Chapter 4: The Mob and the Accusation

People in the village are straight and quick to act.

Once they sense trouble, they move—no long story. If someone is accused, the whole place turns into a mini-court, with neighbours taking sides, shouting over each other.

After Amina’s parents came back, they quickly took her to the general hospital for a checkup.

The mother’s wrapper barely touched the ground as she rushed the girl to the doctor. News like this travels fast, and the hospital matron met them at the door, already shaking her head.

The result was bad: her hymen had long been broken.

There was a hush in the waiting room. You could hear a pin drop. The doctor spoke in low tones, but the mother’s wail broke through—high, sharp, and full of pain.

After her parents beat her and pressed her, Amina’s lips trembled. Her eyes darted to her mother, then the ground. Only after another round of shouting did she whisper a name.

The cries from inside their compound were loud enough for neighbours to peek in. After the beating and shouts, Amina, in tears, whispered the name we least expected.

Baba Kola—the old bachelor who owned the small kiosk.

People who’d just been buying suya from his stall now pointed fingers, some even cursing the ground he walked on. It was as if a dark cloud settled over the kiosk.

In a flash, the whole village scattered.

Old women tied wrappers tight, young men grabbed sticks—everybody rushed out.

By the time we heard and rushed there, villagers had already surrounded the kiosk.

They shouted his name, banging on the wooden shutters. Some men from the youth vigilante group were already looking for kerosene, in case the crowd wanted to set fire to something.

If we had delayed, Baba Kola might have died from beating.

Even Tunde, who was not a small man, had to push through the crowd, shouting, “Police! Police!” before people calmed down. Baba Kola’s shirt was already torn, his face swollen.

Amina’s parents were mad, abusing Baba Kola to his face, while Amina held her mother’s leg, head down, crying.

The insults were flying like stones. “Thunder fire you! Your papa! Your mama!” Amina, still in tears, clung to her mother, too scared to look up.

As for Baba Kola, he was almost in tears, shaking as he kept saying he had never done such a thing.

His voice was high, hands shaking. “Abeg! I swear on my mother’s grave, I never touch any pikin!” He looked lost, like a man in a storm.

But the villagers were full of anger.

No one wanted to hear him. Some even spat three times on the ground, muttering, “Make im spirit no waka enter my house.” The air was thick with judgment and fear.

We didn’t know Baba Kola’s usual character, but as an old bachelor, he was in real trouble now.

In our place, once you reach a certain age and never marry, people begin to talk. Stories grow with every year you live alone.

Nobody wanted to believe him, and many villagers just came to watch the wahala, happy to see an old bachelor accused as a beast.

Children whispered behind their hands. Some adults laughed cruelly, saying, “We talk am before—dat man no pure.”

We quickly restored order and took everyone to the chief’s court for questioning.

The village chief, with his long white beard and faded agbada, sat on his wooden stool, pounding his staff for silence. The crowd hushed, waiting to hear how it would end.

Amina was shaking throughout, while her parents kept cursing.

Her small hands twisted in her lap. Her father stood over her, face dark with anger, muttering curses under his breath.

But since Amina had said nothing when we spoke to her the day before, we still doubted her story.

I leaned close to Tunde, whispering, “This thing no clear. Small girl like that, yesterday she keep quiet, today na big talk.”

Unfortunately, we couldn’t separate her from her parents for private questioning.

Her mother clung to her, always watching us, making sure we didn’t talk to Amina alone. Even the chief’s court could not break that wall.

She only managed to say that Baba Kola lured them into the back of his kiosk with snacks and small money, then touched and slept with them.

Her voice barely carried. “He say make we no talk. He dey give us sweet. He touch me, touch Blessing too.”

When we asked why she didn’t say anything earlier, she said fearfully that she didn’t know those things could make someone pregnant.

She wiped her tears, voice trembling. “I no sabi say person fit get belle from that kind thing.”

Logically, it made sense.

Children in such villages often didn’t get proper sex education. Still, something about her story felt forced, like lines learned by heart.

But as of now, there was no physical evidence that Baba Kola touched Amina.

The doctor’s report only stated the obvious—nothing pointed directly at Baba Kola. All we had was one scared girl’s word.

Baba Kola himself kept denying, even breaking down in tears, saying he was being set up. At his age, this kind of accusation was too much…

He fell to his knees, grabbing the chief’s feet. “I beg! No be me! The world will judge you people if you lie on my head!”

The only thing we could count on was the DNA test.

Tunde muttered, “Na only science go free us for this one.” We collected the samples, praying for a clear answer.

We quickly arranged for samples from Baba Kola and Ifunanya’s baby, but even with our own lab, results would not be ready till the next day.

As the sun set, a restless hush fell over the village. Some people said, “No need wait result, we sabi truth already.” Others warned, “Make una calm down, na police dey handle am.”

For different reasons, we couldn’t lock up Baba Kola, and could only warn Amina’s family, who were demanding answers, not to do anything until we contacted them.

We left a constable outside their compound, just in case. That night, even the crickets seemed quieter than usual.

But that night, something happened.

The village would not rest, and neither would evil.