ONE
My mother believed that courage in one’s heart only woke when others found strength and hope in you.
*
I’m sitting underneath one of Mama’s lab benches. A spot she had come to accept as my own. Whenever I came to visit her she would find me sitting on the floor underneath the table, a book in hand. A few minutes later, the lab starts to get crowded as Mama’s colleagues begin trooping in for their meeting.
“Amabipi!” Mama calls out a while later, after the meeting. She’s standing over me with her unbuttoned lab coat forming a shield around my small body.
I jerk my head at the sound of her voice. Her face is bright, maybe it is because she’s wearing red lipstick and eyeliner today or maybe it is because her smile is stretching her lips.
I look into her eyes and I smile back. I close the geography textbook and set it down on the tiled floor. I massage my forearms feeling the phantom weight of the book set in.
“What were you reading?” she asks me, pulling her tall frame into a squat, hands on her knees as she bounces her body on her toes. My eyes follow the motion as I answer her. The lab is scanty now, with just Mama and Dr. Tekena who was sitting at her desk, typing on her laptop.
“The type of clouds, I didn’t know they all had different names, mama.”
“Is that so? My baby is becoming a scholar. Dr Tekena, come and see your girl, she’s already ready to become a scientist.”
My smile widens and I giggle when Dr Tekena rolls her chair towards us and pats my head.
“How will they know she’s the daughter of a great science woman?”
My mother bursts into laughter. The sound fills my ears.
Dr. Tekena rolls her seat back to her table and opens her drawer. She pulls out a book almost the entire length of my arm.
“It is an encyclopaedia, Amabipi. It contains everything about everything.”
I glance at Mama who nods at me and I collect the book, its weight settling in my outstretched hands. I remember thinking, if I could learn everything about everything, I could become as smart as Mama was and everyone would know my name, too.
My mother is the Head of the Department of Geography and Environmental Sciences at Oloibiri State University (OSU). Mama had gained admission into OSU when the ground of Oloibiri was drilled into and oil spilt, changing the course of our state. Her parents encouraged her to switch majors from Physics to Geography and Mining when the news began to circulate that Oloibiri State was about to become one of the richest in Nigeria.
Mama listened to her father and, after her first semester exams with a first-class result, she wrote a letter to her head of department asking to switch to Geography and mining. After Mama graduated as one of the best in her department, she was sent to the UK where she did her Masters and didn’t stop till she became one of the youngest professors in Geography and Environmental Sciences.
*
I’m drawn from my memories as one air hostess passes by and looks down at me, her hands clutching the handle of her food and drinks cart. I wipe the tears that had escaped from my eyes as I straighten my posture, clearing my throat.
“Do you need anything ma?”
“No…no, I’m fine. Thank you.”
She nods and rolls her cart carrying bottles of water, fruit juice, pastries, biscuits, and tissue to the next passenger.
As she walks away from me, I look at the person seated beside me, he’s fast asleep. I pull out my ear pods and turn up the volume, letting the song my shuffle picks drown my thoughts.
The flight from the United Kingdom to Oloibiri was over 10 hours. I feel the jet lag set in the moment I breathe in the air as I step out of the plane. I notice people around me wearing face masks. As I reach the gates, an air hostess offers me one.
I feel an uneasiness settle around me as I walk towards the airport terminal gates. The sky above me reminds me of when the clouds gather for heavy rain. I knew Oloibiri had changed from the way Mama talked about it whenever she called, but seeing these changes was different from hearing about it.
I adjust my backpack and head towards the luggage area. Ahead, I spot one of the customs officers whispering to one of the foreign passengers to pay him if he wants his luggage cleared immediately.
Typical.
“The air and the sky above us might have changed but some things never change,” I mutter and push forward as the queue moves.
Outside the airport, the road has lost its tar. Cracks and potholes have begun to spread all over the road, forcing cars into a go-slow as drivers avoid the bad roads. I pull the face mask over my nose and secure it with my free hand as a car drives past me, kicking dust into the air. The atmosphere reminds me of the cold early mornings during Harmattan season. When drivers have to use their headlights because the roads are foggy and they can barely see.
I roll my box, dragging it along the interlocked road of the airport towards the taxi stations.
“Sensele Estate, how much?” I ask the driver of one of the unoccupied taxis.
“10k.” The driver replies, eyeing my coat.
“Ah Oga, why now? Talk price abeg,” I reply.
“You sef know say road don bad, na true price I give you.” He shoots me a glance, squaring me up and making up his mind to charge me extra. I take a deep breath and stand upright as he steps out of the taxi. He leans on the hood of the car, waiting for me to start my bargaining.
“Oga, I no be jolly just come o. No dey take that eye look me oga. Talk make we go abeg. I no want make night meet me for here.”
“Oya pay nine k.”
“Six k, if you go, make we go.” I know this game like the back of my palm. Mama played it all the time with market women. I wasn’t as good as Mama, but I am not going to back down and pay the extra charges he wants.
“Seven k”
I nod and he carts my luggage away to the boot of the taxi. The driver opens the door to the back seat of the car and I mutter thank you to him before settling into the car. From the airport to my house was over an hour’s trip but Oloibiri had changed. I doubted it would be an hour.
