Aminatta Forna - The Memory of Love

‘In a few days!’ I could hear in her voice how close she was to tears.

‘Shall I come over?’ I asked.

She said she was going to bed.

Meanwhile I was having my own troubles. Earlier that day as I went to buy bread I noticed a man standing in the street. I would have thought nothing of it, only later, emerging from the bakery, I saw him again, on the opposite side of the street. I eased my pace, just to see what happened. I noted he let a vacant taxi pass him by. He was still there when I reached my door. Later, I checked the street. No sign of him. Instead there was another man standing at the cigarette kiosk. He had his back to me, but as he turned I was certain I caught him glancing up at my window.

All through that oppressive day I stayed in my apartment, seeking solace and distraction among my papers, but to read was impossible. Instead I smoked and paced, twitching, moving an object here or there. You’d think that after two sleepless nights I would be exhausted. And I was. Exhausted and yet incapable of rest. Outside my window the sound of a workman’s hammer played on my nerves. In an effort to regain control and try to put my thoughts in some sort of order, I wrote down everything that had happened. It helped, as it often did, to see it in black and white on the page.

I went to bed late, slept erratically and woke determined not to endure another day like the one before. I left the house and hailed a passing poda poda . As we drew away I watched from the window for a sign of anything suspicious. I switched vehicle twice during my journey and arrived at the university mid-morning.

Nothing unusual, either, on campus. It was my luck this whole episode had taken place during the holidays. Today was Tuesday. Friday, the day of my arrest, was always a slow day. It was likely few people had missed me. I made my way up to my office, checking my pigeonhole on the way, saw two of my colleagues and exchanged greetings. I reached my room and closed the door behind me, remained leaning against it for a moment or two. I looked around. Somebody had been in my room. Several items had been moved. Vitally, my typewriter was missing. I looked through cupboards and opened drawers. The typewriter was nowhere to be seen. It became apparent my room had been searched, the typewriter removed as some sort of evidence. I walked down the corridor to the Dean’s office.

The Dean was facing the window. He stood with his legs apart, hands behind his back. He did not turn his head or acknowledge my presence, yet I had the sense, in that still figure at the window, of a tremendous alertness. He turned around to face me.

‘Good to see you, Cole. How are you?’

I replied I was well.

‘Excellent,’ he said.

‘I just came by to thank you for your help last week.’

He waved my words away and said, ‘Bad, bad. These sorts of matters. No good for anyone.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was wondering …’ I hesitated and then continued, ‘Is there any news of Dr Kamara? His wife is very worried.’

‘Dr Kamara?’

‘I wondered if you had any information. If, perhaps, you could use your good offices with Mr Johnson to enquire.’

But the Dean was already shaking his head. ‘I barely know Mr Johnson.’

I tried again. ‘I’d like to be able to reassure his wife.’

The warmth had left his face entirely. He moved to sit down behind his desk and began to straighten some of the piles of paper upon it. When he spoke his voice contained a slight but significant change of tone. ‘My advice to you is to leave this matter alone, if you are not involved, as you maintain. The point of authority is not to question it.’

‘That’s why I have come to you. To see if there is anything you can do.’

‘We have been through difficult times,’ said the Dean, with some irritation. ‘And nobody in this country wants a return to the problems of the past. The police have a job to do. Once trouble begins, it has a habit of spreading. Now it’s the universities. Look at Europe. Students burning down their own libraries, taking to the streets, disobeying the law. Now the disease has come over here. Ibadan. Nairobi. Accra. The students are no longer interested in learning. They’ve turned into hooligans. I have no intention of allowing this university to go the same way.’ As he spoke his gaze rested upon me; he was entirely still, his eyes reflected the light from the window. Just before his eyelids dropped down over his eyes, I saw the depths of the ambition in them.

I had the unerring sense the discussion was at an end. I rose to go.

‘One moment.’ He fetched something from the cupboard behind his desk. I saw it was my typewriter. He said, ‘Unauthorised use of university property. It may seem unimportant to you, but then you do not have my job. Once you let something slide, it is just the beginning.’ He handed it to me. ‘In this case, though, I am willing to accept it was an honest mistake.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

Just as I reached the door, he said my name. ‘Cole.’

My hand was on the doorknob. I turned.

He was standing reading a document. He looked up fleetingly. ‘Be careful of the company you keep, Cole.’

Kekura, as it turned out, had escaped arrest. He had spent the night with a woman friend and, stopping by Yansaneh’s house early in the day, had got wind of the arrests. He’d decided to visit some friends who happened to live over the border until he deemed it safe to return. Saffia told me this on Wednesday when we met over coffee at the Red Rooster. She’d been busy pursuing her own lines of enquiry. Her face was serious, resolved. Delicate lines on the sides of her eyes I had never noticed before. Other lines — of determination — either side of her mouth. They did nothing to diminish her beauty. She seemed to have regained her poise: the news of Kekura delivered by a friend, the dancer apparently. For some reason it grated upon me that he should have played a part in the restoration of her confidence. I wondered about him. I wondered about Kekura, too.

A waitress brought Nescafé in stainless-steel pots, a small jug of evaporated milk, a bowl of sugar cubes and set them down without ceremony upon the chequered plastic cloth.

‘So what’s next?’ I said.

She had been back to see Johnson each day. While he refused to officially verify Julius was in his custody, everything in his manner confirmed it to her. He had told her to go home and wait.

‘Perhaps you should. You look exhausted.’

She looked up at me, her eyes flashed. ‘What are you saying, Elias?’

‘Only that some things are best left. If you rile them, you might end up making things worse for Julius.’

She looked at me steadily. ‘I know you’re just trying to help.’ She drew a deep breath: ‘I’ve been to see a lawyer,’ she announced. ‘The lawyer says to give Johnson two more days and then to issue a writ of habeas corpus. One for Julius. One for Ade.’

I listened, I said, ‘I want Julius out of there as much as you do, believe me. Only if you do as you suggest you risk bringing the whole thing out into the open.’

‘That’s the point.’

‘The trouble is,’ I said gently, ‘you’d end up putting Johnson on the defensive. He might have to justify himself by charging Julius. And that would be a worse outcome.’

‘What would you suggest?’ she asked.

‘That we continue as we are. Do as Johnson says and wait. He can’t keep Julius in there for ever, he just wants to show he’s a big man. Perhaps I can speak to my pastor, see if he can bring any pressure to bear.’

She sipped her coffee. Thoughts shadowed her face. Finally, she said, ‘It’s not just that I can’t sit and do nothing, it’s that I won’t. This isn’t just about Julius, don’t you see, Elias? This is about all of us. To tolerate this kind of thing, well, it would be just the beginning.’