Chapter 4: The Burden of Lies

Few days later, as I dey go market, Baba Musa mama, Mama Hauwa, stop me for road.

I see her near junction, bent, wrapper tight for chest. She look like person wey never sleep for weeks.

She dey shake as she push two hundred thousand naira and one Peak milk give me, beg make I help her son, make Baba Musa no go jail.

Her hand dey shake so tey, the money nearly fly, milk tin bend. She grab my arm, whisper, “Oga lawyer, abeg, help me... I get nothing again.”

As Baba Musa dey collect less than fifty thousand naira for month, most for her treatment, I know say the money na all she get.

She tell me for Hausa and English how her son dey work day and night, never keep anything for himself. The money na years of saving, maybe from alms.

I tell her gently say my hand no dey—court don sentence am. Forgiveness letter only fit help for parole, Baba Musa must still go jail.

I try explain kindly, mix English and small Hausa. She nod, eye dull.

Mama Hauwa shake head, say she no come for forgiveness, she wan make my daughter withdraw statement.

She grab my wrist, voice crack, “Abeg, talk to your pikin. She fit talk true. My Musa no do am.”

“My son no fit molest your daughter, abeg believe me. Na because...”

She pause, face show say she get heavy thing for mind but no fit talk.

Her eyes dey waka, voice low. “People wicked for this world. No let dem destroy my only son.”

I vex, push money and milk back. “Instead of giving me money, use am hire better lawyer for Baba Musa. That one go help pass.”

My patience near finish, but I press the money for her hand, tell her keep her dignity.

Maybe she hear, because soon after, lawyer letter land for my hand. Na Baba Musa defence lawyer, say he go plead not guilty for second trial.

Envelope bold, legal grammar everywhere. I know say na delay, appeal, all the tricks.

Lawyer even write say, “If we win, we go pursue your daughter’s legal responsibility, and as her guardian, you go answer too.”

I laugh out loud. Threat empty, but I keep the letter inside drawer, just in case.

I tell my wife. She hiss, fling letter one side. “Na scare tactics, abeg.”

But other parents no be like me. Dem fear, say dem fit sue us. Group chat scatter again, voice notes everywhere.

The WhatsApp group—normally homework and birthday gist—turn war room. Panic full everywhere, trust don die.

Dem dey tag me, dey ask wetin to do. I just talk true: “To overturn case for second appeal hard well well. Since other side no dey find settlement but wan plead not guilty, e mean say dem get strong evidence for Baba Musa.”

I try calm dem, but e make dem worry more. Anxiety spread like fire.

Maybe na my talk make dem panic. Weeks later, trending topic show: “School Bus Driver Molestation Case About to Go to Trial: Who Will Defend the Girls?”

The headline glare for phone as I scroll Twitter. I feel exposed, like say dem open my window.

I click, see video—my daughter and four children inside, innocent and pitiful. Baba Musa own part, na picture under school bus, dirty and rough.

Somebody edit am with sad music, girls face bright, Baba Musa own dark. Comments full with curses, demands for justice, prayers for girls.

People even call his village, talk about traditional punishment, ancestors’ wrath. Everybody turn judge.

For some time, “school bus driver molestation case” trend for city. First to panic na other parents—Baba Musa don drive school bus ten years, who know how many students? Fear everywhere.

Calls come from family, old friends, even Ilorin people—all dey ask if story na true. I feel surrounded.

Colleagues and relatives, when dem hear my daughter suffer, all come dey show sympathy, bring biscuit, Maltina, sometimes just hug. “Sorry, God will fight for you.” The pity bitter me.

Because of wahala, court decide to do matter quietly, second trial date postpone again and again.

Lawyers argue, dates shift, children restless. Rumour spread—some say na scam, others say juju.

But na Mama Hauwa suffer pass. Parents wey fear for their children begin go her house, ask question. When she no come out, dem throw shit and paint for her wall.

Her small house, once neat with hibiscus, now smell of rotten eggs and paint. “Witch!” na red for her door. Even her chickens fear come out.

If she manage waka, she dey hide, nobody wan sell give her. Even for hospital, dem treat her anyhow.

She wear old Ankara, scarf cover face, eye always down. I see her once for chemist, everybody ignore her. The pain show for her back, every step heavy.

Nobody fit survive that pressure. Not long, Mama Hauwa kill herself for courthouse.

Morning reach, news scatter: “Mama Hauwa don burn herself for court gate!” Street go quiet.

She choose fire—very painful way. People try put out, but fire stubborn. Some say dem hear her voice, others just cry.

I hear say for inside fire, she dey shout, “My son no do am. Why una no wan believe?”

Her cry hang for air, no breeze fit carry am. That night, I no fit sleep, my mind dey turn like NEPA wire.