By Femi Owolabi
Lagos. Friday 30th November, 2015.
It has been a busy day. I read through the
previous night, preparing for an 8am exam. I am
looking forward to hitting my bed tonight and
making up for the lost sleep. My phone beeps. It
is Chidinma, a friend who works in Ikeja.
“I am about to leave the office,” Chidinma says.
“So, what time should I start coming to the club?”
I have totally forgotten. Last week, while we
chatted, I told her I was heading to the club. Two
things lately take me to nightclubs in Lagos.
Since I engaged myself in the business of cultural
journalism and scholarship, I have been, for the
purpose of a detailed research work with a focus
on the social life cum club culture of Lagosians,
moving round nightclubs every other Friday night.
Secondly, I have been battling with an unending
agony, since I returned from the North-East in
August. It has stayed since that 25th day of
August when I, narrowly, escaped a bomb blast in
Damaturu where the casualties were; four women,
one of them, pregnant. A part of me died with
those women, I won’t stop telling my friends. So I
visit the clubs to seek solace in a place where the
agony is always subdued, when sitting over a
chilled glass of OrijinBitters at one corner,
watching the varieties of feminine silhouettes
shaking their waists. “I will take you along next
week,” I had told Chidinma in the chat.
“Talk now!” My phone beeps again after a long
while when a response is not forthcoming from
me.

It is 8:35pm. Give me your house address, let me
come and pick you, I reply Chidinma, and I,
reluctantly, walk to the hanger for a change of
cloth.

Baba Jamo, my cab-man is always a phone call
away. I hop in and we pick Chidinma at the gate
of her house and we zoom to Rapongi nightclub
in Festac where a brotherly friend, Puffy is waiting.

11pm. Rowdy, the club hall. Chidinma is shy. But,
she is excited. Earlier, she had asked me to tell
her what she should wear. Bum-shot of course, I
teased, and she starts to laugh. “I wear that only
inside my house o,” she says. Unknown to
Chidinma, I am already, for my research work,
taking note of her as a rare exception. The girls
in the club are always in micro-mini skirts, bum-
shots, and tops that bear their breasts in full
display. This one sitting by me is in a jean trouser
and a round-neck long-sleeve t-shirt. Almost all
the girls have a stick of cigarette in one corner of
their mouth and glasses of beer and spirits are
within their reach.

Malt, please, Chidinma says, putting a hand on
my shoulder, when I beckon a bartender to place
an order. Soon, Puffy, who is sitting across, comes over to drag Chidinma to the dance floor. She would, reluctantly, let him.

1am. I begin to feel pain on my right foot. While
rushing for my exam in the morning, I had dashed
the foot against a wooden stool. The pain has
been recurring. I bring my arm around Chidinma
who is now floating in the fun with Puffy, and I
whisper into her ear; I’ll be right back, wanna
check my foot outside.

I stoop, somewhere close to the entrance, and I
un-lace my boot to, first, free the foot. I rub the
toes and I swing the leg. When done, I stoop,
again, to lace the boot, and then, an unfriendly
hand lands a massive slap on my back, and then,
grabs me by band-waist of my jean trouser and
that of my boxers, and then, drags me along.
“Who are you, what do you…”

Multiple slaps land on my face that I am unable
to finish the sentence. He drags me on, a few
meters to where about three blue Volkswagen
Faragon are parked, and he flings me in. About
thirty of us are sandwiched inside the eighteen-
seater bus. Things are not clear to me. Please,
what have I done?! I scream, raising my head, and
again, multiple slaps, this time more thunderous,
land on my face.

My glasses, please, the man on whose laps I sit,
cry out. We are sitting by the window, and a hand
comes in through the window to slap me, taking
me for the man who is crying for his glasses.
Wiping my teary eyes, I turn at the man, who is
now rubbing my back, telling me he is sorry. One
of his eyes is bad, the man. The eye is
permanently closed. It fell off while they were
dragging me here, he tells me. “Get this man his glasses, his eyes are bad!” I scream, raising my head out, through the window. Expectedly, the slaps, blows come in the way of my face.

