Nnamdi’s stomach churned with acid. The envelope was probably filled with thousands of naira or maybe even euros or American dollars. This man had killed his father and was now showering his mother with money. Nnamdi balled his fists, imagining punching the Chief of Chiefs in the face. His legs tensed as he considered kicking him in his privates. But instead, Nnamdi held himself still, squeezing his mother’s hand.
He bit his lip hard as he watched the Chief of Chiefs amble off and mingle with some of Nnamdi’s aunts and even members of the police department. His uncle Ike even hugged the Chief of Chiefs and begin talking animatedly with him, as if he were privileged to get the Chief’s attention. How could any of them speak with him? At his father’s funeral? How could his auntie not let his mother tell the man off? What was wrong with everyone? But Nnamdi himself also said nothing. Look at me, he thought, tears blurring his vision. Daddy would be ashamed. The moment his mother started talking to his aunt, he made for the house.
You won’t get away with this, Chief, he thought to himself as he threw open the door. None of you will! You will all be rotting in jail or dead by this time next year. He had no idea what he was saying or what he’d do, but he’d do something. Just before going inside, he turned around and looked across the compound toward the tent where his father’s body lay. Tears cooled his face. In the back of his mind, a snide voice said, Stop talking big words. You think you’re one of the superheroes in your comic books? Those are just simple idealistic stories and you’re just a child.
A hand fell on his shoulder and he jumped. The tension eased as he turned to see that it was his uncle Innocent. Nnamdi quickly wiped his wet face and tried to blink away his tears. “I know how you feel,” Uncle Innocent said softly. “But take comfort; God will punish them.”
* * *
That night, Nnamdi’s mother was too upset to notice more than her own tears. But Nnamdi was alert. He’d noticed three things were missing. There had been one last can of tomato paste in the kitchen cupboard. Nnamdi remembered because his mother had mentioned that she wanted to go to the market for more as soon as everything settled down. It had been in the top right cupboard. It wasn’t there anymore.
And in the bathroom the glass apple that sat on the toilet’s tank was gone. His father had hated that apple and was always complaining about it. Whenever he saw it, his father humphed with irritation and said in his deep, gruff voice, “What is the point of an apple made of glass?!” As a way to playfully annoy his father, Nnamdi’s mother had placed the glass apple on the tank of the toilet. Now it was gone.
And then there was the red pillow that his mother loved to put behind her back when she sat in the chair in the bedroom. It wasn’t memorable in any way. It wasn’t exceptionally lumpy, nor was it pretty or ugly. It wasn’t given to her by anyone special. It wasn’t very old or very new. It was just a pillow. And it was gone.
Who had taken these little things? Nnamdi was sure he knew. He was positive. The whole compound had been full of criminals. The thief was one of them. Maybe Mama Go-Slow or Never Die or Three Days’ Journey. But certainly, it was upon the orders of the Chief of Chiefs. Stealing insignificant things from the house of the police chief he’d just murdered was icing on the cake.
Nevertheless, for now, Nnamdi knew he and his mother had to just make it to tomorrow. Without his father.
A Year Later
NNAMDI TOUCHED THE ant and it ran wildly behind one of the tiger lily’s orange petals. Normally, Nnamdi avoided these large black ants. They had a painful bite. But today, he’d have almost welcomed the pain. Anything to get his mind off the fact that today was exactly a year since his father’s murder. His still unsolved murder. He flicked the flower with his finger, knocking the ant and three of the wild lily’s five petals to the ground. His father would have been angry with him for doing that. But his father was not here. The reality of this washed over him, warm and sour, yet again. He shut his eyes.
He went to the base of the mango tree and picked up his backpack. There were ants climbing all over it. This mango tree had always been occupied by them. His father used to say that if you tried to chop the tree down, the ants would probably attack you. Nnamdi smacked his backpack several times, then he closely inspected it to make sure the ants were all gone. He hoisted it onto his back. It was heavy with schoolbooks.
He sighed. The sight of his father’s dying garden added to the weight in his heart. His father had planted this garden years before Nnamdi had been born.
“I had a dream,” his father had told Nnamdi. “It was the night after I started as the chief of police. Oh, it was an awful dream. I saw Kaleria burning. The houses, the business buildings, the market, the cars on the roads. And as it was burning, it was being overrun by criminals like Never Die, Mama Go-Slow, and Three Days’ Journey!” He chuckled. “I was under so much stress. Chief of police is a heavy job and I wanted to do it right. I had a friend in university who used to garden to relieve stress. If it worked for him, I thought, it could work for me.”
And Nnamdi figured it must have, because his father never had the nightmare again. At least, not that Nnamdi knew of. Over time the garden became his father’s place to relax. Nnamdi’s mother said that after he became chief of police, the garden grew like crazy. The more Kaleria’s well-being became his responsibility, the more he planted and cultivated and maintained. He even grew yams here. Nnamdi sometimes sat in the garden at the base of the palm tree that grew there and read comic books, but rarely did he garden with his father. It was an unspoken rule: These plants were his father’s projects. You could hang out in his space, but only if you didn’t mess with anything.
Since his death, not surprisingly, the garden had fallen into neglect. His mother did what she could, but she focused mainly on those plants that could feed her and Nnamdi: the tomatoes, peppers, and onions. She let the rest of the garden get overrun by weeds. As for Nnamdi, he rarely came out here at all. Now only wild grass, aggressively creeping touch-and-die plants, and tiger lilies were thriving here. He ran his toe over a bunch of touch-and-die plants and watched their fernlike leaves hastily close, the stems withering.
Nnamdi looked at his watch: school started in ten minutes. His mother would come looking out here soon. Still, he didn’t move. His feet felt frozen, like when he’d seen the Chief of Chiefs.
“Nnamdi!” Chioma said, coming around the house. “Hurry up!”
She pushed her long untidy braids out of her face. Everything about Chioma Nwazota was long, from her gangly legs and arms to her bushy hair she usually braided herself. Nnamdi had known Chioma since they were babies. Where Nnamdi had always been on the quiet and intense side, Chioma was outspoken, upbeat, and playful. And she’d always been that friend who told him to move faster.
Chioma paused, staring at the garden. Nnamdi didn’t think she’d been here since the funeral. Chioma was adopted and though her adoptive mother loved her to pieces, her father had never wanted to adopt her and told her so whenever he got the chance. Nnamdi’s father, on the other hand, had always smiled when he saw Chioma and he happily gave her advice the many times she sought him out for it. Nnamdi’s father had been more of a father to Chioma than any man. And Chioma was the only person Nnamdi had ever seen garden alongside his father. Knowing her, she’d probably just walked in on him one day and picked up a hoe (something Nnamdi never had the nerve to do), but that didn’t change this fact.