The Other Side of Truth (16 page)

She began with Papa, locked up in Heathlands Detention Center. Papa who believed so strongly in telling the truth that his articles made the Brass Button Generals in their home country very angry. So angry that gunmen had tried to kill him and killed Mama instead…Slowly she unraveled the tale. Mr. Seven O’Clock’s nods encouraged her. Finally she explained that the Immigration people were thinking about sending Papa back into the arms of those who wanted to do away with Papa. They did not seem to understand. That was why she and Femi had come here. Mr. Seven O’Clock leaned forward.

“And what about you two? You haven’t said much about
yourselves. Where do you go to school?” he probed gently.

Despite the soft tread of his words, they disturbed something deep inside Sade. Like a buried mine erupting. The wall behind Mr. Seven O’Clock faded and she saw him as he had been in her dream with his keen blue eyes straining against the sun and the dust-filled wind. She couldn’t take them looking into her anymore. They would surely see what kind of person she had become. Tears swamped her. Embarrassed, she tried to wipe them away. She had not prepared herself to talk about themselves.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean—” Mr. Seven O’Clock delved into his coat pocket and pulled out a neatly pressed handkerchief to hand to Sade.

“We were smuggled.” Femi arched his eyebrows. He had been stubbornly silent until now, not saying a word. Sade had even had to give his name to Mr. Seven O’Clock. But now—just when she suddenly felt herself falling apart—Femi was stepping in to rescue her.

“It was horrible,” he announced.

He spoke bluntly about Mrs. Bankole. How she had taken Uncle Tunde’s money to pretend that they were her children, then deserted them as soon as they arrived in England. How they had been left all alone because they could not find their Uncle Dele. How a man in a dark alley robbed them and how a man in a video shop had accused them of being thieves! And Femi told Mr. Seven O’Clock how they had themselves been fingerprinted in the Asylum Screening Unit—just as if they
were
thieves.

More words flowed from Femi than he had uttered in
weeks. His outspoken words made him sound almost like Papa! Then, as suddenly as he began, he stopped. He seemed to have exhausted himself. Mr. Seven O’Clock’s face was grave. Who was taking care of them now, he asked, and where were they living? He would arrange a taxi to take them back. He thanked them for coming and for telling him their story. Certainly he would look into Papa’s case further. However, he could not promise it would be made into a news item. Shepherded once again through the corridors, past doors behind which journalists prepared the news, Sade felt her heart quietly throb.

THE TAXI ENGINE CHUGGED
noisily while the children clambered out. The front door swung open. Even from the gate Sade could see the worry in Aunt Gracie’s face. The gray in her hair seemed to have streaked her cheeks. Uncle Roy had his arm around her. He looked solemn rather than cross. Aunt Gracie quietly insisted that the children eat before Sade was asked to explain exactly where they had been and what they had done. Femi was silent again. When Sade spoke, she fixed her gaze on Aunt Gracie’s collar. It was her fault that Aunt Gracie had been so upset and that Uncle Roy had been out searching the streets for them. But as she related how Mr. Seven O’Clock had given them hot chocolate and how he had listened so carefully, both adults seemed to ease a little.

“So he really listened to your story?” Aunt Gracie asked.

“He looks a decent enough man. Now we must wait and see, nuh?” Uncle Roy was cautious.

The following evening at seven o’clock the children joined Aunt Gracie and Uncle Roy in front of the television. The main stories always came first, then the rest of the news. Sade had made a special telephone call to Papa to make sure
that he too was watching, but she avoided telling him exactly how she and Femi had got to see Mr. Seven O’Clock. Papa had sounded pleased. All the detainees shared a single television. Most of them eagerly followed the news just like Papa, always hoping to hear something from their own countries. A few preferred the game shows, films or sports, and arguments occasionally flared up. But Papa had been confident that he could persuade the others tonight. Sade tried to imagine them. Papa trying to remain calm, perhaps with his friends from Somalia and Bosnia next to him. Would they really believe that Papa’s children could get his story on to television?

