED UNDER THE BLANKET, Sade heard Joseph clang the metal gates behind them, locking away the single-story white house in the compound that was home. Joseph had known them all their lives and they had not even said good-bye.

  Sade tried to imagine what they were passing. Leaving. The avenue of palms and the giant-leafed plantains clustered at the corner. She and Femi used to believe that the street-ghosts hid behind them. Then Mr. Abiona’s grocery table under the spidery almond tree, with tins, bottles, pots and boxes stacked high like colorful acrobats balancing on each other’s shoulders. Whatever Mama ran out of—soap powder, matches, shampoo, palm oil—Mr. Abiona managed to produce it with a knowing smile. Sade would have liked to say good-bye to him too. She had seen him this morning, his cheeks squashed between his hands. His mouth open. Speechless. He was one of the first people to come running from outside…to see Mama lying in the driveway. He must have heard the shots. Perhaps he had even seen the gunman’s car speeding away.

  Already Femi was squirming, although the journey had hardly even begun. Uncle Tunde was slowing the car down, stalling, turning a corner. They must be entering Adeniyi Jones Avenue, passing under the DR. MEYERS MILK OF MAGNESIA billboard. It was a joke between them to force each other to stretch their mouths wide open as they passed under the gigantic blue bottle tippling out its creamy contents. The dull drumming of traffic was now louder, punctured by sharp hoots, blasts and voices. They must have joined the streams of cars, trucks, motorcycles and cyclists thrusting their way to and from the city. Had they passed the trestle tables where Grandma’s friend, Mama Lola, sat with her pyramids of oranges? Whenever Grandma came to stay, the two old ladies spent hours sitting there together, chatting in Yoruba about everything under the sun. In between, Mama Lola served her customers. They had been friends since childhood, but Mama Lola looked far more wrinkled, older and bent. “Poor Mama Lola,” Grandma often said. Sorrow had entered her home like a thief in the night. Having lost every one of her children, she was forced to sell oranges to earn a living. But now Grandma had lost her own child too. Did she know yet? Who would tell her? Would Mama Buki have to carry the bitter words in her mouth? Grandma would surely know as soon as she saw Mama Buki. Sade could just imagine their grandmother’s eyes misting over, her furrowed skin crumpling.

  Whenever would they see Grandma again? Sade pressed her face against her knees, her body shaking with each jolt through the floor of the car. She and Femi were like two pebbles rattling in a tin, about to be flung away.

  “Sade! Femi! Stay absolutely still! Police check!”

  Uncle Tunde’s voice was taut as the car slowed down. They had been going faster. They must have left the jostling city streets and were traveling on the open road out of Lagos. Femi’s fingers grazed Sade’s arm under the blanket. She grasped his hand. The engine rumbled as the car shuddered almost to a halt, then revved up again. The police must be letting them thro
ugh. Femi pulled his hand away.

  “Well, that’s Number One!” muttered Uncle Tunde, like a grim sports commentator. But he was calmer than Papa would have been. Police were always setting up roadblocks and Papa’s anger simmered like pepper soup. The last time he had driven them to Grandma’s they had been stopped more than twenty times on the road to Ibadan. Sade and Femi played a game. Who could spot the naira note as the policeman’s hand swept expertly past that of the driver in front? Mostly taxi drivers with minibuses full of passengers had to pay up. Usually the policemen stared rudely at Papa, sometimes demanding to know where he was going, but they never actually demanded money. Something in his manner must have warned them. But when Papa had driven on, his anger would erupt as he fumed about the daylight robbery of innocent people. Mama would place her hand gently on his shoulder.

  “Don’t give yourself a heart attack, Folarin. That would please them.”

  Mama. Mama under the bedspread with crimson-soaked flowers. Mama under the blinding-white sheet. Mama who read Papa’s article out loud.

  “Every day we are robbed under our own noses. And it’s no use complaining to the police. Why? Because they are the robbers.”

  “Do you really think they will let you get away with this, Folarin?” Mama had said.

  “The bully only gets away with it because others let him. They’ll have to lock me up before they shut me up.”

  Yet Mama had never told him not to write.

  Uncle Tunde was slowing down again.

  “Don’t move, children! This one has a torch.”

  The car lurched to a halt and Sade heard the window being rolled down. She held her breath and hoped Femi was doing the same.