Chisom Oscar | The Sound of Nothing

I stare out of a window that does not exist.

I must have read that somewhere, maybe some recommended reading when I was in school. I can’t be sure. There is only one window in this room, and it’s quite small and set quite high, two meters high at least. I can’t look through it; it might as well not exist.

The clocks on the wall tell me that the day is nearly done.

That was the next line, I think. Time is a dangerous thing to think about, having so little of it. I have stopped counting the hours. Easy enough, because there are no clocks in here, but I can still tell the time by the pattern of footsteps in the corridor. The guards in this jail are fairly disciplined and so quite predictable. Try as I might, I can still feel the seconds racing by. Morning will come soon. It will be my last one.

They left a sheet of paper on the rough table in one corner of the room, to document my confession perhaps. They won’t be getting one. Outside my cell, a guard coughs, trying to keep awake. Beyond him, the corridor runs to the gates, past the gates is the yard, and in the yard, the post. I know the order of everything. I helped design some of it myself. I have walked on the other side countless times. I have led men on their final walk more times than I care to remember. They will come for me at dawn.

More of the poem comes to me now;

No answer came to my pleas,

not from God above

nor from men on earth.

=====

I think of Ara. She had come hours before, escorted by some privates. We were allowed an hour, one of them announced, before they left us.

I found myself ashamed of my surroundings then. The walls were aged with decades of peeling paint. The mattress smelled like old foam and sweat. And there she stood, so beautiful in the midst of it all. In all our twenty-three years together, I can’t remember her ever looking so lovely, like a precious ornament in a sty. Her scarf hides the streaks of grey I’d only days ago teased her about, but nothing hides the heaviness in her eyes.

“You look well,” she says. “I was afraid you’d look worse.”

“I haven’t been mistreated,” is all I can say. I don’t speak after that. I don’t know what else to say. She regards me quietly for a long time. For once, I can’t read what is in her mind. If she’s here for answers, there are none I can give her. I hope she’s here for us.

“I bribed them for three hours,” she says suddenly, “not one.”

And in a flash, she was in my arms. Her kisses were desperate, frantic things, salty with tears and as warm as a furnace. Buttons were striking the floor in protest before long, and then I was inside her. I could faintly hear the guards outside shouting encouragement to us, but I was so lost in her I didn’t care. I don’t know how long it lasted. It couldn’t have been long, but all our lives together were relived in that moment. Our first time, our breakups and reunions, the miscarriages, the babies, the long campaigns living only to return to her. It was like reclaiming something stolen. In those few blissful minutes, I lived it all, and it broke me. I wept. She cradled my head to her bosom and let me do it. This is the first time she has ever seen me cry.

When it was over, we lay on that filthy bed holding each other. Her breath comes slow and even. Mine does not. All I can think is what it must feel like never to breathe again, never to hold her again, never to make love to her again, never to play with my children. We just lay there not speaking. Words were meaningless now, would accomplish nothing. I know it felt wrong, like I had to say something meaningful to help her through what was coming, some lasting sentiment to remember me by, some words of wisdom for my boys. But nothing came. This was not like in novels.

When she was gone, a flood of words and thoughts came to me. Things I should have said, things I should have apologized for, advice I could have given. All I can do now is hope that she felt them somehow, that she knows. I think she does.

=====

I rose and stretched my legs. From the window above my head, a thin stream of air carried in the smell of the city. Petrol, dust, and sea salt. I can hear faint echoes of the nightlife. This nation I’ve fought so hard for is moving on without me, indifferent.

I’m stunned by the futility of it all. I believed in justice once. I stood by it. It was my code, my duty, and I did it faithfully. Regardless of what this country says about me tomorrow, I was, I am and have always been a true soldier. Perhaps the last one left in this corrupt thing they call an army.

The tribunal, if one could call it that, lasted less than a day. It had been convened in the Great Hall of South Abama Army Headquarters. It was a well-chosen space, big enough for the spectacle they were about to display. I remember how the flags hung limp against the walls behind the platform. I remember the crest of the Republic staring down on me from above: ‘Strength and Unity in Duty’.

Walking in was a blur, a flash of lights as journalists penned in like cattle behind the barriers barraged me with a multitude of questions. I saluted the bench out of habit; the men there did not deserve it.

Three officers sat in judgment, one of them Major General Bujayi, my old mentor, vice-chairman of the tribunal and chief orchestrator of this farce. Most of the morning was the drone of ritual. I missed most of it. Ara was there, sitting still in that infuriatingly calm way of hers, and all my attention was for her. It filled me with pride to watch her up on the rafters; stoic and sure. I have never loved any woman, as many as they were, as much as I love her. She was the lighthouse for me in that courtroom. She knew it and never stopped shining.

Soon enough, it was time to fight.

=====

“The accused, having command of the Fourteenth Infantry Brigade, did conspire to overthrow the constitutional government of Abama by force of arms, to wit: through the raising of disloyal elements within the central command and the securing of foreign assistance for the same.”

For this, my gaze was squarely on Bujayi, on his self-satisfied smug face as he watched his well-rehearsed performance come to light.