That night, Mr. Seven O’Clock and the other presenters said nothing at all about Papa. Nor the evening after.

“Don’t give up yet,” Uncle Roy advised. “They have to check everything. It must take time getting the information from Nigeria.”

But Sade’s hopes were dipping. On the telephone, Papa was sounding quieter. No letter had come back yet from the Union of Journalists and there was no further news from Mr. Nathan. She could not concentrate in any of her classes. Even in English, where Mr. Morris asked them to research and write a short piece for a news program such as
Making News
. They had to work in pairs and Mr. Morris had put her with Mariam. Their silences were awkward. Especially when Donna poked her head between them.

“What’s up then? I thought you were mates and all!”

Sade would have liked to slap the grin from her face. But instead Donna’s words burned into her. Mariam looked
miserable as well. Both Sade and Mariam told each other that they had no ideas for a news program.

On Friday evening after supper, Sade said she was going to her bedroom to do her homework. Instead she crept under her quilt, staying there until just before seven when she forced herself downstairs. Auntie and Uncle were watching the television, but Femi had turned his back. He was slapping cards on to the carpet in a game of patience, making clicking and sucking sounds with his tongue and teeth. Sade sank into the sofa. Mr. Seven O’Clock was behind his desk waiting for the fanfare of music to stop. If nothing else, she liked his tie. It was pleasantly bright—pawpaw orange shading into a sunset of red, pink and purple. Papa disliked wearing ties, but even he might like this one. They hadn’t spoken for a couple of days. Was he still bothering to get people to watch this news?

Suddenly Sade sat bolt upright. Papa was smiling from a large square behind Mr. Seven O’Clock! A much younger Papa, but definitely their father!

“Femi! Look!”

Femi swiveled around.

“A Nigerian journalist, Mr. Folarin Solaja, currently being detained after attempting to enter Britain illegally, is at the center of a growing dispute. A spokesman for the Nigerian government has said that Mr. Solaja is wanted for murder and should be returned to Nigeria. Mr. Solaja, however, is claiming political asylum. Coming so soon after the execution of the Nigerian writer Mr. Ken Saro-Wiwa, the case is politically sensitive. Mr. Nelson Mandela, president of South Africa, has
continued to urge a tougher line against Nigeria’s military dictators. But here in Britain the government has been taking a tougher line against asylum seekers, claiming that many are not genuine refugees. To discuss the situation, we have in the studio Tara Mosam, a writer and filmmaker, who has recently returned from Nigeria, where she followed the case of Ken Saro-Wiwa. Tara Mosam, first of all, what do you know of Folarin Solaja?”

The camera swung to an earnest young woman with a bob of black hair fanning out from her cheeks.

“Folarin Solaja is well known within Nigeria as one of a small band of very courageous journalists who still dares to tell the truth about abuses of human rights by the military government. He writes for the small but important weekly paper
Speak
, which has been playing a dangerous cat-and-mouse game with the authorities. The newspaper’s staff have moved their offices several times to avoid being closed down by the police. But unlike Ken Saro-Wiwa, Mr. Solaja is not well known outside Nigeria.”

“What events actually led him to seek asylum here?” Mr. Seven O’Clock leaned slightly forward like he had done across the table a few nights earlier.

“About five weeks ago there was an attempt on his life. Unknown gunmen called at his house, fatally shooting his wife instead of him. Apparently he had been receiving death threats for some time but had ignored them. However, after the assassination of his wife, he went into hiding. The Home Office says that he was arrested a couple of weeks ago trying to enter through London Airport on a false passport. They say
that he did not declare on arrival that he was a political refugee and that he did not ask for political asylum until his identity was challenged. So they intend to deport him.”

“Is there anything stopping them?”

“Mr. Solaja has appealed on the grounds that his life will be in danger if he is returned to Nigeria and also that his children are here in England. He says they were smuggled here immediately after their mother’s death. But the Home Office claims to have no record of them.”

Mr. Seven O’Clock looked grave. Was he going to say that he had actually met them? Tell everyone watching that the Home Office was wrong. Sade felt blood flush to her face.

