The night I died

The officer —Platt, I think, judging from the name badge he had on— eyed me with concern. He had dark bags protruding from underneath his eyes. He was tired, I understood, but I wasn't crazy. Definitely not.

“But, sir...” He trailed off, confused, before picking up where he left. “Sir, you are standing before me. How then could you be dead?”

I tried to explain. Tried to tell him enough without spilling too much.

“So you were where at the moment?” He asked, a crease in his brow. He was a genuine man. That I had garnered from the way he seemed concerned about my seemingly retarded issue.

“I was on the road sir. Segun street. I wore a green polo shirt with khaki pants.” I said, nodding, and suddenly blurting in a fit of recollection, “My lab coat was on too!”

He gave my outfit a once over, his face riddled with disbelief.

“I was also in this outfit and headed to the supermarket chain along the same street!” I protested, willing him to understand.

He scratched his head, then resigned, spoke;

“So what happened next?”

I regaled him again with the unbelievable story, from how I had been using the supermarket run as a means of exercise by walking instead of taking the car, to the point where I saw Arnold Rogers take a knife —no a dagger!— from within his jacket and stab me as I also stood near the alleyway, smoking a blunt in an outfit overshadowed by my white lab coat. I told him of how, since he had stabbed my heart, there was no way I could have survived. I told him of how I had been muffled before crumpling, the cigarette forgotten on the pavement. The white lab coat steadily turning crimson with blood.

“Why were you out in the middle of the night?” He asked.

“I told you, I was off to get the groceries.”

“In the dead of the night.” He deadpanned, and I would have laughed if only I hadn't been murdered tonight.

“I had been working on a stressful formula and wanted to clear my head for a bit.”

“What formula, mister Ade...” He trailed off, looking embarrassed, for he either couldn't remember or pronounce my name.

“It's okay,” I reassured. This wasn't the first time such had happened. “It's Aderonmu. Aderonmu oluwatobiloba. But you can call me Tobi, sir. Like the name Toby.”

I fidgeted, scratching my stubble with annoyance. I didn't have time for this Tete a Tete. There was much to be done.

The officer seemed to have forgotten his last question, so he began another.

“Why do you think—”

I couldn't wait a moment longer. I jumped up and out of my chair, startling officer Platt. “Please let us head to the scene of the crime while it's still a little fresh” I demanded.

“Mr. Tobi, please—”

“Officer, you can ask me questions along the way!” I parried. I was killed. I knew why, or at least I had formed a hypothesis on why and I needed to uncover such mystery immediately.

He grabbed his stuff. I jiggled my limbs impatiently.

We drove through in silence. He, tired. Me hiding beneath a cap and thick, dark sunglasses. I needed a disguise, I told him before we left. Because of Arnold Rogers. And these were all he had for me. Didn't want to dress too suspiciously, he had said when I picked the faux beard.

He parked at Walmart and we both sprung out of the car. I moved swiftly, jogging a little to the scene of the crime.

There was no cigarette butt.

There wasn't even any blood. Not that I expected that. Arnold was too smart for such clumsy mistake. He most likely even wore gloves when he murdered me, or at least when he thought he was stabbing me. He didn't know I had a clone.

Surely, I thought, surely there must be evidence.

The officer began to drone what seemed like an overly repeated statement; “I am sure you are aware, Mr Tobi, that false reports to the police is an offence and would be...”

I cut him off with a slap on the floor.

He huffed, took out a note pad and began to write.

“Do you or any member of the family have any mental illness? Hallucinations?Schizophrenia?”

“No”, I said indignantly.

“Have you been in any accidents including a head injury, whether minor or major?”

“No!”

“How about your family members? Has anyone in your family been murdered?”

“No! Only me!” Platt probably thought I had fucking PTSD.

“Sir, please I need your next of kin's number. I'll have them pick you up”

I frowned, annoyed, as I blinked back tears. Nobody would ever believe Aderonmu oluwatobiloba 2.0 was killed. There was no bleeding evidence.

The police officer handed me a tissue and I sat down wearily on the dirty pavement. How about DNA and fingerprints...? I asked weakly, knowing there was nothing to be found. There was only one difference between Tobi two and I, and that was that he had adermatoglyphia, which caused lack of fingerprints or a faintness of it. If the appropriate pressure was applied, the prints would be a little identical to mine. But nobody really applied appropriate pressure for no reason. It had been a minor problem with the cloning process, and it had never caused us an issue. We never traveled. He was a secret. We were two, but we were one. We were the same person. We were Tobi Aderonmu. We lived together and ate together. We were never outside together, though, for there was a risk of getting caught.

“Sir, let me take you home” Platt said, intruding my thought process.

I swore in Yoruba. Would there ever be justice for Tobi? Justice for me? I searched for something. A strand of his kinky hair, a flake of dandruff, anything.

I was escorted to the vehicle. I looked down at the tufty dirty blonde hair of Platt, who walked beside me with all the pomp and swagger only a tired officer could manage, and I felt a little pity for him.

“Swear to secrecy.” I said. My voice seemed to boom in the silence

He turned to me, his mouth pressed in a fine line as if considering whether or not I was bluffing, decided on the latter and drove.

I plied another route. “He was my identical twin brother.” I said. “His name was also Tobi Aderonmu.”

“Any birth certificate or something to prove his existence?” Platt asked barely interested

I showed him my driver's license and he sighed.

“And where's yours?” he asked. His voice too flat.

I was stumped. And angry. I uncrossed my gangly limbs.

“Good night sir.” He said.

We had gotten to my home. And in all my defeat, I would have said good night too.

If only I hadn't seen the silhouette of Rogers from my office window.