COLD FIRE: A dark series special

 Part Two

“I need to identify her body in the hospital” Father said, he fidgeted a little bit with the car key in his hand. It almost felt like he avoided mother’s gaze. It was the following day the news of Amara’s death arrived home. I wanted to go too. Mother hadn’t said anything since yesterday. She was surprisingly calm for someone who came back home wailing in the company of mourners. I instinctively went to mother's side where she sat, on the chair closest to the door leading to the front yard. Mother grips me by the side and pulls me closer to her. I sniffed her scented sweet candy perfume, it smelled like actual candy. Amara always stole from mother’s wardrobe; from mother’s newly purchased shoes that Mrs Vincent had brought from her last visit to the UK, to mother’s perfumes. It happened that the sweet candy was Amara’s go to perfume. She would always say it beats any other kind of perfume she had ever used; even Sandra who had a knack for knowing every label of perfume just by perceiving it found it hard to tell what type Amara wore. Amara had this natural delight for mischief. She would always tell me to remain the golden child, she didn't want any of those heavy responsibilities of maintaining a perfect result. “Imagine not being able to see the puzzled look on your father’s face whenever he gets my result, the uncertainty. The fear that maybe I’ll carry over a course. That would be boring. And boring is for you so make sure you keep up with the perfect result.” she would say and end up with a small laughter that never seemed genuine.

I wondered what Amara would do if I went missing. Would she cry? 

“I will be here till you come back.” Mother responded, she nudged me at the side. I raised my head towards her. There was concern masked with uncertainty beneath her eyes. She had lost her voice from all those shouting she did yesterday. “I will stay with Nelo” I managed to smile at her, she quickly turned her eyes away.

“That would be fine.” Father buckled the loose belt around his waist. “Chinelo make sure you take good care of your mother, there is egusi in the fridge, take some and make eba so that your mother can eat something.”

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Father soon came back with the shocking full detail of Amara’s death. Apparently she had been murdered in cold blood alongside another female. What was disheartening about Amara’s death was that she was stabbed 52 times and stripped naked. She wasn’t sexually abused. The police thinks it is a form of a gang ritual or an abusive lover’s revenge; but Amara's body had been found in a hotel room with a note that read “stay in school”. Maybe it had been a serial killer on the hunt for young female students who couldn’t stay in school.

It wasn’t up to a week the news of Amara’s death and how she died spread around the campus like a wide fire. No one heard about her death and didn’t feel sorry. Soon enough the campus swarmed with student activists on mass procession and agitation throughout the campus. Some of these students carried Justice for Amara placards. It was trending on twitter and on Facebook. It was impossible not to see something about Amara’s case online. I couldn’t walk a few blocks from the house without getting to meet one sympathizer of the case. One of those sympathizers had approached me feeling sorry about the death of my sister, expecting to get other information about Amara’s death that was hidden from the public. When I couldn’t provide her with anything she outrightly asked what Amara was doing in a hotel room. I found it offensive, and I understood mother's reasons for wanting to drop the case.  

There was something about Amara’s death that seemed to uncover all the other aspects we never knew about her.  On a particular cold morning, I stumbled on a post that spoke about Amara’s intelligence and dedication to her academics. The post was made by her lecturer on Facebook. It was a shocker when Amara’s 4.62 grade point was made public. I read comments from strangers grieving over the loss of the next Albert Einstein. Someone wrote he imagined how the bereaved family would be feeling over the loss of a brilliant child who had a bright future with the possibility of becoming the first female Nigerian president. In reality we were astonished by this new discovery.  Father couldn’t believe it and demanded to see her academic record. It was true. I wondered what Amara's reasons were for making it seem like she was the least perfect child.  

The media mounted pressure on the police, this drove them to take the investigation seriously. It soon became a delicate case with media attention. Everyone was glued to know the outcome of the case. Whoever killed Amara must have done so on a personal grudge, that was Father’s words when he spoke on the human rights radio station, his voice vibrating through the speakers of our small radio, slowly picking his words, making sure he makes his point known. There was a segment for updates on Amara’s case on the radio. I would always tune in on the radio station every morning by 7:30 so I could hear father’s voice. He was charismatic with the way he spoke. Amara’s death had made him a human rights activist immediately. The back and forth media rounds Father did upsets mother a lot. She just wanted to bury her child. 

Every day the women leader of CWO would drop by in the house, asking “Chinelo nwa, how are you? Is there something you would like to eat?” and I would always say No.

Mother once said she hated going to church because Fr Matthew would mention Amara’s name, praying she finds justice. “Was God sleeping when she was stabbed once, twice until fifty two times?” she would ask me. I wanted to say God knows best but what actually was the best in letting Amara die in such a way.

“The last time I went to the market, I saw the way those women looked at me. You know Mama Ebuka gave me smoked fish for free. Ha! That stingy woman that cannot leave ten naira for you. Is this what losing a loved one brings? Or is it because Amara died in a tragic way?” Mother looked at me “Nelo, your sister was stripped naked. Ah!” She wailed. I had no answers to her questions. I don’t think she needed me to provide an answer. All I could do was to console her. 

Just when Mother has had it, Uncle Stephen phoned Father with the news of a suspect in custody ready for questioning. Father immediately demanded to question her, though it was against the rule. Uncle Stephen spoke to his boss and father was invited to the station.

The 15 minutes’ drive to the station felt like an hour. We drove to the station in silence. This was the same route we took on our way to the village that always had Father complaining about the bad road and how untrustworthy contactors were. They would collide with the seating government and increase the plight of the ordinary people as part of their campaign agenda for the next election. Mother was restless throughout the drive and will unexpectedly sign. The first time she did it, Father and I glanced at her.