Chapter 3 BRIGHT BURNING FLAME

"...lost loved ones, scar us..."

Male nurses lifted Amadi's corpse in a plastic body bag into a minivan. Dagogo's face weakened, watching the backdoors of the minivan close. It was driven off the hospital premises. Standing beside Dagogo was Amadi's father, who had been contacted by a phone found on Amadi's corpse. Amadi's father was a grey haired short man, who was quite close to ground. Dagogo had narrated the unexpected death of his son and the gunman, without any mention of his court case, the serial killer or the police officer. It was a tale he told with a wrenching in his heart.

He kept patient ears while Amadi's father rambled about his son's sorry life. After which Dagogo offered condolence money for the funeral, and transferred to the old man's account. Amadi's father dissolved into a pleasing smile and tears. He loaded words of blessings on Dagogo. Dagogo smiled at the old man and thanked him. It reduced the strain within himself. Though the questions bugged Dagogo's mind. His role in Amadi's death. A serial killer. Zero witnesses. Damn. When the man in black strolled out of the hospital, having a cigar between his fingers, Dagogo offered to drive them home. His car was squeaky clean and Dagogo raised a goodbye hand to the gateman.

***

"Sir Rogers, for someone in your professional standing, what would you advice in my situation?" Dagogo asked Rogers, after dropping off Amadi's father.

Rogers released smoke, staring through the car window.

"'Judas was involved in my wife's death. I'll work with you."

"Your wife."

Rogers threw out the cigarette. "Yes."

"Wow, that's terrible."

Rogers smirked. Dagogo's side eye found a flicker of pain.

"Oga lawyer, in this your case against government, do you have people who work with you?"

Dagogo sent a glance his way.

"Yeah, I have some students who work part time."

"How many?"

"Two."

Rogers turned his face to Dagogo.

"You trust them? You know them very well?"

"Officer are you implying..." Dagogo cracked a disbelieving smile.

"Oga, spy is not beyond anybody."

"They're just kids, students, they can't be..."

Rogers smirked.

"Students, Mr lawyer..."

"The name is Dagogo Sir."

"My investigation will also involve your students."

Dagogo slanted his head a bit, alongside his rising eyebrows.

"Well, yeah, that's quite alright, for...transparency."

"Trans-pa-rancy. English people." Rogers spoke to himself and chuckled without much sound.

"Oga lawyer, any other witness?" He asked.

Dagogo's thinking face did some work, tweaking his eyebrows, as he rotated the steering wheel.

"The girl that works with me, she sends out messages. It depends on the replies we've gotten..."

Rogers kept his gaze rigid for a moment, planning the best play.

"Before meeting any witness in person, you will call me. I'll give you my number."

Dagogo took one hand off his steering wheel and found his phone from his suit jacket.

"Here." He gave the device to Rogers.

Rogers dialed the digits, returned the phone and pointed Dagogo to stop. He exited the car and entered his gate. Dagogo watched him. His walking was gallant, like a street thug.

***

Heading back to his chambers, Dagogo found himself stuck with a pile of cars. There was a confused intersection just ahead, which was generating the traffic. Drivers were attempting to maneuver, but he stared at the situation. His mind was attached to earlier events. A gun. He had seen it before. One time. He yelled at a school bully. But there had been no bullets. No one got hurt. This was someone's blood, live and direct. Someone's life. Battles in a law court were a safer space.

He took off his glasses, laying his head on the seat, his mouth produced a breathing sound - fuck. He closed his eyes and his thoughts beat to the rhythm of his heart, until his phone rang. The phone sat on the dashboard, displaying his wife's contact top screen. Cecile. Perfect timing. Wahala. In Naija pidgin english it meant trouble. If he needed more of that, his wife was the best person to provide it.

A conversation between them was cat and dogs. It had been that way for quite a while. But one of the benefits of living in Naija, and leaving his family in America, was forgetting the past. But the past knew Cecile, and Cecile had his phone number. He left the ringtone to run its course. Yet Cecile didn't give up. The ringing was non-stop. He stayed quiet looking at his phone, as if Cecile's name was gripping his peace of mind by the neck. Then he answered the call, putting the phone on loudspeaker and leaving it on the dashboard.

"Hey, Cecile, how're you..." His voice was calm, unprepared.

"Dagogo where the hell is my daughter! Where the fuck did you take Sonia?" Cecile launched on high pitch. "I went to her school and I was told she stopped attending. I'm her fucking mother!"

Dagogo had a deep breath. "Cecile..."

