Dear (whoever fishes out this letter from the time capsule in fifty years),
In my culture, it’s a taboo to count peppers. So, when our currency plummeted and a dollar equalled about two thousand Naira, four scotch bonnet peppers began to sell for two hundred Naira. Four. If you don’t realise how strange and horrifying it was for my people, read again and see that I counted the peppers. One weekend, we woke up to the prices of instant noodles flying over the roof and the beloved affordable and quick food became an elite meal. At this point, there was no ‘poor man’s food’ if you were poor, the next step was to let starvation lay you in the cold hands of death.
In our face-me-I-face-you compound, the walls were so thin, we could hear the conversations had in other apartments. Sometimes, when the night aged and the neighbourhood descended into silence, the orchestra of lovemaking would keep everyone tossing in their beds. However, this story doesn’t start here. It began the day I overheard my neighbour saying that an angel appeared to him and told him to annihilate all the politicians in the country. “Our cries have reached heaven and I have been chosen to lead this cause,” he said. We usually called him Old Soldier because he was a runaway soldier from Maiduguri who wanted to keep his true identity hidden although he never stopped talking about his experience in the army. If the force was serious about finding him, he’d have been caught two years before getting a ‘divine revelation’ to wipe out the government.
When I reported this to my mother, she said, “He has probably seen a demon. You know those creatures shapeshift. They want to finish what they started with him in Sambisa forest.”
“He doesn’t have the guts to do that,” my brother snickered, scrapping the leftover okra soup into his bowl of cold eba.
I didn’t think much about it. Besides, there was a storm of worries stealing my sleep. Like the admission letter I’d just received to study Mass Communication and my father’s near-futile attempt at scraping his minute pension to pay my fees. Zubby, the young man who had a shop opposite our compound expressed his desire to marry me. He promised to pay all my fees and upkeep till I was done with school. However, I didn’t know how to bring it up. I could already imagine the first words they’d spill from their mouths, “Anibe, you’re only sixteen.” Don’t get me twisted, I had no feelings for Zubby, but I put his proposal into mind because I hated seeing my father look so hopeless. I’d already suggested that I could learn a trade instead, but he wouldn’t have it and neither did my mother. They didn’t agree on so many things, but this was an exception. My father believed in the power of education, but what did it get him? Twenty-eight years in the civil service with nothing to show for it.
One day, I was watching the television with my family when it was announced that a minister’s son was captured by kidnappers. Normally, when people get kidnapped in my country, the inspector general would don his official attire and host a press conference stating that “All hands will be on deck to bring the victims to safety and ensure that the perpetrators are brought to book.” Then they’d go silent till it metamorphosed into a forgotten case. First of all, in my country, if a person is abducted and the abductors ask for ransom, there’s little hope (this only applies to financially buoyant families). Meanwhile, if a person is taken and the kidnappers don’t ask for any ransom, then the person has probably been fed to ritualists.
I wouldn’t have suspected Old Soldier if he hadn’t packed his bags and announced that he was travelling to see his sick mother in the village. In fact, he came to my parents to borrow some money and my father hit him back with his own sob story about seeking funds for my school fees. Instead of sympathising, Old Soldier said, “Make she go learn handwork na.”
A scowl splashed across my father’s face, “Oga safe journey o. Shishi I no get.”
In the subsequent days, I could swear that I’d never seen the police act that fast. They were actually searching. When Odion, my classmate, went missing, her parents reported to the police. The officers told them to wait till forty-eight hours passed before they’d make further investigation.
“You know children of these days. She’s probably at a friend’s place.”
“I know Odion, she wouldn’t just disappear without telling us.”
“Madam, calm down and come back in forty-eight hours. Your child may return.”
Odion did return. She was found in a canal a distance from her house with her eyes and genitals missing. Odion’s father had a stroke and passed on three days later. All of this happened within a space of five days.
However, investigations began the same day this minister’s child went missing. The whole fiasco lasted a month. I was quite impressed with how Old Soldier pulled it off. During the first week, there were raids of uncompleted buildings and traffic jams due to tight checkpoints all around the state. In the second week, a video began to circulate on social media. A gun was pressed to the temple of the minister’s son by a man in all-black. There were about ten people behind him, and all of them had their faces covered with masks. “Honourable minister, how does it feel to not sleep well at night, huh? We are God’s divine warriors! And we will not let him go if you don’t come to meet us yourself.” When my family and I saw the video, we recognised the voice immediately. It dawned on us that we were associated with a criminal and my mother warned us not to breathe a word about what Old Soldier had said. The police tried to track the video, but it led them to a cybercafé in a slum downtown. They arrested the owner, however, they couldn’t get any meaningful information from him. After three days, he was released with an array of wounds and bruises.
In the third week, things began to get more interesting. The minister offered five hundred million naira to the kidnappers. They refused. Then he offered a billion naira. They still refused and insisted on having him meet them personally.
“These people are stupid. Do they know what one billion naira will do for them?” a neighbour said.
“According to them, they want to create a better country,” another replied.
“With what? Kidnapping? Does one fight evil with evil? Mcheew! Let’s see how the minister will handle this.
To our surprise, the minister agreed to see them. Their conditions were that he’d meet them at a secluded place of their choice, without any security personnel or gadgets. Where they’d meet wasn’t revealed to the public. However, there was no way the government security agencies would not be informed. I kept my eyes on the television to see how Old Soldier would execute it.
The following week was almost silent. Like the calm before a storm. That Thursday around 9 pm, the lights in Old Soldier’s apartment flickered on. I peeked through the keyhole in our door and saw Old Soldier rush out of his apartment with a suitcase. When morning came, my family and I sat before the TV as the newscaster announced that the leader of the kidnappers was killed at noon the previous day, and the rest of the gang members were arrested. Then the minister’s face came on the screen at a press conference. “I want to thank the beautiful people of this country for their support. It’s been a difficult time for me and my family, and I’m glad that my son has been rescued. It is my utmost belief that every citizen of this nation is entitled to security and protection from evils like this. Thank you once again.” But I saw Old Soldier last night. How could he have been killed yesterday afternoon? If he was killed, then who did I see? What transpired between the minister and Old Soldier?
Six years have passed and Old Soldier still hasn’t returned.
The whole issue became a topic of discussion for months and it earned the minister empathy from the masses, which he used to win the next presidential election. According to him, he understood the plights of the people since he’s had his fair share. He began to raise sensitisation, provide mental health care to those who’d been released and support families in rescue attempts. For a moment, I thought this was Old Soldier’s plan. Now that a member of the upper class experienced such, there would be more actions taken towards it. I was wrong.
When the minister became president, things returned to how they were. I on the other hand, never got to study Mass Communication. My father couldn’t raise the money for fees and I had to learn a trade—tailoring. Sometimes, I’d stand before the mirror in my shop and pretend to be a newscaster. It often makes my apprentices laugh. Maybe one day, I’ll get to study Mass Communication. Nevertheless, I’m glad I didn’t marry Zubby. Having your own money is exhilarating.
My hope is that the future where you’ll be reading this letter will be better than the present I’m writing from. I pray you do not have to substitute your dreams because your nation is a metaphor for a crumbling house.
I hope you’ll be happy.
Yours Sincerely,
Anibe, the Ogbonge Tailor
Photo by Allen Snapper from Pexels
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