Minutes later, as we all mutter inside the bus, a
tear-gas canister is released inside the bus and
these gunmen, all in black t-shirt bearing the
crest of the Nigerian Police Force with Raiders
written across their chest, surround the bus, with
their guns aimed at us.

I am coughing. Almost all of us are. The door has
been locked. I bring my head out of the window,
but the head is returned with a blow. Bring this
head out again, and I will shoot you, the gunman
says, as he closes the window.

I am horrified. One of my phones has been
seized. I am still hiding the other, and with every
caution, I manage to send a text message to
Chidinma, and drop an update about this random
pick up by the policemen on my Facebook wall.
Let’s move them! A man who appears as their
superior, shouts, and the three buses zoom out.
Please, let me get my car keys, please let me tell
my friends inside, please, please, I hear everyone
begging the other gunmen who are assigned to
guard our bus.

We are being driven off, and I wipe my eyes again
and again, to see clearly what was printed on the
back of the one driving us; Department of
Criminal Investigation, Panti.

We are there, I say to myself when the buses
slow down at a police station my eyes aren’t clear
to see the division it is. And suddenly, the buses
start to move faster.

We are driven through many rough roads and,
eventually, arrive at the Adekunle Police Station,
in Yaba.
We are asked to raise our hands as we descend
from the bus. We are then, asked to pull off our
cloth and take our seats, in a linear order, on the
ground. Pulling off my socks, my phone, the one I
have been hiding, falls off, and as one the men
rushes to pick it, he uses the barrel of his gun to
hit my chest. We, immediately, appear as
criminals being paraded, as the policemen, feeling
excited, take turns to snap us with their phones.
One of them comes with a pen and paper, and
asks each one his name. When he gets to me, I
look into his eyes and I wouldn’t say anything.
Your name, idiot! He booms, slapping me, twice. I
lower my head, and then, another policeman from
behind starts to slap me on the back of my neck.
I can’t hold the pains, and I broke into tears.
We are called one after the other, into a circle–
illuminated with their torchlight– where your body
is checked, and you answer questions should you
have any mark on your body.
Na bullet wound be this o! The policeman
screams, when checking the body of a man who
begs that he’s not a criminal but a barber in
Festac. For a few minutes, this barber is being
beaten by more than ten policemen. He is
crawling back to his seat, when I am called for
my body to be checked. I say a silent prayer as I
rise, that the long mark on my back is not seen.
When I was a kid, playing with peers, I fell into a
gutter and something tore my flesh. The mark is
easily taken for a machete wound.
We are ordered to move one after the other, into
one large room where we meet about a hundred
shirt-less boys sitting cross-legged on the bare
floor. The policeman stationed at the entrance of
this room, lands a heavy slap on the back of our
neck as each enters. Did it ring? The excited
policeman would ask, and if you hesitate in
responding with yes sir, he lands you another.
I can barely get a space to sit. My legs ache
terribly. And because I have been hydrating, I am
always drinking water, but I do not know how to
ask for the sachet water languishing at the feet
of one of the policemen. One boy begs for a
permission to go urinate and he his denied. With
a slap.
Go down! A policeman heading my direction,
screams. No space here! I scream, too. And about
three others join him and for five minutes, it is a
beating galore. The beating stops when they have
successfully beaten me into a space, under a
table, where I have to fold the aching legs.
I am observing how happy these policemen are,
how they make mockery of everyone. “Stupid
people, una get money to dey go club go drink go
carry woman abi?” one them says, with a hiss. A
pot-bellied man– who should be in his late
thirties– caged with me under the table, shakes
his head. I can’t find my wedding ring again, he
tells me. I am a Federal Government worker, he
says. My family is out of the country and I
thought I should come club this Friday. When did
it become a crime to club again? He asks, casting
his gaze at me, expecting an answer. I can’t find
my necklace, too, I tell him. Oh, it must have
broken off from your neck that time when those
guys were slapping and hitting you, he says,
giving me a consoling pat on my back. You
shouldn’t have argued with them at all, they will
just kill you, he says.
A policeman comes to sit over us. I stretch out
from under the table and reach for his hand.
Please, sir, I am not a criminal, I say to him. He
looks down at me, and he smiles. So, you think
everybody here is a criminal and you are the only
one innocent? He says, freeing his hand off mine.
Tired, and weak. I withdraw into my space, and
soon, while sitting, as there is not enough space
to stretch and lie, my head starts to hit the leg of
the table. I am dozing off, until we hear a call
again, that we should form a queue. We are going
to be transferred into another room. I could see
the room from afar, dark. And from inside, I hear
the wails of young men. My heart beats,
uncontrollably, faster.
I come out of the queue and run to meet a man
whom I hear them call Oga. I am a journalist, sir,
I tell him, with a shivering voice. We work
together with you people, the Law Enforcement
Agencies, please help me, sir, I tell him, looking
into his eyeballs.
Identify yourself, he says. Everything has been
seized by your men, I tell him. But, sir, you can
check my phone, I have already drafted an email
I’m sending to my editor, about how your men
picked me up and…
Hey! Bring this man’s cloth, he’s a journalist, Oga
calls out to the policemen who are standing by.
I collect my cloth, and they bring a sack of
phones and they tell me to pick mine.
Isiaka, Oga calls one of his men that is behind
him. Go and drop this man, journalist, in Festac,
he tells him.
But, find them money for fuel o, Oga says,
flashing a smile. Yes, sir, I say, smiling, too.
I am escorted outside, and walking behind Oga
and Isiaka, I hear Oga telling Isiaka to bring the
money, and Isiaka brings out lots of squeezed N1,
000 notes from his back pocket.
Oya, your own, Isiaka says, turning at me, with a
open palm. I bring out the N5, 000 I’m having on
me, and pulling out N1, 000, Isiaka grabs my
hands, and grabs all the money.
As the police bus takes me back, three other men
released alongside me stop by the ATM to
withdraw the ‘balance’ for Isiaka’s Oga.
While Isiaka and I wait inside the bus for these
men, I check on my wristwatch; 4:01am, and I
bring out my phones; 26 missed calls. Chidinma.

