Twenty-one hours and fifteen minutes - Just another detention story

KaiKai
kaikai@ngex.com

June 18, 2001

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Christmas 2000 was a happy and interesting time for me. I was in Nigeria visiting my family and arrived in Port Harcourt on December 24 to celebrate my grandmother’s 90th birthday on Boxing Day.

The events that led up to December 28, 2000 are maddening to say the least but they are also personal family matters and so I will not go into them here, however, I must stress that my family had been exceedingly provoked and was justified in taking the action we took on the morning of December 28, 2000. We took action in ridding our family of an element that was sure to send my grandmother to her grave with a broken heart.

Some of you will want to argue due process, etcetera over taking matters into one’s hands, but with Nigeria’s justice system as it stands, sometimes, "family process" is the way to go - quicker results.

Anyway, my story starts at about 2pm when my Aunts and I arrived at the Borokiri Police Station. The first thing I noticed as we sat waiting to give our statements was a black board behind the police counter. The board’s purpose was to record the following: Name of Accused, Sex, Offence, CD and Date, Formation, IPO, Cell No., and remarks on every individual in custody. There were no names on the board but there were shouts coming from people in the holding cells and there were those seated quietly behind the police counter.

We were finally called to give our statements and as usual we’d been sentenced before we could even give our statements. Judgments like "criminal", "beast" and "witches" came rolling out of some mouths and when I’d had enough I stood up to one officer and all the "French" that I hardly use came tumbling out of my mouth. I gave him a satisfactory tongue-lashing and I hope I put him in his place.

We all gave our statements and were now "Accused." We were remanded to the area behind the police counter and that’s when my experience began.

There wasn’t much to do so I started taking mental notes while my Aunts tried to figure out how to get us out of this very annoying situation.

Sitting behind the counter, I noticed that the properties of the accused were strewn in a corner beside the benches and some other properties were stuffed into a space under the counter.

The female officers in uniform wore knee-length skirts with court shoes, even slip-ons. You can imagine that their daily tasks don’t call for much mobility.

About 6pm, the room started getting dark and the officers decided it was time to put on the generator - strictly for their own benefit, not because they had the welfare of the inmates in mind.

At this point I pulled out a copy of the program from my grandmother’s birthday service and a pen and started writing notes - it promised to be a long night and I didn’t want to forget all the interesting things I would see. No one stopped me although one officer asked what I was doing so I carried on as discreetly as possible.

When people came into the station with complaints, there was so much shouting and arguing before statements were taken. Everyone exercised their lungs a little before recounting their case. But you must be careful exercising your lungs because you could meet with an impatient, power-starved, police officer who would send you behind the counter and the next thing you know you are an "Accused."

(At the Station, everyone wants to show his or her power. Even the counter clerks try to strong-arm people. They terrorize visitors and suspects alike.)

"Accused" men were stripped of their shoes and shirt and women lost only their shoes but with the way we dress traditionally, women could have weapons hidden in the bind of their wrapper!

As complainants and accused came into the station, they recounted numerous, sometimes funny tales. In fact, there was even mention of a witchcraft case. The story was that when accusations were made against someone in a nearby Okrika polo (Okrika neighborhood), police would go down to this polo and try to arrest the accused persons and the accused would refuse to go with the police stating that they had to hear the sound of metal - the sound from their god(s) before they could be taken to the police station. Now, how do you challenge that? How does order remain? I can take this a little further against Sharia law but I will remain on this plank.

Some people came in to find out if their relatives had been taken into custody. I had thought to myself earlier that because the board was not in use did not mean that there was no order in the place. The extent of order I couldn’t grasp but when a girl came in looking for her younger brother "daddy" and she was sent to go through the cells and call out his name, my heart sank. I was lucky I was with family!

Also saddening was the number of young boys aged between 9 and 14 who were detained among adults. Some were accused of robbery or affiliations with robbers and who knows what else. It just baffles me that they would detain them in the same holding cells with adult men. Imagine the trauma!

