“Doya, doya, doya,” the dusty, flappy speaker
hanging precariously at the top of an electric
pole blasted. It was not a call to prayer for the
dozens of Muslim faithful around the area but a
familiar cry to lovers and patrons of one of
nature’s best edibles – yam. And as empty
sheds and spaces gave way to an army of
traders and buyers that swam on the spot in
vigorous attempts to strike the best deals, the
chant of “Doya,” the native Hausa name for the
crop, grew even louder. Time was 7:19am, Friday
morning, another day at the Mile 12 market, a
bustling grocery shop sitting on vast hectares of
land in the heart of Nigeria’s commercial power
house – Lagos.
Accommodating several sections where various
food items, vegetables, meat, fish, palm oil and
other cooking ingredients are displayed in large
quantity for prospective customers, the Mile 12
market is one of the oldest in its league.
Dominated by traders of the Hausa stock of
Northern Nigeria, the market feeds not just the
neighbourhood and surrounding communities – it
is the pot of more than half of Lagos and nearby
states like Ogun and Oyo as well.
“Our customers come from within and outside
Lagos. There is no day that at least 10 trucks of
yam don’t offload in this market,” Haruna Bala, a
merchant in the business boasted. He has been
trading in yams at Mile 12 for more than 14
years.
But walking deeper into this expansive market,
away from the yam sellers, a different sight and
atmosphere greets you. The combined smell of
fresh onion, pepper, tomato and ginger almost
knocks you off balance. Just when your nose
was about to betray you, the compelling aroma
of dried crayfish, stockfish and smoked Titus
offers a soothing relief amidst a noisy
background.
As sunset
gradually
sinks into
afternoon
and slowly
into early
evening
across
this huge
market,
the other
side of
Mile 12 –
the one
many
outside it
barely
know –
comes to
bear.
From
chalets to
makeshift drinking joints, film houses to ‘coded’
corners where drugs of all kinds are
experimented, there is space for every class and
tribe.
Young men and women of different ages help
themselves to local booze, marijuana and other
types of cheap drugs at a section of the market
known as Alaba. A wrap of ‘weed’ here is N50
while the more fortified one known as ‘skunk’
goes for N100 per mould. Call girls of varying
ages and sizes known in local parlance as
Olosho , dangle their wares, scavenging for
prospective patrons willing to ‘tango.’ For a
short-time fun, the price could be as low as
N700 while all night ‘entertainment’ attracts
nothing less than N2, 000 depending on the
bargaining prowess of the client.
But away from the assortment of illicit drugs
and cheap sex on display, it is the local boxing
ring in the heart of Mile 12 that makes the
market community truly interesting or incredible
if you like. Known as Jenjere Saida , the plot of
land barricaded with planks and rusty roofing
sheets is the arena where Dembe, traditional
Hausa boxing, is served the people. It is where
bones crush bones – where dreams turn into
reality or end up in flames.
Rooted in African culture and display of raw
energy and physical dexterity, boys as young as
seven and men as old as 55 take turns to thrill
an expectant crowd that swells by the minute in
this tiny boxing ring.
But while the boxers display mastery and
perseverance to tantalise the ecstatic crowd for
a reward as little as N500 and as much as a
house, land, motorcycle or a car for their
gallantry, depending on experience, reputation
and performance, the hazards related with the
job have left many of the practitioners with more
pains than gains. While a few have been lucky to
walk away as house owners, for several others,
the dream has often ended in disappointment.
“Dembe is a very risky game and that is why
without charm, one cannot go far or achieve
anything good from it,” Jamilu Alkali, 33, told
our correspondent. Starting out as a young
fighter in 1996 before bowing out in 2011 due to
constant injury and health challenges, Alkali told
Saturday PUNCH that the number of deaths he
has witnessed in the course of the sport was
among factors that forced him to quit. Now
managing one of the teams that perform
regularly at this tiny arena, Dembe is laced with
loads of uncertainties, he said.
“Though we make good money from the fights
and sometimes win houses, motorcycles and
even cars, it is nothing compared to the dangers
involved.
“Every day, I pay N2, 000 for the room the
fighters under my care sleep but if the person is
a star who wins big fights regularly, he gets an
entire room to himself because he brings in more
money than the others. A star in the team can
bring in around N15, 000 daily and even get gifts
from rich fans and gamblers who place bets on
him.
“But to become a star, you have to look for a
very strong medicine man that would fortify and
give you powerful charms to win fights. The
herbalist would give you a medicine that can last
you up to three months. Without doing this
important ritual, a fighter could die even before
winning a motorcycle. That is how dangerous
the game is,” he said.
Despite representing Delta State at the National
Sports Festival in 2006 and devoting more than
15 years of his life to Dembe , Alkali says he has
only little to show for his efforts.
“I did not make much from fighting,” he explains,
wearing a regretful look. “I did not marry or win
a car from it but thank God that I was able to
buy a land in Zamfara State before I quit.