“Do you understand the charge?” General Musa asked.

“I do, sir. And I reject it.”

They produced a document first, a letter typed on government paper, my name beneath a forged signature. It invited an unnamed “foreign envoy” to discuss “the stability of post-transition leadership.”

A lie, and I told them so. Bujayi had the floor; I had only words but I used them anyway.

Next came a photograph, grainy, taken at night. A group of men around a table in a roadside bar. A shape in a peaked cap, my height, my build.

“It could be anyone,” Bala objected. “Half the officers in Abama own that cap.”

Bala was all that I had. The only officer who stood by me, who would not believe the lies. He sat next to me now, ever loyal, punching holes in every story and exposing all the hastily construed “evidence” for what they were.

“The accused admits to frequenting such establishments,” the prosecutor replied smoothly.

“I admit to drinking beer,” I said. “That is not treason.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the gallery before Bujayi silenced it with a look. This trial wasn’t about proof. It was a performance. It was a lesson for all to see. To show all those who crossed him and would not fall in line the results of such folly.

Men like these three had bled Abama dry, stolen its riches and feasted on the fat of the masses. I was the fool who had stepped forward to oppose.

The prosecution spoke of intercepted messages, coded transfers, and witness confessions. Bala turned the “facts of the case” to nonsense, nonsense and more nonsense.

I remember sitting there, calmer and more assured as the web of lies unravelled before the court. Ara was sitting straighter; I could see her in the gallery hoping. Hope is a dangerous thing.

“State your name and rank,” the clerk asked their star witness.

“Sergeant Adamu Sarki, sir.”

“Do you recognise the accused?”

“I do, sir. He was my commanding officer.”

“Did he ever discuss a change in government?”

Adamu hesitated. “He… he spoke of the need for better leadership. Of corruption, sir.”

“That will do,” the prosecutor said.

“That will not do,” I was enraged. “How does a call for improvement amount to treason?”

Musa’s voice dropped like a weight. “Colonel, you will confine yourself to answers through counsel.”

When our turn came, Captain Bala rose and marched up to the dais.

“My lords,” he began, “the prosecution’s case rests entirely on a forged letter, a blurry photograph, and conjecture. The accused has served this nation for twenty-five years and has been decorated twice for valour. I would ask the court to remember this as it makes its judgment.”

I could see Bujayi shift uncomfortably in his chair. He had personally pinned those medals to my chest back in the days when I was a son to him, back when he still had a soul. Akpan, the third man on the tribunal, said and felt nothing. A dangerous man who never let on what he felt. Musa was an old fool who only did as he was told, as long as it looked like his idea.

Bala turned to me. “Colonel Dabei, in your own words, did you conspire to overthrow the Republic?”

“I did not,” I said.

“Did you ever receive funds, weapons, or instructions from any foreign country?”

“I did not.”

“Did you, at any point, instruct your men to act against the federal government?”

“Never.”

Bala was phenomenal. He appealed to precedent, pointed out the lack of handwriting analysis, exposed missing witnesses the prosecution promised but never produced.

When he was finished, the prosecutor simply said, “No further questions,” and the court went into recess.

What waits ahead is plain now:

I can see it without distortion.

=====

“Having considered the evidence laid before this Tribunal, and mindful of the sacred duty entrusted to us by the Constitution of the Republic of Abama, we find the accused, Colonel Idris Dabei, guilty of high treason under Section 3, Article 7 of the Abama Military Code.”

I had expected this, yet I did not understand at first. It felt like something happening to someone else. It was in Ara that I saw the truth of it. It was over. No words can describe the anguish I felt watching her in so much pain and despair. She let out a loud wail I had never heard before. Even now, the woman surprises me. It was the sound of a dying animal, primal and intense. I will remember it for the rest of my life, what little remains of it.

“You are hereby sentenced to death by firing squad. The sentence shall be carried out at dawn three days from this judgment. May God have mercy on your soul.”

=====

Before I am hanged, there will be one last surge
of rage, protests, bargains that mean nothing.
Lifting my face to the sky
in one last hysterical scream to God Almighty…

A different death for a different man. Mine will be a sudden volley of shots but I feel the noose tightening around my neck all the same. The words of that old poem come to me quite easily now. I wonder who had written it, the circumstances behind his pain, and I reflect on how closely our fates are intertwined. I have lived through the horrors of war and the horrors of family. I have no screams left. One thing is for certain, the only thing I can control. I will not beg for my life.

I can hear roosters welcoming the day through my tiny window. It’s time.

The sound of boots echoes down the corridor. I can feel my heartbeat, a pounding fragile thing, as the keys turn in the lock. I rose before they asked. I had my uniform on. That was my only request. Most men in my place went out in ugly shifts. I would go out a soldier. They had stripped all my medals beforehand, and it felt different without those testimonials to speak for me. It was better than sackcloth, however.

The guards didn’t speak. They stepped aside as I walked forward. One of them had the shackles but made no attempt to put them on. It was good to know there was at least some shame left here.

Finally, one of them spoke: “Colonel”, not prisoner. I found myself surprisingly proud of that for some reason.

“We are to escort you to the yard for execution. Do you require a clergyman? We have a few minutes.”