There was also a woman who had been detained for three days because of a crime committed by her adult son. The police detained her and left word for her son to turn himself in for his mother’s release. Well, three days had passed and still no sign of her criminal son even though word on the street was that he was aware of his mother’s situation with the police.

If you are seized in the absence of people who know and care even a little about you, you are in trouble. There are no phone calls to lawyers. In fact, there are no phone calls period. You are on your own with God and you better pray that someone you know or someone from your neighborhood stops by so that you can send a message for help to your family.

The DPO who signed our detention letter was parading around and I just wished she would stay out of sight because she was dressed in an unsightly white and black striped outfit that looked like a pajama set. Everything from her jherri-curl to her slippers rubbed me the wrong way and to make matters worse, that evening, she ruled whether I would pass my night enjoying a nice comfortable mattress or a hard police bench.

It was settled; my aunts and I were spending the night in the station. Of course the desk clerks wanted to flex their muscles by telling us that we had to move into the holding cell. That didn’t happen! We stayed behind the desk and even got several visitors - one being my good friend who brought us drinks, mosquito repellent and a whole bucket of gadgets to keep us comfortable through the night. This good friend is a much older woman in her sixties but she is very cool. Unfortunately, she had living with her a troubled grandson who had caused her many trips to that same station, thus she was well known by the officers there and didn’t have to go through the regular harsh protocols.

As night fell and all the senior officers left, an off-duty clerk arrived and started chatting with the desk clerks. She brought with her two body creams and a carton of FiveAlive fruit juice and a bowl of stewed chicken legs. After she gobbled down her chicken, she proceeded to mix her creams and seemed to do it quite expertly but she still looked like me (at least her arms and legs, she had successfully bleached her face) and I wondered if this was a recent fixation for her. The male officers around teased and asked her if the FiveAlive drink was also for the mixture. She left the area after much pressure and scrutiny so I didn’t see the final product of her mixture.

Thankfully, we had a quiet night. At some point before it got quiet, a man from the cell called out to "Writer one" (the desk clerks are referred to as writer followed by a number that I suppose depends on seniority) because he wanted to use the bathroom. Writer one shouted back into the cell saying "writer one no dey." The man called out again "writer two, nko, writer two no dey dia?" And again writer one shouted her response that "writer two no dey." Figuring he had a long way ahead, the man shouted back rather facetiously, "okay, send me writer twenty."

This is just one example of how the detainees and the police officers frustrate each other.

Although we didn’t sleep much, after all the commotion we witnessed before the night it was good to have some quiet. By 5:30 a.m., loud, feverish, prayers began in the cells. The cock had crowed, day was breaking and the commotion would start all over again.

The morning started with a woman with just a wrapper tied across her chest shouting, and cursing that her N1,200 had been stolen. Only after a closer look into the situation did I realize that this was the same officer who was mixing her creams and chomping on her stewed chicken legs the previous night. I hadn’t recognized her earlier because her wig was off and with her low-barbed hair she looked like a man. Not a pleasant sight at all! Anyway, she claims the money was stolen from her bag that was in a room where some other officers had slept. There were no civilians in that room overnight so the culprit was certainly a fellow police officer.

One of the female desk clerks told her it was her fault for flaunting her wealth with her chicken and FiveAlive. At that point she lamented and told of how she never ate or bought anything for days, saving her money, only for it to be stolen.

At 7:45 a.m. a man who had been shouting all night, the one whose sister came looking for him the day before, was brought out of the cell (for air maybe?) for a few minutes. It turns out I knew the fellow. We grew up in the same neighborhood and might have attended the same primary school. It was a stressful time so neither of us acknowledged being acquainted with the other.

His case was bad - he’d been in the cell all night screaming his innocence so the brief moment he had outside the cell behind the counter was no time to catch up with old acquaintances. He was busy narrating his tale to another "suspect".