"Don't you fucking Cecile me! My daughter changes schools and you don't tell me..."

Dagogo allowed her to run her mouth and fire shots, before trying again.

"Sonia is fine. The new school is helping her improve her studies, she needs it..." He adjusted his mind for the clapback.

"Oh, and you didn't think such an important detail in my daughter's life, that I should fucking know about it right? Cause, cause I'm just not that fucking important..."

Dagogo turned on his ignition, as the traffic freed up and cars began moving. "Cecile, Sonia is fine. I was told you were in rehab–"

"Don't act like you care Dagogo, please...you're fucking trying to keep her away from me. This is your fucking game, right?"

Dagogo's face tightened, searching for the least hurtful words. He found none. "Cecile, your behavior, it wasn't safe..."

Cecile expoloded and tore into him, he took the phone off loudspeaker. Then a minute later, he put it back on.

"How dare you judge me! You lying cheating son of a bitch. You think you're safe..."

Dagogo's face contorted. "Call me when you're ready for a conversation." He quit the call.

***

Dagogo's house in Naija served him as living space and legal chamber. The rectangular compound was small from the outside, but spacious from the inside. He opened the gate, parked his car in a corner, crosschecked the seats in his vehicle, and left the car doors open for natural air.

Darkness had covered as he left the car, he turned on his white compound bulb and entered the house. Then walking past his receptionist desk with printing and photocopying machines beside it, he sauntered into his living room which was also his office.

The fine couches, TV and glass center table had a space of their own, separate from his work chair where he sat with a cup of coffee, and a desk which had a wooden nameplate and his name written on it.

The house also had an updated library, kitchen and bedroom. He changed his glasses, sipped his coffee, flipped through the pages of his file on the ENDSARS protest and stopped midway to phone Amadi's father. He promised the old man support for any extra expenses on the burial. The man's voice beamed with thank you, you are God sent, God bless you.

After speaking with Amadi's father, Dagogo went to his bedroom. He laid on the bed and engaged his thoughts. Adding a crazy serial killer to the mystery, didn't straighten anything out. His mind was still wandering from nowhere to anywhere. Neither could he convince himself he trusted Rogers. The man had fearsome eyes like someone who was raised in all kinds of hardship. Still, one thing was certain, he had motivation. Dagogo left his mental space and picked up a photo album by his bedside. Since his father's death, it lived on a stool, just an arm stretch away. He flipped the album pages to his thirteenth birthday. His dad attended. A very rare occurrence. Flip forward, and there was a picture of a fishing adventure. Him and his dad on a boat. Dagogo recalled cursing the water all through. Father and son time - his dad had called it, and laughed at Dagogo's endless talk about drowning. Dagogo couldn't remember if they had caught any fish or not.

Last photograph was his college graduation day. A pair of glasses in a pouch. His dad had gifted him and Dagogo hadn't smiled. A certain awkwardness had decescended on him, because gifts were his mom's thing. Thinking back, he wished he had smiled.

His phone rang with the close of the album. It was his mom. Mrs Felicia Hart and Mr Dumo Hart. Sometimes Dagogo wondered at the yoking of a gentle American woman and a radical Naija man. Like two abstract creatures falling in love. Like the mixing of separate realities.

"Hey, mom." Dagogo said.

"I heard the news, and I knew it was you. Dagogo, I thought you were just upset..." His mom said.

Dagogo took off his glasses, and dropped it beside the photo album. "Mom, I..."

"It's dangerous."

Dagogo's lips changed to a flattened twist. He knew where she was headed.

"Your father was obsessed with fighting the Naija government. That's why we lost him. You don't have anything to prove."

Dagogo heard his mother's defeated talk like a trigger. A sparking rush in his veins. He turned to the side, stared at his father's picture. On the front cover of the photo album.

"They killed him mom. Everything he stood for and they killed him. Like he was the same as everyone else" - Dagogo laid upright, his sight went to the roof - "They shot him down from a high platform. Told us his corpse was lost. They burnt it."

His mom was tearing up, sniffling her nose, forcing down saliva. 20th of October was when he phoned her and broke the news. 20th of October was when her tears became his flame, burning bright enough to the challenge. Soldiers made a gentle woman cry.

"Be careful."

"Good night mom."

His grip over his tears were loosening.

"Goodnight son."

Dagogo stayed awake reading his father's last text. Mr Dumo preferred texts over calls.

I believed if one man was bold enough, he could right a lot of wrong, but my son, maybe deep down, it wasn't just about justice, but perhaps, a little ambition, a little.

He skipped to the last line.

My death should not be your debt