“You just come from obodo oyindo bah?” the driver starts, his yellow-stained teeth smiling back at me from his driver’s mirror. I meet his eyes through the mirror’s reflection. His skin is dry and his lips are charred.
“Mm, something like that,” I reply. I plug my ear pods to tell him I am not interested in any future conversation. I haven’t returned home on my own accord. I am here because of Mama and I am not sure I am ready to face what is waiting for me at home, which I hadn’t been at in five years.
TWO
Our home has changed too. The front gate is beginning to rust and the paint on our bungalow is beginning to break and crack. I knock on the steel gate after paying the driver and turn back to watch the street. It is quiet, except for the occasional goat screaming from a farm on the back street. The gate opens and my smile returns.
“Ovieee!! Look at you. Hai, you’re like what, taller than me now!” I pull my brother into a tight embrace, afraid if I didn’t hold onto him, he too would disappear.
“Sister Ama, Welcome. How was your flight?” he asks, collecting the handle of my luggage from me, and closing the gate behind us. My eyes dart around the compound. Mama’s small vegetable garden has become a desolate land. All that remains are dried-up ugwu leaves that hang on the sticks she used to prop them up. I spot her chicken house, empty except for years of accumulated chicken poop that line the pen.
“Sister?” Ovie calls me. I quickly wipe my tear-stained face and smile at him, following him into the house where I know my mother’s laughter and love no longer keep warm.
Inside our house, Mama’s portraits and her certificates line the cream-painted walls. I try not to look at them, so I focus on Ovie’s voice instead.
“Aunty Afini helped me clean the house. She has been coming ever since, you know,” he pauses, sighs and looks at me, hoping I understand enough so he doesn’t have to say the words that are heavy on both our tongues.
Our Mama is dead and she’s not coming back.
When Papa died, Mama was lost for what felt like an eternity. He was her best friend; he was the one with whom she had had her children.
Years after oil was discovered in Oloibiri, the bad air followed as factories began to pop up all around our state. People sold their lands to both government and private companies who built refineries and factories. As the years went by, the pollution began to amass. And with time, the air slowly became concentrated with these pollutants from the factories.
People began to fall sick and when they voiced their worries, the government paid them compensation money. Everyone accepted their cuts and learned to adapt to the pollution.
Like so many Oloibirians, when cancer came to Papa’s lungs, there was nothing anyone could do.
Mama drowned herself in her work. She worked on research after research, hoping she would find a way to arrest lung cancer. She became a stranger living in her own body. The air pollution soon became worse. From factories dumping their wastes into the rivers forcing the drainages to block, the flooding started. When it would rain, the rivers would overflow, flowing into the homes of people. The water soon became poisonous because of the oil spillages from the refineries. Many people spoke out, but the government promised they would provide solutions to the flooding that had displaced hundreds of Oloibirians living near the coasts of Oloibiri. The year I left for the UK, there was a protest that forced the government to carry out their promises or they would have had to shut down the refineries.
That was the year, Mama had found her purpose. She and Dr. Tekena had created what was supposed to change the world. Except, she was taken from us.
Now, my brother and I are ghosts in our home. A place that once felt safe and secure is now one with memories that suffocate us.
“Thank you, Ovie.” He drops his head and I watch the toll of our mother’s death on my brother take effect. I reach him in a few strides and wrap my arms around him.
Mama used to say, ‘Sometimes in silence, we spoke more words.’ Right now, even though I don’t know how to console myself, or how to explain grief to my brother, I hope the silence and his quiet sobs speak the words in our hearts.
A week ago, I was at work when Aunty Afini called me. She and I aren’t close, so seeing her call felt unfamiliar. She was Papa’s younger sister. I returned her call during my break. Her voice cracked when she answered my call. She barely gave me the chance to ask what was wrong and why she was crying when she started calling Mama’s name.
I had spoken to Mama three days before Aunty Afini’s call, she had sounded like she was okay. She had assured me she was keeping up to date on all her medications, that she wasn’t working as hard as before and that Ovie was doing most of the house chores. She was fine when we spoke.
I swallowed the spit pooling in my mouth and drew a deep breath before asking my aunt what had happened to Mama and why she was crying.
There is no good way to break bad news to a person. I’ve learned this over years of working in the hospital. No matter how much you practice for it, you can never anticipate how the news will be received.
Aunty Afini was joking. But then again, death isn’t something we joked about in Oloibiri. It was scary. So why did Mama do this? Why did she leave me and Ovie? I was not ready.
“The protest was supposed to be peaceful.” Aunty Afini had said between sobs. She said Mama had written a speech she was going to give at the protest and only when they found her body did they see the paper squeezed in her enclosed hand. Aunty Afini had sent me a picture of Mama’s speech after her call.
“Is this what the government promised us when the drills dug into Oloibiri’s lands? We did not let the foreigners suck our oil from our ground for them to leave us in a sky soaked with toxic gases and fumes that we can barely see the back of our own hands or the roads we walk.
This is not the Oloibiri I want my children to grow in, and neither do you.”
“4 years ago, we elected Governor Ngowami to serve us. Where are the promises he made to us then? We have worked hard; we tilled the ground. We the people of Oloibiri gave up our homes just so the government could continue mining crude oil. And what did they give us in return? A flood crisis in the East that has left families displaced. My son cannot go to school because I fear the oil spillages around the University River will one day catch fire and Oloibiri will burn.
