Azed S2 E12

Azed S2 E12
Episode 12: Slim, Shady

Let me give you some free good advice
borne out of my many years of
experience on the streets of Lagos:
Avoid the police as much as you
possibly can. If by some unfortunate
event you happen to have a run-in
with them, resolve it as soon as you
can. Whatever you do, try your best to
ensure that you do not make it into a
police station. It is about the worst
blunder you can make. You would only
end up regretting it.
For someone who has been in trouble
as many times as I have, it is
paradoxical to have developed a habit
of keeping as far away from the police
as possible. The police is considered to
be an enemy only to those who are
breaking the law or breaching the
peace, and all well-meaning,
respectable people like me who only
desire to live life and go about their
lawful business have nothing to fear
from them. In fact, their unofficial
motto, seen many sprayed, pasted on
or scribbled on the walls and desks of
their stations nationwide is “the Police
is your friend.” That might yet be true,
but in my long, storied years living
and making a living on the streets and
inner reaches of Lagos, I have only
had tales of woe to tell. It didn’t matter
whether I was the victim or the
perpetrator; any contact with the
police ended with me being accused of
something and having to bail myself
out, usually within eyesight of the
banner or poster that ironically
proclaimed ‘bail is free.’
It is because of the police that I am
standing shirtless in a puddle in a
courtyard at midnight, shaking like the
fronds of the raffia palm tree in a
gale. My back bore the imprints of
shoe kicks, and my hands were tied
behind my back and above my head to
T-bar. I could feel my shoulders about
to pop out of their joints, and I stood
on tiptoe to alleviate the pressure. One
of my torturers saw this, and he struck
me across the back of my knees with
his baton. My legs collapsed under me
and I sunk to the floor, and my
shoulders screamed in agony as my
knees hit the concrete floor with a
thud. Pain shot through my nerve
endings, and as I opened my mouth to
scream, the baton which had struck
across my knees went across my face.
I saw it at the last moment and turned
my head. Instead striking across my
mouth, it struck the point of my jaw.
Blood flooded my mouth like from a
burst hose, and I could feel my jaw
shift like a door hanging from only one
hinge. Pain exploded in my head
again, and this time I surrendered,
sinking softly into the cocoon of
unconsciousness, a blessed escape
from the pain.
Someone was emptying a bucket of
water over me. In the cold, damp air,
it was like a shot of cocaine. I came
fully awake, vibrating like a reed. I
scrambled to my feet, hanging my
weight from my tied up hands. A
leather belt struck my bare back
repeatedly, and the cold water and
rough leather chaffed the welts, the
effect feeling like medium sandpaper
on my back.
“Dan iska. You go give statement
now?”
I forced one eye open against the
moisture-laden wind that was
billowing. The owner of the voice was
standing under a lightbulb just under
the eaves of the door leading to the
courtyard, and the look of relaxed glee
on his face was in contrast to the
tattered, dirty uniform he wore. It was
the same officer that had been
interrogating me since I was bundled
unceremoniously into the station 6
hours earlier.
It had been 6 hours of pain,
intimidation and constant
interrogation. For some reason,
Officer Danjuma was convinced that I
had run over and killed the man. It
didn’t help that all my witnesses had
driven on and the passengers I was
carrying had gotten into another cab.
It was my word against his, and at the
moment, my word was not worth
much. It didn’t help that I couldn’t
him, nor did it help that my cab had
no fire extinguisher or C-caution sign.
In his book, I was guilty, and he was
determined to sweat a confession out
of me.
“Oga, I dey tell you true. I no kill that
man.”
“You still dey lie. You dey drive car,
jam person kill am. You no get license.
You no get papers. You no get money.
You still no wan write statement. E be
like say we never treat you well.”
“Oga, I swear to God…”
“You never ready. Bature, give am
another 5 for me.”
I tensed my back in anticipation of the
baton blow. It didn’t come. What came
instead was a horrible stinging-tearing
sensation as the multi-stranded koboko
whipped through the air and landed
on my exposed back, neck and thighs. I
screamed and started weaving my
head and neck to avoid the whip
landing on my neck, ignoring the
building pain in my shoulders. Five
strokes of the arm later, Bature was
done, and my skin hung in bleeding
strips from my back.
“You go write correct statement now?”
I could barely form the words, my
teeth chattered so.
“I s….swea…swear no be so e hap…
happen. Na my car ki…ki..kill am, but
I no c…c…climb am kill am.”
“Gindi uwar ka. You don dey talk
another one now. Before, no be you
kill am. Now, na another thing you dey
talk. Bature!”
“Oga.”
“Carry this scallywag enter cell. We go
deal with am for morning. If you like,
no talk. When we transfer you, your
own don be be that.”
I shuddered. I knew and had seen
what happened inside cells, and I had
to stay out of there.
“Please. Abeg. I no do anything…”
Bature was not listening. He swept my
feet from under me, cracking me on
the head with his baton as I fell. The
lights dimmed, and I plunged into
darkness.
***
I woke up suddenly, like someone who
had overbalanced a chair and started
falling. In spite of the sweat pouring
out of my pores, I was shivering, my
teeth chattering like keys dangling in a
chain. Slowly, trying not to attract
attention to the fact that I was awake,
I took inventory of my location. The
sun was shining through slats in the
window cut high in the wall. I realized
it was morning and I had slept through
the night. I was stretched out on the
bare floor of a room that was more
steamy and stuffy than a sauna, and
my feet were resting on the opposite
wall. My bare feet drew attention to
the fact that I was naked save for my
boxers, with the cold from the floor
seeping into my body. My back still
throbbed, and sweat was stinging my
wounds. Unconsciously, I groaned.
“Boss, he don wake.”
My groan was cut off and my blood
turned to ice. Here I was, a helpless,
badly beaten taxi driver amongst
people who were probably hardened
career criminals. I expected to feel
hands and fists land on my body, and
I slowly opened my eyes, expecting to
see lecherous stares and vicious snarls.
To my surprise, all I saw was a circle
of men sitting and standing, all their
attention focused on me. It was
impossible to mask the shock I felt.
“Una shift back give am space make he
see breeze.”