September, 2012. My state of origin, which is also my state of residence, is about to mark its silver jubilee. I'm a university student and a greenhorn in the club of adulthood.
I share an apartment with my paternal cousins, Tutyt and Don C. Tutyt is an up-and-coming performing artist. His elder brother, Don C, is a music producer.
We have one of the best studios in the city, right inside our apartment. Consequently, we often play host to the dregs, run of the mill, and creme de la creme of the entertainment industry in our state and beyond. It's safe to say that we're in the same brotherhood with recording artists, music producers and marketers, comedians, event hosts and planners, show hosts and promoters, disc jockers, on-air personalities, and whatnot.
Still in September of 2012. The exact date of the state's silver jubilee anniversary is yet to arrive, but we're jubilating in our studio. Tutyt's birth anniversary is here. And of course, our brotherhood members are well represented.
The DJ is jockeying his disc, infecting the atmosphere with loud but melodious tunes. The chef is in the kitchen, juggling multiple pans and infusing a sweet aroma into the air. Some of the party guests are pouring fumes of tobacco and related substances from their mouths and nostrils into the atmosphere of the not-too-large party hall. Others are pouring drinks into their glasses. There is chattering and nattering reverberating through the party room. People are exchanging handshakes, huddling in smaller groups, and intermittently leaning in closely to each other's mouths to hear each other amidst the loud chatter and loud music.
In different corners, some guys are bantering with, hugging, and even cuddling up the girls they came with, while others are trying to get acquainted with the girls they're only getting to meet. Some are moving to the rhythm of the music, while others are singing along.
The environment is electrifying. It isn't shocking to observe that the brightness of the day is barely swallowed up by darkness, but the goodies the night holds are clearly seen.
I can tell that most of the guests will leave here wasted. What I am not expecting to see is a befuddled man when the party is barely getting started and things have not yet become wild. But here's Ibe, another of my paternal cousins, who'd supposedly come to grace the event, just like other guests. I don't see him picking a cup to fill with wine. But he's wobbling and bobbling from one person to another, screaming out words I couldn't hear over the loud music. I go close to where Ibe is and lean in close to his mouth.
"Who are you? Identify yourself." Ibe bellows at everyone he gets close to. Some guests are becoming uncomfortable. We are afraid that his nuisance would taint the festive atmosphere we are hoping to revel in all through the night. We promptly bounced him out.
Our apartment, where the party is ongoing, is on the middle floor of a three-story building. Ibe remains by the staircase. The closed door denies him entrance. But there's a window by the staircase. He's standing by the window, ranting, and putting his short arms through it. Symbol, the chef, has finished cooking. He walks past the window. Ibe is pushing his hand through it. To further limit Ibe's disturbance, Symbol slides the glass window closed against him. What follows is a shatter, with pieces of glass flying everywhere. Ibe just punched the glass window with his bare hands.
Some of the boys, determined to continue partying, go to the staircase and drag Ibe out of the compound entirely. The party continues through the night, uninterrupted, as if nothing happened.
The morning after the party. It's about 8 a.m. Some of our guests who partied till they either slept off in the studio, balcony, or corridor had left, leaving behind me, my two cousins, Symbol, Jay, a music promoter and really close mutual friend, and two girls who are with some of the boys.
I'm preparing to leave for lectures. I hear a loud bang on our door. I look through the shattered window to see fierce-looking armed men commanding that I open the door to let them in. Everyone is awake. Tutyt and Don C are screaming at the top of their voices. "Who are you? Do you want to kidnap us or kill us? What have we done?" They howled fearfully.
"They are from the criminal investigation unit of the Nigerian Police Force." I mouth to them. "Don't open." They are mouthing as well.
Tutyt and Don C are running to clean the apartment, discarding any incriminating substances. While at it, they're still howling, acting genuinely scared for their lives and ignorant of who is at the door. The police are barking back, threatening, cursing, and doing all they can to forcefully gain entry.
After being sure that the apartment is clean, Tutyt signals me to open the door. The police officers come in and search everywhere, looking for incriminating items. They find none. We are clean. Nevertheless, we are paraded to the station.
As we step on the staircase, we immediately realise that we aren't as clean as we presumed. The staircase is typical of a murder scene—shattered glass and walls and floors splattered with blood.
We are at the police station. The police officers force us to sit on the floor, and we obey. They try to escalate the issue and throw us into cells. Quickly, we show them proof that we're entertainers, and the official planning of the state's silver jubilee anniversary is mostly done in our studio. Tutyt had stuffed some letters meant for some top politicians in the state into his pocket before leaving with the police. They realise that we are not bunches of nobodies. They begin asking relevant questions.
"Your neighbour called us, stating that some unquestionable personalities trooped into your apartment last night. This morning, when they tried to use the stairs, they saw blood everywhere. What happened?"
"It was my birthday. One of my cousins broke the window with his bare hands and splattered everywhere with blood." Tutyt answers.
"Did you guys take him to the pharmacy? He could be dead. Haven't you seen that he lost so much blood?"
At this point, fear creeps in. The magnitude of the danger we are facing has just started dawning on us. The last drop of the euphoria of the party finally fades. Reality sinks in.
Symbol scribbles on a piece of paper and passes it to me. I unfold the paper sneakily so that the police will not notice. I grow sober as I read, "What if Ibe is dead?"
"Sir, we didn't take him anywhere." I broke the silence that encapsulated the hall with a shaky voice.
"What if he's dead?" One of the policemen asks. The question cuts through my chest. It's almost restricting my airflow. "Is this where my clean slate ends?" I ask myself. After becoming an adult, one of my greatest pledges to myself was to maintain a clean slate—an image and reputation not soiled by criminal records and all forms of indictment. But here I am, at the beginning of my adulthood, about to be charged with murder and related offences.
"You guys have to provide the wounded guy."
Tutyt jumps to his feet and joins a waiting police van to go in search of Ibe. After thirty minutes, he's back. The tense atmosphere relaxes a bit after we see Ibe trotering behind Tutyt in the company of three police officers.
"Here's the man." Tutyt says this to the police officers that were interrogating us.
"Where is the wound?" Ibe hands his right hand to one of the officers, who is carefully inspecting it.
"Why did you do that?"
"I drank elsewhere before coming to the party. I was very drunk. I didn't know what I was doing. I'm sorry." Ibe replies, sounding contrite.
It's the force's headquarters. They move us around, from one office to the next. At each stop, they ask similar questions, and we provide the same answers.
They finally resolve that we have to clean up the stairs, paint the walls, and fix the window. We gladly accept.
I and Tutyt are quite young, according to the officers. They demand that we call an older family member who'll advise and scold us against similar occurrences in the future to come and sign for our release.
We put a call through, and an uncle came through. He does the paperwork and ensures our release.
Back in our studio apartment. We throw another party to celebrate our release. Personally, I'm celebrating that I maintained a clean slate, irrespective of my youthful exuberance.