Mrs. Mary Kudaru began to say a prayer, and so I stood still, folded my arms across my chest, and bowed my head in all humility of spirit. She called on God to guide us safely from Jos, Plateau State, to Yenagoa, Bayelsa State. I was standing just behind the ambulance, just after the long black bag containing the body of my son had been safely tucked in.
Around me stood the last few stragglers from the Television College, friends and classmates who had waited till the last moment to see off their buddy. Standing in their corners, Emmanuel and Patience, the two Kudaru siblings who had nursed my son in his last days, were obviously grief stricken. Their mother’s prayer was exhaustive, touching upon the power of God to give life and to take life, and thanking the Lord for the precious gift that was the young life of Rembi.
She recounted how much of a son he was to her, rather than a tenant from afar, and how overjoyed she would have been to take him back home alive and well. But since the worst had happened, she could only wish his family the brave heart to bear this imponderable loss. And then she prayed for God to lead the way, to go ahead of us, clear the path and take us safely through thick and thin to the Bayelsa State capital in the blessed name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour. Amen.
I found myself propelled towards her, arms outstretched, my eyes wet with tears. She gave me the matronly hug I needed. I transferred the same gesture of wordless gratitude to each and every one standing there, including Mukhtar Shagari, the muslim classmate of my son who had stayed back to join the prayers in bereaved silence. I gave Emmanuel a brotherly embrace and grabbed Patience to myself in a wholesome heartfelt way.
Patience had broken into Rembi’s room, seen him in that helpless state, cleaned him up, dressed him and called for help. She had fed him his last spoon of pap before my very eyes. She was the lady to whom Rembi said his last conscious words. I missed you, he said, when she returned to keep watch over him after taking a short recess. Thank you, Patience, for everything you did for my son. Only God will reward you for your labour of love. I managed to say that in her ear.
Youni, the driver of the ambulance, was already revving the engine. Omale, settled in the front passenger seat, was already waving goodbye to James, and James was telling me it was time to get into the vehicle. So Patience gave me one more comforting pat on the back before letting me climb into the side door of the ambulance and take my place beside the supine form of the body bag, and the clutter of luggage around it. Only in the video did I see the van driving out of the precincts of the mortuary and heading towards the gate of the hospital, the voice of James wishing us safe journey one more time before the footage rolled to a stop.
Youni turned left and raced towards the statue of the polo rider on horseback at the famous roundabout before tearing through the early morning traffic of Jos, sounding the siren at appropriate intervals. I was doing my best not to believe that the solid form lying in a heap beside me was the body of my first son. Only when the van swerved sideways or ran into a depression, only then would I find myself holding tight to the body to prevent it from shifting, or letting anything fall on it.
As it turned out, I had to do that over and over again for as many times as there are potholes on Nigerian roads across a span of five states. But upfront, Omale was chatting up Youni and turning to seek my opinion from time to time. Youni was not the talkative kind, so all the talking was soon left for Omale to do, and he had so much to say, jumping from one story to the other, incident after incident, unravelling one plot after another. Every phone call he received seemed to inspire him to tell one more story. It was clear that he was doing his best to distract me.
My phone was busy too. I received calls from unexpected quarters, people I hadn’t heard from for so long, calling to confirm what had happened and to express their sympathies. I was in touch with all my brethren who called in to know our progress, especially Alaboyai, who was coordinating our movement from Abuja. We should head to Lafia, he said, where an escort team would meet us. Omale was sure that Lafia was not a long way off. With a few turns left and right, we should be there. As he put it, Lafia was just a shouting distance from Jos. Three hundred kilometres down the road, however, and we were still far from Lafia.
Then came a call from Alaboyai that we were headed in the wrong direction. The escort team was actually waiting for us in Keffi, not Lafia. So we had to turn around and trace back much of the ground we had covered until we veered off into the route that would lead us to Keffi. As far as Omale was concerned, that was also a shouting distance from where we were, and he said it confidently, with his nose in the air. Even so, the gridlock of traffic just before we entered Keffi took the edge out of the joke.
It was well past midday when we crawled into Keffi. The escort crew consisted of two police officers and the driver of the Hilux van. Having endured a long wait, they were all too ready to go. Youni was not too familiar with the route to the east and the deep south. He was understandably grateful to follow the lead of another driver who knew the way. He didn’t have to bother, said Omale, claiming to know the route from Keffi all the way to Yenagoa. In the course of his work as a television anchor for NDDC (Niger Delta Development Commission) in times past, he had enjoyed the privilege of criss-crossing the nation and traversing many states.
In any case, frankly speaking, from Keffi to Abuja was really a shouting distance now that a short-cut had been devised under an elaborate construction plan being undertaken by the Federal Government no less. From Abuja to the east was virtually a home run. Once we hit the lower end of Benue State, we leap towards Enugu, zap into Benin, cut out into Owerri and, bingo, we are as good as in Yenagoa. But, as they say, that was all easier said than done. The convoy of two vehicles cruised at appreciable speed through long drawn inter-state channels. There were smooth interminable stretches of tar, but the rough patches and gaping potholes could not be missed.