“A lot of my fighters are battling different kinds
of injuries. Some have developed hearing
problem, while others are suffering poor eye
sight. Though I have not lost any fighter in my
team, boxers from other team have died in the
past as a result of terrible injuries. When it
happens like that there is nothing we can do, we
simply leave the matter to God. There is no form
of compensation to the family of the dead. This
is part of the reasons my parents begged me to
stop. They were afraid for my life,” he said.
On how they recruit new boxers into the team
and keep the place alive to the excitement of
spectators who come from far and near every
evening especially at weekends and festive
seasons to catch a glimpse of the action for only
N200 per show, Alkali told Saturday PUNCH that
some parents as a result of poverty and greed
willingly give up their boys into a life of
servitude.
“We arrange with the parents of the boys, pay
them some amount before bringing them down
to Lagos. Some of the parents collect up to
N100, 000 for a single boy because they know
we are also going to make money from them.
“Once in Lagos, we are responsible for the boys’
upkeep. That is not all; we are the ones who
also arrange charms for the boxers which could
be quite expensive and that is why apart from
fighting, we allow the boys to also work as
labourers inside the Mile 12 market during the
day. That way, we try to keep them busy and
also make more money ourselves,” he said.
Dogo Silolo, another former boxer but now team
manager for the Kudu group made up of fighters
from across South West states, began his
journey into Dembe in 1990 in Kano. Though, he
hardly performs these days due to injuries, Silolo
told our correspondent that he is still very fit to
spark some applause from the crowd.
“I have injuries but I am still agile because I
have charms that I trust and that have never
failed me. Even though, I have broken a tooth
and sustained wounds all over my body, I am
still very fit and able to defeat any opponent,” he
boasted.
Years of fatal punches from opponents have
taken its toll on him with the bruises all over his
body a huge testament to that fact.
Another fighter, Sago Alhaji says that though,
Dembe has turned his life around over the last
17 years, he decided to bow out because his
body could no longer respond to the demands of
daily bouts that mostly end in blood.
“I started this profession in Plateau State before
coming to Lagos in 1999. Since I started nobody
has ever defeated me but I stopped because I
could no longer bear the pains anymore.
“Dembe changed my life. Apart from a car which
I got as a gift for my performance, I also got a
house and married through it. Everyday, whether
I fight or not, I still get N2, 500 from the
organisers of the show here at Mile 12. But my
time has passed, I cannot afford to take such
risk again,” he said.
But in spite of the glaring dangers and
uncertainties connected with Dembe , many young
boys across this vast market community
continue to shun formal education in favour of a
sport they believe guarantees a more prosperous
future. Michael Olayemi, now 17, joined the trade
when he was seven. Though, originally from Ijebu
Ode in Ogun State, living in the midst of the
Hausa community at Mile 12 has brought about
a new him – in appearance and accent, Olayemi
now betrays his origin. His dream of becoming
an engineer as a little boy ended the day he
found Dembe . His life has not remained the
same ever since.
“As a little boy, my dream was to become an
engineer but after I came across Dembe when I
was seven, everything changed. My parents are
poor so they supported anything that could bring
money into the family. That was how I stopped
school and turned to fighting full time. I don’t
know if I will ever go back to school because
this is what I really love doing. Sometimes I
make up to N3, 000 daily and my parents like it.
So, I don’t think I can stop,” he said.
Condemned to thrill a waiting crowd at the
expense of their lives at this tiny boxing ring in
one of Lagos most densely populated
neighbourhoods, many of the fighters had varying
degrees of scars all over their bodies when our
correspondent visited the place recently. Barely
able to communicate in Pidgin English, majority
of the boxers disclosed to Saturday PUNCH that
they were lured into the game back home in the
North as a result of poverty. But for many of
them, the promises of instant wealth have turned
out an illusion that they have continued to chase
with every drop of their blood.
The boxing arena lacks a first aid box or any
other medical item to treat minor or major
injuries when our correspondent visited. As a
result, the injured sprinkle local gin on open cuts
before tying with clothe pieces that could best
pass for rags. Such cuts develop into festering
sores in no time, exposing the injured to an
excruciating season of pain and agony. But even
with such pitiable condition, the boxers must
fight to enrich their masters and also free
themselves from eternal servitude by striving
through their prowess to win something tangible
– a motorcycle, car, land or house.
Those, whose team managers can afford the bill,
bring in native doctors from the North once in a
month to administer treatment on their fighters
through herbal concoctions and special body
massages to straighten the bones and muscles.
It is a painful therapy many of Mile 12’s Dembe
practitioners dread so much but which holds the
key to how long they could be in the game.
The rooms many of the fighters sleep lack
windows or fans, forcing the doors to be
perpetually open. Up to 10 men sleep in a single
room with mats and worn-out mattresses. There
are no toilets or bathrooms in the quarters.
Alternatively, the boxers like others who live in
the vicinity, turn to public bathrooms and toilets
that charge a paltry N50 per visit. It is a really
tough life for the Dembe artistes here who either
make it big or die trying to chase a prize that
looks so close yet so far from reach.