“I gather that there is a warrant out for Mr. Solaja’s arrest in Nigeria.” Mr. Seven O’Clock was straightening up.

“Yes, a further twist. Mr. Solaja has now been accused of murdering his wife and Nigeria wants him extradited. Already some Nigerians are saying that the murder charge is an attempt to throw a cloak over the real assassins. But of course it would be extremely dangerous for Folarin Solaja if he were to be deported. As you know there was a great deal of criticism about the trial of Ken Saro-Wiwa and his colleagues.”

“Well, I imagine we shall be hearing more of this case. Thank you very much, Tara Mosam. After the break we shall—”

Uncle Roy began to clap.

“Congratulations, children! My goodness! You actually did it!”

“But he didn’t say it was us—that we told him!” Femi looked confused.

“Our English teacher says you have to stick to the main points,” explained Sade.

“That was probably it,” Aunt Gracie said gently. “But now that your daddy is in the news, it won’t be so easy for them to send him straight back!”

In the morning, Uncle Roy took Sade and Femi to the library to search through the day’s newspapers. Three of them had printed stories about Papa, one with the same photograph of Papa as a young man. On the way home they stopped to buy their own copies. They spread the newspapers out on the dining-room table to read them again. Suddenly Sade spotted a couple of sentences near the end of one report that they had all missed before:
A spokesperson for Nigerians for Democracy announced that his organization would mount a demonstration on Sunday for the release of Mr. Solaja. Unconfirmed reports suggest that Mr. Solaja has begun a hunger strike in protest at his detention
.

A SMALL CONGREGATION
of faces and placards greeted them as the children and Uncle Roy walked toward the high wire fence at Heathlands Detention Center. Sade scanned the messages:
SOLAJA MUST STAY! REMEMBER KEN SARO-WIWA! NIGERIA NEEDS A FREE PRESS! NO MORE DEPORTATIONS! GIVE REFUGEES A FAIR DEAL
! The people looked friendly, talking, laughing, calling out. All because of Papa! This would cheer him. The children had spoken to him after seeing the television news and the newspapers. Sade had asked if it was true about the hunger strike. Papa had replied that they must not worry. The most important thing was for his case to be public. But every time Sade ate, she thought of Papa. What was it like not to eat at all?

Behind the wire, a guard crossed the courtyard, his head erect, ignoring the crowd. But from high above the cameras pointed down in their direction and when Sade glanced ahead to her right, she received a shock. Three police vans, full of black uniforms behind the windows, were waiting in the car park near the gate. Were they really expecting trouble?

“Uncle, why—” Before she finished, shouting broke out.

“Solaja must stay!”

“No deportation!”

A policeman and woman marched calmly out of the gate toward the vans.

“Solaja must stay! No deportation!”

Uncle Roy tightened his grip on Sade’s hand. Femi edged a little closer to his sister as they approached the gate and the demonstrators.

A man in the crowd stepped out and addressed Uncle Roy.

“Sir, are these, by any chance, Solaja’s children? The boy looks just like him.” He spoke with a strong Nigerian accent.

Femi frowned but looked pleased at the same time.

“They are,” replied Uncle Roy.

“Listen, good people!” called the man, waving a cloth cap. “This fine young boy and girl are Folarin Solaja’s children. The ones the Immigration say don’t exist! But here they are coming to see their own daddy!”

All around them people started to clap.

“Please tell him we support him all the way,” the man continued enthusiastically. “Tell him that we like what he writes. Nigeria needs more brave people like him.”

The children and Uncle Roy smiled.

“Tell him we won’t give up. We shall demonstrate for him until they let him go! You know—”

“
You
better let
them
go now, Deji!” interrupted another man. He laughed. “They didn’t come to hear one of your big speeches!”

“Oh sorry, sorry,” Mr. Big Speech apologized. “But we
want your daddy to know he has many friends.”

Mr. Big Speech reminded Sade of Mr. Abiona who kept the stall down their road. He was such a fan of Papa’s that he had often praised him when the children came to buy anything.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “We’ll tell Papa.”