We missed our way on the outskirts of Benin. Youni had zoomed ahead, not knowing that the police van had stopped for refreshment. After almost 45 minutes of waiting along the road, the escort team finally caught up with us. It was already late afternoon and my phone was inundated with calls from family and friends anxiously following us every step of the way, just to be sure of our bearings.
All three of us — Youni, Omale and I — stepped out of the vehicle to stretch our limbs and ease ourselves and take a drink. But not Rembi. His face was covered, zipped up in that body bag as he was. He hadn’t said a word since we left Jos. It was simply hard to believe that I was conveying the remains of my son across the length of Nigeria. I was just not thinking straight. My mind was simply numb. Thankfully, there was so much distraction along the way. Humanity in all its awesome diversity, its everyday heave of muscles, its relentless push for survival, quite dulled the raw edges of the pain.
My hands by now had become very familiar with holding Rembi’s angular shoulders, to steady him at every bump, every jerky run of tyres, every skid in the mud, every gallop, every sudden stop. In Benin, we spent the better part of three hours in traffic. The sun had generated enough heat in every enclosed space. Posh cars could keep their air conditioners on and their windows up, but passengers could be seen fanning themselves inside crowded vehicles. We had dropped our windows also to let in fresh air. In spite of the overbearing heat, however, I could not help but notice that my son’s body was already growing cold where I touched him.
By the time we entered Owerri, the sun had receded with the last beam of gold in the western sky, and its heat had softened into a more clement breeze made even more intimate by the descending pall of night. The frenzy along the streets had taken on a different character with the close of day. Lights were coming on, but the overwhelming blanket of darkness did not leave anyone in doubt that it was time to close shop. Man, woman and child were in a hurry to get back home, and the rev of engines caused the evening air to throb with an energy all its own.
Again, we missed our turning at the roundabout defining the Cathedral of Ascension and its milling flock of feet, but once we found our bearings out of Owerri, it was one straight roll of tyres over the darkening tar, our headlights bright to distinction, picking up every shape in the distance. The check points along the road were becoming more visible. Not that we didn’t meet any on our way from Jos, but their numbers seemed to increase as we drove down south. Our police escort now made more sense. They simply cleared every barrier for the ambulance to pass.
By the time we crossed the boundary into Rivers State, the check points had become far more frequent, a shouting distance apart. We virtually slowed down every 10 minutes, and you couldn’t quite question the police. They just had to do their job. The night, after all, had fallen fully upon the face of the earth. It was time, as Shakespeare would put it, for “good things of day to droop and drowse while night’s black agents to their preys do rouse”. At the steering wheel, Youni’s expertise as a driver came on show as he dodged sudden craters and picked his way through craggy patches of gravel, headlights tearing through the dark.
It was well past 10 when we turned right into the East-West road at Elele. I could read a feeling of relief in the voices of family and friends who called to know just how close we had come. The escort van stopped to refuel at Ahoada, and we had to wait awhile. When the team leader walked up to us, however, he said we could go the rest of the way to Yenagoa. They would return to Abuja at once.
I couldn’t believe it. What’s the point? It’s past 10 already, two hours to midnight. Why risk it? He said they always did that. It was all in the line of duty. But I would not take it. I insisted that we were not yet at our final destination. Their brief was to escort my son’s corpse to Yenagoa, not Ahoada. The officer eventually saw reason with me and the convoy resumed its determined drive through the growing silence of the night.
Yenagoa was in utter darkness when we arrived. If the public lights were on, perhaps more people might have been seen. By all accounts, our road was full of cars that day. Sympathisers had trooped to the family house in droves, and residents in the neighbourhood were still in shock over the news about Rembi, the tall, lanky, fair-skinned journalist with Silverbird Television who always had a smile to share. It was well past 11 o’clock when Youni finally turned from the express way into Emmanuel Otiotio Road, and I directed him to a gradual stop at the end of Pentecost Close.
Only family members were still waiting – uncles, aunts, Rembi’s female cousins, my twin sister’s children, and his beloved younger sister, Karamote. I stepped out of the ambulance and received a welcome hug from everyone present. I suppose I gave them reason to be brave about it all. No one could really cry. The long, nerve-wracking wait was enough to wear out anybody. At least, we had arrived Yenagoa safely with the body after a rugged journey from the north. The back of the vehicle was still closed and even as the luggage was removed, no one could tell that Rembi was lying there lifeless.
The protocol team at home was already in action. They had taken count of everyone on the trip, cornered the escort crew to the dinner table, and later to their hotel rooms. I felt a great burden lifted off me when my uncles began to give directions about what next to do right now and early the next day. It was well past midnight when I sent a short text message to the good-natured and God-fearing Kudaru and her family in Jos to the effect that we had arrived Bayelsa safely. What was left was to go to sleep, wake up, slide inevitably into mourning mode, and cope with the grief that came with every lonely moment.
