Excerpt From Part 1:
“My daughter is not a thief!” Mrs Afolabi responded in a fierce voice.
“Oh well this is the girl that was brought here last night, the only difference is that she’s a bit taller than you described,” the coroner said and removed the sheet covering the body.
“This is not Nicole,” Mallam Abubakar and I shouted. The coroner looked at us, we looked back. If this is not where she was, where is Nicole…
To read part 1: CLICK HERE
We left the coroner’s office and even though Mrs. Afolabi was in serious tears, I was hopeful that if Nicole wasn’t the girl that was shot on that fateful night, maybe Nicole was still alive although I kept on wondering where on earth she could she be seeing it was almost noon. Mrs. Afolabi immediately called her husband who was thousands of miles away to explain what had happened but she couldn’t and it got to a point where all she could do was cry so I had to collect the phone.
“Good day sir, it is Femi, Nicole’s friend. I stay three minutes away from you sir,” I said and waited for his response before he proceeded to ask if the matter had been reported to the police. I answered in the negative, explaining our earlier thoughts of thinking she was dead only to find out at the mortuary it wasn’t her body.
“Go to the police station right now and report the matter,” he ordered, “I would be in Nigeria in in two days,” he added.
I was accompanied by Mrs. Afolabi and Mallam Abubakar to the station where we met the District Police Officer who happened to be a friend to the Afolabi’s and he asked us to explain all that happened. He asked us further questions, “What would or could Nicole have been doing out by that time she was last seen out? Who was the last person to see her? Where did we think she could have gone to?” His questions seemed to be directed at me and I started sweating as the guilt began to eat me up. If I talked, wouldn’t I be suspected in the matter? I asked myself.
Another part of me chided me for my selfish thoughts and reminded me that telling them I was the last to see Nicole could help the police in their search. I gulped inwardly and blurted out, “she came to see.” My voice was quaking with fear and in a flash, Mrs. Afolabi was out of her seat and had dealt me two slaps. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I stared frightened as she held my shirt, screaming and yelling to get her her daughter. I had no one to bear me witness that I saw Nicole off to her estate but Nicole’s friends testified that I was the last person to see her.
Two days had gone, I had sleepless nights, my usual Dysania had gone and Nicole was yet to be found. Suddenly I heard a loud bang on my door to my surprise, it was Mr. and Mrs. Afolabi with three police men. I was taken to the police station and later arraigned to court where a judge found me guilty of kidnapping, possible murder and I was sentenced to 87 years imprisonment.
It’s been 43 years now and no one has heard from or seen Nicole. Before I draw my last breath, I write a poem dedicated to her.
“Oh! There she is with the benignant smile
Following the slow but loud thumping of hearts
She moves like a butterfly in its erratic flight
And just like the sun; she fades into the night.”
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