My husband died in Oloibiri General Hospital. His lungs were filled with cancer because the air we breathe is polluted by the refineries.
Enough is enough. We do not want to burn. What we want is to breathe. The government must hear us because we put them in the office. We elected them and they cannot dismiss us. We are the people of Oloibiri and we want to be heard, we want to breathe fresh clean air.
What do we want?”
Aunty Afini said that, from the story she had gathered from eyewitnesses who escaped from the protest, Mama’s smile had been courageous and brave. The protest was going well until soldiers arrived. She sent me clips uploaded anonymously to Twitter. In one of the videos I had watched, someone in the crowd had been yelling as the armoured tanks arrived.
“Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers!”
The camera moved focus from the soldiers to someone walking towards them. I soon realised it was Mama, her back turned to the camera.
“This is a peaceful protest. There’s no need to do this. We have the right to do this. We have not caused harm to anyone.”
“Listen up everyone, you are causing a public disturbance and you have to choose to leave or you will be forcefully removed,” a soldier announced.
The video quality was poor and the camera’s focus went blurry before returning to focus on Mama’s side view as she spoke.
“Forcefully removed?”
Mama stared the soldier down.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Professor Eremiemi Tombia, Head of Geography and Environmental Sciences, Oloibiri State University.”
“This is not a fight you want Professor. Tell your people to leave. I can’t guarantee what will happen if they don’t.”
The next minutes of the video had become a frenzy. The protesters had begun chanting. My mother sat in a praying pose in front of the soldier.
The soldier walked back to his group and everywhere went silent as a canister flew over my mother and landed in the centre of the crowd. Screams filled the air. Everything went blurry as white smoke began to spread like wildfire entering and expanding into the spaces between the protesters.
The video went dark and I couldn’t see anything. I suspect the camera had fallen since I could still hear the audio. Heavy thuds of shoes echo into the camera. A scream echoes out before the video is cut off.
Later, I would learn from Ovie that his classmate at the University was the cameraman and he had also been shot.
I leave Ovie in the living room, head to my old bedroom and begin to cry. Mama is inside a morgue freezer waiting to be put in the ground soaked with methane gas, settled smoke particles and blood.
My tears and the water from the shower merge as they hit the floor. I wonder how Ovie felt while he waited for Mama the night of the protest and how he felt when she didn’t return. I don’t know which weighs on my heart more, the fact that I wasn’t there to say goodbye or that I wasn’t there to hold my brother.
My shower ends much faster than I want. The cold air lingers in my room leaving me with a chill. I slip into my nightgown and open my email. There is an email from the university.
Subject: Request to pick up Professor Eremiemi Tombia’s belongings
Dear Ms. Tombia
The Department of Geography and Environmental Sciences, Oloibiri State University offers you and your family our greatest condolences.
Professor Eremeimi was one of our blazing catalysts for climate change. Her work on the portable breathing air purifier remains our greatest proposal as the department and University.
We want you to be reminded that we remember the professor fondly in all our hearts, both staff and students.
We’re writing this email as a notice for you to come and pick up her valuables and belongings as the department is clearing out her office.
We hope you understand and again, our deepest condolences.
Best,
Deputy Head of Department
Geography and Environmental sciences
Oloibiri State University
I scoff at the email. My mother’s body is freezing off inside a morgue freezer and all they’re worried about is clearing out her office. What catches my eye is the paragraph about Mama’s work. Portable breathing air purifier.
I remember Mama talking about how she would find a way for the locals of Oloibiri to breathe clean air whether the government agreed to put protective measures in place against air pollution or not. I needed to get to my mother’s lab. I drop my phone and lay down on my bed letting sleep welcome me into her familiar warmth, silence and thoughtlessness.
THREE
My sleep, that night, is dreamless. I had expected myself to wake up, struggling to breathe with flashes of Mama’s face in my mind. But I sleep peacefully. Part of me feels guilty and ashamed that I slept without worry. The other part is grateful because I didn’t think I’d be able to handle seeing Mama in my dreams.
A knock comes from outside my room door. I get up from my bed and open the door. Ovie offers me a warm smile. How is he so calm? He was the one who went with Aunty Afini to identify Mama’s body among other protesters. He watched as they embalmed his mother’s cold pale rigid body and put her into a freezer like she was livestock.
Grief has a way of making you age faster. Ovie isn’t spared. The afro atop his head has shrunk in size, maybe he cut it. The under of his eyes is rimmed with dark circles. His collar bones are noticeable. I notice he taps his left foot as he speaks to me.
“Good morning,” I mutter, yawning.
“Good morning sister. Aunty Afini is coming later to discuss the ceremony.”
The thing about losing a loved one is, that it’s hard to accept it until there’s a proper ceremony that finalises it. Mama’s burial is three days away. She had always told me she didn’t want anything loud.
By the time Ovie and I reach our living room, Aunty Afini is opening the doors and stepping in. She raises her head and my eyes meet her sad gaze. It isn’t completely sadness, I see pity moving through her gaze as well. She holds my hands in her own, her touch is surprisingly warm. After she sits down and offers Ovie and me her condolences, she brings up a conversation I wasn’t ready to have, yet.
