Chapter 6: Grief at the Gate

My phone ring. Na my mentor. I rush enter toilet to pick am.

The ring loud, sharp. As I see mentor name, my heart miss beat. For this kind case, phone call fit change destiny. I waka enter toilet, close door. For courthouse, even wall get ear.

“E don reach time for verdict, abi?”

Him voice steady, no smile. He dey confirm if my leg sure for ground.

I pause small.

I bite lip, dey reason how to answer. I dey look my own shadow for toilet wall, dey ask myself, "Who I be for this justice matter?"

“I still feel say suspended death sentence no too good.”

I talk am small, but my voice betray me. Wetin go happen if I go against arrangement?

My mentor vex small. “Wetin no good? Crime of passion, turn himself in, good attitude—any one fit reduce sentence. I go still teach you?”

Mentor voice dey rise. That Naija senior talk—no room for argument. If person dey block your shine, dem go use "I go still teach you" end the matter. I just dey swallow spit.

“But…”

I try push my own, but word no reach mouth.

“No but. I dey show you road. If you no take am, no blame me tomorrow.”

He cut the call sharp sharp.

My hand still dey ear as call end. Toilet air heavy. That "no blame me tomorrow"—for Naija, na warning and curse join. I fit lose mentor, lose job, even lose respect. I just dey sweat for forehead.

I sigh. Wetin I go do?

As I step out, I look my face for mirror. My eyes red. My chest dey heavy. If to say law fit provide justice, I for no dey feel like thief for inside wig and gown.

How fairness and justice wan help me chop?

Na that kain question wey dey kill lawyer for inside. For this country, who fairness epp? Sometimes, na only food and position matter. But my soul dey shake. For this Naija, person wey talk truth fit sleep hungry.

When court resume, I sentence Onuche to suspended death penalty. Everybody relax.

Courtroom dey quiet, like say rain just stop. As I read verdict, some people smile, others nod. Oga people dey shake hand for gallery. Only me dey feel cold. Na moment wey expose the two Naijas—one for rich, one for poor.

Onuche even too happy, begin thank me anyhow. “Thank you!”

Him mouth no dry. "Thank you, thank you, oga lawyer! You save my life." E dey nearly hug me for dock. If not for bailiff, e for dance shaku shaku. My own hand just weak. For my mind, I dey pray make ground open, swallow me.

I for just disappear that moment.

If I get power, I for vanish. Wetin I do sef? I just sit down, dey tap pen for table. Only God know wetin dey my heart. Na today I know say some judgment fit haunt person till old age.

Few days later, one person waka enter courthouse.

Sun dey hot, people dey rush enter. But one man, tall, shadow long for ground, enter slow. All eyes follow am as e waka reach gate. Him movement heavy, like say him dey carry weight of the world.

Na Morenike papa, Baba Sulaimon.

As he reach, people begin whisper. "Na the girl's papa o!" Even cleaner aunty stop work, dey look. For Naija, once pain big, even strangers dey respect.

He carry him daughter picture, kneel for courthouse gate, hang one white cloth for back, write for am with blood: “I beg make una give the killer death penalty.”

Nobody fit talk. The man kneel, blood dey drip for finger, face full of tears. He write for white cloth—real blood, not paint. Him voice crack as he dey pray. Some women dey wipe eye, some dey record video. For that moment, even security no fit drag am.

People gather, dey snap picture. Oga people, fear say news go spread, send bailiffs with megaphone to scatter crowd.

Before you know, crowd full gate. Phones up, some dey Facebook live. Oga people panic, send bailiffs, dem come with megaphone, dey shout, "Move! Move! No block road!" For Naija, any small thing fit trend.

The onlookers no wan wahala, dem leave. But Baba Sulaimon no gree move.

Crowd dey disperse small small. But Baba Sulaimon, leg kneel, hand up, tears fall. Even sun no fit move am. You go see pain for him face.

So oga people call me. “Na you cause this wahala; go settle am. If e enter Facebook, you go see.”

My phone buzz again. Oga people voice dey shake. "Abeg, go talk to am. If this matter trend, you sef go follow chop blame." For Naija, blame dey roll down like gutter water.

No choice, I wear coat, drag my tired body go meet Baba Sulaimon. I show myself, he kneel down straight.

Sweat dey drip for my back as I waka come outside. As Baba Sulaimon see me, he kneel straight, tears just dey fall. No be shame, na pain. Old men for Naija no dey cry anyhow, except pain pass body.

“Oga, I dream my daughter again last night. She say her death too painful, she no fit rest for the other side. Abeg, help us find justice.”

His voice rough, like person wey smoke firewood for years. He hold Morenike picture like holy book. As he talk, people for corner dey shake head, some dey sob. For Yoruba land, dream na serious thing—if dead pikin appear, family go run to pastor or Imam.

Baba Sulaimon tall, almost 1.9 meters. Maybe na work, but him hands rough, full of burn scars.

If you see him for road, you go think say na wrestler. Hands big, palm wide, burn scar scatter everywhere—testimony to years for welders' fire. But today, those hands dey tremble, dey beg for justice.

But see this kind strong man dey cry.

For our culture, when you see strong man wey pain break, e dey humble everybody. I look am, my heart cut. Men wey suppose dey support others, now dey beg for small justice. E pain me reach bone.

I sigh, begin talk the same old thing.

My own sigh loud, as if I dey push all my shame out. I start dey recite legal talk, voice dey crack. Wetin person go yarn when law no dey fit help?

“Kneeling for here no go help. You suppose get lawyer, follow law way. I no fit help you; na only law fit help.”

My words dey dry, no water for inside. I dey repeat wetin I hear for school. "Baba, kneeling no go help you. You suppose get lawyer, file case, follow process." Even as I talk, my mouth bitter. For my mind, I dey curse the system.

As I talk am, my face just dey burn.

Na shame dey paint my face. I dey avoid him eye. For that moment, I wish say make ground open swallow me. For this Naija, sometimes lawyer sef dey turn to small pikin for front of truth.

I sabi well well say law no go help this poor man.

If to say law dey work for everybody, maybe Baba Sulaimon for get hope. But for this land, big man get justice, poor man dey beg God. My eyes dey wet, but I lock am inside. I no fit show weakness for public.