The gate that had curiously swung open for them on their previous visit with Mama Appiah remained closed this time until they were actually standing in front of it. They searched for a bell to ring for entry. Sade could see the Eyes behind the plate glass in the security office inspecting them. Then the buzzer sounded and the gate unlocked. Inside the office, the guards were grimly silent. The calls and shouts of the demonstrators were muffled from here. When Uncle Roy announced that they had come to see Mr. Solaja, even the air seemed to stiffen.

They followed a guard across the open yard to the next locked gate. The demonstrators on the other side of the fence waved and yelled messages of support. Giving a little wave back, Sade felt embarrassed. She was cheating. They would not wave if they knew how she had behaved to Mariam and her family. If only she could talk to Papa now about what she should do. But Papa had far too many bigger problems to worry about.

“He’s in there already.” The woman guard had a face like a china doll’s. Her green eyes signed toward the visitors’ room. Who else was there to see Papa? Sade and Femi darted ahead of Uncle Roy. Papa was sitting in the far corner, facing the door. The visitor’s back was turned to them but when he twisted around, Sade gasped. Uncle Dele! He looked a lot
older than Sade remembered. A tumult of words and hugs followed. Papa pulled Uncle Roy into the circle, shaking his hand and thanking him many times over.

“Well, well! My little Olufemi! Folasade! Both so grown up!” Uncle Dele’s eyes looked a little moist as they settled into a huddle of chairs.

“Your beard is like Papa’s! You also copied Uncle Tunde!” Femi sniggered.

“We couldn’t find you! Where have you been, Uncle Dele?” Sade was almost accusing.

“It’s a long story and this beard even comes into it!” Uncle Dele laughed lightly, scratching the trim black border.

“After what these children have been through, it won’t come as a surprise,” Papa sighed.

In his spare time Uncle Dele had been working with Nigerians for Democracy in London. They had been arguing that Nigeria should not be allowed to attend the Commonwealth Conference. In fact, they wanted Nigeria to be expelled from the Commonwealth until there were proper elections that allowed people to vote freely for a new government. Then the threats had started, over the telephone, both at home and at the Art College. At first their uncle had ignored them, but then they grew menacing. The day after Ken Saro-Wiwa was hanged, a note was slipped through the letterbox at his flat. It said “You Next.” He had gone into hiding immediately.

“That was just two days before Mama was shot,” Papa added quietly.

Some English friends had given Uncle Dele a safe place
to stay in the countryside for a few weeks. He had not been able to read any Nigerian newspapers and had been cut off from all his usual contacts for the last few weeks. At least one of them must be a spy. The Seven O’Clock News on Friday night had been a terrible shock for him. He had to come out of hiding to help Papa. In fact the press were coming this evening to interview him outside the Detention Center.

“But…this hunger strike of yours, Folarin.” Uncle Dele lowered his voice. “I don’t think that it’s a good idea. Think of your health. Please.”

“My brother, what else can I do?” Papa threw up his hands. His face looked thinner than before. “A hunger strike makes news. It
stays
news. OK, not for too long, but people will want to know what’s happening. These Immigration people can’t steal me away on a plane when others are watching them.”

Sade watched Papa’s fingers at their gymnastics. Uncle Tunde had often tried to get their father to change his mind, but once Papa had worked out his reasons, it was like trying to uproot a baobab tree. She had always loved to hear Papa argue. He said things in ways that always made matters sharper. How she wished she could talk to him about Mariam. Alone.

They had already hugged Papa good-bye when he hastily pulled an envelope from his pocket.

“Nearly forgot! For Master and Miss Solaja, personal delivery!” Papa made a small mock bow. Sade took the letter.

“Keep writing, my child,” Papa added softly. “As long as we have our pens, we can talk.”

Papa’s words swirled in Sade’s mind as the wooden door crashed heavily behind them. The children, Uncle Roy and Uncle Dele trailed behind the guard in silence across the pools of yellow that lit up the two prison yards. Outside the final gate, they were greeted by cheers and a flash of camera lights.