*
“This is Mama we’re talking about. We all know…” I pause and clear my throat. “Knew who she was. She wouldn’t want anything loud. Let us just hold a small ceremony at the cemetery and a small wake feast at home, here.”
“It is because it is Eremiemi that is why we must honour her,” Aunty Afini fires back at me. We had been going at it for almost 45 minutes. I wanted to honour Mama’s burial wishes but her sister-in-law had other plans.
“Amabipi, you have not been at home for the past five years. You don’t know the impact your mother had on our community. She deserves better than whatever you want to plan.”
It is true, I don’t know everything Mama has done since I left for school and work. But I still had a right to how my mother should be buried. I nodded and leaned back on the couch.
“Aunty Afini, I understand where you’re coming from, you too sister. Why don’t we make it strictly by invitation and only invite the important people from every group of communities that knew Mama? Like from church, Pastor Isaac and some of her group members? And from school, the VC and some departmental heads and her colleagues?”
Sometimes, I admire Ovie and his courage to voice his thoughts. Like every time we were put at a crossroads, Ovie always found a way to allow suggestions but still stood his ground on his opinion.
“That is not a bad idea. I’ll work on the list,” Aunty Afini responds and gets up, ready to leave.
*
The Oloibiri State University before me is like a familiar painting except the colours have faded, and the sky above is grey with smoke gathering like rain clouds. The road is filled with potholes that have started collecting mud water.
I find my way to Mama’s lab. I hesitate before opening the door. My eyes land on Dr. Tekena. She has her back to me as I step into the lab. She’s arranging files into a brown box. Her lab coat is unbuttoned, the way Mama wears hers. She turns her head at the sound of the door closing shut. The files drop from her hand, scattering all over the floor. Her plaid skirt bobbles sideways as she struts toward me. I’m rooted to the spot, staring at her. It is not until she wraps me in her arms that I begin to cry again. She hugs me even tighter.
“Ama. Oh, Ama. I’m sorry, I am so very sorry.”
“Dr. Tekena.” I croak out between a hiccup and a sniffle. She pats my back.
“Here sit,” she drags one of her chairs forward and props me on it wiping my face with her handkerchief. It smells rosy.
“I didn’t realise you’d come back so soon,” she begins, her eyes searching everywhere, except mine.
“Uhm, I…I was already planning to come back for the holiday. I guess my flight just got pulled forward.” I try to joke but it makes me feel awful so I stay quiet.
“What…what are you doing here?” she offers me a glass of water and sits on the chair adjacent to mine.
“I got an email from the deputy head of the department. They’re clearing Mama’s lab and office. I came to get her things.”
“Those bastards.” She takes a deep breath and looks around the lab before leaning forward. “I need to tell you something about Eremiemi’s death.”
“What’d you mean Dr. Tekena?” I stiffen in my chair.
“You remember she worked on that climate change model after your father passed, may his soul rest in peace. And when the air pollution became worse the rate of lung cancer and other respiratory diseases began to increase. Remember when those oil spillages in the east happened?” she stops talking as if waiting for my memory to get back on track so she could paint a clearer picture for me.
“Yes, but I don’t understand.”
“Eremiemi’s portable breathing air purifier project was successful. She stayed up almost every night working on her proposal documents. She ran tests on herself using the breathing masks.”
My mother had done all that? I figured she had given up on it after Papa passed, she hadn’t mentioned that she was still working on it after I left for the UK.
“We met with a government official who gave her a chance to pitch to the Governor. Your mother was very happy, she believed she had crossed the hard part of the race. But everything went all wrong from there. I don’t know what your mother heard or saw after her second meeting at the government house but she changed. She started going on about how she would fund the project herself if she had to because the public deserved better and they deserved to breathe clean air. It was their fundamental right.”
Well, that sounds like the Professor Eremiemi Tombia I knew.
“She shared her proposal on her website. One thing led to another and there was a peaceful protest to demand the Governor listen to the public. The soldiers. Oh. Ama, I’m scared someone hijacked your mother’s protest and made it like it was a riot.”
“What’d you mean? What do you mean by a riot? Dr. Tekena if you know something about my mother’s death, please tell me, please.”
“The news said it was a riot so the soldiers had to implement riot control. Before the whole protest thing, she got a billion naira in funding for the project to build the breathing masks. After her proposal went live, humanitarian organizations and universities donated and sponsored her. She began working on more prototypes. She shared them slowly to the regions with polluted air.”
“Dr. Tekena are you saying someone tried to stop Mama from helping solve the air pollution crisis?”
“Amabipi that is exactly what I am saying. After everything, I rushed to the office to secure her most important work. All Eremiemi wanted was to do some good. Oloibiri isn’t safe anymore. Real riots are bound to start breaking out. The land is soiled and damaged. I’m sorry about Eremiemi, I truly am.”
On my way back home, I watch rain clouds gather above us. Dr Tekena’s words run through my mind on repeat. Someone tried to stop Mama’s work. Someone didn’t want Mama to help.
I sit beside the box of Mama’s belongings on my bed. I rummage through the box, pulling out different items until I reach a plastic file. Mama was a genius, a professor at 28, I wouldn’t expect less from her. I pick up the plastic file and rush out to show Ovie the genius of our mother. He is sitting on one of our leather couches, chewing groundnuts.