Historically, Dembe included some bit of
wrestling; however, today it is a mixture of
ferocious punching and merciless kicking.
According to organisers of the show here at Mile
who refused to disclose to Saturday PUNCH how
much they make per show on gate takings, the
art was practised as a way for men to get ready
for war in ancient times.
During bouts where opponents are fairly
matched to avoid anyone enjoying undue
advantage over the other, drumming and singing
never cease, provide inspiration for boxers and
added entertainment for spectators.
Fighters wrap their strongest hand with cloth
pieces tightly knotted to form a glove. In the
past, they were allowed to dip that hand into a
sticky mixture which had bits of broken glass in
it. That aspect has since been stopped because
of the damage it caused many of the players.
Charms tied around the body or worn on the
neck are often used as forms of supernatural
protection while smoking of Hemp and Marijuana
also serves as sources of strength for the
fighters. But despite all these armour, many of
Mile 12 Dembe warriors continue to spill blood
rather than hit gold within the tiny boxing arena.
Psychologist, Buchi Anyamaele, describes the
situation as the function of a depleted ego.
According to him, individuals who have lost
confidence to succeed through other endeavours
in life believe that their destiny lies in a particular
route. They are so willing to pay the ultimate
price trying to achieve success on the path they
believe holds the key to their survival.
“It is simply the function of the ego,” he says.
“Once you have your ego dented especially from
a tender age, you stand the risk of believing for
the rest of your life that only a particular act or
way of life can fetch you success.
“The young men who risk their lives trying to find
their ways out of poverty know that they could
lose their lives in the process. But because they
have a configured mentality already, they would
continue to put their lives on the line regardless
of the inherent dangers.
“The best way is to educate people like this and
make them see reasons why no monetary or
material reward is worth their lives. A lot of
them are ignorant of some of these dangers and
so must be properly orientated,” he said.
A sociologist, Dr. Obiageli Ukatu, told Saturday
PUNCH that apart from the quest to come out
successful in this deadly Lagos boxing ring, the
cultural background of many of the fighters also
plays a crucial role in their continued involvement
in the art.
“This form of boxing is mostly common among
the people of Northern Nigeria and other parts of
Africa where you have the Hausa or Fulfulde
speaking tribe. It is mostly a form of
entertainment and also an avenue for men to
show their physical superiority over their
contemporaries. So, it is a sport fully entrenched
in the cultural beliefs of people from such
backgrounds
“However, poverty and illiteracy also plays a part
here. You would realise that the bulk of the
young men who are involved in this dangerous
game are from poor backgrounds, hoping that
this could offer some form of succour at the end.
“But sadly, it is the fight organisers who feed fat
off the blood of the boxers who are promised all
sorts of rewards. It is the gifts like cars and
houses that motivate these young men to want
to stake their lives. By the time one or two
actually get a motorcycle or a quarter plot of
land with two mud rooms on it in a remote part
of the North, the others get unnecessarily
charged and willing to do anything to enjoy the
same luck.
“If we had a system that was working properly
where poverty is not as pronounced as it is
today across the country, I believe that some of
these young men who risk their lives for a paltry
reward daily in that boxing ring would do better
things with their lives and time,” she said.
One of the leaders of the Hausa community in
Mile 12, Aminu Wusasa, says though he would
not encourage anyone to risk their lives for a
reward of any kind, Dembe was a part of their
culture and so must not be allowed to go
extinct.
A medical doctor, James Etang, told Saturday
PUNCH that constant punches to the head and
other parts of the body could lead to brain
damage and other severe health implications.
“A game where you constantly endure punches
on your head and other parts of your body could
lead to nervous breakdown and brain damage in
the long haul.
“But constant check-up and proper therapy could
save such persons a lot of damage. It is not
encouraging to risk your health in such a way for
a paltry reward,” he said.
As our correspondent further interacted with the
young men and women, trying to find out the
motivation behind risking their lives for monetary
and material rewards that may never be
achieved, a cranky voice blared Allahamdullilai
from the medium-sized speakers positioned at
strategic points within the boxing arena. Time
was 7:30pm, end of the day’s show.
And as spectators file out of the packed arena
with early evening bowing to the full shade of
darkness, a different kind of atmosphere sweeps
across Mile 12. Music jamming at full throttle,
sex workers desperately searching for customers,
stimulant peddlers advertising cheap, illicit
concoctions of all kinds, it was time for another
set of young men and women to rock the show.
For this category of individuals, Mile 12 never
sleeps. From Kosofe to Owode-Elede, Ajelogo to
parts of Agiliti, the night is theirs for the taking.
While the yam sellers and warriors lay claim
to daytime in this vast market community, drug
peddlers and prostitutes rule the night. Together
they provide a bizarre attraction for scores of
individuals right within the bowels of one of
Africa’s largest grocery shops – Mile 12.
http://www.punchng.com/feature/inside-lagos-boxing-ring-where-you-can-win-a-house-or-die-trying/