The Other Side of Truth Read Online Free PDF Page A

said nothing but slipped a bangled hand into the side of her case. Sade thought she glimpsed the corner of a naira note. After withdrawing her hand, Mrs. Bankole busied herself with her handbag. Sade watched the man’s arm now slither like a snake down the same side of the suitcase. Then casually, he lifted a few clothes before indicating with a tiny jerk of his head that Mrs. Bankole could close the case. His closed palm wove its way skillfully into his trouser pocket and when his hand reappeared, it was open and signaled to the woman officer next to him. No words passed. She slapped labels on to both pieces of luggage. As if completing the silent dance, Black Beret and his companion swung the suitcaseonto a conveyor belt behind them. The little brown bag followed and within seconds both had disappeared through a dark hole in the wall.
    A narrow gate led to a couple of tall desks and more khaki uniforms. Three gleaming brass buttons crested the shoulder of the man waiting for them. Again no words were exchanged as Mrs. Bankole produced her passport. Brass Buttons’s eyes rested briefly on each of them before dipping down to study the little book and his computer. Mrs. Bankole’s glittery-green buba rose and fell steadfastly until Brass Buttons finally flashed back the passport, nodding them on.
    “What’s that?” Femi broke his silence. His eyebrows and forehead puckered with suspicion.
    Ahead of them, a woman in a blue uniform was sweeping a thick black rod up and down people who had stepped through a metal door frame. It looked like some magic ritual.
    “It’s to stop people smuggling,” Sade said.
    “But we’re being smuggled,” Femi whispered fiercely in her ear.
    Mrs. Bankole swung around, her face issuing a stern warning.
    “Ade, my boy,” she said. “Take off your rucksack. Put it there. For X-ray.”
    Femi folded his arms as if he hadn’t heard.
    “Please, F—!” Sade stopped herself. Right behind them stood a man in dark glasses. He was wearing a flowing white agbada with a pattern of staring jet-black eyes. Sade slipped off her own rucksack.
    “Shall I help you, Ade?” she offered softly.
    Femi swung the bag roughly off his back, just missing Sade before he slung it onto the conveyor belt. He was behaving like he did when he was overtired and no one could reason with him.
    “Doesn’t he want to go on a plane?” drawled Mr. Agbada Eyes. His accent was American and the question was addressed to Sade, but Mrs. Bankole quickly intervened.
    “Children of nowadays! They take everything for granted!” she exclaimed. “Airplanes are like fast cars to them.”
    “Well, air power has sure helped make the world a smaller place. Just one big global village, ma’am!”
    He swept a circle in the air with one arm, making the eyes on his agbada jiggle.
    Once past the rod and the X-ray, Mrs. Bankole steered the children to a row of seats. Mr. Agbada Eyes followed them, keen to relate to Mrs. Bankole how this trip to Nigeria had been his lifetime ambition.
    “Tracing my roots, ma’am! Finding out where we black folk in America come from, you might say!”
    Mr. Agbada Eyes began to talk about stories of Africa that had been passed down through his granddaddy. Femi nudged Sade, pointing to the shops. Next to a window of cameras was an open kiosk with crocodile skins hanging down the side.
    “Can…can we…look over there? We won’t go far.” Sade couldn’t bring herself to say a word like “mother.”
    Mrs. Bankole hesitated, but Mr. Agbada Eyes laughed.
    “Guess this old history is boring them!”
    Mrs. Bankole’s purple lips wavered before reminding them to stay in sight.
     
    Femi wrinkled his nose in front of the baby crocodile handbag. Its flattened head with crazy-paving patterns and sad empty eyeholes formed the front flap.
    “It’s brutal! Killing a baby crocodile!” he announced, loudly enough for the kiosk lady to hear although she pretended not to. The lady smiled at Femi. Why did so