“Sister?” he asks, concern looming on his face.
I shake my head and raise the file.
“Mama was a genius Ovie. She was going to change the world.”
Suddenly, a whooshing sound whizzes past my ear. I turn to see the object blast into the wall. There is a gaping hole torn into our curtain.
I tuck the file under my arm and reach for Ovie in one stride dragging him to the ground. I throw my body over him, using it as a shield. Bullets dart past above our heads, penetrating surfaces around us. Mama’s portraits get decorated with holes, disfiguring her face. Ovie is shivering beneath me.
The shooting stops and I can hear my heart beating in my ears.
“What is happening, sister?”
I slowly pull myself off his back. Beads of sweat line his forehead. His eyes are bloodshot.
I raise my index finger to my lips. I motion for Ovie to follow me. We crawl towards the kitchen, my feet and arms hurt from dragging them over the small debris of sand scattered on our upswept floor. I raise my hand and latch it on the handle of the door. I look back at our house before we plunge into the dark bushes behind our house.
FOUR
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT AMABIPI?”
Ovie never uses any swear words. He is panicking. I watch him breathe through his mouth, gulping the musky air of the forest. I sit on a tree stump, still clutching the plastic file.
Breathe Amabipi.
I keep turning back, looking into the darkness surrounding us. The trees are leafless. Wrappers of food and sweets are half buried in the eroded soil beneath my feet. Across us, the trees have become thick columns of charcoal. Stumps show evidence of trees felled. The forest floor is muddy and sticky. It feels like walking on an oily ground. It was dark but I couldn’t risk giving away our location with my phone’s torch. The moonlight would have to do for illumination.
“We need to get out of here. Get to somewhere safer. Dr. Tekena. She’s staying on the other side of the forest, there’s a shortcut to the road. Come on, I know this area well. We used to play here, remember?” Ovie says.
I follow behind, constantly watching our backs.
“Ama?” Ovie says, forcing me to stop in my tracks.
“I’m scared, Ama.”
“I know Ovie, me too. I’m scared, but we have to stay strong. We have to find safety.”
He nods and I grab his hand in mine as we push further into the forest. We only stop when I hear cars zooming ahead and the occasional car honks.
“The express, sister,” Ovie beams. His eyes are puffy and the whites are streaked with red. He yawns as we step out of the forest. I let relief wash over my whole body as we try to hail a cab speeding towards us.
I tell the driver Dr. Tekena’s address.
My trousers are battered, with thread pulling out from where tree branches nicked the soft fabric. My feet ache and are now covered in dried mud.
After calming down and Ovie managing to let a bowl of rice and banga stay in his stomach, Dr Tekena and I moved into her study. I held out the plastic file.
“They shot at us. We could have died! Was it not enough they took our mother from us?” Frustration and fear seep out from my voice. Dr Tekena sighs and rocks her body on the spot where she is leaning against the table.
“What will you do, Ama? For years, we’ve been battling this issue of pollution. It has now become second nature to us. We wake up and don’t expect to see a blue sky because we are used to the grey ones. The last time BBC came, they made a documentary on how bad our air has gotten but that was it, Ama. Climate change NGOs have written letters to news stations abroad, to climate organizations and bodies but it is not enough. It is not enough because our own government sabotages us.”
“Now they know you’re back. Just imagine what happened tonight. Here isn’t safe for you either Ama. I have gotten threat notes telling me to stay quiet.”
“I’ll send Ovie to the UK to stay with one of our cousins. Then I’ll wrap up things here and join him afterwards,” I say.
“You’re really going to leave?”
I nod at her. It’s almost as if she wants to say something but changes her mind. Dr Tekena sighs and we both stare at the plastic file.
“This game, Ama, it has been playing for longer, way before even Eremiemi. These are powerful people.”
“My mother did her best, gave everything and look how it ended for her,”
It cost her, her life. A voice in my head mutters. I shake off the thought.
“It’s almost morning. I know they’ll think to come here next because of who you are to us. We’ll leave in the morning. Ovie needs the rest, even if it is a few hours.”
“What is your plan?” Dr Tekena asks me.
I stare at the plastic file, my thoughts are scattered. I don’t want to be here. I want to see Mama one more time. I want her to be at Ovie’s graduation. Mama had so much she still wanted to achieve. I frown as I look away from the plastic file. My mind isn’t certain but I know part of me wants to do this.
I take a deep breath, “I want to put Mama’s work out. I will gather all the research she did, and hold a press conference. Mama made the breathing masks for the public so I’m going to give them to the public.”
“I know a friend whose son is a journalist. He has been covering the extortion of miners and the sales of crude oil and how the families whose lands they plunder to excavate for oil are never paid their compensations. His name is Eneyi. Maybe he can help you with the conference. Let me get in touch with his mother.”
That night, I read article after article on Mama’s website. For the first time, I read through Mama’s works with intention. My research takes me deeper into the interviews she did with locals living near the expanded crude oil excavation sites. The world needs to know about Professor Eremiemi Tombia.
FIVE
Eneyi wears round-frame glasses that emphasise his diamond-shaped face. He adjusts the sleeve of his green-blue flannel shirt as I approach him. He has a camera hanging around his neck, his hand underneath it to support its weight.
