Chapter 8: The Teacher’s True Face

At first, Papa Chukwudi wasn’t sure Mr. Okoli was the criminal. He just wanted to ask this old relative to explain things. After all, he had trusted Ifunanya to his care.

He said he walked to the staff quarters, heart pounding. “My spirit no dey rest,” he told me. “I needed to hear am from his mouth.”

When Papa Chukwudi met Mr. Okoli in the school staff quarters, Mr. Okoli expressed deep sympathy and kept apologising for not taking better care of Ifunanya.

He offered Papa Chukwudi a chair, even brought out a bottle of dry gin. “Uncle, I dey sorry. Na bad thing wey happen.” His words sounded right, but his eyes were cold.

But Papa Chukwudi didn’t blame him. He only wanted to know who had touched Ifunanya. Mr. Okoli, of course, claimed he knew nothing.

He shook his head, “I no sabi anything, Uncle. My hand clean.” But Papa Chukwudi said the words did not match his face—he was restless, eyes darting.

But then, something strange happened.

Papa Chukwudi said the air in the room changed. The silence became heavy.

After Papa Chukwudi kept pressing, Mr. Okoli actually offered him a large amount of money, hoping he would forget the matter and move on.

He produced a thick wad of naira notes, wrapped in a rubber band. “Take this one, Uncle. Make we just leave the matter—Ifunanya no go come back.”

Papa Chukwudi felt something was off and kept asking.

He pushed the money away, voice rising. “I no want your blood money. Just tell me the truth!”

Mr. Okoli soon lost his patience. Seeing that Papa Chukwudi would not back down, he tried to chase him away. The quarrel turned to a fight. Mr. Okoli, being younger and stronger, quickly overpowered him.

He shoved the old man, fists flying. Papa Chukwudi tried to fight back, but youth beat age. Soon, he was on the floor, bleeding.

After beating Papa Chukwudi, Mr. Okoli got angry, cursed him, and in the heat of the moment, let out a shocking confession.

Breathing hard, sweat pouring down, he spat the words like poison.

He said the three girls were all touched by him.

The admission echoed in Papa Chukwudi’s ears. It was as if the world spun out of place.

According to Papa Chukwudi, Mr. Okoli’s exact words were:

“I did all of them. So what? Old man. I offered you money and you refused—do I owe you anything?”

The cruelty in the words stunned everyone in the station when we heard it. It was not just wickedness; it was pride, arrogance, madness.

Hearing this, I was shocked.

Even Tunde, who had seen ritual murders and armed robbers, looked at me, mouth open. “This one pass my power.”

This case had caused so much wahala. Any normal person would not say such a thing carelessly.

No sane man confesses like that unless he believes nothing and nobody can touch him. Fear for my country gripped me.

Either he was mad, or he was not an ordinary person at all.

Maybe it was the madness of evil, or maybe he had powerful people backing him. My mind raced with all the unspoken truths of our society.

We comforted Papa Chukwudi, told him to wait at home, and rushed to the school to find Mr. Okoli.

We promised the old man, “Justice go come. Go rest.” Then Tunde and I grabbed our files and dashed out, determination burning in our chests.

Because if what Papa Chukwudi said was true, then something was seriously wrong.

It was not just about Ifunanya anymore; it was about every child in that school, every silence in the village.

Why would he provoke and attack Papa Chukwudi with such dangerous words? It made no sense at all.

I replayed it in my head—why confess so easily? Did he think himself untouchable? Or was he sending a message to someone higher up?

And why offer compensation? Even if the school had such a plan, it shouldn’t be discussed privately like this.

Village compensation is usually handled in public, with elders and family present. Secret payments mean only one thing—cover up.

When we reached that school, what waited for us was worse than any armed robber or ritualist I’d seen. And this time, it wore a teacher’s face.