At about the same time, a little boy who looked to be about ten years old came into the station with a tray of akara and bread. He must have been a regular hawker at the station because the clerks let him through easily with only a warning to collect his money before he parted with his goods. He proceeded without missing a step as a little pro. He looked like he could handle himself but I couldn’t help but feel like I was watching a chicken being thrown into a den of lions. I lost track of him but I am sure he made it out alive and with all of his money.

It seems quite a number of people are ready to die at the station. Phrases like "you go kill me oh"; "I ready to die today, if you wan kill me"; and "una wan kill me?" were thrown around very freely. Of course with the brutality dished out by some of the officers, it isn’t far fetched to consider the possibility of death. And if that occurs, unfortunately, it is very likely that the offending officer will get away with murder.

I discovered two interesting facts before I left the station. First, a roll of toilet paper is the fee for visitors coming to see their friends/relatives held in the station. Second, friends/relatives bringing food must taste the food they bring. Every single item must be tasted before it is taken to a suspect. For instance, if you bring ten rolls of bread, you must ingest a pinch from each loaf.

That morning, a radio message came in to report a stolen blue/black Mercedes Benz jeep. Writer one who received the message could not decipher the alpha for the license plate number. She and her colleagues were baffled and only God knows what they wrote down as the license plate number because they were stomped at even "Delta."

I feel sorry for the poor vehicle owner who thinks the police are on the case to finding their stolen vehicle. That message was probably forgotten as soon as they turned the page in that book.

Finally, the DPO and her beastly, obese son whose primary job is to chauffeur his mother in and out of the station arrived. She had on another ghastly, pajama-looking outfit!

The other officers in charge of our case reported to duty and we were informed that our written charges had to be typed at an outside location before we would be taken to court. After everything, we set out towards our van and my uncle who had been very supportive throughout the night set out to his car. All the arresting officers and the accusers had the nerve to look hungrily at our van and my uncle’s car, expecting a ride to the courthouse. What gall - we did give the female officer a ride in our van.

We finally got before a judge - we were called up before the judge to enter our pleas for the charges against us. Somehow, I who wasn’t even on the complainant’s initial report to the police became the "first accused." Now that I think about it, we were listed and assigned numbers alphabetically by last name. Hmm! Our charges were read (and even the court officer couldn’t contain his chuckles as he read the ridiculous charges against us), we plead not guilty and bail was set. Our response to the judge was "As the court pleases." The judge recorded the proceedings and we were set to leave.

As we went before the prosecutor to sign our bail bonds, he felt it his duty to give us some words of advise about skipping town, jumping bail etc. A look at our worn faces should have warned him to just show us the dotted lines and leave the words of advise to our lawyers. I don’t think his law school experience could have prepared him for the razor-sharp words and the looks he received for his unsolicited advise.

Just when I thought it was all over we were called back into the courtroom and asked to remain until the judge finished his other cases (like he needed company).

The first one after us seemed routine enough, nothing surprising. Two men accused of armed robbery. I think bail was set and they were released. I don’t remember that one clearly. By this time I was tired and didn’t see the need to be in the courtroom so forgive my lack of diligence in noting the conclusion of that case.

The next and final case however was not so simple. The accused was charged with “carnal knowledge of a two month and 3 weeks old child.” The prosecution argued that it was a ritualistic act since the medical reports showed no sign of penetration. However the accused was seen around the baby whose body was covered with sperm.

The Judge was a little perplexed that none of the complainants/accusers were present in court but did find that the crime was a little disturbing.

During the proceedings the accused was continually making the sign of the cross and moving his lips as if in prayer. The Judge asked him whether he was praying and he said yes, so the Judge told him he should have been praying before he committed the despicable act and followed by remanding him back into the custody of police without bail. His court date was set and the court was adjourned.

Again we responded with “as the court pleases” as we stood to the exit of the Judge.

Finally this ordeal was over! At least this part of the ordeal was over.

Although this experience was physically and mentally exhausting, needless to say, it was interesting to see the Nigerian justice system in action.

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