“Hi. I’m Eneyi, Eneyi Ime. My deepest condolences. My mother was a great supporter of your mother’s work.”
“Thank you. I hope this isn’t a bother for you…,” I start and he shakes his head, not letting me finish.
“Not at all. Aunty Tekena mentioned you intend to do a press conference. I would like to help. I’ve been working on the illegal dealings on the exportation of crude oil barrels.”
“You’re just whom I need. I have all my mother’s articles and I found the open letters she sent to the government house requesting a formal clinical trial of her breathing masks. She also requested for the license to continue manufacturing more with the donations and funding support she acquired.”
I go on to explain how Governor Ngowami had stood against Mama’s decision to make the masks free for public use. And that when she refused, she had started getting threatening notes.
Eneyi offers to drive me back to our house to pick up a few things.
The wooden front door is battered like a used sponge with holes torn into the wood. Inside, the house was a mess, broken glass from frames lined the floor. I picked up one of Mama’s certificates. It was her Ph.D. in Environmental and public health safety.
I pack the things I figure Ovie will need. We check in at a hotel after Aunty Afini tells us some men in black suits came round to her house and ransacked the entire place. I tell her about the attack on our own house and how I am going to send Ovie abroad to stay with Cousin Uti. She isn’t on board with sending Ovie abroad but he is my brother and it is my job to protect him. I won’t fail Mama a second time.
I don’t allow myself to cry as I watch Ovie board the plane. Watching him, I remember that I haven’t properly mourned my mother. I blink away the tears pooling in my eyes.
“He’ll be safer there,” Eneyi mutters.
I hope I am doing the right thing. The press conference is in two days, the earlier we do it, the faster I too could leave. Part of me was scared and believed I was doing all this to appease my own guilt. Another part of me wants everyone to know that my mother did something great. The press conference is, at its core, to honour my mother. I believe the government had something to do with Mama’s passing but I can’t outrightly accuse the governor based on the emails I read.
Eneyi makes calls to his friends in media houses. Many of them refused to with only a few stations agreeing to air the press conference live.
*
“You’ve got this.” Eneyi reminds me.
I swallow the paracetamol tablets in my palm and take a deep breath.
Mama if you can hear me, I need you to be my strength.
Eneyi adjusts his body in the driver’s seat as I buckle my seat belt. I clutch Mama’s plastic file that contains her life’s work.
The drive is quiet, something I am grateful for. It gives me the chance to go over my speech again. I twist the words in my mouth, till I am sure they’ve become a part of who I am. I remember Mama when she stood on the makeshift podium giving hope and strength to the people who watched their families break and fall apart.
It is a town hall meeting with journalists from media houses in Oloibiri. We made sure everyone in Oloibiri from traders, mothers, farmers, students, and even the State House received invitations.
I decide to make a quick call to Ovie. We chat a bit before I end the call. I turn to ask Eneyi if I am doing the right thing. He is turning his head to reply to me when my eyes dart to the road and I let out a scream.
“Eneyi, watch out!”
My ankle bone explodes with pain as I come to my senses. My head throbs and I can feel warm fluid streaming down the back of my head. Beside me, Eneyi’s chest heaves. His eyes widened on hearing my voice. I crank my neck to look around me. The pain in my ankle surges.
The trailer in front of us brews smoke. Our car had tumbled over from the collision. My gait wobbles as someone pulls me out of the car. I am carried away from the tumbled car and allowed to lean against an electric pole by the roadside. Soon Eneyi joins me, assisted by the person who pulled me out. A small crowd has started to form around us, asking us questions. I manage to nod when we are asked if we are okay. One of the women offers to call the ambulance for us. I nod again, muttering “thank you,” to the woman.
Eneyi tries to stand to his feet and I struggle to support him. He raises the camera from his neck to take pictures of the accident. The pictures come out blurry and unfocused because of the broken lens.
The ambulance arrives half an hour later alongside a truck of road safety officials and a tow truck.
“Can we still make the press meeting?” Eneyi asks after boarding the ambulance and watching his battered car grow smaller as the ambulance drives away.
Could we? I knew this wasn’t a normal accident. They must have been watching me since the first day I arrived in Oloibiri.
Ovie needs me alive. What can I possibly do? The press conference is really to absolve my own guilt, perhaps. Plus, I can’t put Eneyi’s life in danger either.
“I’m not going,” I say, facing the window and watching the trees that lined the road as we sped past them.
“What? So, all this was for nothing? Is that what you’re saying Amabipi.”
I refuse to meet his eyes. This isn’t his fight. It is mine and I am surrendering. The drive continues in silence. I rest my head on the window pane of the ambulance. My mind goes quiet as I drift into sleep.
*
I open my eyes to see my feet carrying me towards a river. It’s flowing fast with turbulence at the end of its course that opens into a waterfall. I want to stop moving but the bones in my legs feel more rigid and my muscles are stiff. I struggle against my own body as I continue to push into the river. The water, as if sensing my resistance, is now more violent, the waves are crashing into the sea with great ferocity.
