Chapter 2: Amnesia Boy and Red Ribbons

If e fit turn back the hand of time, Ifedayo for no ever come renew this ID card.

Na true talk be that. Sometimes, small thing fit open big secret. For that dry harmattan morning, the kind cold wey fit make okada rider wear five wrapper, Ifedayo and him wife enter council office, them face dry, lips cracked.

That harmattan cold pass normal. The small generator for the council registration hall dey hum like dying goat. As Ifedayo siddon for plastic bench dey rub him hands, I dey look the fingerprint scanner when the machine suddenly scream, loud like say dem dey slaughter fowl.

Even me sef jump, as the machine shout. For Naija, anything wey dey sound like fowl slaughter na sign say village people dey nearby.

The file from twenty-two years ago get one kind yellow-brown stain, like wetin dey form for dead body.

Na so my hand tremble. The file old reach ehn, e smell like old palm kernel oil, stain wey never wash commot, like shrine book.

That dry season night for Okoye family compound, far away, dem lay four dead bodies for ground under moonlight, arranged like stick figures wey children use play. The son-in-law wey marry enter the family, Sani Musa, just waka vanish for inside dust, leave only one bloody thumbprint for window.

My mind begin draw picture—those bodies, that moonlight, as if night dey watch everything silently. E still dey make my skin cold.

"Oga, this your machine get wahala o!" Ifedayo talk, him Adam’s apple move up and down like say something dey hook am for throat.

He voice get that kind edge—mixture of fear and small vex. For here, once machine show wahala, na quick defense be the next thing.

Him wife slap their marriage certificate for counter. The double-lion for the plastic cover don even fade reach bluish-grey. "We don dey sleep under the same wrapper all these years. If he kill people like that, I for don use broom chase am from my house since! Besides, twenty-two years ago, he be just sixteen. When he enter our house, he thin like broom, no even fit kill ant—na human being he go kill?"

She talk am with the kind confidence wey Naija wife dey get when matter concern husband. Her voice rise, her face squeeze small, as if she dey dare anybody to try her.

I look the fingerprint chart wey match correct-correct and remember wetin the old chemist for town talk: "Person fingerprint na the mark wey God stamp for Book of Life—e sure pass memory."

The chemist words ring for my ear like bell for morning prayer—nothing pass God hand, not even the stories wey person fit forget for him mind.