Chapter 5: Palm Wine and Old Scars

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4

“…So, wetin you see for that corpse?”

“How you take know—before DNA result—say no be your fiancée?”

25 December, 2022. Christmas.

I fit hear roasted suya smell dey mix with harmattan breeze, boys dey chase after wheelbarrow. Children for neighbourhood dey sing "Feliz Navidad" for road, their laughter drifting in with harmattan breeze. My own Christmas na for bar, plastic chairs under mango tree, palm wine dey chill for calabash.

1,861 days since Halima disappear.

Every day na count for my spirit, like person dey count rain drop for rainy season. My phone calendar dey mark am with small red dot, each one a wound.

And two years since I resign my old work, join police.

Some people say na madness. My mother beg me, "Musa, abeg, no go die for another person matter." But I know say my matter na my own.

Maybe na destiny.

The same bearded police officer wey hold me that day, na him be my mentor for criminal team now.

Small world, abi? Sometimes I dey suspect say fate dey play game with me.

Of course, my mentor sabi why I join police.

He no dey ask too many question, but e eyes dey see far.

From day one, he teach me say make I no let personal feelings spoil my job.

He always dey say, "For police work, your emotion na your first enemy."

Do your work well for your post.

He dey knock table anytime we slack, eyes red like person wey chop pepper.

To wear this uniform, you gats get sense and behave well.

He go say, "No go disgrace the cloth wey you wear." His own be discipline first, everything else after.

So, all these years, my mentor hardly mention the case from five years ago.

If no be say we both get off and chop drink together, he for no ask about the thing wey dey worry am since.

The bar dey quiet, except for one man dey argue about Super Eagles. Our own table dey far corner, two calabash dey sweat with palm wine.

I finish my glass of palm wine, raise my left trouser leg.

The scar dey cold against my skin, memories dey rush me like flood. For a moment, I dey see that tattoo, but now na just mark.

For light, one small scar dey shine for my ankle.

“Before wedding, she carry me go tattoo shop—half butterfly wing each.”

“Na why I rush enter cordon that time—to check if e dey.”

“Later, for police clinic, I remove my own half wing.”

My mentor grin, teeth show for him big beard.

He take long sip, then shake head like old lion. "Young love dey sweet like zobo, but if wahala enter, e fit sour pass ogiri."

“Ah, una young people sabi love. Na like Romeo and Juliet style be this, abi?”

He wave palm wine, as if to toast old tales. Some old men for bar dey nod, some dey scoff.

Maybe as he remember their sad story, he slap himself:

“See me see wahala, drink small, mouth no dey rest. Musa, no vex.”

His laughter dry, but I know say na care dey inside. He reach over, pat my shoulder.

I refill our glasses, shake my head:

“If e really end like Romeo and Juliet, e for even better. At least Juliet see her love grave go cry. But me…”

My voice choke. I dey look sky, try hide my tears. For this Nigeria, man no suppose cry for public, but tonight, the pain stubborn.

Before I finish, my mentor eye shine, he jump up:

“Wait!”

He tap his chest, say, "I swear, I see that butterfly leg for one place, e shock me."

He dey shake, like person wey just win lotto. Me, hope dey flicker again inside my chest.