I slap my legs awake. The water is cold. I feel a chill run down my spine. I’m shivering. My legs won’t listen. Then, a force grabs my calves from underneath me and pulls me deeper into the river. My screams turn into bubbles, floating upwards. I look down and a pair of arms wraps around my calves with an iron grip. I shake my legs violently, thrashing against the force of the water around me. My whole body is tired. I don’t know if I’m crying or if it’s the salt that irritates my eyes. The hands let go of me and I try swimming upwards but instead, I’m sinking towards the bottom of the river.
“Is this the end?” I ask myself. My vision is spotty. Dark spots overrun my entire vision and I let my eyelids slide in place over my eyes, shutting them. If I saw Mama again. I would tell her how sorry I was for staying away for so long. I would hug her and never let her go.
A palm is caressing my cheek forcing my eyes to open. I blink twice, trying to clear the dark spots from my vision.
“Do you remember the meaning of your name?”
I know the sound of my mother’s voice, even if I was hallucinating. Maybe one hallucinated their loved ones before death came to claim them. But it couldn’t be.
“Mama?” I don’t trust my voice, scared if I spoke, it would drive this likeness of my mother away and I would never see her.
“Amabipi, your name means the voice of the people. You are the voice that speaks to channel hope and strength into the hearts of people to wake their courage to fight.”
“That is not who I am Mama. That is…was you. I don’t even know what I am doing. This press conference was a mistake. I don’t know what I hope to get from all this. Nothing is going to change. I don’t know who the enemy of our people is. Look what happened to you because you wanted to fight. I can’t do what you do Mama.”
Mama grips my cheek, and then her palm moves towards my ear, entrapping it between her thumb and her index finger. She massages my temples with her thumb and places her forehead on mine. I feel the warmth emanating from her somehow though I was surrounded by cold water.
“I am sorry I left you and Ovie. I never meant to hurt you, Ama. And you don’t have anything to prove to me. I know you think you failed me and Ovie but you leaving to chase your dreams was the right choice. You blame yourself, don’t. I made my choices and I stood by them. Now, it’s your turn to make yours and stand by them.
“Believe in your name. You can do this. Amabipi. You were meant to.”
Part of me knows there is truth in her words. I’d always followed Mama in her lab, asking why the government didn’t always do as it promised and why people had to live in bad conditions while the public officials lived with air conditioners in their homes. The whole of Oloibiri is breathing polluted air that caused cancer but the leaders barely created solutions for the problems their refineries and factories caused for their citizens.
“I want to make an impact like you Mama.”
Mama chuckles, “Amabipi, you can only make an impact when you believe in yourself first. Trust yourself and remember that you’re brave even when you don’t feel like it.”
We are at the general hospital when I wake up from my dream. Eneyi and I are checked into the emergency ward. He offers me a smile as the nurse wraps a bandage around my sprained ankle.
“Are we still doing the press conference?” Eneyi asks as the nurse leaves us alone.
“Yes. I wasn’t sure before but now, I want to.”
We check out of the hospital after arguing that we had a press conference to get to and our injuries were not serious. I hope Mama’s work will mean something to everyone who listens to me at the conference and the people will realise the rights they have.
SIX
The hall is packed and hot. People are poured in through every door that leads into the hall. The chattering stills as soon as I stand on the podium. I recognise some faces in the crowd. Some are friends from secondary school. Others are shop owners, whom Mama bought food stuff from at the market. Eneyi organises ushers to help hand out copies of Mama’s proposal and articles as people arrive at the hall.
The crowd grows anxious when men suddenly barge into the hall. They form a barricade around the crowd in the hall.
News of my press conference must have reached the ears of the people who attacked Ovie and me and threatened Dr Tekena. I have a single chance to do this before everyone gives in to the fear. I clear my throat, close my eyes, and let out a deep breath.
“Good morning, everyone,” my voice is higher as I try to make sure everyone hears me through the brewing anxiety and panic.
“I apologise for getting here late. I contemplated if I wanted to come here today. In fact, I want nothing more than to board the next flight and return back to the hospital where I work. But this isn’t about me. It is about someone great, someone whose work will change the world. This person reminded me of what it means to be from Oloibiri. It means to be resilient, to be strong, and not give up.
Today, I am here to talk about what happened to my mother, Professor Ereimeri Tombia and her fight against the pollution that has destroyed our air and our lands, and taken family and loved ones from us. My name is Amabipi Tombia and this is the Soot of Death.”
Murmurs fill the air and I hear my name and Mama’s name being passed across from lips to lips.
“Who are you? Why should we listen to you sef?”
“I…please, wait,”
“Can you solve our problem?”
“I am only here because the broadcast message said there’ll be food.”
Laughter runs across the room.
“And what of these strange men behind us? Are we safe here?”
I want to ignore their questions and finish my speech. I want them to listen to what I have to say and learn about everything mama did for them. They don’t know me and why should they believe me? Still, Mama wouldn’t give up. I shouldn’t either.
I watch with my peripheral vision as Eneyi tries to stop one of the men in the black suits as he approaches the stage. Our hired security men join him and stop the man in the black suit. I look back at the crowd. They are silent but I knew any sudden action would rouse chaos.
My voice quivers as I continue, rushing through my speech.
“You may not know this, but Governor Ngowami is responsible for the deaths at the peaceful…”
“That is a bold accusation. You’re a lair. You don’t have proof”
I turn to face one of the men in the black suits, he struggles against our security men and Eneyi. I turn back to the crowd, they are waiting for my next words. I wasn’t going to waver now.
