The news was brought to her by Captain Abdul Medani. He was in mufti and came in a taxi. But his face had become so deeply etched in Beatrice's mind during the weeks he played the mystery voice that in spite of his dress and the dark glasses she had immediately recognized the offficer who had led the search of her flat. And she had read his countenance and deciphered the disaster before he opened his mouth. He said he just wanted to be sure she did not hear it on the air, and left immediately. An hour later it was broadcast on the national radio. Later that evening Emmanuel and Braimoh arrived back.
In the weeks and months that followed, her flat became vitually the home of Emmanuel and Braimoh and the girl Adamma. The Captain also came quite frequently. Sometimes, especially at weekends, they would all be there together and discuss the deepening crisis in the country. At first Beatrice heard the voices and the arguments around her as though they came from an adjoining room behind a closed door. But slowly she began to pick out the words out of the muffled sounds, then snatches of sentences and finally even the occasional joke forcing a faint smile like a twitch on her slow-thawing face.
The door had slowly opened and the words and snatches of sentences coalesced into spirited conversations and even debates mostly between Emmanuel and Abdul. But although Beatrice did seem to hear what was said she still did not take part in the exchanges. She still steered her own thoughts as carefully as she could around them. But there were collisions nonetheless which could not but alter now and again, however slightly, the speed and drift of her own silent activity.
'… And what I want to know from you is how this latest blood-letting has helped Kangan in its historical march as you call it. The blood of His Former Excellency and the blood of his victims — if indeed they were his victims…'
If indeed they were his victims, repeated Beatrice in her mind. The very thought that had already visited her dressed, albeit, differently! The explanation of the tragedy of Chris and Ikem in terms of petty human calculation or personal accident had begun to give way in her throbbing mind to an altogether more terrifying but more plausible theory of premeditation. The image of Chris as just another stranger who chanced upon death on the Great North Road or Ikem as an early victim of a waxing police state was no longer satisfactory. Were they not in fact trailed travellers whose journeys from start to finish had been carefully programmed in advance by an alienated history? If so, how many more doomed voyagers were already in transit or just setting out, faces fresh with illusions of duty-free travel and happy landings ahead of them?
That was the day she broke her long silence and asked the two young men: 'What must a people do to appease an embittered history?'
The smiles that lit up the faces in the room, especially of the two indefatigable debaters stopped in their tracks, were not addressed to that grave question and its train of echoes from a bottomless pit of sadness. It was rather the ending of an exile that the faces acknowledged, the return of utterance to the sceptical priest struck dumb for a season by the Almighty for presuming to set limits to his omnipotence.
It was not that Beatrice had spoken no words at all before that day. She said hello and even, on occasion, offered hospitality. Certainly she had resumed work in her office one week after Chris's burial; and at home she conducted her domestic life in the company of Elewa and Agatha. But in all this she had only used words that did not threaten to invade her thoughts and drag them into the profanity of the open air. She became more accessible only in slow stages, egged on usually by one little crisis or another in her small community.
Abdul had confided to her that he had been assigned (or had assigned himself — it wasn't too clear which) to watch her and her friends. She had smiled and said, 'Good luck!' Weeks later she had decided in fairness to inform Emmanuel. He was outraged.
'The fellow is an agent provocateur. How can we be so naive?'
'We? You are such a gentleman, Emmanuel. The weeks with Chris, cooped up together and conspiring, I see, have left their mark. But, no; I'm not naive. The fellow is quite genuine.'
'How?'
'Woman's intuition, if you like.'
'Since when?'
'What do you mean since when? Are you asking me since when have I become a woman?… And I have just called you a gentleman.'
For a while after that Emmanuel had shown his resentment by ostentatiously keeping sealed lips whenever Abdul was around. Beatrice watched the two without further intervention. In the end it was curiosity which killed the cat of Emmanuel's silence. It all happened over the rumour about Colonel Johnson Ossai.
'Is it really true that he is missing?' Emmanuel had asked in spite of himself. Abdul had simply nodded without deigning to open his mouth. He had become aware of Emmanuel's suspicion and had adopted what Beatrice considered a most sophisticated response — simply ignored it and him.
'But how can a whole boss of State Security just disappear? Like that!'
'I believe you had already left Bassa when the boss of the State itself went missing.' Then he positioned himself as if he was talking to Beatrice and the others. 'I can give a few facts that have emerged so far. Colonel Ossai was last seen going in to see the Head of State and has not been sighted ever since. You remember Idi Amin? Well, according to unconfirmed reports he used to strangle and behead his rivals for women and put their head in the fridge as a kind of trophy. So perhaps Colonel Ossai is in the cooler, somewhere.'
'You don't sound too concerned about your boss,' said Beatrice. 'That's awful, you know.'
'If I told you half of what I know about Ossai you wouldn't be too concerned either.'
'What a life!' said Emmanuel.
'Anyway, soldiering is not a sentimental profession. The first thing we learn is: Soja come, soja gwo.'
But all that was weeks and months behind them — weeks and months of slow preparation for today's ritual outing.
When Elewa moved up to Beatrice and whispered into her ear what she had just come to suspect as the probable reason for her mother not being there yet Beatrice decided to perform the naming herself and to do it right away. She called the little assembly to order and proceeded to improvise a ritual.
She picked up the tiny bundle from its cot and, turning to Elewa, said: 'Name this child.'
'Na you go name am.'
'OK. You just saved a false step, anyway. Thanks. I will start afresh… There was an Old Testament prophet who named his son The-remnant-shall-return. They must have lived in times like this. We have a different metaphor, though; we have our own version of hope that springs eternal. We shall call this child AMAECHINA: May-the-path-never-close. Ama for short.'
'But that's a boy's name.'
'No matter.'
'Girl fit answer am also.'
'It's a beautiful name. The Path of Ikem.'
'That's right. May it never close, never overgrow.'
'Das right!'
'May it always shine! The Shining Path of Ikem.'
'Dat na wonderful name.'
'Na fine name so.'
'In our traditional society,' resumed Beatrice, 'the father named the child. But the man who should have done it today is absent… Stop that sniffling, Elewa! The man is not here although I know he is floating around us now, watching with that small-boy smile of his. I am used to teasing him and I will tease him now. What does a man know about a child anyway that he should presume to give it a name…'