nikkiking:
Long story.

Adaowerri111:
e long ooo

Adaowerri111:
Wow...what a story, govt need to look into this Malicious intimidation, it mostly happens on weekends...chidinma should be partly blamed

entparrot:
This story should be on the front page, not back page.
Are the dullard moderators sleeping?

Bongiboy83:
Police abduction!! Police Brutality. I have experienced the exact same thing, twice actually. Only difference is at one time I was picked up in front of my house while sitting down with my girlfriend. We were accused of having sex on the street. All because she wore a short skirt. The ridiculousness of the Nigerian Police!! The second time was while I was looking for a taxi to go home, I wasn't even given a reason for my arrest around 10pm. I was detained till morning and asked to bail myself with the N3,000.00 I had on me. Fucking retarded illiterate intoxicated demons!! Both cases in Abuja, the first in Gwagwalada, the next time in Wuse 2. I cannot say how much I hated the police all those times. Why would you pick me up in front of my house to extort me. I told them to kill me first but I will never give them a dime. And when my friends came to "bail" us I refused. Told my friend to go and call my folks, we had many witnesses. The foolish police locked him up before he could get to the front door. I had a good shock. He was accused of going to report police. My dear Jesus. These people need like a real orientation. They are brutes with guns. And they have no spine when they see real criminals. Nuff said, I don't expect to go clubbing anytime soon with these sort of maniacs on the loose.

emorse:

I'm not surprised its not on the front page. It doesn't have Tonto Dike's picture in it.

emorse:
The Nigerian police has always been like this. I think its high time we spoke out to end this rubbish. I have my own personal experience and I'm quite sure a very good number of others have theirs too. Let's raise our voices until it gets to IGP Solomon Arase's office. The good thing here is that a journalist is involved and he is willing and ready to defend himself. This change we crave must come whether the PDP or the APC likes it or not.

Tripitaka:
Hi, Davidcorleone10. Please I'd like to send you a message. How can I contact You?