“We have to hold him responsible because we elected him. I know we say that we don’t have the power. I know we say that the government is stronger. But let me remind you, the government is made of people like me and you. They bleed when cut, they shed tears when hurt and we put them in power. But the true power belongs to the people.”
“I only want the right thing to be done. I want justice for my mother and for the people who have lost their lives to the bad air we breathe and to the floods that have displaced us from our homes and families.”
My eyes trail through the crowd as I notice a commotion happening at one of the side entrances into the hall. The crowd suddenly begins to part, creating a walkway. I squint and make out a group of men in police uniforms.
“Arrest this woman, immediately. She has stolen government property and is spreading fake propaganda to incite unrest.”
Two of the policemen pull me down from the stage against my protests. My hands are squeezed together, and a pair of silver handcuffs wrap around my wrists. The pain in my ankle surges and I wince as the policemen drag me away towards the entrance. The crowd is in an uproar now. But they all stand and watch as the five men in black suits and policemen take Eneyi away. Phones are raised above heads in a bid to capture the moment and it’s until one of the policemen yells and points his gun at the crowd that the phones stop recording.
“STOP!”
A small boy stands on the podium, he is wearing a patched singlet and faded shorts. I can visibly count the ribs on his body. His lips are charred and there’s a cut on his leg that is struggling to heal.
“My papa went to his farm and he no come back home because water carry him away. All of them, water carry them.” The boy collapses to the floor, burying his face into his palm. His sobs echo through the hall.
One of the policemen takes the boy off the stage when another voice erupts from the other end of the hall.
“My brother was the photographer at the protest, he never made it back home.”
The voices begin to grow bolder as each Oloibirian begins to share their story of loss, grief, pain, and sadness. This is what Mama meant whenever she spoke about hope.
“Let her go. We should arrest you.” A mother with her baby strapped to her back with Ankara wrapper, yells out, pushing the policeman who holds me to the side and holding me against her. The policemen watch, unsure of what to do. Then, one of the elders steps forward and pinches the ears of one who I later find out is an inspector. The crowd begins to chant, forcing the policemen and men in black suits back as they rush out of the hall.
The policemen push against the crowd. A canister of tear gas is thrown and the crowd begins to disperse, protecting themselves. The policemen continue to drag Eneyi and me out, forcing us into one of their trucks. Eneyi tries to struggle but it is futile.
I watch from the bars of the truck door as the crowd begins to gather behind us. Pieces of clothes wrapped around their faces as they chant, trekking behind us as we ride to the station. Oloibiri is going to change and Mama, without knowing it, has become a catalyst.
“We want to breathe clean air.
We want to breathe clean air.”
The crowd chant as they trek behind the policemen in their cars as they ride to the station.
This isn’t part of my plan but it is the beginning of a long fight to come. I believe, even for a little moment, that the people of Oloibiri will find their voice.
Tomorrow may come and we may give up again and it would take another brave person to remind us we have a voice to demand for our rights. Because there is no greater weapon in a fight than finding the courage to let your voice speak out loudly.
SEVEN
Six Months Later
Mama’s grave is lined with flowers. I hold my phone, turning the camera to focus on Mama’s tombstone.
“Sister, Mama would be proud,” Ovie says, his face cracking from the bad network.
I grunt an incoherent reply. I hope she is.
Eneyi and I spent a week in jail because we couldn’t gather the bail money the prison set for us. Anonymous donations came in from all over Oloibiri. Dr Tekena came to visit us after we were allowed visitors and she told us about the donations and that the live broadcast had started circulating throughout the media. From BBC to Al Jazeera and a number of our local channels aired the cut-short press conference. News of our arrest spread throughout the country and pro bono lawyers offered to take our case and defend us if our case reached the State High Court
After we posted bail and were released, Eneyi returned to work so that our press conference clips would continue to circulate in the media and that false news wouldn’t spread.
A month later, after numerous town hall meetings, the citizens of Oloibiri, lawyers and senators filed a notice to audit our Governor for alleged gross misconduct. The notice was signed by two-thirds of the state House of Assembly.
The notice was sent to the governor and the speaker of the state House of Assembly. After the consideration and voting from a majority of the house, the case was passed to the Supreme Court. The Governor was summoned to court to face the panel.
He was found guilty of funds mismanagement, authorising the soldiers to sabotage the protest and other misconduct crimes. The case for his impeachment was moved forward to the federal Senate House.
Gubernatorial Elections are around the corner, Eneyi and I started a partnership to create accessible information about the election process and candidates for all Oloibirians. This time, the people will learn that their voices matter and that they have a say in the politics of their state as well.
We’ve also been writing petitions alongside state House of Assembly representatives and lawyers to pass bills to protect the citizens of our state from the refining and extraction of crude oil process.
Dr Tekena and I continue working on the breathing masks. We continue Mama’s distribution to the areas with a high concentration of air pollution.
Every day, I remember the dream I had where Mama reminded me of the meaning of my name. The voice of the people.
I kneel at Mama’s grave, my hand gliding over the soft fake grass, and whisper, “Mama, I think I’ve woken the courage in my heart.”