I know the words. I taught them myself to add some dignity to this haunting process. I shook my head.

They led me down the corridor past the other cells. Some were empty; from others, the occupants watched in silence.

My escorts into the bittersweet, deafening sound of nothing.

At each gate we stopped. A guard saluted; a bolt slid back. We will do this three times and then the yard. There is no going back after that.

Outside, the dawn wind carries the scent of petrol and wet concrete. Everything is laid out as I designed it all those years ago. Watchers in a gallery to the right. A shooting screen twelve men long. Rifles are stacked side by side and ready. I can smell their polishing oil even from here. It will go as smooth as clockwork.

I used to think the condemned never truly understood these last moments; they always had a vacant stare just before the final order, but standing here now, I know I was wrong. Every sound is sharper, every smell more intense than ever. Life comes alive when you can see it’s ending. I was feeling more than I had ever felt before.

The courtyard is already full. Faces turn as I enter, officers in dark coats, gazes averted and hostile. But there are friends here too. A few can meet my eye; a few cannot hide their grief.

Ahead of them is the officiating bench; Musa, Bujayi and Akpan are there along with a few other conspirators. To see their sham through to completion, no doubt. I catch Bujayi’s attention for an instant, and I almost smile. He’s clearly unhappy I’m not bound, and he gives a signal.

They bind my hands behind me now. I feel the pressure of the ropes rough against my wrists.

I am marched up to the post. They tie me to it quickly and leave me to face the room. I can see a clock on the guard wall opposite me. In twenty-six seconds, they’ll begin. Fitting. Twenty-six seconds for twenty-six years.

I look around the gallery. I know I didn’t want her here, to see me like this, but I’m still disappointed I don’t get to see her face just one last time. It is my biggest regret. A deep sorrow engulfs me, and I just want to scream at the meaninglessness of it all. I don’t. I stand strong.

General Musa rises and he is saying something, but there’s a ringing in my ears so loud it drowns everything else out. I can feel my heart pounding. I’m conscious of how badly I need to shit all of a sudden. I’m hungry, full, tired and alert all at once, and my knees are starting to buckle.

Before I am hanged, there will be one last surge
of rage, protests, bargains that mean nothing.

It came now, a tidal wave of pure, animal terror. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My mouth went dry. Every cell in my body screamed to run, to fight, to beg. A frenetic scream built in my throat, a final, useless shriek to God who had abandoned me. I swallowed it down.

The squad was marching in now. First to the rifles as they glinted in the emerging daylight, and then up to the screen. I watched the precision, the ritual. I know each movement. I was one of them, once. They pause right on cue. Good men.

“Colonel Dabei, do you have any last words?” General Musa asked, clearly hoping to skip this part.

I straightened, happy to disappoint him. My voice, when it came, surprised even me.

“I was a boy when I joined the army. I lied about my age, you see, so I could join. I was big, so no one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t care. I grew up surrounded by soldiers. They taught me everything I know. Some good, some not so good. The army has been my life for twenty-six years. It is all I have ever known. We are meant to be the protectors of the people from enemies without and within. I fear we have become the enemies within. I see our good generals with all your medals living like kings, while the soldiers under your command defend your comfort in filth and rot. The people, the ones you swore to protect, queue for food while your foreign accounts get fatter and fatter”.

Murmurs swept across the room. Bujayi’s jaw tightened. I continued, louder now, looking directly at him.

“I’ve seen how you work. I know my so-called confession has already been printed, ready to dispatch to Abama, peddling your lies and deceit. The clock is ticking for you and your lies. May God have mercy on you when your time runs out”.

I choked on the last word. I had to stop; else I would have ended in a bucket of tears.

Musa looked mildly irritated; Bujayi was furious. “Proceed,” he screeched, usurping his role.

The commanding officer marched forward and stopped ten paces to my right, safely out of range. I can’t remember his name, but he has a good strong voice. I have worked with him at least twice before.

“Load!” he booms.

The crisp, metallic clatter of twelve rounds being chambered. A sound I must have heard a dozen times. It sounds different now.

“Aim!”

The rifles came up in unison. Twelve muzzles, black and unwavering, stared at my heart.

I looked past them. I saw him then, Bala. My rock, who had never failed me, never wavered. Who had shown this country the lies and injustice of that sham of a trial. Who delivered my defence so virtuously that I almost believed it myself. If I’m a martyr, it is he who made me so.

He gives me a little nod. I think I know what it means. I don’t have to worry about Ara and the boys. Even without being asked he rescues me again. It’s all the courage I need to face what comes next.

The commanding officer’s mouth opened to give the final command. I took one last deep breath, filled my lungs with it. It felt so sweet, so strong, so alive. I think of my boys and my wife now. It’s the only thing left to think about. I will love them always.

It comes to me finally. The rest of it.

I hear them coming,

emerging from the shadows, shackles in hand,

guides to the place where feeling ends,

escorts into the bittersweet deafening sound of nothing,

of nothing at all.

“Fire!”

They say you never hear the shot that kills you.

They lied.

=====

Image: josephhershmedia unsplash remixed