Chapter 2: The Pride of the Village

Back in the 1990s, university students be like gold—very rare.

To see pikin from these villages go as far as university, e dey like rainbow touch ground. Parents go wear their finest wrapper, kill chicken, sing and dance like na wedding. So, when this case land for our office, you fit imagine as our Ogas feel.

Our Ogas for office yarn say make we dig this case reach the root.

Our Divisional Police Officer summon us that evening, him voice sharp, eyes dey shine under kerosene lamp. “No stone must be left unturned, una hear me so? This matter concern the dignity of our whole area.” Even junior officers wey dey always complain just quiet follow order.

Another thing wey make the case heavy na the way the people take die—pure wickedness.

Villagers say na only spirit or madman fit do such. For our mind, we know say this one pass ordinary evil—the old women talk say, "The heart wey wicked pass snake own." The catechist cross himself, dey pray Hail Mary one week straight.

All three victims chopped up, skin almost no remain.

Their bodies resemble yam peeled and left under sun. Like say the killer wan erase their humanity. Even the old hunters, wey dey used to bush meat and blood, vomited by the doorway—one even swore he saw the spirits of the dead hovering.

After torture, the killer cut off their heads and arrange am for the big wooden table—face the wall wey their ancestors’ photos dey.

That table, na papa own hand carve am, before na for wedding and naming dem dey use. Now, na heads dey there, dey look faded photo—blank, accusing, as if dey challenge the ancestors to judge wetin remain of the living.

As if to make them reflect on their sins.

Villagers dey whisper say maybe na old curse dem wake, say ancestors wan collect justice. Or maybe, dem say, na person wey want make dead confess by force.

Even worse, nobody see the bodies quick after murder. The killer no even lock door, so stray dogs and cats enter, scatter and chop the bodies. The scene bad reach.

People avoid meat for days after. Even local goats no near the house. Flies thick like cloud, children no fit play that side. One elder sprinkle salt and water for gate, dey pray make ground pure.

The neighbour wey report the case say the family na three, but e get as e be—actually, na four dem be.

Mama Ejiofor, wrapper tight, voice dey shake, tell us she never see the younger son for days. "Na four dem be, officer. Four, I swear for my late papa grave!"

The younger son—the only university student in the village—dey miss.

When dem mention Ikenna for village square, pride dey everybody face. The headmaster dey boast say na him teaching push the boy reach that level. But now, people just dodge the topic, like say mention the name fit attract bad luck.

Ikenna Ezeugo, twenty-two that year, near graduation.

Every market woman and palm-wine tapper sabi the name. "Na him be our hope," dem go talk. Some dey send their children go meet am for homework, hoping say sense go rub off.

So, as we send the bodies for autopsy, we quickly contact Ikenna Ezeugo’s school.

Phones for university staff office ring tire. Academic secretary, small man with thick glasses, talk say, "Ikenna? He left campus for home o, talk say family matter. Haven't seen him since."

That’s when we found out—

As we join the timeline, heart begin sink. Everything line up too neat, like fate don arrange am one by one.

He take leave from school half a month before.

School record, neat for blue ink, show he sign out, no rush, no fear. Too normal, which make am worse.

Through academic advisor, we hear say Ikenna take leave to bring girlfriend come meet parents.

Advisor, soft woman, kind eye, say, "He was excited. He spoke of introducing his girlfriend to his family, wanting them to accept her. He didn't mention any trouble."

At the same time, another name enter—

The name Bilkisu sound strange for here, carry northern ring. Villagers twist tongue, pronounce am with respect and suspicion.

Bilkisu, Ikenna’s classmate and girlfriend.

Fine and brilliant—combination wey dey attract both wahala and jealousy. Some women dey click tongue, say beauty dey cause problem.

She be main suspect for this massacre.

The news land like harmattan dust: fine girl, educated, now wanted for blood. Everybody get opinion, none of them sweet.

Why we suspect her sharp-sharp?

We ask ourselves that question plenty times, especially as evidence begin pile up. Sometimes, na the quiet face dey hide the sharpest knife.

Because on the second day after incident, as we search the house well...

Na smell lead us. No be only rot, but fear, desperation, and secret. We comb that compound inch by inch.

We find Ikenna, lock up and weak, inside the storage room for back.

He resemble ghost—eye sunk, cloth hang for body, lips crack as if water no touch am for days. Na only the stubborn voice prove say he still dey alive.

From his story, we learn say wetin happen during those days he bring Bilkisu home worse pass the murder itself.

He talk slow at first, then words rush out like fire wey dey burn for chest. The story wey come out worse than anything we fit imagine, fill our notebook with questions no police training fit answer.